STG 03
Chapter 3: Knocking
Back in his room, Lin Qiye closed the door behind him.
He didn’t turn on the light.
It was late at night, and faint starlight spilled through the window, casting dim patterns on the floor. In the darkness, Lin Qiye sat at his desk and slowly unwound the black silk from his eyes.
The mirror on the desk reflected the face of a handsome young man.
Lin Qiye was good-looking—if he removed the blindfold and tidied up a bit, paired with his inexplicably cool and profound aura, he’d undoubtedly be the heartthrob of any school.
Unfortunately, the perpetual black silk covering his eyes, along with his identity as a disabled person, completely obscured his radiance.
In the mirror, Lin Qiye’s eyes were closed.
His brows furrowed slightly, his eyelids trembling as if straining to open. His hands clenched into fists, his entire body tensing with effort.
One second, two seconds, three seconds…
His body trembled for a long moment before finally giving up, slumping as he gasped for breath.
Beads of sweat slid down his cheeks, and a trace of frustration flashed across his face.
So close… just a little more!
Why… why is it always just a little short?
When will I finally be able to open my eyes and see this world again?
He had lied when he said he could see now.
His eyes couldn’t open—not even a crack.
But he hadn’t lied, either.
Because even with his eyes closed, he could clearly “see” everything around him.
It was a strange sensation, as if his entire body had grown eyes, granting him a full, unobstructed view of his surroundings—clearer and farther than his original vision had ever been.
At first, he couldn’t do this. For the first five years after losing his sight, he had been no different from any other blind person, relying only on sound and his cane to navigate the world.
But for some reason, five years ago, his eyes had begun to change, and he had started to perceive his surroundings in a new way.
At first, it was only a few centimeters in front of him. But as time passed, his “vision” expanded—farther, clearer. Now, five years later, his range had reached ten meters.
For a normal person, only being able to see ten meters would be practically useless. But for a boy who had once lost all sight, those ten meters meant everything.
Most importantly, the ten meters he “saw” ignored obstacles.
In other words, within a ten-meter radius around Lin Qiye, he had absolute vision. To put it crudely, he could see through things. Or, more poetically, he could perceive every speck of dust floating in the air, every gear inside a machine, every sleight of hand a magician hid beneath a table…
And the source of this ability seemed to be his eyes—the same eyes that had remained tightly shut beneath the black silk for ten years.
Despite possessing this near-supernatural power, Lin Qiye still wasn’t satisfied. A ten-meter absolute field of vision was good, but what he truly wanted was to see the world with his own eyes again.
That was a young man’s stubbornness.
Even though he had failed to open them today, he could feel it clearly…
The moment they would truly open wasn’t far off.
After washing up, Lin Qiye went to bed early, as usual. His years as a blind person hadn’t been entirely bad—at the very least, they had given him the good habit of sleeping early.
But as he lay down, the same image surfaced in his mind, unbidden.
Beneath the dark cosmic sky, on the desolate surface of the Moon, the gray-white ground reflected the pale glow of starlight. At the center of the largest crater stood a figure like a statue.
It stood there silently, as if it had existed since time immemorial. Sacred golden light radiated from it, its divine majesty enough to make all living things prostrate themselves in awe.
Behind it, six enormous wings stretched out, blocking the sunlight from above and casting an immense shadow across the silver-gray ground.
But what had truly seared itself into Lin Qiye’s mind, what he could never forget, was its eyes.
Those eyes, brimming with divine authority, burned like molten furnaces—bright as the sun at close range.
He had seen those eyes.
For just an instant.
And then his world had been plunged into eternal night.
Ten years ago, he had told the truth—and been diagnosed as mentally ill.
But in his heart, he knew what was real and what was delusion.
From the moment he saw the seraphim on the Moon, he had known one thing:
This world… was far stranger than it seemed.
Slowly, Lin Qiye drifted into sleep.
What he didn’t know was that the moment he fell asleep, two faint golden rays of light seeped from between his closed eyelids—flashing for an instant before vanishing.
.
.
.
Tap… tap… tap…
In a world of mist, Lin Qiye walked alone.
The fog churned around him, endless and impenetrable. Though he walked through emptiness, every step he took produced a crisp sound, as if there were an invisible floor beneath his feet.
Lin Qiye looked down at himself and sighed.
“This dream again… Knocking every night is exhausting, you know?” Shaking his head, he took another step forward.
In the next moment, the mist around him surged and parted, revealing a bizarre modern building.
It was bizarre because, though its overall style was contemporary, certain details were steeped in mysticism.
Like the massive iron gate engraved with countless deities.
Like the light fixtures that resembled burning spheres of fire.
Like the floating, intricately patterned tiles beneath his feet.
It was as if someone had mashed together modern architecture with elements from ancient mythological temples—a mismatched yet indescribably beautiful fusion.
Lin Qiye recognized this kind of building. In fact, it looked eerily familiar.
It bore an uncanny resemblance to Sunshine Mental Hospital, where he had spent a year of his life. The most damning evidence was the sign above the entrance—where “Sunshine Mental Hospital” should have been, a different name now hung:
—Asylum of the Gods.
“What a ridiculous place.” Lin Qiye shook his head and stepped forward, stopping in front of the massive iron gate.
Five years ago, it wasn’t just his body that had begun to change—his dreams had, too.
For five years, he had the same dream every night, and every night, the star of that dream was this mysterious Asylum of the Gods.
The problem was, the asylum’s gates had always remained tightly shut, no matter what he did.
Lin Qiye had circled the building countless times, but the iron gate was the only entrance. The walls weren’t particularly high, but the most absurd part was that every time he tried to jump over them, they grew taller to match his leap.
As for brute force? Even if Lin Qiye threw his entire body against the gate, it wouldn’t budge an inch.
There seemed to be only one way in.
Knocking.
Lin Qiye gripped the iron ring on the gate, took a deep breath, and slammed it against the door.
Clang—!
A resonant chime, like that of an ancient bell, echoed through the asylum. The gate shuddered slightly but didn’t open.
Clang—!
Another strike. Still no movement.
Lin Qiye didn’t seem surprised or frustrated. Patiently, he continued knocking.
Over the past five years, he had learned the rules of this dream all too well. Nothing but knocking would open the gate, and in this dream, knocking was seemingly the only thing he could do.
Thankfully, he never grew tired in the dream—otherwise, his body would have collapsed long ago.
And so, like a diligent laborer, Lin Qiye spent yet another night dutifully knocking on the door…
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