The seven locks snapped one after another, each crack ringing clearer in the Great Hall of the Covenant Council.
The last beast-shaped lock opened its eyes. Its pupils were two cold gleams of light that swept once over the black chain on the dome, then over the spot on Qi Luo's chest.
Qi Luo felt as if someone had rapped his chest-sigil hard with a knuckle.
The Key-Sigil burned; the Hunter badge seared against his skin. Two different systems of authority overlapped in his chest for a heartbeat, like the world had put two hands on his name at once.
"Forbidden scroll, unsealed," the elder phantom said slowly.
The scroll unfurled in his palm.
It wasn't parchment or stone—it was pure text made into light.
Lines of script poured from the scroll and gathered in the middle of the hall, forming a huge screen of light.
The first word that surfaced on the screen was the title.
[World Recovery Plan]
The moment those four words appeared, it was as if someone yanked all the heat out of the dome.
No ornate dressings. No softening phrases like "Order-Maintenance Contingency." Just the naked word "Recovery."
"Recovery…" someone echoed under their breath.
In the little Rust Street church, the same four words bloomed on the image stone. Someone instinctively took a step back, as if the words might leap out of the stone and bite.
In a mid-tier workshop prayer pavilion, an apprentice bit through his tongue. Blood ran, but he didn't feel it. His eyes were locked on those words.
In an upper-tier viewing room of a noble tower, several nobles' faces drained from cool superiority to sheer pallor.
"T-this is just… wording," someone tried to laugh. "They like dramatic titles."
No one answered him.
The light screen continued to scroll.
[Nature of the Plan:]
[The present World Recovery Plan is a deep-layer contingency of the World Base-Covenant, resolved by the High Gods' Council and filed with the Covenant Council.]
[When the world's operation deviates too far from the "established order," when overall mortal resistance index exceeds the tolerance threshold, and when divine self-check fails, the "carrier Key" may be used to roll the world back to a stable version, to prevent total collapse.]
"Overall mortal resistance index?" Qi Luo repeated in his mind.
Several indicators automatically surfaced on the screen:
[Faith obedience rate]
[Offering fulfillment rate]
[Oracle execution compliance rate]
[Frequency of mortal challenges to the covenants]
[Incidence rate of rebellion events]
[When the combination of the above indicators exceeds the set threshold over a given span of time, it shall be deemed 'structural imbalance,' and this Plan may be activated.]
"So basically…" Qi Luo said quietly, "the more we live like actual people, the quicker you panic and slam the button."
He didn't bother to lower his voice.
The amplifying Chains in the hall faithfully carried his words to every observation point.
Some people understood.
In some Rust Street alley, a stall-owner snapped his head up. "So they've been counting how many times we curse the gods before deciding we should die?"
In a mid-tier workshop, a craftsman slammed his hammer into the metal. "So when we chase our wages, that's 'resistance index' too, huh?"
In an upper-tier noble tower, a young noble's face twisted. "Since when has this Plan been on the table?"
The light screen gave him an answer.
[Plan drafting date: Seventh Grand Prayer Assembly after the completion of Skycast City.]
[Participants: representatives of the High Gods' Council ×××, high-seat members of the Covenant Council ×××, representative of the World Base-Covenant (present in non-manifest form).]
Qi Luo's eyelid twitched.
—So this thing had been buried here since the city first got its balance.
[Plan Phases:]
[Phase One: Local test-runs—use city-scale catastrophes, regional plagues and similar events to test mortal and divine response to the Rollback Contingency.]
[Phase Two: Large-scale execution—when mortal resistance index exceeds threshold and the faith system is beyond repair, trigger the carrier Key and roll back to the "Initial Version."]
[Phase Three: Reserved extensions—if the "Initial Version" still fails to meet stability conditions, the World Base-Covenant may attempt further structural simplification.]
The last part was half-blotted out, leaving only a faint, ragged fragment:
[—Emp]
What "Emp–" would have become, no one knew.
But in many minds, a word had already formed on its own—"Empty."
The world, emptied.
"Phase One…" someone murmured. "Local test-runs."
Someone remembered the plague night.
Someone remembered a catastrophe they'd seen with their own eyes.
Someone remembered those city-scale disasters labeled "Heaven's wrath" and "purification."
"So those were… test-runs?" a voice on Rust Street quavered.
The little church's priest had gone chalk-white.
He knew more than a common believer. He could connect the dots faster—
The [Fire Purification Case] of such-and-such year; that [Heretic Cleansing War]; that [Mass Blindness Incident] that happened suddenly and vanished just as suddenly into Temple archives…
Now, next to their contingencies on the screen, a line of notes had appeared:
[Used to test impact of partial resets on overall order.]
"You've been using us as test subjects all along," Qi Luo said, looking up at the phantoms on the high seats, "just to debug your so-called 'Recovery Plan.'"
The elder phantom said nothing, but the chief recorder quickly picked up the thread, trying to yank the narrative back under his control.
"This is to prevent world collapse," he said coldly. "Mortals cannot grasp the weight of the overall structure. You feel only the pain of the part and scream 'unfair.'"
"Without such contingencies, once the world truly runs wild, everyone falls into the abyss together."
"Now you only hurt from time to time."
"This is mercy."
"Mercy my ass."
At one Rust Street observation point, someone flew into a rage and punched the prayer stone so hard his knuckles cracked. Pain brought tears to his eyes, but he refused to take the curse back.
In mid-tier, a workshop owner ground his teeth. "So all these years we've been fixing your machines… and we were part of the machine too."
Even on the noble seats, some faces had turned ugly.
Not every noble was stupid enough to miss their place in this.
On the Recovery Plan diagram, even the noble towers were listed as parameters that could be reset.
[Structures to be retained: World Base-Covenant core; abyssal mist-sea; foundational framework of Skycast City; a minimal divine skeleton.]
[Structures that may be adjusted or zeroed: current High Gods' Council; Temple institutions; noble class; distribution of mortal populations.]
"We're in the 'can be wiped' column too?" one lord whispered, face ashen. "Are they mad?"
Qi Luo's gaze fixed on that line.
He'd already seen a more concise version on the scraps:
"If necessary, partial or full removal of certain civilizational structures is permissible."
Now the Forbidden scroll had translated that into a plain list.
—Gods. Temple. Towers. Mortals.
No one was truly safe.
"And you call this 'order'?" Qi Luo tilted his head back. "Call it 'collapse prevention'?"
"Using a whole world as a testbed. Using one city as the ash under the rollback button."
"What are you so afraid will collapse?" he said softly. "The world—or the thrones you nailed to it?"
The elder phantom finally spoke.
His voice was hoarse, but carried the weight of long habit in power.
"Mortal," he said, "you see only the surface of the text."
"The World Recovery Plan is not for any one god, nor for the Temple, nor for the nobles."
"It is for the structure."
"When mortals no longer revere gods, when gods butcher one another, when covenants are twisted at will by people like you—"
"How many more years do you think this world can hold?"
"Better to cut back to a more stable version than let everything rot into ruin."
"This is surgery, not slaughter."
"You're the surgeons," Qi Luo said. "We're the anesthesia?"
The elder frowned. "What a crude analogy."
"I'm trying to use words you'll understand," Qi Luo said.
He lifted a hand and pointed at a new section emerging on the screen.
[Carrier Key · Usage Instructions]
The text lined up one row at a time:
[The carrier Key is a mortal vessel for stripes, inscribed with Forbidden Sigils from birth.]
[Portions of its Basic Covenant fields are obscured; only the World Base-Covenant and the High Gods' Council may view them in full.]
[When the World Recovery Plan moves from test-run to execution phase, the High Gods' Council shall jointly petition the World Base-Covenant for authorization, proceeding as follows:]
[1. Recall the carrier Key to a designated location (suggested: deep Temple chambers, abyssal pipe interface).]
[2. Activate the Forbidden Sigil on its chest via specified ritual, fully synchronizing its name with the rollback main chain.]
[3. The World Base-Covenant shall gradually revoke current clauses and reload structure per the "Initial Version."]
[4. The carrier Key's name will be consumed in this process. All trace of its existence shall be removed from records, remaining only in the deep layer of the World Base-Covenant as a rollback record.]
The screen even showed a simplified diagram—
A small human figure labeled "carrier," a spiral on its chest, a chain leading from its head up to the dome.
That picture was almost identical to the one from Qi Luo's childhood nightmares, just in a cleaner hand.
Someone staring at the screen suddenly let out a strangled cry.
"Isn't that—" In one Rust Street corner, a boy who'd seen Qi Luo standing by the wind-tower on the plague night shouted, "—exactly where he stood that night?!"
"This wasn't the first time they tried to throw him into the abyss," someone else yelled. "They've been waiting for a chance to hit that button!"
In mid-tier, a former trial candidate from Star-Signet Academy stared at the light screen as the blood drained from his face.
He remembered the massive Basic Covenant Chain sweeping past in the depths of the trial, remembered the glint in the presiding priest's eyes when they'd tried to use the students' names to activate some ancient clause.
"So that time… that was a 'recovery test' too?" he muttered. "We were almost used as a button?"
The screen seemed to confirm his suspicion.
[Historical test-run records:]
[Year ××: "City Fire Purification Case"—carrier not in position; contingency aborted.]
[Year ××: Star-Signet Academy Ritual Trial anomaly—carrier interference reversed process; test-run failed.]
[Year ××: Plague Night—carrier rewrote execution targets by non-expected method; local rollback contingency failed to launch.]
Each line carried a note.
[Assessment: carrier exhibits strong autonomous interference tendency; control measures must be strengthened.]
"...So that night, you were just their 'failed record,'" Ruan Ji thought, fingers tightening slightly in the Hunter line.
This was her first time seeing any of it.
The Hunter system usually only touched the execution layer—arrest, Name-Erasure, suppression of anomalies.
The true "World Recovery Plan" had only ever passed between the Forbidden scroll and the World Base-Covenant.
Now it was out in the open.
Being read aloud.
"What a nice 'strengthen control,'" Qi Luo said, looking up. "You can't control me, so now you slap 'World Traitor' on my head."
"So the masses will believe—the problem isn't the Plan, it's the Key."
The chief recorder tapped the slab, trying once again to force the narrative back onto his rails.
"The Plan itself is not at fault," he said coldly. "The fault lies in the executor."
"You, as carrier, illegally interfered in multiple test-runs, even forcing certain gods to sign Human Clauses in public. That itself is a betrayal of the world's design."
"Test-runs," Qi Luo repeated. "You test poison on us like lab rats and expect us to lie still and cooperate?"
"You call this 'design'?" His voice went knife-cold. "You call treating mortals as disposable variables 'design'?"
Outside the hall, mortals at countless observation points clenched their fists.
They might not understand "variables" or "rollback contingency," but they understood "we are disposable."
On the outer ring of mortal representative seats, a middle-aged woman from the workshop streets couldn't stop herself from standing.
She had no speaking rights; by clause, mortal representatives could only speak at designated portions, and her Chain immediately flashed a warning:
[Tendency toward unauthorized speech.]
She didn't care.
"You already planned—" her voice trembled at first but rose as she spoke, "already planned to 'zero out' the whole world the moment we push back too hard?"
"Then all these years we've been scraping by, fighting, begging food for our children—was that all just one long test for you?!"
"What are we to you?!"
"An 'index of resistance,'" someone said bitterly.
The bitter laughter spread, echoing from Rust Street to mid-tier to noble towers. Even some minor gods with special permission to witness let out low, ill-timed chuckles.
The laughter drifted through the world of Chains, becoming a kind of indescribable noise.
The self-check module quietly logged a new line:
[Mortal-group negative emotional index toward "World Recovery Plan": sharply increasing.]
[Divine self-check capacity: under question.]
[Overall structural stability: new uncertainties detected.]
"Do you hear that?" Qi Luo looked up. "That's the sound your so-called 'order' is making."
"You think you're pressing a 'collapse prevention' button."
"But in our eyes, it's just a 'don't like it, wipe and reload' key."
The black chain on the dome quivered lightly.
The Key-Sigil in Qi Luo's chest vibrated in response.
He heard something distant and faint, whispering deep in the world:
—"Zero out the world."
—"Return to the initial state."
It wasn't a god's voice or a mortal's. It was some more abstract module talking to itself.
It liked things neat. It liked clean starting points. It hated uncontrollable variables.
Mortal resistance was "noise" to it.
Qi Luo pressed a hand to his chest, holding back the pull that almost yanked him up into the black chain.
"You wrote this Plan," he said slowly, "but you forgot one thing."
"—You let the Key grow up."
"You let the Key eat stale bread on Rust Street, get cursed and beaten, sit in a little church listening to a priest say 'even gods can't change covenants.'"
"You let the Key read your text in the Academy, see world-level Chains in the trial, and on the plague night watch an entire street nearly turned into a 'test-run.'"
"The Key is not a stone." Qi Luo raised his head, the chill in his eyes like an old line finally lit up. "A Key that sees all that will make judgments of its own."
On the high seats, a phantom gave a cold laugh. "The Key's function is to execute, not to judge."
Qi Luo laughed back. "Then you shouldn't have carved 'all names under heaven may be rewritten' into my chest."
"You gave me the sentence that judges."
"Now you're mad that I use it."
The screen kept scrolling, spilling more ice-cold detail.
[Exception-handling clauses:]
[If the carrier Key displays abnormal autonomous will and refuses to cooperate with the Recovery process, the following measures may be taken:]
[1. Rewrite its Basic Covenant to strip its perception of high-level stripes.]
[2. Have the Hunter system perform Name-Erasure and switch to a backup carrier.]
[3. Activate the "abyssal recovery" emergency protocol, casting the carrier into the abyssal mist-sea to prevent interference.]
"Backup carrier…" Ruan Ji's grip on her hilt tightened.
She thought of the half-hidden name-shadows along the far reaches of the black chain.
All those who might once have been chosen—then thrown away.
"You had Keys lined up," Qi Luo said under his breath. "If one doesn't fit your hand, you just swap it."
"This is what you call 'the world's only hope'?"
The Hunters' Chains all around the hall shivered as one.
The Hunter system wasn't entirely without pride—being treated as tools they could live with; execution was their job. But hearing the so-called "Key of the World" written up as a "replaceable part" made even them feel a little cold.
The chief recorder was finally rattled.
He struck the stone slab harder this time.
"Qi Luo," he said, voice low and heavy with threat. "Today's trial is for the masses to witness your crimes."
"Not for you to sow distrust toward the world."
"You think exposing this Plan will shame the world into cancelling Recovery? You're naive."
"The world does not feel shame," he said icily. "It only runs."
"What you are doing will only make it more inclined to hit the reset key—because you are proving that mortals are no longer suitable as variables."
"Then let's find out," Qi Luo said.
He lifted his head, speaking clearly to the black chain on the dome—and to that blurred will deep inside the world.
"If all you can do when mortals resist is slam the reset key—"
"Then you don't deserve everything this city has spent generations writing."
The hall went still for a heartbeat.
In the little Rust Street church, someone echoed, "Doesn't deserve it!"
In the mid-tier workshops, someone said hoarsely, "We've spent our whole lives fixing you, and you don't deserve it."
In an upper-tier viewing room, a young noble found himself silently mouthing the words "doesn't deserve it" and then clapped a hand over his mouth in fright.
Deep within the black chain, that cold, indifferent will seemed to hesitate.
The self-check module spat out a fresh entry:
[First detection: a mortal evaluating the world's structure by whether it 'deserves' the world's name.]
[This notion is similar to certain parts of the Initial Draft's philosophy.]
[Related clause: All names under heaven may be rewritten.]
For a moment, clauses brushed against clauses.
Qi Luo felt the Key-Sigil suddenly hurt less.
It was still burning—but with a strange resonance.
Like a very old, very long-forgotten line had been gently turned open in the depths of the black mist.
In that sliver of space, the shocked cries in the crowd finally exploded.
Not from one or two places, but from layer upon layer—from Rust Street to mid-tier to the upper viewing halls, like fire racing along dry straw.
"They've had a 'reset the world' contingency all along—"
"We've been experiments this whole time!"
"Who gave them the right to write something like this?!"
"This isn't what I believed in!"
Some people cried. Some cursed. Some just sat there blank-eyed.
The scrolls circling the Great Hall of the Covenant Council all shook at once.
That was the Old Covenant being tugged, inch by inch, by the weight of collective doubt.
On the high seats, the gods all realized, at the same instant—
Unsealing the Forbidden scroll hadn't just opened a plan.
It had shoved the fact that "the gods already had a world-reset contingency" into everyone's eyes.
And in the next heartbeat, the backlash would begin.