The interior of the Shèn was strangely formed; its semi-spherical, fleshy, dark-red body sprouted a pair of stark white fangs that resembled the teeth of a viper.

Just like a viper’s, the tip of each fang had a small opening.

I presumed its structure mirrored that of a viper: a hollow, tubular interior connected to a venom sac, designed to inject toxins into prey upon biting.

However, what the Shèn injected seemed not to be venom, but a hallucinogenic drug that induced visions.

Yet, the last time the Shèn bit me, I didn't experience hallucinations; instead, the psychic energy I had cultivated within my mental realm erupted outward.

This suggested that perhaps the Shèn's hallucinogenic toxin was ineffective against me. Far from it, it seemed capable of using this agent to construct a psychic space where I could freely exert the power of Nian.

I couldn't tell if this was some resonance between the Shèn and me, or if this was the intended mechanism. Regardless, the moment the Shèn latched onto me, the world around me instantly transformed.

In one corner of my room, a vertical, black seam appeared, only about the width of a palm—too narrow for a person to pass through. This black line touched the area behind the door where it met the wardrobe, a spot I never normally approached.

This type of Nian was intimately familiar to me: a spatial-temporal rift.

I never imagined such a thing could exist within an ordinary apartment.

I recalled the tenant downstairs who rented me this place. He had mentioned that inexplicable things occasionally occurred here: objects would suddenly vanish, only to reappear just as suddenly. When missing, they were untraceable no matter how intensely they were sought; when they reappeared, it was always in a place that had just been thoroughly searched.

At the time, I paid it no mind. Even if the rumors were true, such phenomena weren't entirely uncommon. Almost everyone had experienced things temporarily vanishing only to be found days later in the most obvious spots.

Of course, the young man who told me this likely had similar experiences, but he conveyed the information with grave seriousness because something truly significant had once disappeared from that very room.

He recounted that a previous tenant lost an expensive handbag, valued at ten thousand yuan, overnight. On the fourth night, it reappeared somewhere behind the door. The critical detail was that the contents of the bag were found scattered: some in different drawers, others beneath the bed, as if deliberately strewn about. The tenant moved out immediately upon discovering this, suspecting some strange entity was haunting the place, specifically setting out to tease them.

After the tenant left, the landlord heard the story and hired a Feng Shui master to investigate. Reportedly, several protective treasures were placed in the unit. However, every subsequent resident stayed for no more than two months, all complaining about inexplicable disappearances.

When I rented the place, I dismissed notions of haunted houses, assuming the tenant who lost the bag might have had a nocturnal wandering habit, perhaps placing the contents in various places while asleep, hiding the bag, and then retrieving it days later during another episode.

But once I activated my Nian perception and witnessed the spatial-temporal rift, everything became clear.

A spatial-temporal rift cannot actively consume objects, but if something is forced through it, it will emerge elsewhere. Perhaps the bag’s owner had hung it on a hook beside the wardrobe, the hook had slipped, and the bag fell into the rift. As for why it took so long to reappear, that was not something I could determine immediately.

In any case, besides the rift behind the door, there must be other rifts throughout the apartment, serving as exits or mutual entry/exit points, explaining the frequent loss of items—drawers and under the bed being particularly noteworthy locations.

With this realization, I casually opened a drawer. Sure enough, inside, I discovered a small, eye-shaped rift. Any small object accidentally falling into it would vanish instantly. I even found similar fissures on the desk surface, though they were barely thicker than a strand of hair, suggesting only the smallest items could pass through.

There were over a dozen rifts of various sizes in this room—no wonder tenants constantly lost things.

I suddenly recalled the words of the contemporary American physicist, Hawking (the one in the wheelchair): “Spacetime tunnels exist everywhere; it just depends on whether you have the means to find and utilize them.”

It seemed his theory touched upon the essence of the matter, though Hawking probably never saw a spatial-temporal rift in his entire life. If I hadn't opened my Nian perception, no one would likely have identified the cause of the missing items here. Even if someone witnessed the rift, they would likely recoil in fear. But I had personally traveled through one, so I harbored no such apprehension.

I tentatively extended a hand into the rift behind the door, and my hand passed straight through without resistance. I found this peculiar and repeated the attempt several times; the result remained the same. However, when I tossed a coin into the rift, the coin instantly vanished. I paused, then tried my hand again, still nothing.

This led to a realization: the fissure seemed to operate under its own criteria. Objects too large to fit within the fissure could not pass; only items small enough to be fully encompassed could enter the imaginary space.

The imaginary space (Xushu Kongjian) is a layer of reality superimposed upon or serving as a supplement to our own. A fitting analogy would be the relationship between a computer's RAM and a portable hard drive: both store the same data, but data transfer requires a USB port—the spatial-temporal rift acting as that interface, allowing only appropriately sized "USB drives" to pass.

Scientists have long theorized about the existence of this imaginary space, with many American researchers studying it without achieving breakthroughs. To have such a clearly defined entry and exit point presented before me felt almost overwhelming.

I mused that if I traveled to places known for unexplained disappearances, like the Bermuda Triangle or the Valley of Death, I would surely discover more rifts. Perhaps I could even discover the fate of the tens of thousands who vanish annually across the globe. Spatial-temporal rifts are ubiquitous; some connect to each other, others link to the imaginary world or parallel universes. Accidentally entering the wrong one could mean never returning. They are plentiful in ancient tombs and ruins, explaining many bizarre experiences recorded throughout history.

Discovering such a monumental secret brought no excitement; rather, it felt like normal human life is constantly troubled by these rifts. After contemplation, I recognized these were beyond my control; such is natural law, and I cannot alter it.

The only thing I could do now, while my Nian power remained active, was to locate any rift large enough to swallow a whole person and actively avoid them, lest I be sucked into the void and torn to shreds by temporal turbulence.

Now, while my Nian energy was still potent, I needed to do something more meaningful. With that thought, I dressed, opened the door, and stepped out.

Since the Shèn was still clinging to my arm, I carefully covered it with my palm and walked slowly along the street. Although I stuck to deserted alleys, it was early morning, and there were no criminals immediately available for apprehension.

I did help a little white cat belonging to an elderly woman that had climbed too high in a tree, using my Nian to gently coax it down. The woman, however, was completely ungrateful; she made gestures with her fingers, clearly thinking I was deranged, and kept her distance. I felt speechless and continued walking, intending to check the bus stop for a pickpocket or two.

After staking out the bus stop for half an hour, refusing to board any approaching bus, instead scrutinizing the crowds, I attracted the attention of several plainclothes officers who questioned me incessantly. I was mistaken for a thief.

I reflected that being a hero like those in American films isn't easy; it’s unrealistic to encounter crime on every outing. Even possessing extraordinary abilities, I found myself with no immediate outlet. Perhaps I would be better suited for police work? Of course, that was merely a passing thought; even if I wanted to join the force now, I was over the age limit.

As I walked down the street, I called Nie Chuan to ask about his investigation progress. Nie Chuan replied that he had found traces of his grandfather and deciphered some information from that package, but concrete action was pending. Now, every time I call him, I ask after his family’s health, only feeling at ease when he confirms they are well.

Bored with the pointless wandering, expecting the day to drift by uneventfully, I inadvertently spotted a man in a leather jacket emerging from a coffee shop. To my surprise, it was Little Ma, the lackey of Boss Tong, whom I had knocked unconscious a few days prior. He was wearing a mask now, looking flustered and anxious, as if up to no good.

Almost reflexively, I ducked my head, turned, and entered the very coffee shop he had just left. He didn't notice me; he headed straight across the street. Seeing his furtive behavior, certain he was up to something nefarious, I began following him.