Three years ago, the chill of that “death notice” had crawled back up Ji Tingxi’s nerves.
If Te Rui was the acting dean, then Ji Tingxi could only be considered the acting vice director. Most matters were still handled by him—from coordinating between the upper offices and departments down to procuring supplies for the institute. The special director oversaw a thousand matters daily, keeping the entire Guard Institute running as smoothly as if it had two deans at the helm.
But Ji Tingxi did not have time to idle for long. When Te Rui left for a meeting at the North County Station, he still asked her to step in and hold down the fort in the dean’s office, just in case.
He De’s office was exceptionally spacious. The elegant decor of the entire building reached its pinnacle in this room. Curved carvings adorned the walls, gathering and dispersing near the glass chandelier like twisting vines.
Expensive porcelain gleamed with refined elegance, but the most striking feature was the velvet chair behind the desk. Sinking into it felt like being crowned emperor, commanding legions of elite soldiers.
And indeed, the Guard Institute brimmed with such “elite soldiers.” They might not number in the thousands, but each could hold off a hundred foes.
Ji Tingxi settled into the chair, a stack of patrol manuals in hand. She could use the office seat, but not the computer, so she had brought her own paper materials to carry out her duties as division chief from this new spot.
She had barely sat down, however, when someone came knocking, giving her a chance to play the role of “dean.”
A courier entered the office and handed over a document. “Good day. Please sign to confirm receipt.”
Ji Tingxi sized him up. He wore a uniform and a peaked cap, marking him as an information envoy from some outpost, here to deliver the file in person.
As she signed the confirmation form, her eyes lowered, she spoke coolly. “May I ask where this document is from?”
“Snake Mouth Bay, Commander.”
Ji Tingxi’s pen did not pause. She finished with a flourish and handed it back.
“You’ve had a hard journey.”
Once the courier had left, she turned her attention to the document before her and examined it closely.
If there was one area where they were most eager for intelligence right now, it had to be Snake Mouth Bay.
This enigmatic, impenetrable place had foiled repeated efforts by both the Libo Faction and the Giel Organization. They had tried infiltration, only to find security as tight as a fortress. They had pinned hopes on Sha Jiali, but he had vanished without giving them a chance to make their move.
Even when the head of security, Mo Fei, had stepped out—staying right near the Guard Institute—Wen Du had not dared act rashly, fearing exposure.
They had suffered heavy losses, yet Snake Mouth Bay remained unscathed, leaking not a shred of useful information.
But now, a document from Snake Mouth Bay lay heavy in her hands, practically handing her the prize on a silver platter.
At the same time, Ji Tingxi knew full well that it was not truly “within easy reach.” She had the authority to receive it, but not to open it. Breaking the seal would be a blatant overstep.
Despite the risk of such transgression, Ji Tingxi examined the sealed pouch again.
It was stapled shut at the top—tearing it open would leave clear traces.
The bottom, however, used ordinary adhesive. She could open it there and restore it perfectly with a paper cutter and some glue.
She had already confirmed during past visits to the office that there were no cameras inside, though the hallway had them. She could only open the document here, unable to take it elsewhere.
Ji Tingxi reached for the desk drawer handle and pulled it open. The first layer held neatly folded files; the second had similar pouches, already opened and reused for other documents; the bottom layer contained no valuables—just a pocket watch and some personal items.
After checking the drawers, she rose and approached the wall cabinet, but it held even less: mostly tea leaves and teaware, with some shelves entirely empty.
Ji Tingxi leaned on the cabinet surface, her fingers tapping out a restless rhythm.
The dean’s office looked luxurious, but useful items were scarce. She could substitute scissors for a paper cutter, but what about the glue?
Suddenly, inspiration struck: she did not need glue. The second drawer of the desk held similar pouches. She could ruin one of those as a replacement, then use the desk stapler to reseal the top—with luck, it would pass muster.
Ji Tingxi pulled out the most identical one, removing its contents. Its seal was intact—a perfect stand-in.
With the substitute ready, she reached for the pouch from Snake Mouth Bay. But just as she began to tear it open, her fingertip hesitated, faltering.
Why was she on duty in the dean’s office? Why had the classified document arrived precisely on her watch? Did Te Rui know a sensitive package was coming this morning?
For something this critical, should they not have coordinated online beforehand to confirm the handoff personnel and timing?
Her ingrained caution made her halt. She noticed every suspicious detail.
Before departing, He De had specifically instructed her to place any incoming classified documents in the safe for him to handle upon return.
Ji Tingxi turned her head toward the standalone cabinet, where a silver safe sat with its door ajar, waiting to be “fed.”
She stood in silence for a moment. Then her reaching fingertip changed course. She picked up the pouch and placed it in the safe, closing the narrow metal door.
…
Snake Mouth Bay, Research Base.
A Sern man lay sleeping on the experimental bed. Above him, the display screen flickered with dots of light, forming rapidly shifting images that echoed the activity in the brain below.
Sha Jiali stood before the screen, watching for a while before he could not help sighing in admiration once more. “So the dynamics of the neurons are fully visualized now?”
Liu Yisi stood beside him, her tablet syncing the latest data. She dragged a directional arrow on the screen, and the image shifted accordingly.
It was as if a camera had been inserted into the human brain, receiving real-time commands and transmitting signals.
“Not entirely,” she said. “This is just a partial demonstration, focused on the learning centers of the left hemisphere—the region that processes knowledge-based information.”
“That’s already a massive leap forward,” Sha Jiali replied, his thick brows rising in clear approval. “But how did you achieve the visualization? Just from the electrical signals emitted by the brain?”
“Beyond electrical signals, we employed other techniques. As you said, technological advances have allowed us to vividly display the brain’s internal structures.”
Sha Jiali turned to her, his full smile returning. “I wonder if Director Liu could give me a tour?”
The director had been in casual conversation mode until then. At these words, her gaze lingered on the tablet.
“It’s over in the base’s east district—quite a hike. We should head to lunch soon anyway, and then there’s the meeting with the special task group.”
Sha Jiali opened his mouth to argue but saw that she had already set off toward the cafeteria without so much as glancing up.
He had not even fully grasped the intracranial signal output device yet, and it was still some time before mealtime. What was the rush?
Sha Jiali adjusted his glasses and hurried after her with steps that betrayed no hunger.
En route, however, his mind was not on food but on the brain-signal visualization device he had just seen.
Since arriving at the base, a dedicated staffer had shown him around the research projects.
Their attitude was oddly ambivalent.
On one hand, they wanted him to get up to speed quickly and join the experiments, designing the equipment the base required. On the other, they were evasive, doling out half-explanations and shielding the core principles from him.
Progress had been painfully awkward as a result. Two months in, and he was still no closer to understanding the basics.
What a ordeal—leaving a life of luxury surrounded by servants to come here and play guessing games.
Sha Jiali had lost his appetite, missing the comforts of home. He quickened his pace to catch up with Liu Yisi. Somehow, he had to crack the principles of this brain research sooner rather than later.
…
December 21st.
The dean’s absence had little impact on the Information Room. Operatives clocked in and out on schedule, decrypting messages and passing them back to their departments.
The only difference was that intelligence meant for the dean had to be held back temporarily until his return.
Compared to regular operatives, Wen Du’s work was far more intricate. Beyond routine decryption and review, she had to monitor special intelligence and, when necessary, apply “unconventional” handling to covertly safeguard the Giel Organization.
At first, that meant altering documents in her hands. Three years prior, for instance, the Giel Organization’s rendezvous at a restaurant had been intercepted, exposing the operation and drawing Guard Institute pursuers.
With no time to warn them, she had changed the location in the intel, buying the members time to escape.
As the Wei Investigation Institute’s top linguist and final reviewer, errors from Wen Du’s decryption were nearly impossible to detect.
But cover-ups and alterations left traces. The handling logs and platforms recorded every step precisely—backtracking would catch them red-handed.
Wen Du and the Giel Organization both recognized the risks. To address the root issue, she and the organization’s linguists had burned the midnight oil for two full months, devising an encryption system that combined Homer Language with numerals to convey Sern Language messages.
Even if the Intelligence Collection Division’s systems traced it, they could not decipher the true content.
Now, with no need for alterations, Wen Du’s work was much safer. Her main duty was relaying intelligence: copying vital reports for the dean’s office while memorizing duplicates to pass on to the Giel Organization at home.
In a sense, the Giel Organization’s local outpost was an extension of the Guard Institute’s Information Room, keeping information perfectly synchronized.
With He De and Yesuiying away, the dean’s office might lag, but the “outpost” stayed ahead with updates.
The beauty of an undercover operative’s intelligence theft knew no bounds.
Most of today’s suspicious messages were in Gailie Language. Neither the Intelligence Division nor the Information Room lacked experts, so few required Wen Du’s personal review.
One message, however, had undergone preliminary decryption by the Intelligence Division. Due to its extreme sensitivity, it landed on her screen.
Previously, similar Gailie messages had gone to Dai Enrui, the specialist. Since her imprisonment, Wen Du had deliberately left the position vacant, ensuring she handled maximum Gailie intel herself—like this one, playing a pivotal role.
The version she received showed the original text alongside a preliminary translation. The double impact hit her instantly, explaining why even a syntactically simple message had escalated to her.
“We stake our reputation on it: there is a Sern traitor inside the Guard Institute. Please investigate thoroughly. Do not let this strain our already tense relations further—from your friends excluded and sidelined by you.”
To an outsider, the message might seem impressive but opaque. But as an insider, Wen Du grasped its implications the moment she saw it—right alongside a surge of dread.
The incident outside Meisi Guard Institute: the Libo Faction and Giel Organization had teamed up, the former staging protests as a distraction while the latter rescued the Zi Qin sisters. To deflect suspicion, they framed the Jili Organization.
Soon after, during Ji Tingxi’s return trip, the Jili Organization had attempted an assassination. Wen Du had suspected they had sniffed out the ploy and realized there was a mole in the North County Guard Institute, striking back in retaliation.
Yet in her assessment, neither the Jili Organization nor its backer, Gailie Country, would tip off the Rui’er Terrace even if they knew.
The reason was straightforward: the Jili Organization wanted to weaken the Rui’er Faction. A “mole” embedded in the Guard Institute played right into their hands.
They hated the Libo Faction and their Giel exploiters too, but their primary enemy was the Rui’er Terrace. When weighing two evils, they would pick the lesser one—no reason to alert the Guard Institute to its infiltration.
But this message on her screen overturned her judgment, slapping it aside and sending the situation into freefall.
What was Gailie Country playing at? Why tip off the Rui’er Faction against the Giel Organization? Did they hope to watch them tear into each other and profit from the chaos?
The input cursor blinked in the edit box, mirroring the flicker in Wen Du’s eyes. Her hand rested silently on the keyboard. Three years ago, the chill of that “death notice” had crawled back up her nerves.
