The two “Senior Ans” tensed like starving wolves, each sizing up which piece of flesh to tear into first.
The air tightened under the pressure of their qi; even breathing felt heavy.
I quickly raised both hands and forced a grin. “Gentlen, hear out—let’s keep this civil. No need to throw hands. If we really have to settle who’s real, why not rock-paper-scissors?”
No response.
They moved at the sa ti.
In that instant, I could barely see anything. Two shadows collided, palms striking with lethal force—crack—the table split, chair legs went flying.
I dropped flat to the ground, my heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown out the ringing in my ears.
The system chid in, calm as ever:
[Notice: This battle constitutes an off-narrative conflict. Outco cannot be predicted.]
I let out a cold laugh. “Then what good are you?!”
[I may not predict the outco, but I can offer you two options.]
“Let’s hear it.”
[One: run imdiately. Two against one—you have a 99.9% chance of dying.
Two: stay and help. Survival rate… unknown.]
“Unknown? That’s basically zero!”
[Not necessarily. It could also be… negative.]
“Shut up!”
I gritted my teeth and scrambled to my feet, planning to slip away while they were still locked in combat.
But the mont I looked up, the two “Senior Ans” had already switched positions again.
One wore a faint smile. The other had bloodshot eyes, veins crawling across half his face like cracks in glass.
My scalp prickled. Which one was real?
The system added lazily:
[Hint: The real one usually strikes first.]
“No shit! They both struck first just now!”
[Then… leave it to fate.]
“….”
Seeing the situation spiral, I blurted out, “Hey—how about a ga of truth or dare?”
The two “Senior Ans” glanced at each other, both equally indifferent.
The one on the left raised a brow. “Stalling for ti?”
The one on the right sneered. “Or fishing for information?”
I kept smiling. “Co on, fighting is so dull. I just want to confirm—which of you is the real senior, and which one’s the narrative cache.”
They exchanged a look—and, unexpectedly, both nodded. “Fine.”
I steeled myself. “Then I’ll start simple. First question—Senior An, your woodworking skills are unmatched. Tell : among mortise-and-tenon joints, which type is most prone to locking up?”
The one on the left thought for a mont and answered seriously, “Dovetail joint.”
The one on the right answered almost at the sa ti, “Dovetail joint.”
“….”
[System: See? Craftsmanship won’t distinguish them.]
“Be quiet.”
I changed tactics. “Alright then… who do you admire most?”
The one on the left fell silent, frowning slightly, as if searching for an answer but unable to find one.
The one on the right simply smiled faintly, lips curling with arrogance. “Admire? Who in this world is worthy of my admiration? If anything, others should admire .”
“….”
[System: That’s probably the bug.]
I nodded. “Yeah. Way too self-aware. That’s got to be the real one.”
The one on the left heard muttering and his gaze darkened. “Heh. I’m the real one.”
I imdiately raised my hands again. “Easy, easy—third question!”
After a mont’s thought, I asked, “Na the three types of wood you dislike most.”
The one on the left smiled faintly. “Nanmu, rosewood, cypress—too oily, too hard, too fragrant.”
The one on the right snorted. “I don’t dislike wood. I dislike people who don’t know how to use it.”
[System: That line is unbearably edgy. Definitely the bug.]
“I agree. Senior An looks like the kind who nitpicks details.”
The mont the two “Senior Ans” locked eyes again, the air tightened.
I quickly raised my hand. “Alright, that’s enough. I’ve made my decision—the one on the right is real. The actual burg himself.”
[System: ‘B-U-G.’ Please pronounce it correctly.]
“Get lost!”
The mont I finished speaking, the “Senior An” on the left laughed.
The sound was light, cold—like a blade scraping across wood, inch by inch burrowing into bone.
“?”
He rose slowly, sleeve flicking—steel flashed under the dim light. “And what makes you so certain I’m the fake?”
I raised both hands again. “A gut feeling! Completely irrational, can’t explain it!”
The one on the right—the one I’d identified as real—remained still, expression calm, as if evaluating a piece of fine timber.
“The fake,” he said at last, voice even,
“is you.”
: …? How did I get dragged into this?
The fake Senior An let out a cold chuckle, shifted his footing, and turned into a blur.
In the next instant, splinters exploded everywhere. The already-broken furniture disintegrated completely as the two clashed again.
I scrambled backward in a panic, nearly face-planting.
“System!” I shouted.
“Aren’t you always popping up with useless hints at critical monts? Say sothing now!”
[System: Analyzing combat data… analysis failed.]
“Who asked for combat data?! You’re worse than a fortune teller!”
[System: You could try that instead. Want to calculate your remaining lifespan?]
“Shut up!”
The two figures were moving so fast they blurred.
Tables flipped, chairs shattered—wood chips and dust filled the room.
And their movents were identical—even their insults matched in tone.
“You’re just a fragnt!”
“You’re the parasitic residue of the narrative!”
“I am the true will!”
“You’re nothing but discarded plot!”
Crouching in a corner with a wine jar in my arms, I felt my scalp go numb.
“System,” I whispered, “what happens if the real Senior An loses?”
[System: The bug will rge with the narrative cache and beco the new dominant storyline.]
“And ?”
[System: You will be formatted and reset into a…]
I clamped my hands over my ears. “Stop! I’m not doing another ‘start by falling off a cliff’ arc!”
At that mont, one of them staggered back two steps, a cut opening across his shoulder.
My heart jumped—I was about to rush in when the system suddenly spoke:
[Wait. I rember sothing.]
“What now?!”
[The difference between the bug and the narrative cache isn’t appearance—it’s logical response.]
“Speak plainly.”
[The bug may act coherently at tis, but when faced with sudden stimuli, it produces inconsistent, absurd reactions. The narrative cache, on the other hand, responds with a slight delay.]
“So if I throw them a curveball, one of them will slip?”
[Theoretically, yes.]
“Fine. Let’s test it.”
I cleared my throat and staged a little experint.
First, I “accidentally” dropped the wine jar in my arms—smash! The ceramic shattered, wine spilling everywhere. The noise was loud.
Both “Senior Ans” turned their heads at the sa ti.
One showed a blank look at first—then slowly shifted into alertness, as if processing the situation step by step, his hand reaching forward instinctively.
The other did sothing… bizarre.
He crouched down, pulled out a small knife, and carefully scraped at the wine-soaked shards as if he’d discovered so priceless artifact—collecting the residue into his palm to sniff it.
: ???
The system interjected coolly:
[Observe the logic.]
“Say it like a human!”
[Keep watching.]
So I raised my voice again. “Hey! There’s a ghost behind you!”
The mont I said it, one of them imdiately began chanting an ancient-sounding tune in a strange lody. After finishing, he patted his chest solemnly and said, “This is the music of the cosmos. One must calm the mind before welcoming the descent of the Judging Eye.”
The other, whose hand had already been reaching out, paused mid-motion, hesitated, then slowly pulled back, giving a strange look.
“…Alright,” I swallowed, then shouted at the top of my lungs,
“The one reaching out is the fake!”
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