Puzzle Madness

Chapter 152 Circle (Part Two)
A scream exploded in his brain like thunder, almost boiling his brain. Compared to this, the mental broadcasts he received earlier were no different from whispers close to his ear on the pillow: even DouDou scratched his scalp in frustration, feeling an unbearable itch.

It's unclear whether DouDou's closeness to the cataloger amplified his obsession, but the cataloger certainly displayed an unprecedented level of saturated psychological violence.

But what DouDou cared about more was another word in the other person's "words":
[Limiter?]

The cataloger suddenly raised his hands and grabbed the palm with the index finger raised on his mask.

Then, he started rotating and twisting again. But this time, he didn't stop—round and round, the joints creaking. He kept turning it in his hand, even pulling the index finger outwards: it looked like a ritual, but only the ritual of dismantling a water pipe.

The sound was strange, a damp, squelching noise. Then, there was a hissing sound, like a broken faucet.
Thin streams of blood sprayed from the gaps in the cataloger's mask, soaking his face. The hand with the index finger raised seemed to be more than just decoration; it appeared to be directly connected to the cataloger's head. At least, the act of "pulling" had damaged the facial blood vessels.

DouDou naturally wouldn't interrupt the cataloger's work. He leaned forward, his eyes unblinking, and casually poked his finger into his eye socket to wipe away the blood that had splashed onto his eyeball.

Ironically, the moment DouDou stepped onto this long wooden boardwalk is now the most tranquil and peaceful time of day.

Even the researchers' side was much quieter—no one was issuing commands or yelling anymore; there were only collisions, gagging, and falls.

Some researchers had already collapsed, their gas masks smeared with red ink; it was unclear whether they had suffered from high intracranial pressure due to the recent mental broadcast, or were bleeding from all seven orifices, or even had their heads explode.

Some removed their masks, knelt on the ground, and vomited; their nosebleeds mixed with gastric juices and bile, creating a colorful mess.

The rest of them helped each other up and stumbled away from the rain shelter; every now and then a researcher would stagger drunkenly, take a few meters and then fall down, silent.

Not everyone is like DouDou, who only felt the burning and itching on her scalp during that terrifying mental groan.

Even the flowerbeds stopped their haphazard waving. Every hand planted in the soil stood straight up to the sky; nothing else mattered but silence.

[It's much better than before: I'm finally starting to feel that telepathic connection. But did I amplify his obsession? Or is it the "limiter" he keeps talking about?]

DouDou quickly estimated the researcher's escape speed, then shrugged:

[It's alright, we can still find someone to ask about the situation. If all else fails, we could try sifting some brain tissue? After all, the cataloger is still here.]

Snap: The cataloger finally pulled out a section of the hand, the end sticky; but most of it was still embedded inside the mask.

The spiritual broadcast rang out clearly, coherently, and without distraction; it was no longer a shrill scream that threatened to boil one's brain, but only a calm statement:

[Wake up, please. Save me.]
Who is he talking to?

DouDou turned her head in confusion and looked behind her, where there were only [spheres]:

"Why would I save you? I wasn't even planning to hit you, there's no need to be so scared."

It's obvious that the cataloger wasn't seeking help from DouDou—
The cataloger's pleas were met with a swift response.

Clang, clang, clang, clang.

The bright, crisp sounds of the collisions were somewhat like the sound of a soda can being opened.

The spheres surrounding DouDou and the cataloger: their shells are bursting open one after another. They must be being forcibly pried open by internal forces, the fasteners at the joints rising into the air with the force of the impact, some falling into the sea.

Those limbs retracted into the gaps in the shell, and then, holding onto the semi-circular edge of the shell, pushed it open.

Meanwhile, the contents inside the shell were slowly and orderly emerging, exposed to DouDou without any obstruction.

"Oh! I guessed right."

DouDou stood up straight abruptly, looking at the open [spheres], a surge of excitement welling up inside her.

"They're just people! I guess you could call them people."

Just as he had guessed before—the [spheres] were filled with humans. Or at least, people who were similar to humans: to use the term from the Human Catalog Center, one could say they were subspecies.
The question remained, because these "people" had no heads. Where there should be a head, there was only a clean cut.

The rounded necks hissed and spewed water, the muscles twitching incessantly; the wounds looked fresh, yet they hadn't killed these "people." At least from their current state, though sluggish, they moved with ease. "They don't even have heads? How cunning."

DouDou originally wanted to use these subspecies to test whether the mouth on the back of the head was actually useful.

The "people" crawled out of each [sphere], stood up, and gently moved their limbs, as if they had just taken a nap in the capsule hotel.

Surprisingly, they were all dressed in clothes; they were bright red gowns.

Vibrant and bright; not like the dark red soaked in human blood, but even with a smooth, glittery sheen.

A subtle scene—the limbs are of different thicknesses and skin colors, and the hair is sometimes thick and sometimes sparse, but the size of their torsos is exactly the same.

Some individuals appear extremely disproportionate, and each person's height varies due to leg length; they resemble a pile of model toys with the head molds removed and the remaining parts haphazardly pieced together.

This process is not over yet.

Even the sticky mouse traps suddenly opened automatically amidst the tremors, their squares bulging. Like popcorn wrapped in tin foil being heated, they rose and puffed outwards; in an instant, they turned into sticky, bright red mushroom clouds.

DouDou often eats frozen food that can be microwaved and eaten as a late-night snack: the scene in front of him reminded him of the fast food TV packages sold wholesale in supermarkets.

Snapped!
The swaying, bulging cyst suddenly burst open, and out rolled out a group of "people" huddled together. They, too, were headless, dressed in red, and pushed each other aside to find a space to stand; then they slowly crawled up from a puddle.

Dozens of headless "people" stood frozen in place, surrounding DouDou and the cataloger.

[They've just grown! What are these? The metal plates are at most ten centimeters long; they couldn't possibly fit them unless they've just grown. Cultivators, you know.]

No matter how much the metal plate was compressed, it couldn't possibly hold dozens of people: the most likely explanation is that they all grew and expanded rapidly during those few breaths.

They were all wrapped in bright red gowns, and bodily fluids seeping from their necks dripped into their collars.

DouDou stared at them, her eyes wide. Suddenly, she slapped her forehead:
"Who are you? I feel like I've seen this outfit on TV before? Are you fashion models? Oh, no! It's the ones in front—"

I do recognize this outfit; I saw it on that videotape earlier today. But back then, the person wearing it was quite talkative, had a monstrous little assistant, and wore a pigeon headgear.

And the quantity isn't that much.

Suddenly, DouDou raised his hand and pointed, his fingertip gesturing back and forth; his mouth slightly open, he suddenly realized:
"Um, you guys are that... the big, pigeon-headed Dr. Cuckoo, no, I mean [Dr. Human]?"

He uttered the short and strange name.

Although the most important identifying feature—the head—is missing, considering the Human Cataloging Center and those messy "Human Secrets" videotapes...
Even if these guys in front of me aren't that [Human Doctor], they're probably still connected to him.

[We can't call mathematicians "Doctors" anymore! It's just too common; honestly, this guy has no creativity when it comes to naming himself.]

Without heads, there was naturally no reply; they didn't seem to possess the frenzy of catalogers capable of sending out mental broadcasts.

"What's going on? All these human subspecies are you alone—"

Crunch, crunch.

Suddenly, the car stopped.

He felt his hair being moved, a heavy, even itchy feeling coming from the back of his head; a rustling sound like mice crawling; something pushed open his rain hat, letting the downpour pour onto his head again, but the rain stopped abruptly just as his head was being soaked by the tangled raindrops.

Something was growing bigger and bigger until it stretched across overhead, shielding the hood from the rain.

He looked up, just in time to meet a drop of blood:
"Wow, this is more interesting."

A headless body, with its back bent, "looks down" at DouDou—he is wearing a blood-red coat and is trying his best to pull himself out of the mouth on the back of DouDou's head.
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(End of this chapter)