Time quietly passed in the mundane campus life.

No unexpected events like a "mathematical duel" occurred that day, allowing Jeming to smoothly focus most of his energy on absorbing classroom knowledge and the snail-like mobilization of Spiritual Power within him.

When he unlocked the door with a key, he was greeted by silence.

There were no shoes belonging to his parents by the entrance, and the living room was empty.

According to the itinerary they casually mentioned in the morning, they should be at the large supermarket for their weekly shopping at this time.

Looking at the overly tidy and spacious home, a thought arose in Jeming’s mind.

The opportunity had come.

He didn’t go straight back to his bedroom as usual, but stopped, his gaze sharply scanning the space that was both "familiar" yet incredibly strange to him.

He took a deep breath and began a systematic search of the entire room.

First target was the master bedroom, that is, the "parents’" room.

Pushing the door open, the interior was as simple as a model home: the bed was perfectly smooth without a single crease, clothes in the wardrobe were meticulously hung by color and season, and the dressing table had only the most basic skincare products—no personal photos, no scattered personal collections, and even...no dust.

This kind of tidiness lacked the aura and sedimentary feel of life, like it had just been carefully wiped and arranged rather than showing signs of long-term habitation.

He cautiously opened the "father’s" desk drawer and the "mother’s" bedside cabinet; apart from a few popular magazines of this world and unopened stationery, they were empty.

No old letters, no diaries, no small items with personal memorabilia, nor any messy little trinkets.

Next, he activated the computer screen in their room.

Quickly browsing the access records and history data—a blank slate, clean as a new device.

This indicated that they had almost not used these devices for any personal operations recently.

His gaze finally fell upon several family portraits on the living room wall.

In the photos, "parents" and he were all smiling brightly, radiating happiness.

But Jeming sharply noticed that whether it was the background, clothing, or the positioning and posture of the three of them, there was a high degree of repetition.

More like they were batch-produced using a few fixed templates.

Additionally, upon closer inspection of the "parents’" smiles, the arc, the "comforted" look in their eyes was nearly identical, lacking the subtle variations and uniqueness that real emotions should have.

"Too clean... unreasonably clean." Jeming frowned, the doubts in his heart growing heavier.

Just then, the sound of keys inserting into the lock and his parents’ laughter came from outside the door.

Jeming’s heart jolted, immediately restraining all exposed emotions, moving swiftly and lightly to the other side of the living room, pretending to emerge from the bathroom, with a hint of natural fatigue on his face.

"Dad, Mom, you’re back."

"Mm, darling, you’re back from school? Just in time, we bought some fresh ingredients at the supermarket, and will make your favorite meal tonight." His mother smiled gently, carrying the shopping bag towards the kitchen, her movements smooth and natural.

His father also nodded with a smile, placing another bag on the table.

At the dinner table, the atmosphere appeared warm and harmonious.

The parents asked about his studies with concern, expressing great comfort and pride over his "successful defense of first place and gaining the title of school bully."

Their words and actions perfectly matched the image of middle-class parents who care for their child and are proud of him.

Eating, Jeming seemed to inadvertently bring up a topic: "Oh right, Dad, I just remembered, the astronaut model you gave me for my seventh birthday, which was accidentally broken later, where was it put afterwards? I don’t think I’ve seen it since."

The "father" responded almost without pause, with a recalling smile on his face, immediately saying, "That one, I later carefully repaired it with special glue, though there are still some traces. Afraid you’d break it again, I stored it for you at the back of your wardrobe, in the bottommost third compartment of the storage cabinet."

Jeming thoughtfully nodded: "Oh, I see, thanks, Dad."

At this moment, he "accidentally" knocked over a cup of water beside his hand, spilling it all over the table.

"Oh dear!"

His mother’s reaction was astonishingly quick, almost standing up the moment the water spilled.

There was not the slightest bit of blame or panic on her face, still maintaining that gentle smile, as she skillfully cleared it with a cloth while softly saying, "It’s okay, darling, are you burned? Just be more careful."

Her actions were smooth, her tone tolerant, impeccably flawless.

After dinner, Jeming returned to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

He went directly to his wardrobe, squatted down, pulled open the bottommost third compartment of the storage cabinet, and reached back.

His fingertips soon touched a hard object.

He took it out—it was exactly the somewhat aged astronaut model from his memory.

There was a noticeable glue-repaired mark on the model’s arm.

Jeming looked at the repaired mark, rubbing the cold surface of the model, yet suddenly sighed in his heart, a complex emotion surging up.

"It seems... it is indeed fake."

The day’s search had already left him full of suspicions: repeat-used photo templates, the overly tidy and impersonal parents’ bedroom, and the blank computer access records.

And the dinner test just now only deepened his suspicion.

He clearly remembered that his father in his previous life was a carelessly rough person, utterly incapable of remembering the specifics of where a long-broken toy was hidden after being repaired.

And his previous life’s mother, although she loved him, wouldn’t have reacted with such impeccable tolerance and a smile when he accidentally knocked things over, more often than not, it would have been a scolding or an instinctive exclamation.

To be honest, these flaws were too Low Level.

But the problem was right there, would this false world genuinely make such Low Level errors?

After all, this was a false world created by a Plane capable of trapping nearly 2 million Wizards, could there really be such Low Level flaws?

Or, in fact, the appearance of such Low Level flaws by such Level enemies is itself a very strange thing.

Previously, through various clues, Jeming originally thought he had found a pattern to determine the general situation of this Plane.

But at this moment, he found himself sinking into deeper confusion.

If an enemy of this Level truly wanted to construct a perfect cage, how could they possibly leave such glaring blemishes?

Could it be that these "flaws" themselves... were intentionally displayed for him?

What could be the purpose?

If the existence behind the scenes had truly discovered his issues, they could easily erase him. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Jeming remembered clearly, while there were few casualties in this Plane, three unlucky ones had nonetheless lost their lives.

Since they had already killed three, surely the other side wouldn’t mind killing one more.

And if this wasn’t the reason, then what was going on?

Could it be that there are still hidden situations in this world that he is unaware of?

"In a couple of days... I’ll check the surroundings more thoroughly when going out shopping." Jeming put the astronaut model back in its place, calculating in his mind.

The information he currently had was contradictory and chaotic, the home investigation had reached an impasse, perhaps by focusing on the broader external environment, he could find a new breakthrough point.

He lay down on the bed, closing his eyes, no longer bothered by those headache-inducing contradictions, and once again immersed his entire mind into Dantian.