[SYSTEM RECORD: FILE #006]Subject: Localized Agricultural Anomaly (Class: Harvest)Location: Dacun Township, Changhua CountyStatus: UNREGISTERED OBSERVER DETECTED

  [Recovered Document: Dacun Night Harvest Protocols](Transcribed from a weathered wooden signpost found at the entrance of the vineyard. The text is written in fading red paint.)

  Welcome to the Dacun Vineyards. If you are reading this, you are working the night shift. Our soil here is... special. To ensure you collect your paycheck tomorrow morning, strictly follow these rules after sundown:

  Rule 1: The Paper BagsAll our grapes are protected by white paper bags. If you see a bag that is stained dark, rust-red, do not touch it. That is not a ripe grape. Cut the entire vine and bury it. Do not listen to the crying coming from inside the bag.

  Rule 2: The ScarecrowsThere are only THREE cross-shaped scarecrows in this sector. If you see a FOURTH scarecrow, lower your head immediately. Walk backward. If the fourth scarecrow turns its head to look at you, hold your breath until the smell of copper and rot passes.

  Rule 3: The ScissorsBetween midnight and 3:00 AM, if you hear the snip, snip of pruning shears from the next row over, do not investigate. If a voice asks you, "Are these sweet?" you must reply, "Not yet, they are poisonous." If you answer "sweet," you will become next year's fertilizer.

  Rule 4: The Fallen FruitNever bend down to pick up a grape dropped on the dirt path. It is a toll for the locals. If you accidentally step on fallen fruit and crush it, take off your shoes immediately and walk back to the shed barefoot.

  [Investigator's Note - Day 3, 01:15 AM]

  I had to leave the university. Room 405 was just the beginning.When the system realized someone had tampered with its code, I knew the entities wouldn't be the only things looking for me. The "Correction Bureau" operates strictly from the shadows. They don't send ghosts; they send Cleaners. Professional, quiet, and ruthlessly efficient.

  So, I ran to the one place with enough geographic isolation and deep-rooted local superstitions to mask my presence: the endless grape vineyards of Dacun Township.

  It is 01:15 AM. I am crouching beneath a canopy of thick, twisting grapevines. The air is heavy with humidity and the sickeningly sweet smell of overripe fruit turning into rot.

  I close my eyes. My brain is burning.The Hyperthymesia is no longer just playing back the past. It is dragging millions of current environmental variables into my prefrontal cortex, calculating the immediate future at a speed that makes my skull throb.

  Variable 1: Wind speed is 1.2 meters per second, blowing Southeast.Variable 2: The soil moisture is at 60%. Footsteps will be muffled but slippery.Variable 3: A rusted iron wire supporting the trellis above me is bearing exactly 4.5 kilograms of tension. It stretches all the way across the field.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Variable 4: The Pursuer (Correction Bureau Cleaner) is thirty meters away, moving down row 14.

  He is wearing tactical matte-black gear, equipped with night-vision goggles and a suppressed firearm. He thinks he is the apex predator tracking a terrified student.But he made a fatal mistake. He brought human logic into an anomaly zone. He doesn't know the rules written on the signpost at the entrance.

  I do.

  I looked up. Thirty meters down the rusted iron wire, hanging directly over the path in row 14, is one paper bag stained a deep, rust-red.

  I picked up a smooth pebble from the soil.I ran the simulation in my head one last time.Angle: 45 degrees. Force: 0.3 Newtons. Delay: 2 seconds.

  I flicked the pebble.It struck the rusted iron wire perfectly. Ping.

  The vibration traveled rapidly down the taut line. Thirty meters away, the distant red paper bag tore open. A single, dark, oversized "grape" dropped, landing with a soft thud right in the center of the dirt path in row 14.

  Three seconds later, the Pursuer stepped forward.His combat boot came down on the dark grape. Squash.

  He froze. He was well-trained. He immediately dropped to one knee, sweeping his weapon into the darkness, looking for whoever made the trap.

  But according to the Dacun Night Harvest Protocols, he had just triggered Rule 4.He didn't take off his boots.

  The temperature in the vineyard plummeted. The cicadas stopped chirping instantly.The Pursuer slowly stood up, sensing the unnatural shift in the air. He turned his night-vision goggles toward the end of the row.

  Standing there was a scarecrow made of rotting wood and ragged clothes. It was cloaked in absolute darkness, but as the Pursuer turned his head, the faint, eerie green glow from his night-vision goggles cast a sickly light over the figure.

  Through the dense vines, I watched the Pursuer raise his gun.Bathed in that faint green light, the scarecrow’s head—a burlap sack painted with a crude smiley face—slowly rotated 180 degrees to look directly at him.

  Rule 2.The Pursuer, panicked, let out a sharp gasp.

  It happened so fast human eyes could barely track it.The vines surrounding him lashed out like whips of barbed wire, wrapping around his throat, his arms, and his weapon. He didn't even have time to pull the trigger.

  The vines dragged him violently into the dark earth. The soil opened like a maw, swallowing him whole. A sickening crunch of tactical gear and bone echoed for a split second, and then... absolute silence.The soil flattened out. There was no blood. No weapon. No Pursuer.

  Just the sweet smell of grapes and fresh dirt.

  Then, the backlash hit me.

  I collapsed onto the wet soil, my vision exploding into white static. A sickening, tearing pain ripped through the back of my skull. I reached up and touched my upper lip. It was wet. A steady stream of dark blood was dripping from my nose, splashing onto the dirt.

  The calculation—the "Future Sight"—takes a massive physical toll. My brain felt like it was bleeding from the inside out. I lay there paralyzed, gasping for air, unable to move my arms or legs as my nervous system forcibly rebooted. It took me nearly thirty agonizing minutes just to sit up without vomiting.

  I cannot do this often.

  I wiped the half-dried blood on my sleeve with a trembling hand, pulled out my notebook, and found the entry for Variable 4. I crossed out the word "Pursuer."

  The Bureau operates in the shadows. But here, they are just variables in my equation.

  [Investigator's Update - 01:45 AM]I need to find the old farm shed before 3:00 AM.Because I can hear the sound of scissors cutting vines in the next row over. Snip. Snip.And someone just whispered, "Are these sweet?"