Disorientation

A chill ran down Lynch's spine, making his heart sink. In the blink of an eye, he seemed to have been teleported deep into the tall grass.

This was bad. He had underestimated the bizarre, unpredictable defensive measures of this world, and even more so, he had underestimated those transcendent powerhouses.

He had originally intended to use his lurking ability to scout the enemy's movements from a distance. Yet, while still a hundred or two hundred meters away, a single moment of carelessness had landed him right in a trap. His vigilance was still lacking.

However, there was no time for self-reproach. Self-preservation was the key right now. Lynch immediately froze, minimizing his presence as much as possible, and listened quietly to the surrounding sounds.

Insects chirped softly in waves, and the wind blew through the swaying grass.

Everything appeared normal. There were no people, nor any sign of an external attack.

So perhaps it was just a passive trap designed for defense?

Whatever it was, this was no place to linger. The top priority right now was to break through the trap while ensuring his safety and concealment, regaining the initiative first and foremost.

Rubbing his face to compose himself, Lynch pondered for a moment. Keeping his feet still, he activated his silence technique and used his cane to part the tall grass, searching for the direction of the cottage.

The cottage was still there. The light source was fifty or sixty meters away—surprisingly closer than when he started.

Lynch stared in the direction of the cottage, falling into deep thought. He couldn't panic now. Acting recklessly would only drive him into a dead end. To break through the trap, he had to figure out its mechanism first. That was it—be cautious, observe the details. A minor scene like this wouldn't beat him.

Reminding himself repeatedly, Lynch looked around at the barrier-like tall grass and mulled over his current situation. Then, with a sudden flick of his cane, he extended the blade and switched it to its serrated form.

Grabbing a handful of tall grass beside him, Lynch cut it and dropped the stalks one by one onto the ground as he moved toward the distant cottage. After five or six steps, the leaves in his hand ran out. Lynch immediately grabbed another handful, sliced it, and continued dropping a few stalks along his path.

Looking down at the grass leaves by his feet, the corners of Lynch's lips curved into a faint smile. These were markers. As long as he kept walking like this for a bit longer, marking his path with severed grass, he would be able to determine what was happening around him when an anomaly occurred.

While calculating his next move, Lynch subconsciously turned back to check the severed grass behind him. However, the smile that had just formed froze instantly on his face.

There was no cut grass on the ground behind him at all. Not only was the ground bare, but even the roots he had just sliced through were gone. All that remained was the handful of grass leaves still clutched in his hand.

Hiss, so it really was spatial transfer? Did this field of grass move those stalks away?

No, my position changed earlier. It was likely me who moved. No, let me try again.

Lynch looked back and forth. This time, instead of cutting grass, he raised his cane and plunged its tip directly into the soil.

The soil wasn't particularly dry. Although it was hard to leave footprints, the tip could still pierce it. Lynch dragged his cane, carving a shallow yet continuous line in the dirt.

Let's try this. Neighbor bless me, I hope it works this time.

Offering a quick silent prayer to the red moon overhead, Lynch applied pressure to his hand, dragging his cane along the ground. One step, two steps, three steps...

After three steps, he whipped his head back. The tip of the cane was still stuck in the dirt, yet there was no scratch on the ground—as if the cane had only just been poked into the soil.

It's confirmed now. I seem to be constantly shifting positions within this tall grass. There are a few possibilities. One is that the space in this area is divided into individual blocks with jumbled connections, causing me to shift back and forth.

No, that's not right. There wasn't a single cut grass stalk behind me earlier, and no scratch was left on the ground either, which means my position was just shifted. Coincidences can't happen twice in a row. It's impossible that my position shifts every single time right before I turn around to observe. So, I am being instantly relocated.

But what is the exact trigger condition?

As he pondered, a sudden rustling sound echoed from the grass beside him. In the next moment, a dark figure lunged out from the thicket, charging straight at Lynch.

It was so sudden that Lynch jolted in surprise. Instinctively sidestepping a few paces, cold sweat broke out on his back. But under the moonlight, he quickly recognized it as a large field mouse scampering past his feet.

Hmm? I took a few steps... why didn't my position shift?

The moment that thought occurred to him, Lynch's eyes locked onto the mouse.

Is it because of its presence? Or is it because staring at it provides a reference point, so my own position remains fixed??

With a sudden stroke of realization, Lynch knew he might have stumbled upon the key to breaking this puzzle. Turning around, he chased after the field mouse without taking his eyes off it, while dragging his cane behind him to leave a scratch in the soil.

The field mouse fled in panic while Lynch pursued it relentlessly. Rapid footsteps echoed through the dark as the tall grass rustled wildly. Thanks to Cat's Favor, Lynch followed closely behind like a natural mouser.

More than ten steps already, and I haven't lost it. Neither of us shifted space. There's hope.

Delighted, Lynch glanced behind him as he ran.

Ha! The scratch mark is still there!

His eyes gleaming, Lynch's footsteps grew lighter. Thrilled, he turned his gaze back ahead, afraid of losing sight of the mouse.

Yet in the split second it took to glance back and look forward again—no more than a second—the field mouse that had been sprinting ahead vanished into thin air.

What happened?

A wave of horror washed over Lynch. He froze in his tracks, blinking hard. In truth, his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. In that brief moment, not only had the mouse disappeared, but even the sound of it pushing through the grass had vanished.

It hadn't moved away—it had ceased to exist.

Damn it, did I get teleported after all? Still, at least following it allowed me to leave a trail behind...

When Lynch looked back once more, his cane was indeed still stuck in the soil, but the several-meter-long drag mark he had seen just moments ago was completely gone.

The veins on Lynch's temples throbbed. Left empty-handed on both ends, everything he had done felt like a wild-goose chase.

No, it wasn't for nothing. After a quick second thought, Lynch's eyes lit up.

I see! I get it now! What an insidious trick.

Excitement coursed through Lynch. Opening his mind to wild possibilities, he formed a bold hypothesis.

The world of mystery possessed a strong subjective, idealist nature. The act of observation often exerted a powerful influence on mysterious elements.

Earlier, he had observed a reference point outside the concept of the tall grass—that field mouse. Thus, himself, the mouse, and the grass formed a conceptually stable triangle, keeping the spatial positions of all three parties unchanged.

When he stopped observing the mouse, its spatial position shifted. However, because he simultaneously shifted his observation to the abstract target of the 'scratch mark' on the ground, the relationship between himself, the mark, and the grass remained relatively stable. Therefore, the mouse vanished, but the mark stayed.

However, Lynch immediately stopped observing the scratch mark and turned back to find the mouse. At that point, the mouse had already shifted away, leaving him without any reference point, which caused him to shift positions as well.

It was pure wild deduction. If he hadn't read so many web novels in his past life, he never would have come up with such a bizarre analysis. But the more he thought about it now, the more plausible it felt.

If this guess is correct, what should I do?

The most obvious reference point was certainly the cottage. As long as he kept his eyes locked onto the cottage, he should be able to walk straight over. But the tall grass was too tall and constantly swayed, frequently obstructing his view. Once his vision was blocked, he'd likely have to start all over again.

What if I keep carving lines on the ground and stare at them non-stop? That's a way, but it's too easy to stray off course. The moment I stop looking at the scratch to adjust my direction without seeing the cottage, I'll be back to square one.

A bit of a dilemma. Hmm? Wait, no.

Frowning, Lynch flicked his cane and drew a cat's head on the dirt. Then he stood in place, looking all around for a while. When he looked back down, the cat's head was still beneath his feet, unshifted.

I see.

Lynch exhaled, glancing at the scratch mark, then at the distant cottage, nodding thoughtfully.

I've found the solution. Let's see what other tricks this place has up its sleeve.

Here I come.