The three of them arrived at the center of the playground. Officer Li lit cigarettes for both Qixia and himself.
Han Yimo awkwardly smiled, then placed the cigarette between his lips and asked, “How do I learn to smoke this thing?”
Officer Li reached out, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and stuffed it back into the pack. “Learn what? Do you have any idea how much I envy people who don’t smoke? This stuff has a hundred harms and not a single benefit. It’s best if you never learn.”
“Huh?” Han Yimo looked puzzled. “But Officer Li, you just said—”
Qixia waved his hand, cutting him off. “Han Yimo, what is the ‘Seven Black Sword’?”
“Ah…?” Han Yimo’s expression froze.
If Qixia hadn’t brought it up, he might have completely forgotten about that bizarre encounter.
In the last cycle, he had been impaled through the stomach by the “Seven Black Sword.”
Han Yimo paced back and forth a few times before finally lifting his head to address the two of them:
“Sixty years ago, there was a legendary ‘Punisher of Evil’ in the martial world known as ‘Chu Qi.’ He wielded a massive, heavy sword and paired it with his elusive lightness skill. He roamed the martial world, ‘rewarding the good and punishing the wicked’ according to his own whims. Those he deemed ‘good’ were granted one tael and seven maces of silver, while those he judged ‘evil’ would inevitably be pierced through the dantian by his greatsword. For a time, the entire world was thrown into panic, with people unsure whether they were virtuous or wicked.”
“And the greatsword he wielded—its blade, tip, spine, edge, hilt, tassel, and scabbard were all pitch black, hence its name: the ‘Seven Black Sword.'”
Officer Li listened, utterly dumbfounded. He stepped forward and rapped Han Yimo on the head.
“Ow!” Han Yimo jumped in surprise. “Officer Li, what was that for? I was just trying to recall—”
“You think this is my first time interrogating someone?” Officer Li said with a helpless smirk. “I can tell just by looking at you—you made all this up. Give me the truth.”
“Of course I made it up!” Han Yimo said, frustrated. “Do you have any idea how much effort I put into writing this stuff—”
“Is this from your novel?” Qixia suddenly interjected.
“Yeah,” Han Yimo nodded. “In my story, this swordsman named ‘Chu Qi’ was betrayed by treacherous men. Everyone thought the martial world would return to peace, but no one expected the ‘Seven Black Sword’ to vanish. It continued to roam unseen, ‘rewarding the good and punishing the wicked’—only now, no one could find the wielder. It was as if the sword had gained a life of its own, always piercing through people’s dantians at dawn…”
Officer Li struggled to process this explanation before asking, “And how does this connect to you being killed?”
“Blame it on my overactive imagination,” Han Yimo said sheepishly, lowering his head. “Have you ever felt like your imagination just… has nowhere to go?”
Qixia shook his head. “A bit abstract.”
“To put it simply, there’s just too much in my head,” Han Yimo said, tapping his forehead. “I always feel like… if I don’t find an outlet, a way to channel everything in my mind, I’ll explode. So I’ve tried many things—first drawing, but since I never had formal training, my brush couldn’t keep up with my imagination. So I turned to writing.”
Officer Li took a deep drag of his cigarette and chuckled. “I’ve heard of people giving everything to become writers and failing. But you were just… forced into it?”
“Pretty much,” Han Yimo nodded. “There’s a whole world inside my head, always ready to spill out. That’s why I can’t stay in enclosed spaces—otherwise, my mind spirals out of control.”
Qixia seemed to catch onto something. “Are you saying… this sword was your ‘delusion’?”
“It must have been,” Han Yimo turned back, deadly serious. “That pitch-black dawn, I was trembling the whole time. I’m terrified of the dark, so I was afraid I’d die there. Then my thoughts ran wild—I started worrying that the ‘Seven Black Sword’ would pierce my dantian, just like in the story.”
Qixia froze. This felt eerily familiar.
Back in the interview room, Han Yimo had also feared being impaled by the harpoon. If Qiao Jiajin hadn’t intervened, he would have “wished it into reality” already.
“And then it really happened…” Han Yimo gave a bitter laugh. “This place is amazing. I recommend every writer come here for a visit. Spend just one day, and you’ll never run out of inspiration again.”
“That’s not the issue, is it?” Officer Li frowned, finally grasping how absurd this was. “By your logic, the ‘Seven Black Sword’ shouldn’t exist at all—it’s just something you imagined. So why did it stab you?”
“I don’t know,” Han Yimo shook his head. “It was such a strange feeling… When I saw the ‘Seven Black Sword,’ part of me was thrilled, and part of me was terrified. Every writer dreams of their creations becoming real—but when it actually happens, anyone would be scared, right?”
Yes, it was deeply unsettling.
Qixia stroked his chin, piecing together the logic.
Han Yimo had foreseen the harpoon impaling him, hence his trembling and fear. That was still within reason.
But the “Seven Black Sword”?
Had he predicted *that* too? Had he spent the whole night afraid of something that shouldn’t even exist?
“Disaster Magnet”…
Qixia’s eyes widened.
Wait a second—
If Han Yimo could foresee danger, then his “Echo” shouldn’t be called “Disaster Magnet.” It should be “Danger Sense” or “Premonition” or something similar.
Why “Disaster Magnet”?!
It hit Qixia like a thunderbolt. His entire line of reasoning had been backward.
The harpoon was never fated to impale Han Yimo.
The “Seven Black Sword” was never meant to kill him.
It was all because of Han Yimo’s *summoning*.
He *believed* the harpoon would impale him—so the harpoon defied all odds to do just that.
He *believed* he would die by the “Seven Black Sword”—so the world conjured the sword out of thin air to pierce his dantian.
As long as Han Yimo believed a disaster would happen, it *would* happen.
That was the meaning of “Disaster Magnet”!
Qixia took a slow step back. The young writer before him now seemed terrifyingly dangerous.
Bringing him along hadn’t averted disaster—his very existence *was* the disaster.
The second bell still hadn’t rung. Han Yimo was still “summoning calamity.”
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