chsdbacks Chapter 667 Year
Chapter 667 Year
Chapter 667 Ten Years
Ten years later.
The cobblestone streets in the old city of Chongqing have been repaved, and new stones have been used to fill the potholes. The stones are a lighter color than the surrounding ones, like a few brand-new patches on a dusty old garment.
The gas streetlights on the street corners have been replaced with electric lights, and power lines have been stretched from the direction of the factory, weaving a dense network over the old town.
The bakery owner is still there, but her son has taken over the business.
She sat in a chair behind the cashier, wearing reading glasses and knitting, occasionally glancing up at the customers coming and going through the door.
The used bookstore is still there.
The paint on the wooden door has been repainted, and the hinges have been replaced, so it no longer makes that long creaking sound.
The wooden sign on the door frame has also been replaced; the lettering is neater, and a simple pattern is carved around the edge.
But the words "used bookstore" haven't changed; they're exactly the same as they were ten years ago.
A small clinic was added next to the bookstore.
It was called an expansion, but in reality, it was just renting the house next door that had been empty for many years, knocking down the wall in the middle, and redecorating the interior.
The clinic's facade is not open; it has a glass door and a sign with blue lettering that reads "Noren Clinic".
Below is a line of small print that reads "Specialty of Mysterious Trauma and Soul Damage".
At that moment, the clinic door was pushed open from the inside.
Eric came out.
He's a bit taller than he was ten years ago, his shoulders are broader, and his back is ramrod straight.
The youthfulness on his face has completely faded, replaced by a composure and calmness that comes from being accustomed to all kinds of injuries and illnesses.
He was wearing a long white coat, with a pen clipped to his left breast pocket and a medical record folder in his right hand.
Eric's hair was shorter than before, revealing his full forehead and a well-defined jawline, giving him a ruggedness that didn't belong to a young man.
Behind him followed a middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform.
The man's left arm was slinged across his chest with a bandage that wrapped tightly around his shoulder and wrist, but no bloodstains were visible on the surface.
A new scar appeared on his face, extending from the end of his eyebrow to his cheekbone.
"Mr. Collins, come in next Wednesday to have your stitches removed."
Eric stopped on the steps by the door, flipped to the last page of the medical record folder, tore off a piece of paper, and handed it over.
"You can change the dressing yourself, using the method I taught you last time. But if black lines appear around the wound, don't try to treat it yourself. Go to the association headquarters immediately and find Dr. Valentine, and have him contact me."
The middle-aged man took the note, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
He moved his sling arm, his fingers nimbly opening and closing, and nodded in satisfaction.
"Dr. Eric, your skills are truly exceptional." The middle-aged man's voice was rough and hoarse. "The doctors at headquarters studied it for three days and said that my soul damage would take at least six months to recover, and there was a possibility of permanent aftereffects. You treated me twice, and now I can hardly feel it anymore."
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"That's because you have a good foundation," Eric smiled. "The strangeness within you has been working with you for almost twenty years, making your soul much more resilient than the average person. I just helped you reconnect the broken parts; the rest will heal on your own."
Upon hearing this, the middle-aged man's expression became somewhat complicated.
"That's because you're so skilled," he said, his tone carrying an undeniable certainty. "Other doctors don't have this skill."
Eric didn't reply, but simply shook his head slightly, tucked the medical record folder under his arm, and reached out to open the glass door for the middle-aged man.
The middle-aged man walked out of the clinic and paused at the bottom of the steps at the entrance.
His self-sunlight swept across the gray sky of the old town, finally landing on the dark green wooden door next to the clinic.
"That person—isn't here today?" He lowered his voice and gestured towards the bookstore.
Eric followed his gaze and shook his head.
"The doctor's consultation hours are not publicly disclosed. If needed, the association will make an appointment through official channels."
The middle-aged man let out an "Ah," and didn't ask any more questions.
He received treatment here for almost a month, but never met the legendary "Dr. Norren" in person.
There are many rumors about the doctor within the association. Some say he is very old, some say he is not a doctor at all but a retired high-level psychic, and some say he is related to the incident at the mental hospital years ago.
But no one can confirm any of them.
All he knew was that the young Dr. Eric was that doctor's student.
Dr. Eric's skills are far superior to those of the best doctors at the association headquarters.
"See you next Wednesday then." After saying that, the middle-aged man turned and walked towards the alley entrance.
A black association vehicle was parked at the alley entrance, and the driver was already waiting in the driver's seat.
Eric stood at the clinic entrance, watched the man get into the car, sighed, and turned to walk back into the clinic.
The clinic is small, but its functional areas are clearly defined.
Pushing open the door behind the consultation room reveals a short corridor.
The treatment room was on the left side of the corridor. He walked to the door of the treatment room, pushed it open, placed the medical records on the shelf behind the door, and then began to tidy up the treatment table.
Used gauze, cotton balls, and gloves were disposed of in different trash cans according to their categories.
The surgical instruments were placed into the ultrasonic cleaner, and the start button was pressed.
He carefully peeled off the small piece of rune sticker that Jemin had hand-painted himself from the treatment table with tweezers, stuck it on a special preservation board, labeled it with the date and patient number, and put it in the drawer.
That was Jemin's doing.
Eric had studied for ten years and believed he was far superior to any of the association's physicians in terms of "treatment".
But compared to Jemin, he felt he was still crawling, while his teacher was already flying.
He couldn't even explain exactly where Jemin was better than him.
Or rather, Jemin is more powerful than him in every way, not just in one specific technology.
An understanding of the eerie, insight into the soul, and prediction of energy flow —
He handled a complex case of soul damage, requiring repeated examination, careful probing, and step-by-step progress.
But with just one glance, Jemin knows where the problem lies, how to solve it, and how long it will take.
It's been ten years.
He thought he had come a long way, but every time he saw Jemin make a move, he would be reminded of one fact: the distance between him and his teacher had not shortened by even a millimeter over time.
Just as Eric was lost in his memories, the doorbell rang.
However, the source was the wooden door of the bookstore next door.
Eric peeked out of the treatment room and saw through the clinic window that the bookstore door had been pushed open.
An elderly man with gray hair stood at the door, carrying a metal box in his hand.
It's Harding.
In the used bookstore, Jemin was reclining in a rocking chair as always.
He looks almost exactly the same as he did ten years ago. Every time Harding sees him, he sometimes feels as if only a short time has passed.
"Here it comes." Jemin took a teacup from the small table next to the rocking chair, poured a glass of water, and pushed it to the other side of the table.
Harding placed the metal box on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
His movements are a bit slower than they were ten years ago; after all, he's not young anymore.
His hair was completely white, but he was in good spirits, with few wrinkles on his face and still sharp eyes.
Harding is currently dressed in casual clothes.
He hadn't worn his uniform since the day he retired; it hung in his closet, its epaulets and badges polished to a shine.
"This is the data for this quarter." Harding patted the metal box, the surface of which was engraved with the emblem and classified markings of the Psychic Association. "Ghostly research data from three cities and analysis reports on seventeen newly captured ghostly samples. The president asked me to deliver it personally, saying he didn't trust going through the regular channels."
Jemin nodded, pushed the box next to the chair, and didn't open it to check.
For the past ten years, every batch of documents and materials sent by Harding has never been wrong.
"I heard Dirk went up north?" Jemin picked up his teacup and blew on it to cool it down.
Harding also picked up his cup, took a sip of water, then leaned back in his chair, his expression becoming somewhat wistful.
That's the expression that old friends only have when they talk about younger generations—a mixture of pride and concern.
"He left last month. Three cities in the north experienced a series of catastrophic and bizarre outbreaks, and the association headquarters dispatched five psychics at the level of association presidents to provide support. Dirk was one of them."
"That kid is something else now. The Shadow Serpent has merged with his soul to the seventh level. Oh, now everyone calls him Shadow Serpent Dirk."
Jemin's lips curved slightly, revealing a smile.
He remembered that ten years ago, when he first saw the shark monster in the abandoned factory, Dirk was a pale-faced young man with trembling fingers.
But now, he has risen to a high position in the Psychic Association.
"How about you? How are you feeling?" Jemin asked.
Harding put down his teacup, raised his right hand, spread his fingers, and then clenched them.
The movements were slow but steady, without the slightest tremor.
"I had a full check-up last year, and the doctor at the association headquarters said that my soul stability was three percentage points higher than before I retired." His tone carried an undisguised pride. "I told him it was because I get regular maintenance from Dr. Norren, and those doctors turned green with envy."
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Jemin didn't say anything, but poured Harding another glass of water.
We owe our current peaceful state to that notebook from back then —
No! Strictly speaking, what the professor left behind was far more than just that black notebook.
Ten years ago, after the ruins of the mental hospital were cleared, the psychic association dug underground for several months.
They found a large amount of undamaged research data in the collapsed fragments of the alien space: box after box of experimental records, data analysis, and bizarre sample files.
The information was sealed by the association, and then Jemin gradually retrieved it through the opportunity of cooperation between the two parties.
That was the culmination of the professor's life's work.
Decades of research, detailed anatomical records of hundreds of bizarre specimens, and data from thousands of fusion experiments.
It could be said that the technology provided by that wizard back then was merely a trigger; before that, the professor himself had already traversed the vast majority of the path.
Jemin spent some time organizing and archiving all the materials, and then several years building upon these materials to establish a complete and reproducible theoretical framework for studying the bizarre.
Supported by this theoretical framework, he developed a number of scattered technologies.
One of the two most crucial technologies is the improved sealing technology.
Traditional sealing techniques can cause a strange power to continuously erode the host's soul, much like water pressure slowly seeps through cracks in a dam.
The longer the seal lasts, the deeper the erosion, until one day the dam collapses.
Therefore, for a psychic, the moment they become a psychic, they have already entered the countdown to death.
Jemin's new technology can significantly reduce the rate at which the supernatural erodes the soul.
Psychics who used to only last ten years can now last thirty, fifty, or even longer.
The second key technology is the unpredictable separation technique.
Traditional fusion is irreversible; once the supernatural is sealed into the body, it cannot be removed unless the supernatural erupts due to the death of the psychic.
Moreover, the destruction of the sealing array will cause a bizarre and complete rampage, and the host's soul will be devoured in an instant.
Jemin's separation technique can completely "strip" the supernatural from the host's soul when the psychic no longer needs the supernatural power, without damaging the host's spiritual core.
The unseen artifacts that are extracted can be resealed, studied, or destroyed.
Thanks to the combination of these two technologies, the psychics who dedicated their lives to the association can finally enjoy their later years in peace.
Because of this achievement, Jemin's subsequent research received increasing support from the Psychic Association.
Harding is a beneficiary of both of these technologies.
Thanks to Jemin's improved sealing, the rate of erosion within his body's eye of the storm has been reduced to one-fifth of its original speed.
Last year, just before Dirk set off north, Jemin performed his first bizarre separation surgery, safely detaching the eye of the storm from Harding's body.
The surgery was a success; Harding's soul was almost completely unharmed.
He is now an ordinary person, an ordinary person without any strange powers, but who no longer needs to race against death.
"Dirk asked me to tell you something before he left." Hardin took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. "He said that when he returns, he wants you to give him a full check-up. He feels that his fusion with the Shadow Serpent has reached a bottleneck, and he may need you to help him adjust the seal structure."
Jemin picked up the envelope, but didn't open it; he just squeezed its thickness.
There's something inside; it's not a letter, but possibly some kind of sample or energy imprint.
"Tell him to come directly to me when he gets back." Jemin put the envelope into his pocket.
The two chatted for a few more minutes, about the recent personnel changes in the association, the catastrophic and bizarre developments in the north, and which of the newly opened restaurants in the old town was the best.
The conversation jumped around in all directions, like two old neighbors chatting around a fireplace in winter.
Half an hour later, Harding looked at his watch and stood up.
"It's getting late, I have to go." He finished his tea and walked towards the door.
Jemin didn't see him off; he just sat in the rocking chair and nodded.
Harding opened the wooden door and paused at the entrance.
His gaze fell in the direction of the clinic, and through the glass door he saw Eric organizing the instruments in the sterilizer.
The young man, head bowed, focused intently on placing the surgical instruments one by one into the tray, his movements as precise as if he were performing surgery.
"Eric has made great progress." Harding's voice lowered. "The medical team at the association headquarters sent me a report last month saying that after they sent people here to learn, the survival rate for treating soul injuries increased by nearly 40%. Forty percent, and only half a year."
Jemin didn't say anything.
"But he still feels he's far behind you." Harding turned and glanced at Jemin. "Every time I ask him how he feels about himself, he says he's alright, but the teacher does a better job." I could tell the kid wasn't just being modest; he genuinely felt that way.
"He's right." Jemin picked up his teacup, took a sip, and said in a flat tone, as if he were just saying that the weather was nice today.
Harding stared at him for a couple of seconds, then shook his head and smiled—a smile that held a lot of meaning.
"Fine, you're the teacher, you're in charge." He opened the door and went out.
At the alley entrance, the black association's official vehicle had already turned around, with the back door open.
The injured middle-aged man was already sitting inside, flipping through a book with his uninjured hand.
Harding walked over, opened the car door, and got into the passenger seat.
The car started, and a cloud of white steam shot out from the exhaust pipe, leaving a faint trail in the hazy air.
The car rounded the street corner and disappeared into the depths of the old town's alleyways.
Eric stood at the clinic entrance, watching the car's taillights turn into two blurry red dots in the fog before disappearing.
He turned around and looked in the direction of the bookstore.
Jemin stood up from the rocking chair and stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the departing car.
The pale sunlight fell on him, casting a cool halo around his dark coat.
The master and apprentice exchanged a glance.
Jemin didn't say anything, turned around and walked back to the bookstore.
Eric followed him inside.
The oil lamp in the bookstore is gone.
A light bulb hung from the ceiling, its warm yellow light softly filling every corner.
There are many more books on the bookshelf than ten years ago, not just old books, but also some newly published professional works on paranormal research and spiritual medicine.
Some of the books had labels from the association's library on their spines, indicating that Harding had "borrowed" them from the association's internal archives and given them to Jemin.
Jemin sat down in the rocking chair.
Eric stood quietly by the bookshelf, knowing that the teacher had something to say.
"Hang up the 'Rest' sign." Jemin's voice wasn't loud, and he didn't speak quickly, but every word was clear. "You can proceed with the fifth round of sealing."
Upon hearing this, Eric's expression could even be described as calm.
"Yes, teacher," he said.
He didn't ask if he was ready. He knew his teacher's personality; asking such a question would be an insult to his teacher.
He turned around, walked to the door, and flipped over the sign on the door that read "Open for Business".
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