Bologue has been lingering around the vicinity of the Great Rift recently, searching for potential crises within, like the Wandering Crossroad.

Bologue didn’t find the Wandering Crossroad, the distorted cluster of buildings disappeared like a dream with the dissipation of fog, and the Devil’s evil aura vanished as well.

Mammon seems to have left this place, but his power had seeped into the land as if it were permanent; even now, when Bologue looks down, he can still hear absurd voices roaring in his ears.

The Great Rift emits a strong aura of evil, like a black luminescence, flickering and uncertain, enveloped by deep darkness both day and night. The shimmering light seems to leak from the Abyss, with unsettling eyes lurking in the darkness.

"Not sure if such changes are good or bad," Palmer murmured.

Once, the fog blocked the vision of mortals; now it is gone, and everyone can see the full scope of the Great Rift and feel the power from the depths of the Abyss.

It could be the lingering aura of the Devil or deeper down, the pressure released by Calamity of this world.

"Let time witness it all," Bologue could only respond.

During this time, Bologue has been reading the newspapers daily; besides disaster reports, there are many accounts of citizens claiming they’ve started having nightmares, like a collective hallucination, with similar reports mounting.

Many people say that at dusk, under dim lights, the darkness inside the Great Rift seems to come alive, with its dry black wrists attempting to clutch passing pedestrians. As you get closer, you can hear hoarse whispers and unknown spells, causing panic.

Some even crazily believe that the Great Rift is not just a natural formation but a place of delirium and evil incarnate, attracting souls curious about its mysteries, where hidden treasures and secrets abound amid the terrifying atmosphere.

In this bizarre and frightening domain, those who survive stubbornly may find themselves drawn into the power of the Abyss, entering an inescapable realm of madness...

These statements, twisted by the Field Operations Department, are misinterpreted as hallucinations due to post-disaster collective fear, and their voices quickly fade.

But Bologue knows this is just maintaining a lie.

"As the Ether concentration continues to rise, such disasters will only increase... We cannot keep hiding the truth; one day, the mortal world and the Extraordinary World will overlap, merging together, just like the Ethereal Realm and the Material Realm’s overlap."

Bologue whispered, "It’s hard to imagine what kind of disaster and transformation this will usher in."

"But the engulfing chaos is foreseeable," Palmer said, "In the chaos, we’ll do everything possible to establish a new order."

Palmer paused and asked, "Bologue, do you know why we, the Extraordinary Clan, have always hidden behind the scenes?"

"Why?"

"Well... this counts as one of our dark histories. There is an enormous gap between the Condensers and mortals; some might say, to certain people, we are akin to deities."

Bologue silently agreed with Palmer. Condensers of the First Stage and Second Stage don’t differ much from humans, but those beyond the Third Stage are an altogether different existence; Bologue even believes they have surpassed humanity and become a kind of humanoid... Ether being.

"Thus, some sought to overthrow the Night Race to become the new Night Race themselves," Palmer said.

"I know this part of the story," Bologue had heard it, "It’s why all forces came to a consensus."

"But as the line between mundane and extraordinary continually blurs, the consensus will become meaningless."

Suddenly Palmer said, "Forget it, don’t focus on that, hurry and finish up these tasks; it’s not something for us to worry about."

Bologue nodded, continuing his reconnaissance of the Great Rift.

According to regulations, Bologue and colleagues should be on leave, but after the incident, the Field Operations Department suffered certain damages, leaving many field staff unable to work, so only a few can be dispatched.

Bologue had to temporarily end his vacation and return to work, but luckily, this period is considered overtime, calculated at triple the salary rate each day.

However, Bologue no longer cares much about the salary.

The edge of the Great Rift crumbled piece by piece due to battles, with the collapse of buildings causing the Great Rift to expand slightly. Under the blazing sun, mold on the cliffs disappeared, yet weeds thrived.

Perhaps life is indeed this resilient.

"Let’s go, nothing unusual,"

Bologue gestured at Palmer, and the two descended along the broken bridge, encountering numerous citizens en route. Despite the police line, curiosity drove people to the edge of the Great Rift, observing the terrifying scar.

Bologue paid little attention to them; after a month of investigation, he could preliminarily confirm the danger of the Great Rift has greatly reduced. The Fog Abyss Fortress has completely fallen, and the Wandering Crossroad collapsed under Xilin’s Command—a fierce, yet successful purge of the tumor by the Order Bureau.

Birds fly across the Great Rift; now the sole concern lies beneath the Rift in the Abandoned Land, yet Bologue believes the fourth group will manage it well.

"So Church is able to be discharged today?" Bologue suddenly asked.

"I heard the doctors say so."

Palmer sighed, "They said due to Secret Energy backlash, Church lost much of his memory. I’m unsure if he remembers us."

"At least he’s alive, isn’t he?"

Palmer forced a smile.

...

The man stood before the mirror, examining his reflection.

It was his first day out of the hospital... The man was fuzzy on why he’d been hospitalized, though the doctors mentioned his injuries caused some memory issues.

Trying to recall his past, he could only summon a series of fragmented, scattered stories.

He could remember his name.

Church Burton.

Though he could remember his past, the jumbled memories made it difficult to construct a coherent, orderly, logical life.

He felt both was and wasn’t Church, which troubled him, but fortunately, someone named Ivan said this journal could help.

The man did not immediately peruse the journal; despite the memory disarray, some things surpassed memory and engrained themselves directly into his instincts.

Some professional instincts.

The man examined his room; from the decoration and layout, he indeed seemed a monotonous, dull person generally, with almost no personal items, feeling stiflingly oppressive.

From the fragmented memories, his daily life seemed truly boring, with the sole hobby being playing board games with friends and buying flowers.

Buying flowers?

The man didn’t understand why he had such a hobby.

Soon, he found proof of his hobby in the corner of the room—a pot of alum root seemed well cared for, indicating the man truly devoted effort to nurturing the plant.

Dimly remembered, he had this hobby related to a woman.

The man opened a drawer, revealing several thick diaries; with their appearance, many memories were triggered, stitching together fragmented memories, rendering many things complete and clear.

The man spent a prolonged period reading the diaries, piecing together memory fragments, occupying much time until a knock at the door sounded.

Church rose and opened the door.