Did the world end today?

Chapter 268 Time Fragments

Chapter 268 Time Fragments
Siberia, on the outskirts of Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal.

Ivan Petrovich, carrying a gun, trekked across the cold snowfield.

He was cursing under his breath, but he wasn't cursing the damn weather; he was cursing the damn tourists.

If it weren't for the tourists who kept directing others to run around and fire indiscriminately, the stag he was tracking wouldn't have been disturbed.

If the buck hadn't been alerted, his first shot wouldn't have missed.

If this shot hadn't missed, I wouldn't need to keep working overtime in this damn weather. Instead, I should be sitting in a warm pub, drinking vodka, bragging, and tallying up the day's revenue from the tourists I've hosted.
-
But now, all of that has come to nothing.

This group of tourists opted for the "game included" package.

This means that if he doesn't shoot down the male deer that was deliberately released, all his work over the past two weeks will have been for nothing.

Thinking of this, Ivan let out a heavy sigh.

What can be done?
Keep chasing, keep chasing.

Anyway, that male deer shouldn't have gone far.

He raised his head slightly, and all he could see was snow.

Endless snow.

They didn't fall; they were torn from the frozen ground by the violent westerly winds, kneaded into millions of tiny, hard ice crystals, and then sprayed out horizontally like shrapnel.

The Siberian winter has never known what gentleness is.

The howling wind seeped into the gaps of Ivan's thick leather hat and scarf, scraping his ears and cheeks like an icy file, taking away the last bit of warmth.

His body was beginning to stiffen, but his eyes, like two flints embedded deep in his frozen face, pierced sharply through the swirling snow.

The footprints are right ahead.

Judging from the depth of the footprints and the traces covered by the wind and snow, the prey he was tracking was not far away.

So, how long has this investigation been going on?
One hour? Two hours?

Ivan silently calculated in his mind how much overtime pay he should ask his boss for.

This was the only motivation that kept him going throughout the entire pursuit.

The overwhelming feeling of exhaustion was like an icy tide, almost drowning him.

To make matters worse, the life-saving hoofprints suddenly disappeared into the blurry snow ahead.

It wasn't covered by fresh snow; it broke off completely and cleanly.

It was as if that giant moose had vanished into thin air, or sprouted wings and flown away.

Ivan stopped abruptly, his frozen eyelashes covered in snowflakes. He blinked hard and looked again in disbelief.

Where the hoofprints disappeared, a strange scene appeared before his eyes.

It was a circular area about ten meters in diameter, abruptly embedded in the vast snowfield.

Inside the circle, the ground was bare, covered with dark brown permafrost and sparse, dead moss, without a single patch of snow.

Outside the gaming community, blizzards continue to rage.

An invisible, absolute boundary separates two completely different worlds.

Ivan's heart pounded. He instinctively took a step back, threw the battle-tested AK-74 rifle from his back, and gripped it tightly in his hand.

He saw something even stranger.

In the center of the area, about half a person's height above the ground, something is suspended in the air.

It wasn't ice, at least not like any ice he had ever seen.

It was about half a person's height, irregularly shaped, like a piece of crystal that had been roughly torn apart, with sharp and twisted edges.

It radiated a pure, cold, and eerie blue light, as if it were seeping out from within the material itself, condensed and suspended there quietly, like a star from another world frozen in the air.

The edges of the halo distorted the air slightly, making the withered grass on the frozen ground appear somewhat shaky.

这是
Some kind of weapon?
What does that mean? Er Mao attacked again?

Ivan recalled an attack that occurred before the ceasefire, and he couldn't help but suspect that it was either a weapon left behind by the enemy or simply a newly deployed weapon.

if it is like this.
I have to go and see for myself.

No, this is not out of any sense of honor or "patriotism".

It's purely because, if I were to happen to find a cutting-edge weapon and uncover a conspiracy...
The bonus I received will at least allow me to take a good vacation for a few months.

With that thought in mind, Ivan took a few steps forward.

He has already entered the industry.

And in that instant, he sensed a dramatic change.

Dead silence.

Absolute silence enveloped this circle.

The howling of the wind and snow outside seemed to be completely blocked by an invisible layer of soundproof glass.

Ivan could even hear his own heavy breathing and the muffled thuds of blood hitting his eardrums.

The cold was still biting, but a deeper, unknown chill crept up his spine.

The moose tracks disappeared here. Could it have been swallowed up by this weapon?

But how is that possible??
Like a wary old wolf, they cautiously, step by step, approached the eerie "crystal" with extreme slowness.

The boots made a clear and hard "click" sound as they stepped on the frozen ground, which sounded particularly jarring in the eerie silence.

For some inexplicable reason, Ivan did not raise his gun.

An indescribable impulse seized him, as if the blue light itself was a silent summons.

He slowly, almost sleepwalking, lowered the muzzle of his AK-74.

Then, he stretched out his right hand, which was covered by a thick leather glove and had large knuckles, with an almost pious fear and curiosity about the unknown, trembling as he reached out towards the suspended blue light.

My fingertips, through the rough leather gloves, were still a few centimeters away from the cold blue light.
hum!
It's not sound, but a violent, high-frequency vibration that acts directly on the entire cranial cavity and nerve endings!
Ivan felt as if his head had been struck by an invisible giant hammer, or as if it had been stuffed into the inside of a giant bell that was roaring wildly.

His vision went black for a moment, then he was overwhelmed by countless exploding, incomprehensible fragments of color and light!

Time, the solid yardstick by which he relied to understand the world, shattered, collapsed, and was stirred into a boiling pot of turbulent porridge in that instant.

He saw it.
No, it's perception.

A colossal, hairy shadow, with its mountain-like heavy steps and deafening, soul-piercing roar, thundered across the frozen earth!
Those were long-extinct behemoths, ghosts of the Ice Age.
Mammoth.

Its thick legs pounded the dark brown frozen earth, its long nose curled up withered moss, and its massive body swept towards him with a biting prehistoric wind, carrying a strong, pungent smell of humus and ancient beasts that almost suffocated him.

The next second, the screen ripped apart.

The cold, snowy plains disappeared, replaced by dazzling light.

Streamlined, silent gliding aircraft rapidly weave a river of light among the strange, skyscraper-like buildings that soar into the clouds.

A piercing, high-frequency hum replaced the roar of the mammoth, and a cold, metallic smell filled the air.

But before he could even see what it was, the light and shadow twisted and spun wildly again.

This time, he saw a face.

A face with deep furrows and skin as loose as crumpled parchment.

His cloudy eyes were sunken deep in their withered sockets, showing only a dull, weary look and a numb indifference to the end of his life.

Sparse, snow-white hair lay flat against his dry scalp.

Is this really me?

The dying, near-death Ivan Petrovich?
A deep-seated fear and despair, stemming from the very instinct for survival, instantly gripped his heart, almost crushing it!

past.

future.

death.

Countless fragments of "now"—sounds, light, smells, and touches—a torrent of information from countless points in time, like an out-of-control, all-encompassing flood, violently rushed into his consciousness.

He felt like a fragile clay pot, thrown into the turbulent current of time by an invisible force, about to be smashed to pieces in an instant.

"what--"

A non-human, extremely painful roar finally broke through his spasming throat.

He staggered backward as if he had been violently pushed away by a tremendous force.

The outstretched right hand recoiled as if electrocuted, tightly clutching its throbbing, excruciating head.

He lost his balance and fell heavily outside the cold, snow-covered circle.

The roar of the blizzard and the rustling of snowflakes scraping against his fur coat instantly filled his ears again.

Ivan curled up on the snow, panting heavily, each breath accompanied by burning pain and an uncontrollable tremor of fear.

His stomach churned, and a surge of acid rushed to his throat. He turned his head and vomited on the snow with a "whoosh," the filth quickly freezing in the cold.

He struggled to lift his head, his bloodshot eyes staring in terror at the circle.

The pale blue fragment remained silently suspended in the center of the snowless area, emitting a cold, constant, and unmoving ominous light.

It was as if the time storm that had just torn apart the soul was nothing more than a breath of insignificance to it.

It hovered there silently, like an eternal, indifferent observer.
After one hour.

The heavy wooden door of the "Polaris" bar was suddenly flung open, bringing with it a chilling blast of air and a swaying figure.

The copper bell hanging on the door frame emitted a shrill, short "ding-dong" sound, which was instantly drowned out by the sweltering heat and noise inside the bar.

Ivan Petrovich, like a moving iceberg, covered in unmelted snow and chill, heavily squeezed to the front of the bar.

"Sergei! Bring me a bottle of Birch Tree! The strongest one!"

He slammed his hand hard on the greasy bar counter, making several empty glasses jump.

His hoarse voice pierced through the noise, drawing the attention of people at the nearby tables.

The bartender, Sergei, glanced at Ivan but said nothing.

He simply and skillfully pulled a short, stout glass bottle from the shelf behind him, unscrewed the metal cap, and slammed it down in front of Ivan with a thud.

Ivan practically snatched the bottle and gulped down a large mouthful right from the opening.

The high concentration of vodka felt like a burning line, scorching him from his throat all the way to his stomach, causing him to cough violently and even bring tears to his eyes.

But the heat seemed to give him strength. He wiped his mouth hard with the back of his hand, turned around, leaned against the bar, and his bloodshot eyes scanned the familiar yet curious faces around him. "Today... is my last day!"

He deliberately raised his voice, which was distorted by alcohol and excitement, and trembled with an eagerness to vent.

He brandished the bottle, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously.

"The last day? Ivan, you've finally decided to resign?"

Someone was laughing drunkenly in the corner.

Did you win the National Lotto?

Another voice chimed in.

Ivan shook his head violently, and shards of ice fell from his chin.

"Win the lottery?! Sukabril!"

"I'm fucking dying! I'm about to die!"

He spat, spittle flying everywhere.

"I fucking stumbled upon time! Living time! Time that's cracked open!"

"I saw myself! I saw myself about to die!"

The laughter grew even louder.

Obviously, nobody took it seriously.

"Ivan, have you lost your mind from the cold? How about another warm drink?"

"Forget about those tourists, I told you long ago that this job is not easy."

"Those Chinese people, tsk."

An old acquaintance shook his head, offering kind words of comfort.

But Ivan showed no appreciation whatsoever.

"fart!"

His face flushed even redder, partly from the alcohol and partly from his urgent, misunderstood anger.

"Right on that hillside where we usually hunt! A blizzard! Snow! So heavy! There! A spot! Clean! Round! Not a speck of snow! Warm!"

He was rambling incoherently, gesturing wildly with his hands to indicate the circle.

"In the middle! There's a piece of ice floating there! It's blue! Like a frozen will-o'-the-wisp!"

He took another gulp of wine, trying to suppress the deep-seated tremor and fear brought on by the memories.

But the alcohol that seeps into the bloodstream only intensifies that feeling.

"I touched it! Just once!"

He stretched out his right hand, which was covered by a tattered gloved hand, and seemed to still feel that cold, immaterial touch.

"Om-!"

He mimicked the terrifying intracranial concussion, emitting a strange, drawn-out sound.

His body swayed violently, and his eyes instantly became empty and distant, as if his soul had been dragged back to that terrifying moment.

"They're all here! The glacier! It's huge! Mammoths! They rumbled past!"

"Whoosh! It's changed again! There are all sorts of weird airplanes flying around! Buildings are so tall they're practically piercing the clouds! And there are cities flying in the sky! It's so noisy! And there's a strong smell of rust and burning!"

He waved his arms as if trying to drive away the illusions.

"And then, it's myself!"

"I'm the one who's going to die!"

The bar fell silent for a moment, then erupted into even louder laughter and table-banging.

"Hahahaha! Ivan! You drunkard! Did you get vodka in your eyes?"

"Keep making things up! This story is fantastic!"

"That's right! I'll tell more, and tomorrow I'll tell the tourists. I might even be able to scam some tips!"

Ivan's face turned from red to black; he felt a sense of humiliation at being mocked.

He slammed his fist on the bar, making the bottles jump.

"Damn it, doesn't anyone here watch the news?!"

"I already know what that is!"

"That's a high-dimensional passage, a high-dimensional passage!"

"Don't you understand? Anyone who has come into contact with a higher-dimensional channel will die!"

"We will turn into monsters."

His voice choked, his shoulders slumped slightly, and the excitement he had just felt deflated like a punctured balloon.

His eyes held only a deep, indescribable weariness and confusion.

He stared blankly at his outstretched right hand, a large, calloused hand covered in chilblains, trembling slightly in the dim, greasy light.

"real."

He muttered to himself, more like he was talking to himself.

"I know I'm going to die soon."

I don't have time.

"This is my last glass of wine."

"Oh shit."

"I should order a bottle of Russo-Bart."

Do you have Russobart here?

As soon as he finished speaking, the laughter gradually subsided.

A subtle awkwardness and suspicion filled the bar.

Although Ivan loves to boast, the stories he tells to Chinese tourists often garner the most likes on short video platforms.

However, he rarely fabricated such a bizarre story, yet one filled with such genuine fear.

The weariness and fear he revealed in that instant, as if his soul had been ripped out, didn't seem feigned.

Several old acquaintances exchanged glances, stopped making a fuss, and just silently drank the wine in their glasses.

Sergei yelled for the bartender to bring him the most expensive bottle of vodka, the dim light reflecting off his bald head and making it gleam.

His cloudy eyes, however, seemed to glance, almost unconsciously, for an extremely brief moment at the bar's window facing the street, which was covered in a thick layer of condensation.

The glance was so fleeting that no one noticed.

at this time--

Bang!

The bar's heavy, iron-clad wooden door was suddenly pushed open from the outside with an undeniable, cold force.

The force was so great that the door hinges groaned under the strain.

The door slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

The biting cold wind rushed in like a flood bursting its banks, instantly dispelling the stale warmth in the bar.

All the noise vanished without a trace, as if cut off by an invisible giant blade.

The entire bar fell into a deathly silence, with only the howling of the cold wind blowing in.

Two figures blocked the doorway, like two black icebergs that suddenly descended, cutting off the gray light from outside.

They went straight to the bar and to Ivan.

The drinkers blocking their path seemed to be separated by an invisible force, involuntarily and silently retreating to make way for them.

The sound of leather shoes hitting the ground was particularly jarring in the deathly silence, and finally stopped in front of Ivan.

One of the men in black, slightly taller, slowly raised his right hand, which was gloved with black leather.

He precisely took a flat, dark brown leather document holder from the inside pocket of his coat, and with an almost mechanical, fluid motion, opened it, revealing the metal badges and cards embedded inside to Ivan.

The emblem was a dark silver color, and its main feature was a two-headed eagle, its talons gripping a scepter and a golden orb.

Ivan's gaze was fixed on the two-headed eagle, his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by an icy hand, almost stopping its beating.

He recognized the sign; everyone who lived on this vast frozen land recognized the suffocatingly large shadow it represented—the Federal Security Service.

"Ivan Petrovich Solovyov?"

The tall man in black, holding the identification, spoke.

This is an inquiry.

But perhaps, more accurately, it's just "confirmation".

Ivan's throat was dry, and he wanted to speak, but only managed to utter a meaningless, hoarse sound.

"Ah."

His knuckles, gripping the bottle tightly, had turned white from excessive force.

"Take a trip with us."

Another man in black spoke, his voice equally cold and flat, an order that left no room for negotiation.

"Why??"

Ivan seemed to be trying to make one last stand.

But the man did not answer.