Jingran

Jingran had hit a wall.

His brush hovered over the page. The ink on the tip formed a droplet before falling with a soft splat onto the paper. Even then, it stubbornly refused to become a word.

A messy stack of manuscripts lay scattered across the desk. There was the story about the abandoned city deep within the Mirage Realm; the flock of bronze birds that migrated in the moonlight; the ancient bell buried beneath the desert sands that rang whenever storms rolled overhead... The earlier chapters had come easily enough. But now, at this very page, his thoughts seemed to snag on something unseen, refusing to budge even half an inch. He stared at the blank sheet for a long time, unable to pluck so much as half a word from that stretch of emptiness. In the end, he let out a sigh of resignation.

"Fine, then."

He tossed the brush back onto its stand and flopped backward onto the floor, limbs sprawled in every direction.

The cool night breeze slipped in through windows left not quite shut. A silver line of moonlight spilled across the floor. Outside, the chirping of insects rose and fell in waves. Resting his head on his wrist, Jingran gazed up at the rafters. Whenever the words refused to come, his mind wandered off to certain memories.

—For instance, those first years after he arrived at his Shifu's home.

Back then, his Shifu was forever hauling him around by the collar and scolding him for being impossible to manage. Other children might climb trees to raid birds' nests. Jingran climbed the pillars of the ancestral hall. Other children hurried home as soon as night fell. Jingran preferred to grab a lantern and go exploring abandoned houses. Sometimes Yanshu, his Shifu's wife, would hang up a single piece of laundry, turn around, and find he'd vanished again. More often than not, she would have to search half of Xianling Village before finally dragging him out from beside some abandoned well or ruined temple.

One summer, a strange rumor began making the rounds in the village. The old Earth God Temple on the hillside, abandoned for years, was said to be haunted. A group of children huddled together beneath a tree, trading the tale in lurid detail. They spoke of a woman in red who slipped out from the walls after midnight and sang mournful songs until dawn. With each retelling the story grew spookier, and by the end they were all hunching their shoulders and shrinking into their collars.

Everyone except Jingran.

He listened, more and more intrigued. That very night, he went to the temple alone.

The next morning, Yanshu stormed through the village, broom in hand, hunting for him. he finally found him perched on the temple roof, contentedly munching a plum, his eyes narrowed in bliss—he'd always had a sweet tooth.

"Where's the ghost?" Yanshu shouted from below.

"Didn't see one."

"Then what were you doing there all night?"

Jingran gave the question some thought.

"Counting bats."

Yanshu nearly snapped the broom handle in half.

A laugh escaped him at the memory.

Come to think of it, he had always been like this.

As a child, he liked poking around abandoned houses. As an adult, he loved venturing into Mirage Realms. The more eagerly everyone else avoided a place, the more determined he was to see it for himself. His Shifu used to scold him for never being able to sit still. Yanshu used to get angry about it too. Yet after his Shifu passed away, she stopped trying to stop him. Still, no matter how far he traveled, whenever he returned, there would always be a lamp lit up for him in the courtyard.

Over the years, he had seen old cities draped with countless bronze bells. He had walked through ruins hidden deep within mountains. He had encountered people and stories long forgotten by the world. Whenever he returned from a Mirage Realm, a crowd of children would swarm him, clamoring to know what strange things he'd found this time. At first, Jingran would humor them with a story or two. Before long, however, there were simply too many to tell. So he began writing them down.

And thus, little by little, "Mirage Seeker's Tales" came into being.

At first, he wrote only to spare himself the trouble of repeating the same tales over and over. Yet somewhere along the way, he found himself taking it seriously. The old stories buried beneath weeds and forgotten dust. The joys and sorrows no one had ever heard. The wondrous, uncanny sights that existed only in the depths of the Mirage Realms... Someone ought to bring them back. Someone ought to leave a trace for them.

So he started to write. For the curious eyes of the kids. For those in the teahouse craning their necks for the next chapter. And for the lamp at home that always burned late into the night—for Yanshu, so that she would know where that troublesome boy who kept losing himself all those years ago had been, and what strange and marvelous things he had seen along the way.

At the thought, Jingran rolled onto his side and looked once more toward the manuscripts on the desk.

The pages gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight.

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Nine remained blank.

Still, it wasn't as though this was the first time he had been late on the submission.

Just then, a thunderous shout broke out from beyond the courtyard wall.

"Jing—!"

Jingran jolted upright.

"Why is your lamp still on?! Are you planning on sleeping tonight or not?!"

Without a second thought, he sprang to his feet, crossed the room in three strides, and pinched out the candle flame.

Darkness immediately filled the room, leaving only the moonlight quietly pooling across the floor. Jingran looked up at the moon beyond the window, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly.

If the words refused to come tonight, so be it. Tomorrow would be another day.

In truth, Jingran had not always been the person he was now.

Back then, he barely spoke. When his master called him to dinner, he would answer, but he always waited until everyone else had picked up their chopsticks before reaching for his own. When Yanshu placed food in his bowl, he would lower his head and accept it, yet spend half the meal unable to force out a single word of thanks. At night, he slept curled up against the wall, as if afraid that the moment he opened his eyes, this place would vanish, just like every temporary shelter that had come before.

He knew this family cared for him, truly. Yet this warmth, something his life had gone without for so long, felt strangely hard to grow used to.

That year, Mengzhou saw a particularly heavy snowfall.

Jingran pushed open the door of the house to find the old tree in the courtyard bowed low beneath a thick blanket of snow. Nian crouched beneath the eaves, rolling snowballs for fun with a nose pink from the cold. Inside, Yanshu was making congee. The fragrance of rice drifted out on the steam through the gaps in the window frame.

Jingran stood in the doorway and watched for a long while. There was nothing remarkable about the scene. Yet somehow it reminded him of a day just like this, years ago. His father helped straighten his outer robe. His mother took his hand. The three of them set out for the top of the mountain through freshly fallen snow. Faded red drapes fluttered before the Mountain God's temple. Incense smoke curled slowly from the burner. The fruit offerings on the altar had frozen solid in the cold. He reached out to touch them, only for his mother to lightly smack the back of his hand, a fond smile on her face.

All at once, the longing for his parents welled up inside him.

So while no one was watching, he took a lantern and slipped out alone.

But what awaited him inside that temple, after all these years, was no benevolent Mountain God that protected the people.

As the snowstorm sealed off the mountain paths, the temple doors slammed shut behind him. A crack split open along the stone idol behind the altar, and the scent of incense seeped out from within. Perched atop the altar sat a lynx cloaked in gilded paint. It bore the resemblance of a god, yet not a word of truth passed its lips.

The candle flame flickered as the wind howled beyond the walls.

By the time Jingran sealed the creature within his Life Lamp, blood had already soaked through his clothes. Bracing himself against the lamp, he rose to his feet and pushed open the temple doors. The blizzard still raged outside. The stone steps he had climbed to reach the temple had vanished without a trace, replaced by a winding mountain path all but swallowed by overgrowth.

"Cheap little illusion." Jingran sneered. Lifting the lamp a little higher, he trudged forward through the snow, one unsteady step after another.

By the time he reached home, night had fully fallen. He'd meant to slip back in unnoticed by climbing over the wall. But the moment he landed, a nearby window creaked open. Nian poked her head out, clutching a pillow.

"Bubba, you're bleeding." She blinked.

Jingran's heart sank.

"Shh."

"Does Mom know?"

"No. Go back to sleep."

Nian nodded thoughtfully and pulled her head back inside. A moment later, her voice rang across the entire courtyard.

"Mom—! Bubba's got himself hurt again—!"

Jingran spun around and bolted.

He did not get far. Yanshu had already stepped out onto the porch.

Years later, whenever Jingran looked back on that night, he would always conclude that he would rather go back and fight the lynx a second time.

The room was painfully bright. The bitter smell of medicine hung in the air, mingled with powdered herbs. Nian sat off to one side on a little stool, happily cracking melon seeds as she watched the show unfold.

With excruciating meticulousness, Yanshu dabbed medicine on his wounds while hammering her lesson into his head.

Jingran sat with his head lowered, playing dead. The medicinal powder stung so badly that the vein at his temple throbbed. Still, he did not dare make a sound.

"There."

Yanshu finished wrapping the final bandage and flicked him lightly on the forehead.

"Just try running off like that again."

Jingran covered his forehead. For once, he didn't talk back.

Nian, meanwhile, cracked open another melon seed and blinked innocently: "Alright, alright. I already heard Bubba admit he was wrong."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You did."

Her voice was bright and clear, like wind chimes beneath the eaves. Back and forth they went, until the argument became almost unbearable. Yet somewhere along the way, the corner of Jingran's mouth had begun to curve upward. Warm lamplight filled the room. In its light, Yanshu gathered up the bandages and medicine bottles. Nian kept up her argument without the slightest intention of backing down. Neither of them noticed that his thoughts had already drifted somewhere far away.

Jingran lowered his eyes. A bowl of medicine sat before him, its bitter smell rising straight into his nose along with the steam. With a tight knot on his brow, he lifted the bowl and drained most of it in a single gulp. His entire face twisted in misery. Yanshu glanced back over her shoulder and, without a word, nudged the plate of candied fruit across the table toward him.

The firelight flickered gently. The shadows of three people stretched across the floor, long and short, overlapping one another.

Outside, the wind drove snow against the eaves. The icicles hanging from the roof brushed softly together, giving off a faint, delicate sound, like a bell ringing somewhere far away.

Jingran bit down on a piece of candied fruit. Sweetness flooded his mouth.

At fifteen, Jingran officially became a Nethermancer.

He had passed through countless Mirage Realms since. Some drifted above boundless lakes, whole rows of pavilions held aloft on thick banks of mist. By day they stood silent and deserted, but when night fell, the lanterns would bloom to life. Push open a door, and you'd find yourself at a banquet in full swing—every seat filled, cups raised high, laughter ringing through the air. Yet when dawn came and the mist thinned away, nothing remained but dust-covered tables and chairs. The guests of the night before had long since become bones sleeping beneath the water.

Others lay buried deep beneath the mountains—stone cities that hung upside down from the ceilings of caverns far underground. Not a living soul dwelled there, yet lanterns lined every street. At midnight they would kindle of their own accord, emerald flames waking one after another along the avenues until they reached the altar at the city's heart. Jingran spent three days in that place. In the end, he found the way out with nothing but his own two eyes.

Once, he asked his master: "What is it that Nethermancers are really searching for?"

The old man was crouched by a fire, roasting a mantou. Without so much as looking up, he answered, "The dead."

Jingran rolled his eyes. Here we go again. The old man seemed to read his mind. With a snort, he said, "Alright then. Tell me. What's the thing you'll come across most often in a Mirage Realm?"

"...The dead?"

"The things they left behind," the old man corrected.

"A thriving village today—give it a hundred years, maybe two, and it'll be nothing but an empty ruin. Nothing left to mark that it ever existed but a broken stele, or a few words no one remembers the meaning of."

"So someone has to turn the soil and study the ruins, and try to understand them. So that we know how the ones before us lived and died... and how the ones who come after are meant to live."

The old man tossed the finished mantou at him.

"Don't forget it."

In the years that followed, Jingran unearthed countless stories buried beneath dust and time.

The dying words of a fallen kingdom's general, hidden in an unknown corner deep inside a mountain. A tattered scroll that had borne witness to the last night of a nation's ruin. A weathered stone stele that had accompanied its owner across thousands of miles on the long road home.

Little by little, he began to understand what his master had meant.

Death snuffs out a life as surely as a breath snuffs out a lamp. Yet some things refuse to vanish along with it. They linger in broken stelae and fragmented texts. They hide in ruined cities and forgotten roads. On the wind, in the echoes of the past, they tell their stories over and over to those who come after. And so it fell to him to dig up these buried pasts and carry them back into the sunlight.

In those years, Jingran spent more time at his Shifu's side than with anyone else. Theirs was a bond of father and son, master and disciple, rivals and companions—all at once.

Once, the two of them came to blows over a priceless ancient jade disc. Even pinned against a broken stele with the flat of his Shifu's blade, Jingran still won in the end, with nothing but his silver tongue. The old man cursed him as a wretched brat who'd come to collect on some debt from a past life.

His Shifu venerated no founding patriarch, burned no incense to the gods, and belonged to no established school. He had carved out his own path from nothing. Others called him a heretic. Yet time and again, it was those unorthodox ways that led him out of dead ends.

"By the old masters' reckoning, I ought to be dead by now," he grinned. "But I just won't die. So who's right in the end?"

For all his apparent recklessness, he always knew which roads could be walked and which dangers were best left alone. And sometimes, sitting alone beneath the moon, his gaze would drift into the distance, as though counting all the ones who would never return.

On their last job, the old man chose the site himself. Rumor held it was a cavern where a ley line had been severed, leaving evil Qi to surge unchecked within. Jingran followed him into the deepest reaches of the place. Then, just before the final passage, the ground began to shake and the cave started to cave in. Amid the falling debris, his Shifu shoved him through a fissure to safety with a single palm strike, and fell into the collapsing abyss below.

A year later, on a rainy night, the old man appeared in a dream. He looked Jingran up and down and sneered, "Not doing half bad, are you. Still alive. Still in one piece."

Before Jingran could fire back, the old man had already turned away, raising a hand in farewell. Without another word, he sauntered off into the depths of the mist.

Jingran woke with a start.

Rain whispered beyond the window, pooling along the eaves and falling in thin, unbroken streams. The room was silent. The lamp on the desk had long since burned out, leaving only a faint thread of smoke.

The dream was gone. The rain fell on through the long night. One drop after another.

The marketplace was always lively in the afternoons, stalls of every kind lining the streets. An old candy maker slowly stirred a pot of syrup, golden strands trailing from his ladle in fine, gleaming arcs. Steam billowed from the bun shop nearby, carrying the rich smell of meat and chili far down the road. In an open square, a mechanical stage had drawn a crowd: a troupe of Autopuppets tumbled and danced to the beat of the drums, earning burst after burst of applause from the onlookers.

Jingran stopped by a fabric shop to pick out a bolt of moon-white cloth for Yanshu, then bought Nian a mechanical jade rabbit that could hop about on its own. As he paid, the shopkeeper smiled and complimented his taste. But Jingran wasn't nearly so confident. Picking gifts for his Shifu's old lady and his little sister had always proven far more troublesome than venturing into any Mirage Realm. Not long ago, he'd brought Nian a mechanical pellet drum, two round-faced lucky children painted on either side. Spin it, and the little figures would bob their heads and unfurl a tiny scroll that read "Good Fortune and Prosperity." Jingran had thought the thing was a stroke of genius. Nian, however, crossed her arms as he showed her how it worked, then heaved a world-weary sigh. "Bubba, I'm really too old for this."

The pellet drum ended up back in Jingran's hands. That evening, he fiddled with it late into the night, quietly wondering what on earth was wrong with it. That question still haunts him.

With that memory still fresh, he bought the jade rabbit without a second thought. Nian will definitely like this one. Before leaving, he made one last stop at a pastry shop for a Little Snowy Moon—layers of snow-white cake stacked neatly into the shape of a full moon, as if sculpted from fresh-fallen snow. The shopkeeper smiled and asked if they were for his family. Jingran didn't answer. He simply took the paper-wrapped parcel and ambled off toward the river.

It was the day Qiuyuan left Mengzhou.

A strong wind swept across the water at the dock, setting the flecks of gold dancing on the surface. The passenger ship had nearly finished casting off.

Jingran spotted him from a distance, a lone figure in black standing beside the ship, robes snapping sharply in the wind. As always, he carried the unmistakable air of a man best left undisturbed. Jingran found his thoughts drifting back to stories from years ago.

Whenever his master had one drink too many, he would bring up a certain young swordsman. A once-in-a-generation talent, he'd claim. The praise had stoked Jingran's curiosity for years. Now he had finally met the man in the flesh. Unfortunately, he still hadn't had the chance to test himself against that sword the man's holding.

Qiuyuan noticed him too, and dipped his head in greeting.

Jingran waved and strolled over. Stopping at the railing, he glanced out at the river before drawling, "Got everything packed away?"

Qiuyuan knew he meant the modular part recovered from Muyu. He nodded. But before he could answer, Jingran raised a hand.

"Save it."

"I couldn't care less about the old dramas and squabbles of Mingting. What I need to know, I already know. What I don't, I've no interest in knowing. So spare me the explanation."

Another gust swept across the water, scattering the reflections into rippling fragments.

"That said," Jingran went on, turning to him with a raised brow, "I did help you get what you came for. I'm putting that one on your tab."

Qiuyuan tilted his head slightly, those deep gray eyes as unreadable as ever.

"What do you want?"

"Haven't decided yet."

Jingran grinned.

"When I think of something, I'll come collect."

Silence settled between them for a moment.

At last, Qiuyuan nodded.

"Very well."

Satisfied, Jingran pushed the paper-wrapped parcel he'd been carrying into the other man's arms.

"Here. A parting gift."

The river wind tugged at their sleeves. In the distance, the boatman began calling passengers aboard, and the dock grew busier. Qiuyuan tucked the parcel away and turned toward the ship. After a few steps, he stopped.

"Jingran."

"Hm?"

"Offer a stick of incense to your Shifu for me."

Jingran went still. Then, after a moment, he smiled.

"Sure."

The ferry pulled slowly away. Water lapped against the hull, sending rings of ripples spreading across the river. Little by little the vessel drifted into the evening mist, until it melted into the dusk. Jingran stayed where he was, watching until the silhouettes of man and ship had vanished into the gilded horizon.

The wind stirred the reeds along the riverbank.

At that very moment, he remembered another evening, many years ago. His Shifu had been sitting outside the courtyard gate, shelling peanuts as he talked about that young swordsman. Every time the story reached a good part, the old man would laugh and clap him on the shoulder.

"You're not half bad yourself, brat. Give it a few more years, and I'll take you to Chongzhou to cross blades with him in person."

Back then, Jingran had had little idea what Chongzhou was really like. He'd simply taken his Shifu at his word and gazed off toward the horizon beyond Mengzhou. Dusk had been spilling over the mountain ridges from the far side. Birds crossed the sky overhead, beating their wings toward lands farther still.

Jingran lowered his head and chuckled softly. Then he turned and started for home.

The sun had already sunk behind the mountains, leaving only a thin ribbon of molten gold along the horizon.

One by one, lanterns lit up the length of the street, their warm glow stretching on and on down the limestone road.

And by that light, Jingran found the road that led home.

The teahouse was always busy at noon.

More than a dozen tables filled the main hall. Waiters wove through the crowd with brass kettles in hand. The fragrance of tea mingled with the scent of wine and the hum of conversation, lingering. By a window on the second floor sat a young man, chin propped on one hand as he lazily tossed peanuts into his mouth with the other. Downstairs, the storyteller had reached the most thrilling part of his tale, his voice rising above the din of the hall and drifting steadily upward.

"Just then, the ancient ebony ship came bursting out of the mist. Three hundred lanterns blazed from its prow, their light falling upon a forgotten sea untouched for a thousand years. Shadows crowded the deck, yet every face was deathly pale, as though not a soul among them belonged to the living. And when one man finally stepped aboard for a closer look..."

The storyteller brought down his wooden clapper with a crack. The hall fell silent, everyone holding their breath for what came next.

Calmly, the storyteller lifted his teacup and took a sip.

"As for what happened next... that will have to wait for the next chapter."

For a heartbeat the teahouse went dead quiet, then the crowd erupted.

The storyteller gave a helpless sigh.

"My friends, it isn't that I won't go on. This is simply where 'Mirage Seeker's Tales' left off..."

That only made the grumbling louder.

"You always stop at the best part!"

"Hasn't this chapter been held up for half a month already?"

"Half a month?" someone scoffed, slapping the table. "The Cat of the Nether Lamp once went missing for three whole months!"

Jingran nearly choked on his peanut. He quietly turned his gaze to the window and did his best to look like none of this had anything to do with him. Unfortunately, at that very moment, the chair across from him scraped back.

"So this is where the culprit's been hiding."

A man in a teal robe settled into the seat across from him, a thick stack of manuscripts under his arm.

It was Shouci, the editor in charge of proofreading and publishing "Mirage Seeker's Tales." Jingran looked up and flashed a grin.

"Perfect timing." He waved him over. "This meal's on me."

"Whenever you're this generous, something's wrong." Shouci dropped the stack of manuscripts onto the table with a thump. "How much of Volume Two have you actually written?"

The smile vanished from Jingran's face at once. He slumped onto the table as though every bone in his body had dissolved, burying his chin in his folded arms. "No inspiration..."

"Spare me."

"I mean it." Jingran let out a long sigh. "Mirage Realms, ancient ruins, forgotten relics... I write about the same things day after day. Even I'm getting sick of reading it."

Shouci raised an eyebrow.

"So?"

"So I'm thinking of having a new protagonist."

That caught Shouci off guard.

Jingran began ticking points off on his fingers. "The first volume's nearly wrapped up anyway. Might as well shake things up. It can't always be me hauling a lamp around and getting into trouble."

"And just what sort of person could possibly be your new protagonist?"

Jingran thought for a moment. "Someone hard to read."

Propping his chin on one hand, he gazed out the window.

"Have you ever met someone like that? Steady and restrained, clear-headed and dependable. While everyone else is still weighing the pros and cons, he/she's already decided which road to take. And while everyone else rushes to make choices for other people, he/she always leaves the choice to them."

The more Shouci listened, the more far-fetched it sounded. "And where do you find a person like that? You're describing a god in a shrine."

Before Jingran could argue, his gaze drifted outside.

The long street was bustling under the midday sun. People streamed endlessly along the thoroughfare, while sunlight spilled over the rooftops and draped the street below in a veil of gold.

Through the crowd, a familiar figure came toward him from the far end of the road. Jingran blinked. Then his eyes curved into a smile.

"Rover!"

He called out without a shred of restraint, his voice carrying clear across the street. The figure stopped and instinctively looked up.

Sunlight caught those golden eyes just then, and they glittered so brightly it was hard to look away.

Jingran waved through the window, then turned to Shouci with a triumphant smirk.

"See? In the flesh."

Shouci was left speechless.

Unfortunately, that shout had also caught the attention of everyone else in the teahouse. The guests turned toward the sound, up at the second floor. A few squinted for a better look. Then, all of a sudden, someone slapped the table and cried out.

"Hold on—"

"Isn't that the Cat of the Nether Lamp up there?!"

The teahouse froze for a beat. The next instant, dozens of eyes shot upward as one. Jingran slowly lowered the pastry in his hand.

"Master?!"

"It really is him!"

"Finally caught you!"

"What was inside the ebony ship?!"

"When's Volume Two coming out?!"

The hall exploded into chaos. Chairs scraped across the floor as guests scrambled to their feet. Even the storyteller craned his neck to peer upstairs.

Sensing that the whole crowd was about to descend on him from every direction, Jingran closed his eyes with an air of I knew this would happen.

"Shouci," He snatched the manuscripts off the table. "See you around."

Then, amid a chorus of startled cries, he stepped up onto the windowsill and dropped. The second floor stood a fair height above the street. To the guests nearby, he seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. His figure sailing over the railing, graceful as a bird, robes billowing in the wind. The next moment, he had already touched down lightly on the street below.

"He got away!" someone yelled.

The teahouse plunged into even greater bedlam. Footsteps and shouts thundered through the hall. But Jingran merely dusted off his sleeves as if nothing had happened. A few easy strides carried him through the crowd, and he came to a stop in front of Rover.

He glanced first at the swelling mob of pursuers gathering behind him, then at the person before him, and raised a brow with a smile.

"Perfect timing."

"Come on. Another minute and they really would've dragged me off to finish the next chapter." He jerked a thumb toward the commotion behind him.

"Let's get out of here—together. My treat."

[Forte Examination Report RA1169-G]

The subject's Tacet Mark is located on the right eye and enables perception of discrete frequencies beyond the standard detectable range. Once the subject's Resonance Energy output exceeds the threshold, the subject is able to construct an isolated field within physical space and force concealed frequencies to manifest.

Frequencies of a high-order Remnant Creature are also detected around the left eye. Analysis has shown the subject and the Remnant Creature are capable of frequency anchoring, perception sharing, and directive transmission via this connection. Of note, the subject may temporarily enhance his degree of control over the Remnant Creature by expending his own life force. No signs of rejection have been observed during the examination period. However, the possibility of future complications—including perceptual abnormalities or accelerated vitality depletion—cannot be completely ruled out. Regular follow-up and long-term observation are therefore recommended.

Analysis of test samples has revealed a bimodal distribution in the Rabelle's Curve, which classifies the subject as a Natural Resonator.

Diagnostic Summary: The subject demonstrates a high degree of control over his Forte. However, in high-risk environments, he tends to experience abnormal spikes in Rabelle's Curve activity. This manifests as a pronounced inclination to actively seek out extreme conditions, suggesting a potential risk of Overclocking.

That said, simulation analysis suggests negative emotion is not an Overclocking trigger for the subject. Rather, his draw toward life-or-death situations stems from a desire to obtain sustained, amplified Resonance feedback under those conditions. Based on the overall frequency profile, the subject possesses exceptional self-control and cognitive stability. Nevertheless, his threshold for perceiving and evaluating risk and mortality differs significantly rom that of an average subject. It is therefore recommended that the subject avoid prolonged exposure to high-pressure or high-risk environments. Continued monitoring for Overclocking tendencies is also advised.