Cloud Thinking

Chapter 348 Imitation, Learning, Becoming, Surpassing (Page 12)

Helia pushed open the non-existent "door".

The feeling of returning to the real world from the narrow passage of fate is like suddenly surfacing from the deep sea—no, it's more intense.

It's more like a wisp of mist that was originally scattered, but was forcibly compressed and shaped by an invisible force, and then stuffed back into a "container".

But her container is no longer there.

Therefore, this process is extremely painful.

She felt her soul being "woven" by some force—the voice of the snow nightingale echoed at the edge of her consciousness, chanting ancient and obscure incantations.

Those syllables do not belong to any known language; they act directly on the essence of existence, like forcibly embroidering a new thread on the fabric of fate.

Then, she "landed".

There was no sound, no light; suddenly, she came from "nowhere" to "somewhere".

A damp, musty smell mixed with the aroma of cheap tobacco and fermenting ale hit me.

The noise coming through the thin wooden board was loud and clear—the rude sounds of drinking games, the drunken babbling, the rhythmic creaking of the bed in the next room, and the faint, off-key notes of a lute from the pub downstairs.

Helia—or rather, the being that appeared at this moment—opened her eyes.

She stood in a narrow, dimly lit room. The furnishings were so rudimentary as to be almost shabby: a creaking wooden bed covered with a faded coarse linen sheet; a crooked table with its surface covered in old wine stains and knife marks; and a chair with one leg barely secured by a rope.

On the small wooden table beside the bed, a cheap grease lamp was crackling softly, its dim yellow light barely illuminating the mottled water stains and peeling paint on the wall.

This is the location she chose: Bazaar, next to the Concerto Tavern, the cheap hotel room with a tattered wooden sign that reads "Rooms Available".

Helia looked down at her hands.

These are not the well-maintained, well-defined hands that belong to "Princess Helia".

Her hands were even smaller, her skin pale from being indoors for so long without sunlight, her fingertips calloused from holding a pen for so long, and a small, old scar on the web of her right hand—a cut she made when she was a child from a glass shard.

The nails were neatly trimmed, but the edges were a bit rough.

She walked to the dirty, cracked mirror in the corner.

The mirror reflected a completely unfamiliar face—or rather, a face that was both strange and incredibly familiar to her.

Her long, slightly frizzy black hair was simply tied back, with a few unruly strands hanging down her forehead.

Her features were delicate but not outstanding, and she had a pair of dark brown eyes with faint dark circles from long hours of reading.

There were a few red pimples on her cheeks.

His lips were thin, and his complexion was pale and bloodless.

She was only about as tall as the original Helia's shoulder, and her figure was slender, even somewhat thin.

This is what "He Liya" looked like before she traveled through time, in that distant and ordinary hometown.

Ordinary, unremarkable, easily lost in a crowd, the kind of face even street artists wouldn't bother to glance at.

The snow nightingale's skills are truly amazing.

This body, temporarily woven from the threads of fate, perfectly replicated her deepest self-awareness—that of an ordinary girl from another world named Helia.

Its breath was faint, its presence barely perceptible, just like any other low-level traveler in the hotel at this moment.

Temporary Body Stability: 100%

[Appearance Anchor: "He Liya" (Original World Form)]

[Time remaining: 71 hours, 59 minutes, and 47 seconds]

Xiao Si's prompt surfaced in my mind, cold and precise.

Three days. She only has three days.

Helia—or rather, Helia at this moment—took a deep breath.

The room was filled with a mixture of smells: greasy food, musty smells, cheap spices, and human sweat.

The realistic tactile sensation came from the rough wooden floor beneath my feet, while the man next door snored loudly.

She needs to act. Immediately.

However, just as she pushed open that pitifully thin door, preparing to blend into the noisy crowd of people in the pub downstairs, a strange sensation suddenly rose from the depths of her soul.

It's not visual, nor auditory, but a more fundamental kind of "knowledge".

It was as if dormant bloodlines were suddenly awakened, as if two sides of a mirror simultaneously felt each other's reflection.

Someone is watching her.

No, it's "connection".

Countless invisible yet intimate threads gently touched her soul from afar.

There was no malice, but rather a sense of familiarity that was almost a yearning, a deep, primal attraction.

She turned her head sharply, her gaze piercing through the dirty hotel window, looking in a direction outside the city.

Tower ruins. That deep pit.

Almost simultaneously, she clearly "senses" that the being with whom she has a deep connection, in the direction of the ruins, has also "turned its head" and is "looking" precisely at the cheap hotel where she is.

Their gazes traverse space, converging in nothingness.

Helia's heart skipped a beat.

She got it.

The mirror image that had taken over her body sensed her return.

It wasn't through magical detection, nor through intelligence networks, but through some deeper, soul-level resonance.

Two entities that should have been one, but were forced to separate, have once again intersected in fate.

Moreover, the other party was heading straight for her.

No, it's not "rushing over".

It means "to rush to".

Like the two poles of a magnet, like separated mirror images, they instinctively and irresistibly move toward each other the moment they sense each other's existence.

No reason needed, no hesitation required, a voice deep within my soul whispered: She is there, I must go see her.

Helia rushed down the rickety wooden stairs and blended into the noisy afternoon crowd at the tavern.

Drunk mercenaries were talking loudly, merchants were trading goods of dubious origin in hushed tones, and scantily clad waitresses were nimbly moving between tables and chairs with trays in hand.

Her petite figure and unremarkable appearance became the best disguise, and no one gave her a second glance.

Instead of taking the main road through the city gate, she ventured into the intricate, sewage-filled back alleys of the bazaar.

This is the city's shadowy side, where piles of garbage reek of decay, stray cats watch warily from the corners, and several ragged beggars huddle in a sheltered spot.

Her familiarity with this place stemmed from tracking it several years ago; every fork in the road and every nook and cranny where she could hide was imprinted in her memory.

She ran, the lungs of her makeshift body mimicking heavy breathing, her dark brown eyes reflecting the rapidly receding, dirty walls.

But all her attention was focused on that "drawing" of her soul.

Getting closer.

She could "feel" that the other person was also moving, and at an extremely fast speed.

It's not running, it's more like... being pulled by countless invisible threads, "gliding" in reality?

No, to be more precise, it was as if the whole world was making way for her, and space itself was shortening the distance between her and her target.

Two entities, from different starting points—the chaotic bazaar and the gradually emerging order in the northern center—are converging towards the same destination: the tower ruins, the deep pit that symbolizes the beginning and the breaking of everything.

When Helia (Ho Liya) rushed out of the last alley, panting, and the view opened up before her as she stepped back onto the scorched earth, she stopped.

The ruins were right in front of us.

Six months have passed, and little has changed here.

The three-meter-diameter crater still resembles a scar on the earth, its edges eerily smooth, reflecting a cold light in the setting sun.

The surrounding ruins had been roughly cleared, but traces of the shockwave were still visible.

There seemed to be a faint, eerie smell in the air, a mixture of burnt and emptiness.

On the other side of the giant pit stood a person.

Helia saw "herself".

No, not "myself".

It was... a mirror that was too perfect, reflecting only her ideal image.

The person was wearing an outfit that Helia had never worn but which inexplicably felt suited her—a well-tailored, easy-to-move dark gray travel suit, covered by a seemingly ordinary dark cloak that subtly shimmered with magic, and a simple yet extraordinary rapier at her waist.

Her fiery red hair was not casually draped or simply tied up as usual, but instead braided into an intricate and elegant style, both capable and noble.

Her posture was upright and relaxed, her eyes were calm and clear, and there was even a faint, slightly aloof smile on her lips, the kind that Helia would only show when she was alone and thinking.

Every detail seems to have been copied from Helia's "possible self" and then meticulously crafted.

But what truly terrified Helia was those eyes.

His eyes were sapphire blue, the same color as hers.

But deep in her eyes, there was something Helia knew she didn't possess—an absolute, all-knowing calm.

That wasn't feigned composure, but rather the knowing and indifferent gaze of a higher-dimensional being looking down upon the mortal world.

This transcendence is carefully wrapped in the warm and friendly shell of "Helia," but the direct perception at the soul level cannot deceive.

The two gazed at each other silently across the abyss that seemed capable of swallowing everything.

The wind seemed to have stopped.

The wailing sounds that often lingered among the ruins had completely disappeared, and even the hustle and bustle of the distant bazaar seemed to have been shut out.

The world fell into a vacuum-like silence, with only unsettling echoes of nothingness emanating faintly from the deep pit.

Then, "Mirror Image" laughed.

That wasn't any of Helia's usual smiles—not a sneer, not a bitter smile, not a mocking or self-deprecating smile, but a... satisfied, pure smile, as if she had finally gotten what she wanted after a long wait.

She spoke, her voice identical to Helia's, but with a more even, composed tone, carrying a precisely controlled pleasing quality:

"Finally we meet."

She took a step forward, not going around, but stepping directly onto the void at the edge of the giant pit—an invisible force lifted her up, allowing her to walk as if on flat ground to the top of the pit, and then slowly descended, finally hovering at the same height as Helia's (Holia) line of sight.

pause.

Those sapphire blue eyes gazed at Helia's ordinary face, a complex emotion flashing across them—curiosity, scrutiny, a deep longing, and even… a kind of fervent recognition.

Then, she uttered those words that shook even the core of Helia's soul:

"My dream."

Helia (He Liya) stood frozen in place, her dark brown eyes widening slightly in shock on her ordinary face.

Dreams? What dreams? Whose dreams are whose?

“You must have many questions,” “Mirror Image” said softly, her tone as gentle as if she were talking to herself in a mirror, or as if she were cherishing a fragile dream. “I can explain. But first… let me take a good look at you.”

Her gaze traced Helia's face closely, from her slightly frizzy black hair to her plain cheeks with acne, then to her unremarkable dark brown eyes, and finally to her ordinary hands that were slightly clenched with nervousness, her knuckles white.