Chapter Two: The Ouroboros' Prison

The sharp Mobius siren still raged wildly within Kane’s mind, as if countless cold steel needles were repeatedly piercing and stirring his brain. It was not an external sound but rather a noise permanently imprinted on the depths of his consciousness—an unending auditory pollution imbued with cyclical despair and a strange, non-Euclidean geometric distortion. Amidst this maddening siren, Kane stood rigidly in place; the cold iron band lingering on his right wrist had not yet faded, as if branded by the gaunt claws of his aging self. His gaze was fixed unblinkingly on the crimson digits of the wall clock—

71:00:00:00

A brand-new countdown, a longer, heavier Mobius loop, had begun its rotation.

At that moment, a distinctly different, physical, and extremely subtle humming pierced through the grating siren in his mind. This hum did not come from any laboratory instrument; it resembled the high-frequency vibration of space itself, like a distant beast’s low roar echoing through the void, or the warm-up of a delicate machine about to roar to life.

Kane’s chaotic consciousness was suddenly jolted by this new stimulus. Instinctively, he tried to raise his left hand to reach for the particle gun at his waist—but in terror, he found his body as if cast in solidified cement; not a single finger could move! An invisible, cold, viscous force pressed in on him from all directions; the air seemed to have turned into tangible gel, heavily imprisoning every muscle and joint. Only his eyes could rotate with great difficulty in a minuscule range.

The spatial vibration’s hum suddenly sharpened, becoming piercing and shrill!

The air less than three meters before him began to violently warp and ripple! Light shimmered like ripples spreading rapidly across a pond disturbed by a thrown stone. At the center of the ripples, space itself appeared to be violently torn and crumpled by an invisible hand! A void emerged out of nowhere, its edges flickering with unstable blue-purple electric arcs, its interior swirling with profound darkness.

No sound. Only the nauseating visual dissonance of space being brutally rent apart.

In the next instant, three figures materialized as if printed from nothingness, appearing instantly in the void’s place.

The hole vanished the moment they fully manifested, leaving only the lingering ozone-scorch scent and the aftershocks of violent spatial disturbance in the air.

Three people. They wore identical, featureless deep gray jumpsuits made of a material smooth as liquid metal, clinging tightly to their bodies and outlining strong yet inhuman frames. Their faces were concealed behind perfectly smooth, silver-white metal masks with no openings or markings. The mask surfaces flowed with a subtle cold light, like frozen mercury. Their movements were synchronized with mechanical precision, cold and flawless.

The Temporal Bureau’s Special Task Force.

Kane’s heart plummeted to the abyss. They had come. Always appearing immediately after the completion—or failure?—of a mission, like cleaners removing debris. But this time, he was no longer the tool awaiting recovery after accomplishing a task. What was he now? The virus’s releaser? A product of temporal paradox? Or... the newest link in the Ouroboros loop?

The three operatives emitted no sound, not even a glance exchanged. One stepped forward with absolute precision and stopped before Kane. The smooth metallic mask bore no expression as it faced him. Kane could even see his own disheveled, terrified, and hollow-eyed reflection in the mask’s cold sheen.

The operative extended a hand. It was likewise sheathed in gray fabric with no tools or weapons. As it neared Kane’s right hand tightly gripping the “Pandora” release device, Kane felt an irresistible magnetic pull! As if the metal cylinder in his grasp had become the core of a magnet.

“No...” Kane rasped, his throat dry and strained, muscles in his right hand tensed to the limit, struggling to resist. But the force was absolute. The metal cylinder “Pandora” was effortlessly pried from his stiff fingers, like plucking a withered leaf.

Another operative silently appeared at his left side, targeting the particle pistol at his waist. Equally inevitable, the cold weapon was instantly disarmed.

The last operative proceeded directly to the control panel, with a clear purpose—the crimson virus release button that had just been forcibly pressed. He lifted a finger covered by the uniform, tapping the air above the button a few times. A faint blue beam shot from his fingertip, scanning the button. After several seconds, he withdrew his hand and gave the other two a barely perceptible gesture.

Mission complete. Target item retrieval confirmed.

Kane watched helplessly as “Pandora” fell into the first operative’s hand, as if witnessing the last evidence proving certain events had transpired being snatched away. He opened his mouth, wanting to question, to scream, to tell these cold machines about that face, about his aging self, about the Ouroboros on the wall and the phrase “THEY LIE,” about the 71-year countdown... but his throat felt gripped by an invisible iron vice, and only hoarse gasps escaped.

The three operatives completed their retrieval and, like three statues of ice, turned their expressionless metal masks towards Kane once again. Their movements remained perfectly synchronized as they simultaneously raised their arms, pointing at him.

No warning, no explanation.

Suddenly, Kane’s vision went black! A force far stronger and more domineering than the previous spatial restraint instantly enveloped him. This time, it was not merely immobility, but the sensation that his entire being—body, mind, even soul—was forcibly compressed and folded! As if stuffed into an infinitely small, infinitely dark point.

Then came a violent pulling sensation! Like being tied to a meteor plunging into an abyss! The concepts of time and space completely collapsed in that moment. He felt himself torn apart and reassembled, hurtling through incomprehensible dimensions at breakneck speed. Only the continuous, sharp hum and storm-like whoosh of space being violently torn remained in his ears! The Mobius siren in his brain seemed temporarily suppressed by this wild transit—or... assimilated? Transformed into an even more chaotic, maddening background noise.

How long passed—perhaps an instant, perhaps eternity—

All the tearing and howling abruptly ceased.

The terrifying pressure that wrapped his whole body vanished.

Kane lost all support; his legs buckled, and he fell heavily to his knees! His knees struck the cold, hard metal floor with a dull echo. A violent dizziness and nausea swept over him like a tsunami; he could not suppress dry heaving. His stomach was empty and only bitter bile came up. Sweat drenched his back instantly.

He forced his head up.

The first thing in his sight was the floor: a deep gray, matte, unknown metal material, seamlessly laid out and so polished it reflected his bedraggled image. The reflection showed his face as pale as paper, eyes unfocused, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and vomit stains hanging at the corner of his mouth.

His gaze struggled upward.

This was an enormous, completely enclosed space. Judging by sight, at least half the size of a football field, towering so high its dome disappeared into profound, lightless darkness. The walls were the same deep gray matte metal, smooth without seams, as if the entire space was hollowed from a single massive metal block. No decoration, no markings, not even light switches adorned the walls. Light came uniformly from the walls themselves—emitting an extremely soft, cold-toned, omnipresent glow that illuminated the entire space without casting any shadows, rendering everything both incredibly clear and eerily unreal.

Absolute silence.

No wind, no mechanical hum, no footsteps, not even the sound of air flowing. Only Kane’s heavy, suppressed breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart within his chest echoed endlessly in this deathly stillness, sounding especially piercing and lonely.

This place was... the Temporal Bureau? Kane looked around in confusion. It was completely unlike the bustling, futuristic hub he had imagined. This felt more like a vast, sterile, cold morgue—or... a metal cage specifically designed to imprison anomalies.

“Designation K-7, Kane.”

A male voice, emotionless and synthesized like a precise instrument, suddenly broke the silence. The voice did not come from any direction but reverberated throughout the entire space, as if the omnipresent air itself vibrated.

Kane jolted, struggling to stand, but his weak body and lingering dizziness forced him to collapse to his knees again.

“Mission records show: Fourth ‘cleaning’ operation, coordinates Tokyo, the night before the third impact. Target: ‘Pandora’ and its creator, ‘the Doctor.’ Physical annihilation directive execution failed.” The cold voice continued, each word striking the metal floor like an ice pick—clear, precise, utterly devoid of emotion. “Target item ‘Pandora’ prototype unintentionally activated and released. Target individual ‘the Doctor’ experienced an unresolvable morphological annihilation during the mission. Mission rating: catastrophic failure.”

“Failure? No! Not me!” Kane finally rasped a hoarse protest, his voice weak and ridiculous in the cavernous space. “It was him! That old man! He grabbed my hand and pressed it! He looks exactly like me! He is...” He suddenly pointed at the cold walls around him, as if trying to indicate the vanished Ouroboros pattern. “The wall says ‘THEY LIE’! The Temporal Bureau is lying! That countdown! Seventy-one years! What is going on?!”

Kane’s voice echoed with desperate madness and accusation. Yet the cold voice gave no response to his hysteria. After a moment’s pause, as if processing data, it resumed in the same unruffled tone:

“Detected abnormal fluctuations in operator K-7’s mental state; severe cognitive deviation observed. Initiating deep scan and analysis protocol.”

As the voice fell, three slender beams of faint blue light silently descended from the dark dome above Kane’s head. The beams precisely enveloped Kane’s head like three cold probes. No warmth or tactile sensation, yet Kane instantly felt a powerful, icy stream of consciousness rudely invading his brain!

Countless fragments of images, sounds, and sensations were forcibly extracted and jumbled!

—Frozen darkness, a ripping, trans-dimensional sensation.

—Hellish scenes of Tokyo: burning buildings, cries of despair.

—That familiar yet strange face on the newspaper; the chill of cardiac arrest.

—Cold silence of the underground laboratory; humming instruments.

—The bone-chilling horror at the moment his aging self turned around!

—Those eyes filled with exhaustion and release!

—Phantom figures piercing through the isolation wall!

—The icy iron band around his wrist!

—“This time it’s finally right!” That hoarse roar!

—The sticky feel of the crimson button being pressed!

—The Mobius siren piercing his soul sharply!

—His aging body turning to ashes in an instant!

—“Remember... the cycle... the key...” That final whisper!

—The crimson 71-year countdown on the clock!

All memories, especially the recent experiences, were repeatedly scrubbed, examined, and analyzed by the cold current of consciousness. Kane felt like a dismantled toy, all secrets and pains exposed to merciless scrutiny. He curled up in anguish, clutching his head tightly, trying to resist this mental torment—but to no avail.

After an unknown time, the cold stream of consciousness abruptly receded like a retreating tide. The faint blue beams surrounding his head silently withdrew.

Silence enveloped the space once more. Only Kane’s heavy breathing and suppressed sobs remained.

Moments later, the omnipresent icy voice spoke again, this time seemingly tinged with a subtle, barely perceptible... change? A deeper, more inorganic coldness.

“Scan complete. Cognitive deviation confirmed as caused by external higher-dimensional informational contamination. Contamination source identified as: Ouroboros. Operator K-7 has been deeply contaminated and become a potential temporal instability factor. According to Article 13 of the Seventh Amendment to the Temporal Basic Law, the final disposition plan for contamination carrier K-7 has been generated.”

“Disposition?” Kane suddenly lifted his bloodshot eyes, filled with terror and disbelief. “What disposition? What are you going to do?! I am the Temporal Bureau’s cleaner! I’ve executed four missions for you! Those faces! That old man! He’s like me! You know! You must know!”

His questioning vanished into the void once more. The cold voice continued on its own:

“Final disposition plan: ‘Ouroboros’ containment protocol initiated. Target: K-7. Directive: erase all unstable memory traces, format personality foundation, and reconstruct as an exclusive execution unit for the ‘Ouroboros’ project.”

“Format... personality reconstruction...” Kane chewed on these cold words, a bone-chilling dread instantly freezing his blood and soul. They wanted to erase him! Erase his memories, his pain, his doubts, everything that defined ‘Kane’! Turn him into a... hollow tool executing the ‘Ouroboros’ project? Just like those special operatives?

“No!!!” Kane exploded in a desperate roar, summoning every ounce of strength to try to stand and rush toward the source of that voice, even if it was but a void! Yet invisible forces once again bound him firmly in place, immobile.

On the smooth gray wall, a seam silently slid open, and a figure stepped out.

No longer those gray-suited, masked operatives. This was a man dressed in deep black, resembling a military uniform. His shoulder epaulets and cuffs bore dark gold, elegantly twisted serpent-like patterns. His face was unmasked—a middle-aged male face. Kane’s eyes widened in shock!

That face!

It bore no wrinkles, no signs of aging, yet the contours—the brow ridge, the nose bridge, the jawline—shared a startlingly similar base structure with Carson of New York, Evans of London, Saeed of Cairo, Nakamura the Doctor of Tokyo... and that aging Kane. Only younger, colder, with eyes like two black crystals devoid of human emotion, containing only absolute, unquestionable control.

He stopped about five meters from Kane, looking down condescendingly at the kneeling figure, his gaze appraising him like a specimen awaiting processing.

“You... you are all...” Kane’s voice trembled, his overwhelming fear and absurdity nearly robbing him of speech.

The black-clad supervisor gave no answer. Instead, he raised his right hand. On his wrist was a peculiar black device resembling a watch but far more complex. He extended his index finger and lightly tapped the smooth surface.

A gentle yet irresistibly commanding white light shot from the device, projecting a semi-transparent, intricately detailed hologram before Kane. At its core was a massive, slowly rotating Ouroboros symbol. Surrounding it were countless fine golden lines resembling neural pathways, connecting four shining nodes. The images of these nodes flashed rapidly—green toxic fog over New York, the rusty red collapsed dome of London, the golden glow of Cairo’s molten core, and... the all-consuming pale flash of the nuclear blast moment in Tokyo!

Four doomsday nodes, precisely linked along the Ouroboros’s closed loop by golden veins!

“The ‘disasters’ you have experienced,” the black-clad supervisor finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and bearing the cold indifference of stating cosmic truth, “the ‘cleanings’ you have carried out, the ‘paradoxes’ you have encountered... are all necessary components of the ‘Ouroboros’ project’s operation. Each ‘annihilation,’ each ‘reset,’ strengthens this closed loop, ensuring the timeline follows the ‘correct’ trajectory we have set.”

His gaze landed on Kane’s pale face; those black crystal eyes held no pity, only a nearly cruel insight.

“And your role, K-7,” he paused slightly, a barely perceptible, icy surgical smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, “is far more important than that of a mere cleaner. You are the most crucial cog in this loop. A... perfect vessel.”

Kane felt as if struck by lightning, chilled to the bone. Vessel? Perfect vessel? Those identical faces... the aging self... the forcibly pressed release button... the 71-year countdown... All the fragmented clues, under the supervisor’s cold words and the Ouroboros loop hologram, were forcibly pieced together by an invisible force, pointing to a terrifying truth that froze his very soul!

“No...” he whispered despairingly, his body trembling violently with fear and resistance.

The black-clad supervisor said no more. He only made a simple gesture toward the invisible space behind Kane.

Kane didn’t even have time to turn.

A sudden icy sting shot through the back of his neck! Like being bitten by a venomous serpent! Some cold liquid was rapidly injected into his bloodstream, surging instantly toward his brain!

His vision blurred and spun rapidly. Overwhelming drowsiness washed over him like a black tide, engulfing his consciousness. In the final instant before plunging into darkness, he seemed to hear that sharp, cold, endlessly looping Mobius siren once more—this time no longer confined to his mind but seeping from the cold metallic walls on all sides, penetrating every cell of his body.

Hummmmmm—

Consciousness sank into the boundless abyss of darkness. On the cold metal floor lay his unconscious body, and the eternal siren’s mournful wail symbolizing endless cycles echoed through the deathly silence.