Divine Oracle [Transmigration] (ORACLE)
In the ebb and flow of dreams, someone was calling his name.
The voice seemed to come from the other end of the world. Rather than calling his "name," it was more like the meaning of the word had been chewed up, digested, and then directly injected into his brain, forcing him to "recognize" the significance of those two syllables amidst the chaos. This became the medium that awakened his nearly necrotic brain cells.
"Song Si."
The person persisted in repeating it.
It unsettled him, like a fetus in its mother's womb, struggling to curl its limbs. Something scorching clamped firmly around his wrist and began to churn the once warm and stable amniotic fluid, back and forth, endlessly. He felt anger—the first emotion to surface since arriving in this world.
He opened his eyes in fury.
The light of life stung his pupils, and discomfort surged from every part of his body.
Dizziness, chills, nervous tremors, a numb right hand, lungs that couldn’t draw in air…
The one who had disturbed his peaceful dream was now wrapping his right wrist in gauze—brusquely, without care, until blood seeped through the white fabric. It looked painful, but the sensation had been blocked.
His gaze traveled upward, and his retina struggled to imprint the person’s appearance.
A young man.
A man who appeared to be over 185 cm tall, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a white dress shirt, looking as refined as a university professor yet with an expression that screamed "don’t mess with me," was kneeling on what seemed to be the edge of a bathtub. After viciously finishing the bandaging, he hauled Song Si out of the water with one hand.
The moment he saw this man, countless fragments of memory flooded his mind.
My name is Song Si. He thought. 27 years old, a psychiatrist, possessing the ability to influence others' emotions through Twin Butterflies and running a clinic with a special license. I’m the ultimate hidden villain in this novel, concealed until the very end.
Bathtub, blood, wrist.
This was the climax of the novel. The villains had been brought to justice, good had triumphed over evil, but he, the hidden antagonist, had yet to be exposed. He had chosen to end it all in the bathtub—using his death as the catalyst to trigger all the patients he had treated, unleashing the most horrific wave of mass crimes in the past two decades—
And yet, someone had saved him?
Song Si studied the man before him again. He held him as effortlessly as if he were a weightless doll, even freeing one hand mid-motion to slap his cheek—rough, urgent, with his palm burning hot: "Still conscious? I’m taking you to the hospital now."
The main plot points were all intact in his mind. It took Song Si only a minute to grasp the reality of his transmigration.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall anything about the man in front of him.
Cradled in the man’s arms, his vision swayed with each step. Despite being a complete stranger, Song Si found himself unable to look away from his face.
"You…" He managed half a syllable. "Who are you?"
The man’s footsteps paused. He looked down at him.
The backlit glasses obscured his emotions. The Song Si from the novel could effortlessly detect emotional fluctuations in those with abilities, but from this man, he sensed nothing at all.
The man didn't pause for long. He soon withdrew his gaze and strode forward again, his voice hoarse as he spoke: "Dr. Song, is this the reason you canceled your appointments today? Amnesia? A slit wrist?"
Song Si remained silent.
In the blink of an eye, they reached the doorway. The tightly sealed, seemingly several-hundred-pound security door was kicked open by the man with a single strike.
Outside was a small courtyard, perfectly matching the description from the novel. Two ambulances roared up to the front gate, and medical staff hurriedly rushed out before lifting Song Si into the vehicle. The man flashed his ID and stepped in after them before calmly informing the doctor, "He took 23 sleeping pills and slit his wrist. Estimated blood loss exceeds 1,000 milliliters. He was in a deep coma when I found him."
The doctor met Song Si's open eyes and froze with a needle in hand, looking utterly bewildered. "He woke up on his own?"
"Yeah," the man replied. "Must be part fox—nine lives or something."
As he spoke, he glanced down at Song Si.
This time, there was no backlighting—the look in his eyes was downright murderous. Anyone else might have been scared stiff under that gaze.
Song Si closed his eyes, pretending not to see.
On the way to the hospital, he passed out again. Unlike the coma in the bathtub, his soul had now firmly anchored itself in this body, and he began dreaming the dreams of the living.
Past and present flashed before him like a revolving lantern. Memories outside of "Song Si" were fragmented and incomplete—he couldn’t even recall his own name before the transmigration. His brain automatically filtered out everything from his previous life, leaving only a hazy shadow to serve as the foundation of his identity. All he vaguely remembered was that it had been an unremarkable existence—short, ordinary, and hardly worth mentioning.
Meanwhile, the memories belonging to "Song Si" were as monotonous as a sheet of paper—one-dimensional, flat, mere black-and-white words poured into his mind.
"...The clinic door perpetually bore a sign reading 'Closed Today.' Everyone in the neighborhood assumed the place had long gone out of business. But if an unusual patient came knocking, that eccentric young doctor would briefly open shop while wearing an expression of world-weariness as he lazily removed the sign..."
"...There was a small scar on his chin. His eyelids were thin, his eyes upturned at the corners, and his hair was streaked with a misty blue, like a dagger forged from the most exquisite materials—stunningly beautiful when unsheathed, yet upon closer inspection, there was a fragile brittleness to it, as though it might shatter from being too rigid. It made people want to approach, to protect, yet fear its razor-sharp edge..."
"...'There’s a tumor in your brain,' the doctor had once told him. He thought he wouldn’t live past six months, but then the Special Investigations Division came for him, taking him to an even more secretive facility, where they discovered the 'tumor' was actually a butterfly—nestled at the very center of his neural network, living and dying with him, twin souls bound together..."
Dreaming of himself as written words within his own dream, Song Si suddenly snapped his eyes open as his chest heaving and pupils darting nervously—only to meet the gaze of that unapproachable man again.
The man sat by the bed, peeling an apple with a small knife. The peel spiraled down in one long, unbroken strand, each loop perfectly uniform.
In the glint of the blade, Song Si caught his own reflection—the faint blue streaks in his hair just visible.
"Remember anything yet?" the man asked without looking up.
It took Song Si a long time to pull himself out of the words, his vocal cords straining to respond: "...Huh?"
The apple now fully peeled, the man severed the strip of skin and turned to Song Si. "Chu Mingyi," he said.
Song Si looked back at him with a dazed expression: "?"
Frowning, the man stared straight into Song Si's eyes, as if trying to gauge what was going on in his head. His tone carried a hint of disbelief: "I'm Chu Mingyi, the head of Special Investigation Division Three—your direct superior. You really don't remember?"
Song Si hesitated internally. Both "Special Investigation Division Three" and "Chu Mingyi" sounded familiar, yet he couldn't connect them to the person in front of him.
Most of his memories were intact; there was no reason for such a glaring gap.
Fresh from having his stomach pumped and a blood transfusion, his nerves were still oxygen-deprived. Without overthinking, Song Si followed the man's introduction and called out, "Chief Chu."
The title seemed to please Chu Mingyi, his frown easing. "Remember now?"
Song Si continued, "Is there any special relationship between us?"
"..." The small knife Chu Mingyi was using to peel an apple slipped, nicking his hand.
Their eyes met. At some point, Chu Mingyi had removed his glasses, revealing sharp, piercing eyes—clearly not nearsighted—that seemed to bore straight into the depths of Song Si's consciousness.
Under that gaze, Song Si's temples throbbed painfully, and his heartbeat grew erratic. Unable to bear it, he averted his gaze.
After a moment, he heard Chu Mingyi lower his voice and say, "If we're talking about a special relationship, there actually is one. You're my older brother's nominal fiancé, so technically, I should call you 'sister-in-law.' But half a month ago, I got drunk and accidentally ended up in bed with you. So calling you 'sister-in-law' might not be appropriate. What do you think, Song Si?"
Song Si took a few seconds to process this, then abruptly raised his head, staring at Chu Mingyi in shock.
Seeing his reaction seemed genuine, Chu Mingyi frowned again and pulled out his phone to make a call. "Xixi, got a minute? Come to the special inpatient ward at Central Hospital right now. Song Si's brain is malfunctioning."
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