Chapter 5
Chapter 5: Cold-Faced Dust Warden
“If I’d arrived half an incense stick later, you’d have frozen to death.”
Song Wei Chen didn’t even lift her head. Face buried in her knees, she asked in a muffled voice, “Then why did you come late?”
The man paused, visibly thrown. What kind of girl didn’t follow the script?
“I thought you’d ask who I am.”
Song Wei Chen tugged her lips into a bitter smile. “I’m not even sure who I am right now. How would I have the energy to care who you are?”
She exhaled, hollow. “Whatever. Be whoever you want.”
Checking out wasn’t Song Wei Chen’s usual style, but at least it kept her emotions from shattering.
The man rose, walked around the desk, and sat in the chair by the bed, studying her. “In the end, you still couldn’t make it across that suspension bridge.”
Song Wei Chen’s heart jolted. She looked up.
His features were sharp, as if carved—straight brows, bright eyes, a high nose bridge, and lips shaped just right. If not for those eyes—so distant they held not even a thread of human warmth—he would’ve been exactly the kind of manhua pretty-boy she liked.
She finally saw his face clearly.
“It’s you.” Her throat tightened. “You saved me again.”
“I went to look for my companion and found you, so I brought you back,” he said evenly. “Too bad you’re He Duan—cut off for good. There’s no going back.”
“No.” Song Wei Chen shook her head without thinking. She clearly remembered waking up, going to work—then the sudden blackout during her livestream. After that, she’d been right back here for no reason.
“I remember you said the Dream Realm only opens a passage when you fall asleep. But I didn’t sleep at all after I woke up. How could I come back again?”
“You never woke up.”
“How is that possible? I was still wearing my mo—” She nearly said motion-capture gear, but when she looked down, the clothes beneath the White Robe were plainly her own loungewear—the exact set she’d been wearing before she fell asleep.
A memory surfaced out of nowhere.
When she was little, her mom would sometimes shake her awake for school. Song Wei Chen would swear she’d already gotten up, changed, eaten breakfast, even made it to school with her backpack on—only for her mom to shove her again, scolding her for still being in bed and about to be late. She’d open her eyes and realize she’d never woken up at all.
Song Wei Chen let out a slow breath. What was real? What wasn’t? She couldn’t tell anymore.
Maybe even growing up had been a dream. Maybe her mom would push her awake any second and demand she get up for school. The thought made her mouth twist into a crooked smile.
The man watched her quietly, gaze faintly probing, as if he too were weighing something heavy.
Song Wei Chen acted like an airheaded, no-heart, edgy teen most days, but when it came to right and wrong, she was always clear-headed.
This wasn’t the time to sulk. She needed to understand what was happening—and save herself. With that thought, she sat up properly on the edge of the bed and looked at him with solemn focus.
“That opening was wrong. Let me redo it.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for saving me again. May I ask you three questions?”
“Ask.”
He clearly had questions of his own, but he didn’t stop her.
“First question—who are you?”
“My name is Mo Ting Feng,” he said. “Chief Dust Warden of the Slumber Realm. I handle worldly affairs, and my duty is that of a grievance-breaker.”
Seeing her blank stare, he continued, patient and matter-of-fact. “The Dream Realm is divided into Void Slumber, Dust Slumber, and the Deep Dreamlands. It is the only passage between the three realms of gods, humans, and ghosts.”
“The borders between the three regions aren’t distinct. They flow into one another. That is why my deputy envoy—the White Robe Venerable—goes into the Deep Dreamlands to handle cases.”
“Brother Mo,” Song Wei Chen said at once, forcing brightness into her voice, “so you’re basically upper management here. My respects!”
“Upper management…?” A flicker passed through his eyes. “Your choice of words is interesting.” Then, as if he’d made a decision, he asked, “What year is it in your world?”
“On our side, it’s 2024.” She fumbled for something he might understand. “Earth’s developed to the point where some foreign guy is selling one-way tickets off-planet. He wants to take people away from Earth to immigrate to Mars.”
She sighed. “I don’t really know how to explain it. But just looking at how you dress and talk… you’re ancient. You’re a long way from modern life.”
Mo Ting Feng’s gaze shifted, as if he wanted to dig into that, but he swallowed it down. “Enough. We can talk about it later. Your second question?”
“Second question.” Song Wei Chen stared at her own hands as if they might answer for her. “If the Dream Realm is real, then what exactly is the ‘me’ trapped here? Is it my consciousness?”
“If my consciousness can’t return, what happens to my body in the real world?”
“You’re half right,” he said, calm as stone. “The Dream Realm is real. And unlike what you imagine a dream to be, pain, injury, bleeding, and death are all real here.”
“Even someone like me—a cultivator who has lived here for over a thousand years—will still die if the wounds are severe enough.”
“In other words, what exists here isn’t only your consciousness. It’s the complete you.”
Song Wei Chen stared at him, disbelieving. “So… the real-world me is gone? There’s no me over there? My parents would lose their minds! If they can’t find me, they’ll collapse!”
“They won’t,” Mo Ting Feng said flatly. “Not only your parents. Anyone connected to you in that world won’t look for you.”
His words landed like ice.
“Once you are He Duan, to them, you never existed. It becomes nothing more than a dream they once had—a dream they forget the moment they wake.”
“At most, there is a faint emptiness. A vague regret that they’ve forgotten what they were dreaming about.”
Song Wei Chen kept shaking her head, slow and mechanical. “That’s impossible.”
Her life hadn’t been easy, but it hadn’t been tragic either. She wasn’t born with a gold spoon and Heaven chasing after her with food.
She’d studied hard for a decent school, picked a decent major, struggled into a decent job, and clawed her way to today step by step. She wasn’t brilliant, but she’d been earnest. She’d built her life inch by inch.
And now she was supposed to be erased like a file—gone without a trace, no one remembering?
“I don’t believe it,” she said, voice tight. “A living person can’t just disappear and have everyone forget.”
Then she froze, remembering a post she’d once seen online.
A student claimed he’d had a classmate named Pan. They played badminton together, and when the shuttlecock fell into the basement, Pan went down to retrieve it—and never came back. The strangest part was that apart from the poster, even Pan’s parents and relatives didn’t remember there had ever been such a person.
Pan’s belongings vanished from the dorm. Even in group photos, the space where Pan had stood became blank.
A few days later, the poster said he had bipolar disorder and that it had all been a delusion—that there was no Pan.
What if Pan hadn’t been delusional at all?
What if Pan had stumbled into a place like this… and simply never made it back?
Song Wei Chen didn’t dare chase the thought. It was already far beyond what she could bear.
“Then…” She swallowed hard. “Are you like me too—He Duan? Why are you here, working as a Dust Warden?”
“Is that your third question?” Mo Ting Feng asked.
“…No.”
“Then don’t ask.”
Song Wei Chen drew a deep breath, forcing her voice steady. “Fine. My third question is—if I’m He Duan, is there still any way for me to return to reality?”
“Even if it’s a tiny chance. Is there?”
“There is.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?! Then tell—”
“My duty,” he cut in, cold as steel, “is to prevent such things from happening.”
The light in her eyes dimmed, leaving only resentment.
Mo Ting Feng watched her for a moment, then asked, “If the cost of sending you back is chaos in the real world—people unable to tell reality from illusion, ordinary people easily lured and devoured by evil things born from false visions—would you still insist on going back?”
His voice was ice.
Song Wei Chen fell silent. To her, it felt cruel. Not giving hope was one thing—but chaining hope to a moral weight, making her feel guilty for even wanting it, was worse.
When she didn’t answer, Mo Ting Feng stood, hands behind his back, expression solemn. “Now it’s my turn. Also three questions. Answer truthfully.”
Song Wei Chen nodded, equally solemn.
“First. Why were you on that Soul-Carrying Boat?”
“I fell from the bridge,” she said. “And I happened to land on a small boat.”
“Second. On that boat, did you see the White Robe Venerable?”
Song Wei Chen shook her head, then hesitated and nodded. “Does seeing him once on an iPad count?”
“But I couldn’t see clearly. The White Robe wore a hood. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”
“Third. Why is the White Robe on you?”
“When I fell onto the boat, I happened to fall right into those clothes.” Her voice shrank as she heard herself. “But the clothes were… empty. There was no one inside. Just a hollow robe…”
Mo Ting Feng’s gaze turned colder, the air around him sharpening.
“You have too many ‘happened to’s,” he said. “I listened to your questions patiently, not so you could brush me off.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “I brought you back, but that doesn’t mean I was saving you.”