The Correctionist's Rift

Xiao Lu was twenty-five this year. He had been a Correctionist for three years and had carried out forty-one "Correction" missions. He had never asked whether they were right or wrong. Not because he believed in them—but because he didn't need to. Orders were orders. Execution was execution. But tonight was different. Tonight, the person he was hunting was unlike any "Border Crosser" he had ever encountered before.

When the three headlights stopped at Old Zheng's courtyard gate, Xiao Lu was the first out of the car.

He pulled open the door, his leather boots hitting the gravel. His sidearm was at his waist, safety off. The movement was clean and precise—identical to the forty-one missions before it.

Leading the team was Lao Sun—the deputy of the Correctionists, in his forties, a veteran, tight-lipped. Lao Sun gestured, and two team members circled around to the backyard, blocking any escape through the windows.

"Professor." Lao Sun knocked on the door. "Open up. We know you're inside."

The door opened from within. Old Zheng stood at the threshold, an enamel cup in his hand. He glanced at Lao Sun, then at Xiao Lu, then stepped aside.

"You're here. Been waiting for you. Want some tea?"

Lao Sun ignored the pleasantries and walked straight in. Xiao Lu followed. The room smelled of old books and strong tea. The floral fabric on the sofa cover had been washed pale. Three cups sat on the coffee table—all empty, but with tea stains at the bottom. Visitors had left not long ago.

"Where are they." Lao Sun said.

"Who." Old Zheng sat back down in his rattan chair, clutching the enamel cup, his fingertips trembling slightly.

"Lin Shen. Jiang Fei. Don't play dumb with me." Lao Sun's voice was flat. "You gave them the passage coordinates. Where did they run."

Old Zheng took a sip of tea, unhurried. "Lao Sun, how many years have you been with Lu Yan?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen." Old Zheng nodded. "Then you should remember the day of the first experiment. You were there too. You stood at the far left of the console, monitoring the energy output."

Lao Sun didn't respond. But his jaw tightened.

"You watched the whole thing." Old Zheng said. "You saw how she disappeared. Have you had a single good night's sleep since that day?"

The room went silent for a few seconds. Outside the window, the persimmon tree swayed, shadows sweeping across the floor.

"Professor Zheng," Lao Sun said, his voice dropping half a degree, "this isn't the time to talk about the past. Where are Lin Shen and Jiang Fei."

"I let them go."

"How long ago."

"Long enough."

Lao Sun gestured to the team members behind him. Two of them began searching the house. Xiao Lu stood still. He watched Old Zheng—the old man's fingers were still trembling, but his eyes were steady.

Lao Sun walked toward the kitchen and found a hidden door beneath the rug. He lifted it, revealing a dark cellar entrance.

"Backup passage." Old Zheng said. "You can chase. But the passage ends at a terminal that's been broken for twenty years. No other exit. They left through the back door—if you turn around now, you might catch up with them at Eaglebeak Cliff."

Lao Sun was silent for two seconds, then turned and spoke into his radio: "Coordinates, Eaglebeak Cliff Hydropower Station. Third team, loop around through the mining road and block the exit."

Then he looked at Old Zheng. "Why did you help them."

Old Zheng put down the enamel cup. It clinked against the saucer—a crisp sound.

"Because of Su Wan. When she came to see me, I asked her, 'Are you afraid?' She said yes." Old Zheng said. "But she wasn't afraid of disappearing. She was afraid that—Lin Shen would forget her."

Xiao Lu stood in place. When he heard those words, the hand gripping his gun loosened.

Just a tiny movement. Almost imperceptible. But it did loosen.

"She wasn't afraid of death." Old Zheng continued. "She was afraid no one would remember. You've Corrected so many Border Crossers—has anyone ever asked them whether they wanted to be forgotten?"

"Correction isn't murder." Lao Sun said.

"Right. Correction makes it so a person never existed. Cleaner than murder." Old Zheng's voice suddenly turned cold. "Lu Yan's wife at least has someone who remembers—Lu Yan remembers her, in his own way, through revenge. What about the other Border Crossers? They don't even have a single person left to remember them."

Lao Sun said nothing more. He turned and walked into the kitchen, preparing to search the cellar.

Just then, the sound of an engine came from outside. Everyone heard it—another car, coming fast from the national highway.

Lu Yan had arrived.

Xiao Lu instinctively straightened up. Lu Yan rarely went out on field missions. He usually stayed at command, directing through monitors and communications. Him coming in person tonight meant something—either he took this pursuit very seriously, or he no longer trusted anyone.

The door pushed open. Lu Yan walked in.

He wore his usual dark suit, collar immaculate. His silver-gray hair glinted coldly under the forty-watt light. The burn scar on the back of his right hand was especially visible in the dimness.

He swept his gaze across the room. First he saw Lao Sun, then Old Zheng.

"Boyuan." He called Old Zheng by his given name. His tone was light, like greeting an old friend.

"Lu Yan." Old Zheng didn't stand.

"You gave it to them."

"I did."

"Why."

"Because you're wrong."

Lu Yan walked up to Old Zheng, looking down at him. Less than a meter separated them. One standing, one sitting. One was the leader of the Correctionists, the other an old man who had retired ten years ago.

The forty-watt incandescent bulb hummed overhead. The moth had returned, fluttering against the lampshade.

"Where am I wrong." Lu Yan said.

"Everywhere." Old Zheng looked up, meeting Lu Yan's eyes. "You think Correcting Border Crossers keeps both worlds stable. But did you know—Su Wan's passage has been open all along. She's maintained it for half a year. If she wanted revenge, if she wanted to drag both worlds down together—she could have done it long ago. But she didn't. She's waiting. Waiting for someone to come find her."

Lu Yan's expression didn't change. But Xiao Lu noticed—Lu Yan's right hand, the one with the burn scar, his fingers curled slightly.

"She's been sustaining the passage with her own existence." Old Zheng said. "Every day that passes, she fades a little more. Half a year now. There's almost nothing left of her. If Lin Shen doesn't find her soon, she'll truly be gone. Like your wife. A drop of ink, dissolving into the ocean."

Lu Yan's breath stopped for an instant. A very short instant—so short that if Xiao Lu hadn't been watching him closely, he wouldn't have noticed.

Then Lu Yan drew his gun. The movement wasn't fast—it was almost slow. Like doing something reluctant but necessary.

Old Zheng looked at the muzzle. He didn't dodge.

"You don't dare kill me, Lu Yan." Old Zheng said. "You don't even dare let your own team know the truth. You tell them Correcting Border Crossers is for world balance. But you never told them—the real reason you founded the Correctionists was to find a way to resurrect your wife. You tried for ten years and failed. So now you want everyone else to go through what you went through. You're a avenger, not a guardian."

Xiao Lu turned to look at Lao Sun. Lao Sun's face showed nothing—but he wasn't looking at Lu Yan. He was looking at the ground. Clearly, he already knew all of this.

A gunshot rang out.

Not Lu Yan's gun.

The shot came from outside—one of the team members guarding the back door. Someone had run from the backyard.

"Go." Lao Sun led the charge out.

Xiao Lu hesitated for one second. Just one. But he still followed Lao Sun out.

In the backyard, a team member was crouched on the ground clutching his shoulder—hit, but not dead. The bullet was a warning. On the dirt road, an SUV was accelerating. Its headlights illuminated a dusty trail.

"That's Jiang Fei's car." Lao Sun said. "They doubled back."

Xiao Lu looked at the direction the SUV was heading, then looked back at the house. Through the window, he saw—Old Zheng was still sitting in his rattan chair. Lu Yan stood before him. Lu Yan raised his gun.

This time, he fired.

A dull thud. Like a bag of rice hitting the floor.

Xiao Lu's throat moved. He remembered the first time he had met Lu Yan, three years ago. Lu Yan stood in the Correctionists' headquarters meeting room, his silver hair neatly combed, his voice steady and forceful: "Our reason for existing is to protect the balance between two worlds. We are not killers. We are Correctionists."

Three years later, he stood in a courtyard with a persimmon tree, listening to his own leader pull the trigger on a sixty-seven-year-old professor.

Lao Sun led the chase. Xiao Lu didn't move. He walked back into the house and stood at the main doorway.

Old Zheng sat in his rattan chair, eyes closed. His right hand hung outside the armrest, blood dripping from his fingertips, pooling on the floor. But the corner of his mouth—was slightly upturned. Not from pain. It was the expression of someone who had finished something and could finally breathe easy.

Lu Yan stood nearby, holstering his gun. He saw Xiao Lu.

"Clean this up. Then head to the hydropower station."

"Yes, sir." Xiao Lu said. But he didn't move immediately.

Lu Yan looked at him. That look was cold, but there was something inside it—like confirmation. Like saying: I saw your hesitation. Don't let it happen again.

Lu Yan left. Leather boots on gravel, car door closing, engine starting. Two cars drove off one after another, heading toward Eaglebeak Cliff.

Xiao Lu stood alone in the main room.

He looked down at Old Zheng. The old man's hand was still trembling slightly—Parkinson's, not stopping even after death. Xiao Lu crouched down and placed the hand gently on the old man's knee.

He remembered what Old Zheng had said to Lao Sun.

"She wasn't afraid of disappearing. She was afraid that—Lin Shen would forget her."

Xiao Lu stood up and looked toward the kitchen. The cellar entrance was still open. He hesitated, then walked into the kitchen and went down into the cellar.

The passage wasn't long. Thirty meters in, there was a blast door. He pushed it open—inside was a monitoring room. Seven or eight old monitors, all dark. The floor showed signs of having been cleaned: footprints wiped away, keyboards wiped down, emergency power cables unplugged. Very professional. Jiang Fei's handiwork.

But there was one thing Jiang Fei hadn't had time to do—the cracked display on the far right was still warm to the touch.

Xiao Lu touched the screen. The equipment had been shut down not long ago. The system logs must have signal tracking data. He couldn't boot the machine, and he didn't have Jiang Fei's emergency power source. But he didn't need that—he only needed to know one thing.

Were they really going to Eaglebeak Cliff.

He went back to the surface, took out his phone, and called Lao Sun's channel.

"Confirmed. Target is at Eaglebeak Cliff Hydropower Station, basement level three."

"Copy. Third team has already sealed the exit. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Understood."

Xiao Lu hung up. He stood in Old Zheng's courtyard, looking at the persimmon tree in the moonlight. A breeze passed, rustling the leaves.

He got into the car. But he didn't start the engine immediately. He sat behind the steering wheel, looking at his hands.

Those hands had held a gun, pulled the trigger, carried out forty-one Correction missions. Every time, he told himself—these are orders, this is for balance. But tonight, for the first time, he asked himself a question.

What is balance. Who defines it.

He started the engine and drove toward Eaglebeak Cliff.

The night road was dark. Locust trees on both sides of the mountain road flashed past under the headlights, like rows of silent sentinels. He kept his speed at sixty kilometers per hour—at least ten minutes slower than Lao Sun.

The radio crackled with Lao Sun's call: "Xiao Lu, where are you?"

He picked up the handset, his thumb on the transmit button. He looked at the road ahead, at the broken leaves constantly swept away by the windshield wipers.

Then he put down the handset. He did not answer.

Ten minutes. He gave himself ten minutes. He gave them ten minutes too. He didn't know why he was doing this. Maybe it was because of the look on Old Zheng's face at the end—the look of someone who had finished something and could finally breathe easy. Maybe it was because of Su Wan—he had never met her, but he knew that there was someone willing to use her own existence to keep a door open, just to wait for someone to come find her.

Something like that—shouldn't be Corrected.

He stepped on the accelerator, pushing the speed to eighty. But it was already too late—that ten-minute gap could never be made up.

He didn't know if this decision was right.

He only knew one thing—he didn't want to do a forty-second.