【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

The food here is completely different from what we have on the front lines.

No longer were the soups and biscuits forced down for the sake of efficiency, nor were they the makeshift supplies mixed with sand and cold. The food on the plates was neatly arranged, the colors clear, and even adorned with a touch of unnecessary decoration. The ingredients were still unique to the icy plains, but after processing, they were soft in texture and at the perfect temperature, as if they had been treated with care.

As I ate slowly, I could discern the subtle differences.

Some root vegetables shouldn't have such elasticity in such low temperatures; some meats were so fresh that I even had the illusion that they would spoil more easily at this temperature than freeze.

This is not something that can be done on the front lines. This is the rear, a stable zone, a place where "we can slow down".

The food was good. This is probably the kind of living conditions one should receive while recovering from an injury.

But precisely because of this, my unease was magnified.

There should have been weight and light there.

But there was nothing.

The quantum computer is gone.

It wasn't damaged, it wasn't lost, it was confiscated. I knew that perfectly well. The emptiness was so clean, so clean it didn't seem like an accident. It had already left me before I woke up.

There were no prompts, no handover, no explanations. It was as if this was the obvious procedure.

I know all too well what a quantum computer means. It means identity, records, schedules, permissions, and also—connection to the outside world.

Now, all of that has been cut off.

I cannot confirm the time, check messages, or contact anyone. I have no idea where Qianmo is, where the team is, or whether the military academy has withdrawn. I also have no idea whether the test report has been submitted further or whether it has triggered a higher level of review.

I became a "blank spot" placed in a safe zone.

They weren't locked up in a cell, nor were their hands and feet tied, but they were stripped of all their initiative.

I looked down at the still-warm food on my plate and suddenly realized something:

This place is so good to me. So good that I can't resist.

The temperature was just right, the environment was quiet, the medical staff were gentle, and the food was plentiful. Everything was telling me—all I needed to do was get some rest.

But I know better than ever that when someone is told "not to do anything," it often means that she can no longer make any decisions.

I slowly put down my cutlery, my fingers lingering on the table for a moment. It was cool and smooth, with no terminals or interfaces.

I suddenly desperately wanted to check the time, to confirm that the world outside was still turning. But I couldn't confirm anything.

So I could only sit there, in this overly comfortable silence, and gradually realize that I had been isolated from the center of the matter.

Actually, I fall asleep quite easily.

I can't tell if it was sleep or another form of coma. Consciousness always slips away at some critical point, disconnecting completely. There were no dreams, no clear sense of falling, just a sudden silence.

Then I woke up.

The memory of waking up is exceptionally clear.

When I opened my eyes, the patterns on the ceiling, the position of the light, and the temperature of the air were all exactly the same.

In a little while, someone might come in, check the data, adjust the medication, and quietly tell me, "It's okay, everything is normal."

Then, consciousness will slowly sink down again.

I feel like I've woken up many times. But reason tells me it wasn't that many.

Because not too much time has passed.

Time is compressed thin, like a sheet of paper folded repeatedly. There is no clear distinction between morning and night, and nothing propels time forward.

I just wake up and then fall asleep again.

My body's "electrical capacity" is a bit low. That's the most accurate way to put it. It's not pain, not unbearable weakness, but something very clear—insufficient energy.

Raise your hand a little slower, think a little slower, and rehearse in your mind before speaking to make sure you have enough "leeway" to finish a sentence.

Even their emotions are in a low-energy mode, with little fluctuation and sluggish reactions.

But it's okay.

Because I can't leave either.

I am very clear about this.

It's not the kind of "being locked up" that means you can't leave, but rather something in a real-world sense—

There was no quantum computer, no route, no destination, and no choice I needed to make immediately.

The world has been shrunk to this room, this bed, this controllable distance.

All I need to do is stay awake when I'm awake and obediently close my eyes when I feel sleepy.

Sometimes, in my half-awake state, I think:

If this counts as house arrest, then it's incredibly gentle. So gentle that I can barely find a reason to resist.

But I know this state won't last forever. My battery will slowly recover, my body will gradually stabilize, and my mind will become sharp again.

At that point, I won't be able to just wake up and fall asleep anymore.

But right now—it's not so bad as it is now.

I close my eyes.

one more time.