Dream Ghost

Zhao Lin's dormitory was on the fourth floor of a six-story old building in the western part of the university town. The room wasn't big, shared by four people, but his other three roommates had already moved out—not because of him, but because the building was too old, had no air conditioning, and was like a sauna in the summer; those who could move had already done so. Zhao Lin hadn't moved, not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't afford to rent a place off-campus. He relied on student loans to study, and every penny had to be carefully budgeted.

When Lin Ye and Su Wanning arrived, it was already dark. Two of the motion-activated lights in the corridor were broken, one on and one off, the light and shadow alternating like a fragmented river. Zhao Lin was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, holding a flashlight that shone on the ground without being dazzling.

"Electricity is too expensive, and the school won't fix the lights in the corridor," he explained, turning to lead the way. His back looked very thin in the dimly lit corridor, and the shape of his shoulder blades through his plaid shirt resembled two folded wings.

The dormitory was smaller than Lin Ye had imagined. Four beds, four desks, and a shared wardrobe. Zhao Lin's bed was at the far end, by the window. The blankets were neatly folded, and next to his pillow lay an open book—a collection of Hai Zi's poems. A lamp on the desk was lit, its orange light illuminating a small area of ​​the surface. On the desk were several pens, a water glass, and a stack of manuscript paper. The manuscript paper was covered with writing, not articles, but symbols—symbols he had seen in his dreams, tried to memorize upon waking, but could never fully recall. He had written them many times, the same symbol more than a dozen times, each time different, yet each time sharing similar strokes, similar curves, and similar structures. He was trying to decipher a language he didn't understand.

"Did you write all of this?" Lin Ye picked up a piece of manuscript paper.

"I wrote for three months. I wrote every night when I woke up. Sometimes I remembered clearly, sometimes vaguely. But it was never complete." Zhao Lin stood by the bed, his hands in his pockets, looking at the manuscript papers. "I feel like those symbols are changing. What I saw on the first day is different from what I saw on the tenth day, and what I saw on the tenth day is different from what I saw on the thirtieth day. They are evolving, or rather, they are adapting to me. Trying to become something I can understand."

Lin Ye looked at the crooked symbols on the manuscript paper. Some resembled oracle bone script, some cuneiform, and some childish scribbles. But there was a pattern—all the symbols shared the same core structure: a circle with a vertical line in the middle and a dot above it. That structure appeared in every single symbol, like a recurring theme.

"This is the fragment speaking," Lin Ye said. "It expresses itself in a way you can understand. You can't understand it, but it keeps talking. It's been talking for three months without stopping."

Zhao Lin was silent for a few seconds. He walked to the bedside, sat down, and the mattress creaked.

"What is it trying to say?"

"I didn't know. That's why we came."

Lin Ye took the black anchor point out of his pocket. It wasn't the one Lin Yuanzhou had given him, but the one Chen Xuan had given him, engraved with a crescent moon eye. He placed the anchor point next to Zhao Lin's pillow; the metal piece gleamed faintly silver in the orange light of the lamp.

"What is this?" Zhao Lin asked.

"Anchor point. It protects your consciousness from being harmed by the fragments during the peeling process."

How many times have you done this?

"Many times. But you're the first person to know what I'm doing." Lin Ye looked at him. "The fragments of consciousness of those people before were forcibly extracted. They didn't know what happened, and they remembered nothing when they woke up. You're not like that. You will remember everything. You choose whether or not to cooperate. If you don't want to, we'll leave now."

Zhao Lin lowered his head, looking at his hands resting on his knees. His hands were thin, with distinct knuckles and neatly trimmed nails. He stared at them for a long time.

"Three months ago, I had that dream for the first time. There was a person in the dream, I couldn't see his face clearly, but I knew he was looking at me. He didn't speak, but I could feel that he wanted to tell me something. After that, I dreamed about him every night, and every time he wanted to tell me something, but every time he couldn't say it. He didn't speak, and I couldn't hear him. He didn't speak, not because he couldn't speak, but because he didn't know how to listen."

He looked up at Lin Ye.

"Now I know. He's speaking in fragments. I can't understand them, but you know how to understand them. That's why you came."

Lin Ye looked at him.

Do you believe me?

Zhao Lin didn't answer. He reached out and picked up the anchor point beside the pillow. The metal plate lay quietly in his palm, its silvery light appearing cold in the orange lamplight, but he didn't let go.

"Let's begin," he said.

Lin Ye laid him flat on the bed, his hands at his sides, palms up. The anchor point was placed on his chest, the silvery light flickering like a heartbeat. Su Wanning stood by the bed, silver threads hanging from her fingertips, weaving a fine net above Zhao Lin's body. Not a defensive net, but a monitoring net—each thread was an antenna, monitoring Zhao Lin's fluctuations in consciousness in real time.

"His consciousness frequency is very unstable." Su Wanning looked at the fluctuations of the threads. "The difference between the peak and trough values ​​is five times that of a normal person. The fragments are devouring his consciousness, not all at once, but bit by bit. Like insects gnawing on leaves, the edges rot first, and then slowly spread towards the center."

"How much integrity is left?" Lin Ye asked.

"Forty-three percent. That's a further decrease of five percent from last week."

Zhao Lin lay in bed, listening to their conversation, his face expressionless. His eyes were open, staring at the upper bunk. A poster of Van Gogh's *Starry Night* hung on the top of the bed. He'd had it there for two years, falling asleep every night gazing at that swirling starry sky. But for the past three months, he no longer needed the poster. In his dreams, there was a brighter starry sky, the stars not painted on, but alive, rotating, breathing, and speaking. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he knew they were speaking.

"I'm going to enter your dream." Lin Ye sat down on the edge of the bed, placing his right hand on Zhao Lin's chest, his palm against the anchor point. "You'll feel your consciousness being touched, like someone speaking in your ear. Don't be afraid, it's me. Don't resist, don't be nervous, relax."

Zhao Lin closed his eyes.

Lin Ye also closed his eyes.

His consciousness detached from his body, passing through Su Wanning's silver thread network, through the silvery-white light of the anchor point, through Zhao Lin's skin, bones, and blood, and into the depths of his consciousness. It was a passage, long and narrow, with gray-white walls on both sides, covered with countless glowing symbols—the same symbols as those on Zhao Lin's manuscript paper: circles, vertical lines, and dots. They were embedded in the walls like wall lamps, emitting a soft light.

Lin Ye walked along the passage. The ground was soft underfoot, like walking on sand. Each step left a shallow footprint, but the footprints quickly disappeared, as if they had never existed. At the end of the passage was a door. An old wooden door with a rusted brass handle. Lin Ye pushed the door open.

Behind the door was a room. It wasn't large, more like a study. Bookshelves lined all four walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, crammed full of books. In the center of the room was a desk, with a desk lamp casting an orange glow. A person sat at the desk. Not Zhao Lin, but someone else. He was in his forties, thin, wearing a dark gray long gown, his gray hair neatly combed. He sat at the desk, holding a calligraphy brush, writing.

Lin Ye went inside. The man didn't look up and continued writing. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke powerful, but Lin Ye couldn't understand it—he was writing those symbols: circles, vertical lines, dots, countless circles, countless vertical lines, countless dots, densely covering the entire sheet of paper.

"You are Lin Yuanshan," Lin Ye said.

The man stopped writing. He looked up at Lin Ye. His eyes were dark brown with large pupils, like two bottomless wells. His face was covered in wrinkles, but his skin was very white, as if it hadn't seen the sun in a long time.

"You know me," he said. His voice was soft, like the wind rustling through the pages of a book.

"Lin Yuanzhou's younger brother. The first generation of Night Watchman. The guardian of the sixth fragment." Lin Ye walked to the desk. "You've been here for three thousand years."

Lin Yuanshan put down his brush and leaned back in his chair. He looked at Lin Ye, something flickering in his eyes.

"You carry Lin Yuanzhou's aura. You are his descendant."

"I am Lin Ye. The holder of the third fragment."

Lin Yuanshan was silent for a few seconds. He lowered his head and looked at the paper he had written on with symbols.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'll take you back."

Lin Yuanshan's finger moved slightly on the paper.

"I can't go back," he said. "My body is dead. My consciousness is fading away. Only this fragment is holding me up. If this fragment is taken away, I will disappear completely."

"No," Lin Ye said. "After the fragments are separated, your consciousness will follow them. The fragments are in my hands, and so is your consciousness. I will help you find a new body."

Lin Yuanshan raised his head and looked at him.

Why are you helping me?

"Because you are Lin Yuanzhou's younger brother. He is my ancestor. His family is my family."

Lin Yuanshan stared at him for a long time. The light from the lamp cast an orange shadow on his face, making his wrinkles appear even deeper.

"You're just like your great-grandfather," he said, "you like to take on other people's burdens."

Lin Ye did not answer. He stretched out his hand, palm facing up. The deep purple mark emitted a soft glow in the lamplight.

Give me your hand.

Lin Yuanshan stared at the hand for a long time. Then he reached out and placed his hand in Lin Ye's palm. His hand was cool, not icy, but the kind of cool that comes from a stone that has been submerged at the bottom of a river for a long time, its surface water wiped dry, but still cool inside.

"The fragment has been inside you for too long; it's become one with your consciousness. When it's separated, your consciousness will leave with the fragment. You'll fall into a deep sleep, but you won't die. Once I find a suitable body, I'll wake you up." Lin Ye gripped his hand tightly. "Do you trust me?"

Lin Yuanshan looked at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. It wasn't a smile, but a very faint expression, like someone who could finally let go.

"I've waited three thousand years. A few more days won't make a difference."

Lin Ye closed his eyes. His consciousness, coiled from his fingertips, entangled the thing deep within Lin Yuanshan's consciousness—the sixth fragment. It wasn't black, nor white; it was a transparent, glass-like substance, slowly rotating deep within his consciousness like a heart. Lin Ye's entangled consciousness, like a fine needle, pierced the edge of the fragment, finding the connection point between the fragment and his consciousness. Not a forced separation, but a "unraveling." He dismantled the connection point piece by piece, like unraveling a long-knitted sweater.

Lin Yuanshan's body began to fade. Not disappear, but "fade." His long robe, his hair, his face, his hands, were all fading little by little, like a painting being soaked in water. But he felt no pain; his expression was calm, even carrying a hint of relief.

"Is Lin Yuanzhou still alive?" he suddenly asked.

"Alive. He's waiting for you to come back."

Lin Yuanshan's lips finally curled into a smile. It wasn't a relieved smile, but the kind of smile that welled up from the bottom of his heart when he heard "someone is waiting for you," a smile he couldn't suppress.

"He waited for me for three thousand years."

"Um."

"How could he wait?"

He said, "I can't die until I see you."

Lin Yuanshan lowered his head, looking at his increasingly transparent hands.

"He's always been like this since we were little. He always gave in to me. When I was unhappy, he would coax me. When I got into trouble, he would take the beating for me. When I left, he would wait for me." His voice grew softer and softer, like the wind blowing through a distant valley, "Brother, I'm back."

His hand slipped from Lin Ye's palm. Not loosened, but "disappeared." In that instant, his entire body transformed into a ball of silvery-white light, merging with the sixth fragment, quietly rotating deep within Lin Ye's consciousness.

[Separation complete]

[Target: Sixth Fragment - Guardian Lin Yuanshan - Consciousness Integrity 41%]

[Fragment Evolution: Scroll Level (31%) → Scroll Level (47%)]

[Residual consciousness: 18% → 22%]

[Special Note: The sixth fragment contains a large amount of information about dream rules, which can be used as a knowledge base for rule writing and rule weaving]

Lin Ye opened his eyes. He was still in Zhao Lin's dormitory, his hand still pressed against Zhao Lin's chest. Zhao Lin's eyes were closed, his breathing steady, as if he were asleep. His complexion was much better than before; his cheekbones were no longer so prominent, and his dark circles had faded. The anchor point on his chest was still glowing, silvery-white, sometimes bright, sometimes dim.

Su Wanning stood by the bed, the silver threads already retracted. A thin layer of sweat glistened on her forehead, but her eyes shone brightly.

"His consciousness has recovered to 68 percent of its original state," she said. "After the fragments were removed, his consciousness is repairing itself. It's happening very quickly, and he may not need a new body to restore his consciousness."

Lin Ye removed his hand from Zhao Lin's chest. Zhao Lin's eyelashes fluttered, then he slowly opened his eyes. He looked at the "Starry Night" poster on the ceiling for a few seconds, then turned to look at Lin Ye.

"That dream. It's gone." His voice was a little hoarse. "Nothing's left. Darkness, emptiness."

"The fragment has been removed. It will never come back."

Zhao Lin was silent for a few seconds. He reached out and touched his chest, where the anchor point was still. The metal plate was warm, slightly warmer than his body temperature.

"Where is that person?" he asked. "The one who keeps watching me in my dreams."

"He's gone. But he hasn't disappeared. He's here with me." Lin Ye pressed his hand to his chest. "Once he finds a new body, he will come back to life."

Zhao Lin stared at him for a long time.

"Are you the kind of person who does this kind of thing?"

"What?"

"Taking other people's burdens onto your own shoulders."

Lin Ye paused for a moment. Lin Yuanshan had said the same thing. Lin Yuanzhou had said it too. Chen Xuan had said it too. Su Wanning had said it too. Everyone said he liked to take on other people's burdens. He didn't think of it as carrying, he thought of it as "receiving." He would accept what others handed to him. If he caught it, it wouldn't fall to the ground and shatter.

"I'm used to it," he said.

Zhao Lin sat up in bed, took the anchor point off his chest, and handed it to Lin Ye.

Here, take this back.

"Keep it." Lin Ye didn't take it. "It can stabilize your consciousness and prevent the recurrence of residual fragments. Give it back to me when you've fully recovered."

Zhao Lin stared at the anchor point in his palm; its silvery light seemed cold in the orange lamplight, but he didn't let go. He put the anchor point in his pocket, stood up, walked to the table, and picked up the manuscript papers covered in symbols. He looked at them for a long time, then tore them into pieces one by one and threw them into the trash can. The scraps of paper fell to the bottom of the can, making a rustling sound like autumn leaves.

"For the past three months, I thought I was going crazy," he said. "I dreamt every day, wrote those symbols every day, and woke up every day remembering nothing. I wrote more than a hundred sheets of paper, not a single one was complete. I felt like my life was like those sheets of paper, shattered and impossible to put back together."

He turned around and looked at Lin Ye.

"But you came. You pieced the pieces together. Not my pieces, but that person's. But I feel that mine were pieced together too."

Lin Ye looked at him, neither saying "You're welcome" nor "It's what I should do." He simply stood there, like a tree. Zhao Lin could lean on him, or not. He wouldn't fall.

Su Wanning walked to Lin Ye's side, reached out, and took his hand. Her hand was cool, his hand was warm. In Zhao Lin's dormitory, under the orange glow of the desk lamp, and under the gaze of the "Starry Night" poster, their two hands quietly clasped together.

The autumn leaf lit up on Lin Ye's wrist. The orange-red light turned silver-white, exactly the same color as the anchor point. It was learning. Learning how humans say goodbye—not by waving goodbye, but by leaving something in the other person's hand. The anchor point remained in Zhao Lin's hand, and the color of the autumn leaf remained in Lin Ye's hand. From now on, every time he sees silver-white, he will think of today. He will think of this thin, bespectacled Chinese literature student who loves Hai Zi's poetry. He didn't give up in his most desperate moments; he wrote over two hundred sheets of paper, each one a fragment, but he didn't stop. Because he believed that one day, someone would come and help him piece it all back together.

That person came. Not Lin Ye. It was the "belief" itself. Believing that someone would come, that person really did come.