232: Chapter 232 The undercurrents have not yet subsided; Mo Yuan harbors murderous intent.

The night breeze swept across the high platform, carrying the scent of leftover wine; the torches burned to their ends, crackling as they burst into a spray of sparks.

Chen Wuwang remained standing in place, an empty cup in his hand, his fingertips tapping lightly against the rim.

Thump, thump, thump.

Three soft sounds, like a signal for some kind of activation.

He did not turn his head, nor did he move; his left Mechanical Prosthetic Eye slowly scanned the distant mountain shadows—that was the edge of the Eastern Wasteland, the direction where the Insect Race had once appeared.

The lamplight shone on his face, alternating between light and shadow.

His silver hair was lifted by the breeze, and the three claw marks on his right cheek were like old scars carved into the bone, never fading.

The crowd was still buzzing with excitement.

Young men jumped onto the stone steps, clapping each other on the shoulders and laughing; young women raised their bowls to toast, and even the old man guarding the garden had drunk half a jar, drunkenly humming the old tune "Song of Land Reclamation."

The steam from the steamed cakes by the Medicinal Field had not yet dissipated, and a child clutching an amulet ran after a lantern, their laughter crisp enough to tear through the night.

How wonderful it was.

Yet he knew that the more such moments occurred, the easier it was for someone to exploit the openings.

The data stream of his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye scrolled silently: air humidity 91%, Spiritual Qi concentration stable at 3.7 Spiritual Pressure units, wind direction north-northwest, unchanged for two hours.

It was suspiciously normal.

He narrowed his eyes.

Just in that instant, his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye captured a faint fluctuation—extremely short, 0.03 seconds, with a frequency below the standard monitoring threshold, like a single breath mixed into a gale, easily missed if one wasn't paying attention.

But he remembered this feeling.

The first time was three months ago, two quarters of an hour before the Insect Race raided the mineral vein; it was also this kind of almost non-existent spiritual wave, which he had mistaken for a natural tremor of the earth's veins.

As a result, seven people died, including two apprentices who had just turned sixteen.

The second time was when Mo Yuan disguised himself as a merchant caravan to infiltrate the Alliance; it was the same low-frequency disturbance, hidden in the star map transmission signal. If the System hadn't suddenly popped up with "At the hour of the Horse, there is an anomaly in the secret chamber of the Zhao Clan of Xiling," he wouldn't have set up defenses in advance.

Now, it had come again.

It wasn't an attack, nor was it an intrusion, but a kind of... peeping.

Chen Wuwang slowly lowered his head, looking at the empty cup in his hand. The bottom of the cup was still stained with a bit of wine, glowing faintly yellow in the firelight.

He suddenly smiled, his voice very soft: "The celebration banquet has just begun, and you already can't sit still?"

No one heard him.

He didn't expect anyone to hear him either.

His fingers continued to tap the side of the cup, but the rhythm changed, turning into a piece of encrypted command code—

The high-frequency vibration signal used inside the Artifact Refining Workshop to wake up the cores of sleeping mechs.

He knew this was useless; Mo Yuan was not within physical range, but this action helped him stay calm.

He was waiting.

Waiting for his intuition to land.

Waiting for that name to jump out of his mind.

Sure enough, within ten breaths, his memory flipped to the last frame of last night's combat record: when Mo Yuan's mech was locked onto by the Rune Cannon, its chest armor cracked open, revealing not circuits or flesh, but a mass of slowly rotating purple-black mist, contracting and pulsing like a living thing.

At the time, he thought it was the core source of contamination from the Cthulhu whispers.

Now that he thought about it, it looked more like some kind of consciousness anchor point.

"You are still alive," he said softly, "And you are not far away."

Below the high platform, the drums started again, and someone began to sing the newly composed "Song of Breaking the Array"; the tune was wild, the voices were loud, shaking the bronze bells on the eaves until they rang chaotically.

But all this liveliness could not enter his ears.

He only saw the distant skyline, in that seemingly calm darkness, there was one place—the trajectory of the Spiritual Qi flow was wrong.

It was too smooth, not like a natural formation, but rather as if it had been deliberately smoothed out by something, disguised as background noise.

Just like someone walking in an invisibility cloak, crushing leaves but then crouching down to piece the veins back together.

Chen Wuwang finally moved.

He turned and walked toward the edge of the high platform, his steps very slow, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Walking to the railing, he placed the empty cup down gently.

The metal base of the cup touched the stone platform, making a dull thud.

Then he leaned against the pillar and closed his eyes.

Not to rest.

But to recall.

Recalling the signs before every crisis in the past.

Three days before the insect tide attacked, the System prompted: "Blood mist descends in the west";

The first time Mo Yuan infiltrated the Alliance, the command was: "At the hour of the Dog, the southeast wind carries a fishy stench";

The night Old Zhao poisoned them, although the System did not give a warning, he discovered an extra layer of transparent film on the ventilation filter during his inspection—it was later discovered to be a carrier for a special pheromone of the Demon Race.

What was the pattern?

It didn't tell you directly that "the enemy is here," but gave you a fragment, letting you piece together the full picture yourself.

But at midnight today, the System's three commands were:

"At the beginning of the hour of the Rabbit, the germination rate of spiritual seedlings in the east zone of the Medicinal Field increases";

"Within three days, the Lin family will be willing to sign a ten-year mineral vein agreement";

"The B-4 furnace in the Artifact Refining Workshop needs a replacement energy-conducting ring."

All were daily trivial matters.

Not a single one pointed to a threat.

What did this mean?

Either it was truly peaceful.

Or... the opponent had learned to circumvent the "Heavenly Secrets."

Thinking of this, he opened his eyes abruptly.

A blood-colored pattern flashed deep in his pupils.

"Impossible," he gritted his teeth, "You can hide from the System, but you cannot hide from me."

Just then, his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye automatically zoomed in, focusing on an abandoned ancient battlefield on the edge of the Eastern Wasteland—it was once the site of the war between immortals and the Demon Race a thousand years ago, now only scorched earth and broken monuments remained.

The image zoomed in.

Twelve mechanical Puppets stood quietly in a circle, their surfaces covered with the traces of wind and sand erosion, as if they had been abandoned for many years.

But one of them had shifted its head armor at a slight angle.

Facing directly towards the Chen Family Main Peak.

Its eyes, in a moment unnoticed by anyone, flickered with dark purple data streams.

The next second, a consciousness pierced through the Void Realm, sounding like a whisper:

"Chen Wuwang."

The voice had no source and did not enter his ears, appearing directly in the depths of his Sea of Consciousness, carrying a texture interwoven with decay and madness.

"You honor heroes, I honor sacrifices."

"Tonight you raise your cups, but one day, I will make you drink your fill of pain."

Chen Wuwang stood on the high platform, the wind blowing his hem, his silver hair fluttering.

He did not respond.

He only slowly clenched his right hand, his knuckles turning white.

He knew this was not a threat.

This was a declaration of war.

And he also understood that the reason the opponent was speaking now was not to provoke him, but to let him know—

"I have my eyes on you."

"I can see you too."

"Between us, there are no secrets."

The laughter below the high platform continued; a young couple hid behind the shadows of the lanterns, secretly holding hands, only to be teased and exposed by their companions, separating with flushed faces.

Children ran around the bonfire, kicking up some charcoal, causing the adults to chase them while laughing.

How warm it was.

Yet the place where he stood felt as if it were separated by a layer of glass.

Outside it was warm, inside it was cold.

He lowered his head and looked at his own hands.

The hand that had once written millions of lines of code on Earth had now held swords, pressed buttons, signed death warrants, and personally buried the ashes of his comrades.

It should not tremble.

But it was a bit cold now.

It wasn't fear.

It was clarity.

He slowly exhaled a breath, misty white, dissipating in an instant in the night breeze.

"Mo Yuan," he said softly, "You want to play big, don't you?"

There was no answer.

The purple light in the eyes of the Puppet faded, returning to dead silence.

The twelve mechanical bodies stood silently on the wasteland, like silent tombstones.

The wind and sand covered their shoulder armor again, as if no one had ever been there.

And on the high platform of the Chen Family Main Hall, Chen Wuwang still stood.

The night was not over.

The wine was dry.

He did not order a state of alert.

He did not summon the Elders.

He didn't even look at that cup again.

He knew that true murderous intent never arrives when the charging horn sounds.

But descends quietly when everyone thinks victory is already decided.