Frederick Taylor

Deep beneath the earth, all was silent save for the low-frequency hum emitted when the circular containment field was powered on.

At the center of the laboratory stood an enormous spherical vacuum chamber, like a dissected black heart.

At its core, a cloud of blazing white plasma slowly revolved. Its light was dazzling, yet it was bound by some invisible force, unable to touch the inner walls of the vacuum chamber.

Through the one-meter-thick observation window of specially treated quartz glass, they could see a blurred humanoid silhouette at the heart of that storm of light, constantly flickering and reforming. At times, it was clear enough for its limbs to be made out; at others, it collapsed into a chaotic scatter of glowing motes.

That was Lin Yun.

Or rather, it was what remained of Lin Yun's material form, now forcibly maintained at the edge of a macroscopic quantum superposition state.

"Observer data synchronized."

Ding Yi's voice echoed before the control console. A long-extinguished cigarette was clamped between his fingers, its ash on the verge of falling.

Before him, rows of screens refreshed cascading data streams at speeds the human eye could not track.

"Dr. Chen, is your brainwave resonance frequency stable? Don't be nervous. Just treat this as—well, a rather special vision test."

Dr. Chen did not answer. Seated beside Ding Yi at the observation station, he wore a silver helmet connected to countless cables, his eyes fixed on the center of the vacuum chamber.

Fine beads of sweat covered his forehead, sliding down his temples and dripping onto the collar of his pristine white lab coat.

He could "see" things that did not exist on the screens.

The sensation was remarkably strange. Amplified by the helmet, his consciousness seemed to have connected with that cloud of light.

He