Zhou Xiuwen’s staff were very attentive, quickly arranging rooms for them and providing loose clothing and warm meals.
This was exactly what the group needed. Whether it was Jiang Hui, who had narrowly escaped death, or Zhou Xiuwen and Huan Xian, who had been tirelessly busy, none of them had eaten properly all day.
The items were delivered directly to their rooms, so there was no need for the group to meet again. Each person settled into their respective room to rest.
Considering Jiang Hui was a woman, the Zhou residence staff arranged for her to stay on a separate floor, while the others were assigned to the floor below.
Too much had happened that day. It was already late at the hospital, well past the usual bedtime for most people. Then, the group had taken a spaceship from the hospital to the Zhou residence, and by the time they arrived, it was already midnight.
After washing up and having a simple meal, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion surged through Jiang Hui’s limbs. She turned off the light, lay on the soft bed, and let the heavy curtains block out the moonlight, creating a safe and secluded environment.
Despite her physical exhaustion, Jiang Hui couldn’t fall asleep.
During the spaceship ride, it had already passed midnight, and she had been forcibly pulled into a consciousness space for a while, where she had rested. So, she wasn’t particularly sleepy now.
However, Jiang Hui could clearly feel a deep-seated fatigue rising from within her body, something the consciousness space couldn’t alleviate. The best solution was to eat well, sleep well, and rest properly—there was no other way.
So, even though she couldn’t sleep, Jiang Hui forced herself to stay in the soft bed, waiting for the moment sleep would come.
…It wasn’t working. She still couldn’t sleep!
Jiang Hui abruptly sat up in bed, her gaze fixed blankly ahead.
---
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” a voice suddenly called out from behind her.
Jiang Hui, dressed neatly, was sitting sideways by the windowsill.
The arched window with a white frame took up nearly three-quarters of the wall’s height, and the silver glow of the moonlight spilled in, casting light across the corridor floor.
The dark red walls on either side, under the moonlight’s illumination, took on a velvety texture, exuding a sense of mystery and elusiveness.
This was a corner of the corridor outside her room.
Unable to sleep and feeling stifled in her room, Jiang Hui had come out to get some fresh air in the corridor. She hadn’t expected to run into someone else who was also unable to sleep and wandering about.
Having experienced time travel, Jiang Hui felt there was little left in the world to fear. After all, her own existence was already quite extraordinary.
So, when she heard someone call out to her from behind, she naturally turned around to look.
At this moment, the only people who could be awake and talking behind her were likely those who had come with her.
That kid Xierman was so carefree he was probably already sleeping like a log by now.
Even if Zhou Xiuwen wasn’t asleep, he likely wouldn’t have the time to wander around. So, the only person who could be up and running into her by chance was one individual.
Unlike Jiang Hui, who had remembered to change into neat casual clothes before leaving her room, Huan Xian had simply come out in the pajamas provided by the Zhou residence.
Perhaps influenced by Zhou Xiuwen’s peculiar taste, the staff had prepared fluffy, rather cute pajamas for their guests. Huan Xian’s set was relatively tame—no long or short fur—but the collar was embroidered with cartoon dogs from some unknown show, creating a stark contrast with his currently aloof expression.
Jiang Hui convinced herself it was fine—kids could wear cute clothes, no big deal. Hadn’t she just been wearing those pajamas herself? Well, to be honest, she’d changed out of them because they were too ugly and had come out to sit in the corridor instead.
The other party didn’t seem to mind the pajamas that clashed with his demeanor. He casually crouched down and sat on the other side of the windowsill, facing Jiang Hui. His posture was more relaxed, with one leg bent and the other dangling naturally to the floor.
“You’re not sleeping either,” Jiang Hui said, raising an eyebrow.
“Still scared?” Huan Xian ignored her slightly sharp tone and countered with a question.
“…Not really,” Jiang Hui shook her head. She wouldn’t admit to being scared earlier, but even if she had been, that fear had likely dissipated by now, leaving only exhaustion and lingering dread.
Huan Xian nodded thoughtfully, and a long silence followed, the quiet air seeming to brew something heavy.
“I’m sorry. I knew about the arena in advance,” Huan Xian said softly, each word deliberate. His voice was quiet, and as he spoke, a rare trace of awkwardness crossed his face, as if he didn’t quite dare to meet Jiang Hui’s gaze.
He hadn’t known much earlier than Zhou Xiuwen, but unlike Zhou, who could take action, Huan Xian couldn’t.
Zhou Xiuwen had made various arrangements, doing everything he could to delay his friends’ progress without revealing anything. But Huan Xian, despite wanting to, hadn’t been able to take effective action to stop them. No one understood his awkward position better than he did.
If he had mobilized resources to block Jiang Hui and the others, his actions—unrelated to his mission—would inevitably be reported to the higher-ups in the military. That would expose Jiang Hui and her group to their scrutiny, and Huan Xian didn’t want his friends dragged into his messy affairs. So, he could only remain silent and leave the actionable steps to Zhou Xiuwen.
However, their cautious approach still failed to stop these friends, who always had “more solutions than problems.” Despite numerous obstacles, their interest in watching the event hadn’t waned.
And so, the group had been pulled into the situation.
Not only did Zhou Xiuwen regret it, but Huan Xian did too. He’d had countless opportunities to intervene but had done nothing, and as a result, his friends had suffered an undeserved disaster.
The series of events that followed… had nearly led to tragedy. Huan Xian felt he had played a disgraceful role in it all.
He thought he was regretful. So this was regret… When he realized his friends had been swept into a deadly vortex, when he faced the moment of losing someone he cared about, the sharp, bitter pain that surged in his heart was regret.
In that moment, he forgot his awkward position that might bring trouble to his friends, forgot the military scrutiny he had once avoided, and forgot the tangled mess of thoughts. His only focus was to act quickly, even faster… He wanted to try to save his friends, to prevent them from withering before his eyes like his mother had.
The lifesaving necklace still hadn’t been used, but this time, his friends had survived.