Chapter Thirty-Four: Didn’t You Hear Me Speaking to You?

Sophia shook her head.
"Not all awakened ones are to be killed. If that were the case, wouldn’t we simply be murderers? There are standards for carrying out cleansing missions. If their minds are clear, they have an understanding of the world, and they pose no threat to the safety of this timeline, then capture is permitted.
Many of the slaves inside the base were taken in this way. However, should an awakened one be found disrupting the safety of this world or attempting to alter the flow of its timeline, they must be cleansed. Such individuals easily attract the attention of Hunters, and the base could lose its control over this world."
Zhou Yi was taken aback; the result was somewhat unexpected.
Still, it seemed like the base managed quite a few task worlds. Now wasn’t the time to ask more, but it was clear that the target of this mission, Cheng Zhi, fell into the latter category—one who had to be eliminated.
Zhou Yi glanced at Sophia. Previously, when he’d been Slave Number Twenty-Eight, he’d been stripped of the right to receive energy points and had his memory wiped. Clearly, these measures were related to mission rewards.
This time, with Fatty along, they’d been assigned a vague mission with a thirty-day deadline. Zhou Yi could feel the pressure; after all, failure would mean losing the right to manage Fatty. Would the boy end up just like himself, memory wiped and doomed to be consumed by the task world?
He frowned slightly but forced down the flood of questions he wanted to ask. Now wasn’t the time—Carter was right there.
No matter how much Valdene seemed to want to kill Carter, Zhou Yi could tell that Carter was Valdene’s eyes—utterly loyal.
"Miss Sophia, I understand. Please send us over."
Sophia nodded, her expression still calm, and gestured to Carter. The group began attaching various wires, connecting themselves to the machines.
"Teleportation countdown begins! Five... four... three... two... one..."
Zhou Yi suddenly felt tightness around his arms and legs, as if he were confined in a cramped space. The hum of machinery filled his ears; he tried to open his eyes but couldn’t—last time he’d fallen into water during teleportation, and now he kept his entire body tense, waiting for the weightless sensation to subside.
After more than ten seconds, the noise faded. Zhou Yi listened closely—there seemed to be the sharp sound of a whistle not far off, and the cramped feeling on his sides and feet was gone. He lifted his foot, and the floor beneath him creaked.
"Are you going to sleep or not? Why are you tossing around at noon? I’ve got an exam this afternoon!"
Zhou Yi’s eyes snapped open. Directly above him was the ceiling of a dormitory—plain concrete with a layer of cracked latex paint, some parts bulging and flaking off, making the place look dilapidated.
Turning his head, he saw bunk beds across the room. This was clearly a student dormitory, eight people to a room. As Zhou Yi breathed, his glasses began to fog; the room was freezing, though the opposite bed still had a mosquito net draped over it.
The air was thick with the smell of feet—probably because of the cold, the stale odor lingered, slow to disperse.
The voice just now came from Zhou Yi’s bunkmate below. Wanting to avoid making any further noise, Zhou Yi closed his eyes and kept still.
He was in the dormitory, so it must be early winter.
After all, Cheng Zhi had graduated in 2000. Since they’d arrived in this world, it had to be after the graduation photo was taken. The first step was to find Fatty.
Zhou Yi recalled the clone’s memories. To avoid attention, the clone was utterly ordinary—average grades, average abilities, average social life. The relationships between roommates were far from harmonious.
Especially Yang Wei, the guy in the lower bunk—good family, good grades, always acting superior.
The clone was the dorm’s scapegoat—fetching water, cleaning, turning lights on and off, answering the door—it all fell to him.
Zhou Yi smacked his lips, feeling somewhat uneasy.
He wasn’t one to seek the spotlight, but this level of meekness was uncomfortable. He opened his eyes and patted himself down. On his wrist was a black digital watch; in his pocket, a classic bar-style cell phone.
He pulled it out with his left hand and glanced at the watch. The phone glowed green with a click—the date read November 30, 2000.
A quick scan of its functions: it could send and receive texts, make calls, and had a simple Snake game.
But it wasn’t a color screen, so seeing a photo of Cheng Zhi was out of the question.
Zhou Yi frowned. It seemed this task world differed from Sophia’s description, but given the technological and financial constraints, a decent color screen phone was probably out of reach.
He searched his memory. The world’s historical and cultural background mirrored his own, with no real differences—just a slice taken from a different moment in time.
By 2000, there were already color screen phones—Siemens S10, Nokia 9210, Sony Ericsson T68. The Nokia 9210 was the best fit, but at five or six thousand yuan, it would have cost a year’s living expenses.
One problem after another—without money, nothing could be done. To accomplish so much in a month would not be easy.
Zhou Yi felt a surge of frustration. He rolled over, making the bed creak again, and Yang Wei, his class monitor downstairs, grew annoyed.
With a thud, he slammed his pillow, threw off his blanket, and sat up.
"Zhou Yi, why aren’t you sleeping at noon? What’s your problem?"
The bed frame’s noise wasn’t all that loud—metal bunks always made some sound—but Yang Wei’s shout was pure cacophony.
The entire dorm woke up, a chorus of creaking beds. Interestingly, no one blamed Yang Wei; instead, they all began complaining about Zhou Yi.
"Zhou Yi, you’re so noisy!"
"If you’re not going to sleep, just get out!"
"What are you doing, Zhou Yi?"
One accusation after another—no one spoke up for him. Clearly, they were all in awe of Yang Wei—a model student with a good background and plenty of money, none of which Zhou Yi, the dorm’s punching bag, possessed.
He sat up, folded his blanket, jumped off the bed, and put on his shoes.
This string of actions surprised Yang Wei. Usually, Zhou Yi would apologize and let the matter drop. Today’s response left everyone at a loss.
Yang Wei, feeling his authority challenged, unwilling to be mocked by his roommates, stood up and grabbed Zhou Yi by the collar.
"I’m talking to you. Didn’t you hear me?"
Zhou Yi stared into Yang Wei’s eyes. With this posturing and the way he grabbed him, it was clear Yang Wei had never actually fought—he was all bark and no bite.
"Let go."
Of course, Yang Wei refused. Zhou Yi reached up and pinched the nerve at Yang Wei’s elbow. With a little pressure, Yang Wei cried out in pain, his face twisted.
"Ow, ow, ow!"
He let go, tumbling back onto his bunk and clutching his numb arm, staring at Zhou Yi in panic.
Seeing how little trouble the guy was, Zhou Yi ignored him, slipped on his shoes, put on the cotton jacket hanging in the corner, and slung his backpack over his shoulders.
The others had already gotten out of bed. One of them shouted at Zhou Yi:
"Hey, Zhou Yi, why did you get physical?"
Zhou Yi followed the voice. It was a boy with thick black-rimmed glasses—the lenses at least six diopters thick, giving him a bookish look.
This was Yang Wei’s friend Sun Nan, a frequent bully.
He’d always mocked Zhou Yi’s poor background and would even crush his instant noodles, dumping leftover tea leaves onto Zhou Yi’s bed—a classic bully who picked on the weak.
"Anyone with eyes saw what just happened. Who bullied whom? I don’t need to say it. If you want to fight, come down; don’t just shout from up there. If no one’s going to do anything, I’m leaving."
With that, Zhou Yi stood his ground for a full minute.
The dorm fell silent—no one moved, all eyes fixed on Zhou Yi.