The victory at the subway was a fragile one. The "Sight" anomaly had been suppressed, but the aftermath had turned the surrounding three-kilometer radius into a "Grey Zone."
The squad was stranded. The teleportation array of Bureau 15 was buzzing with static, unable to lock onto their coordinates through the dense, leaden fog that had swallowed the streets.
They took shelter in the "Grand Celestial Hotel," a luxury establishment that now felt like a mausoleum. The velvet curtains were grey. The gold-leaf ceilings were grey. Even the blood on Bai Su's cheek had turned into a dull, ashen smear.
"The mirrors," Elena whispered, her hand trembling as she gripped her crystal pendulum. "Don't look at the mirrors."
In the grand lobby, the massive floor-to-ceiling mirrors were doing something impossible. They weren't just reflecting; they were tracing. Kunto stood before a glass pillar, and his reflection moved a full second slower than he did. In the reflection, the African warrior wasn't holding a spear—he was chained to a burning altar, his eyes hollowed out by ancient crows.
"It's digging into our memories," Bai Su hissed, her fox-fire flickering weakly. In every polished surface, she saw herself back in that cold, damp grave in Shanghai, the sound of nails being hammered into her coffin echoing in her mind.
The air was getting heavier. The "Visual Rot" was no longer an external monster; it was a psychological parasite, trying to convince them that the grey world was the only reality.
"Sit."
A single word, calm and low, cut through the rising panic.
Lu Chen was in the center of the penthouse lounge. He hadn't looked at a single mirror. Instead, he had cleared a marble bar counter and laid out a roll of raw rice paper.
He wasn't reaching for his crimson ink. Instead, he produced a solid, rectangular block of ink—jet black, with an understated luster. Anhui Soot Ink. With slow, rhythmic circles, he began to grind the ink on a stone slab, adding drops of spring water. The sound of stone on stone was the only "Order" left in this chaotic hotel.
"In the East, we say that ink has five colors," Lu Chen said, his voice steady as a mountain. "Charcoal, Thick, Heavy, Light, and Clear."
"How can black have five colors?" Kunto grunted, his eyes darting toward a mirror where a phantom crow was pecking at his reflection's skull.
"Because the world is not made of objects. It is made of contrast," Lu Chen replied. He dipped his brush into the liquid darkness. "The anomaly stole the universe's 'Sight'. It made everything grey so we would forget how to distinguish truth from lies."
He raised his brush. He didn't paint a grand army or a sun. He painted a single orchid.
The brush moved with a mix of fierce speed and lingering gentleness. The petals were 'Light' ink, almost transparent. The stems were 'Thick', cutting through the grey air like a blade. The center of the flower was a single dot of 'Charcoal' black—the absolute dark.
Shhh—
The moment the orchid was completed, the grey fog inside the room seemed to hit an invisible wall.
The contrast returned. The black became blacker; the white became whiter. The orchid on the paper didn't just sit there; it breathed. It imposed a "Visual Logic" onto the room that was so pure, so undeniable, that the mirrors shattered.
CRACK!
Every mirror in the penthouse exploded into dust. The distorted memories of the altar and the coffin vanished, replaced by the simple, elegant scent of ink and the sight of a perfect flower.
"The world is what you perceive it to be," Lu Chen said, setting the brush down. "If you see only grey, you are already dead."
He turned to the bar and began to prepare tea, his movements fluid and ancient. He poured four cups.
For the first time, the squad sat together. Not as soldiers of Bureau 15, but as four people lost in a storm, sharing the warmth of a modern-day Puerh. The tension that had been simmering between the ancient warrior and the modern calligrapher began to dissolve in the steam.
"You're a strange man, Lu Chen," Bai Su murmured, taking a sip. The color was returning to her lips. "You treat a cosmic apocalypse like a bad painting."
"Is there a difference?" Lu Chen asked.
Outside, beyond the shattered windows, the grey fog still swirled. Through the haze, a colossal silhouette, hundreds of feet tall, waded slowly through the city skyscrapers. It looked like a man, but it had no face—only a smooth, blank surface where its features should be.
It was a Great Sightless One, a high-tier aberration.
Lu Chen looked at the giant through the steam of his tea. He didn't reach for his brush yet. He just watched.
"Let it pass," he whispered. "We are not ready to paint that beast... yet."