Chen Hao's finger hovered over the notebook for three seconds, as if waiting for some signal. He didn't write anything, nor did he close the notebook; he just stared blankly at the page, as if words would suddenly grow out of the paper.

Nana stood by the workbench, suddenly raising her hand. A string of pale blue dots appeared in her palm, forming a wavy line that stretched horizontally in the air. Below the dots, a line of small text slowly unfolded: Task Log Timeline - Major Decision Node Marked Completed.

"You were prepared all along," Chen Hao said, pursing his lips. "You kept it well hidden."

"You never requested a system overhaul," she said, her voice flat as a board. "Is it necessary now?"

He grinned, put the pencil in his mouth, and used his other hand to rummage through the pile of messy sketches and scraps of paper on the corner of the table. "Sure, we're just killing time anyway. We can't keep relying on luck to get by."

Nana tapped her fingertip, and the holographic projection expanded, the timeline starting from "energy capsule activation" and extending all the way to yesterday when they dragged the raft ashore. A dozen red dots lit up in sequence, each corresponding to a record: site selection adjustment, pesticide experiment, ceramic stove explosion, pole slipping from hands…

“Goodness, I feel like every minute we’ve survived has been a tightrope walk.” Chen Hao scratched his head. “How about we categorize them first? For example—what does it mean to do it right, what does it mean to mess it up, and what does it mean to be lucky?”

“Executable.” Nana swiped her finger, and the screen reorganized into three columns: “Lessons from Failures,” “Success Models,” and “Replicable Techniques.”

As soon as the first section unfolded, Chen Hao burst out laughing. The image showed his first time mining, swinging a stone pickaxe like he was chopping ribs, only to have his hand crack from the impact and the ore shatter into dust.

"I would believe it if you said this movement was martial arts training," he said.

The second column shows the record of the eighth excavation. His posture was noticeably more stable, his landing points were more precise, and his efficiency increased nearly fourfold.

"Turns out I wasn't always this useless." He scratched his head. "It's just that my progress was slower than a snail's pace."

Nana didn't reply, but the light screen quietly switched to contrast mode, with two tracks scrolling side by side, one crooked and the other gradually becoming stable.

Chen Hao looked at it for a while, then suddenly reached for the notebook, turned to a new page, and erased the doodles he had only half-finished writing. He looked down and wrote five words: "Don't be afraid to make mistakes."

Then he added, "I'm just afraid they won't remember."

Nana's blue eyes flashed slightly, as if some program had been triggered. She brought up a new interface titled "Draft of Experience Tagging System".

"I suggest adding keywords to each record," she said. "For example, 'waterproof,' 'load-bearing,' and 'temperature control' to facilitate subsequent retrieval."

“You’re quite good at indexes.” Chen Hao looked up. “How about this, let’s give this thing a name? We can’t just call it ‘Chen Hao’s Unlucky Diary’.”

"The right to name belongs to the recorder."

He tilted his head and thought for a few seconds, then paused, pen in hand: "The Way of Living on a Wilderness, Part One. Sounds like a legitimate craft, even though it's all just trial and error."

Once the names are finalized, the screen automatically refreshes, and all entered entries are tagged, categorized, and archived. Nana simultaneously imports the data into the knowledge base, the progress bar sliding silently.

Chen Hao took notes as he read, but then stopped writing.

“Wait a minute.” He looked up. “When we were repairing the kiln, the crack was only twelve centimeters long, and I panicked like the house was going to collapse. But when the landslide happened, the whole hillside collapsed, and I didn’t back down. Don’t you think that’s a bit unusual?”

“Psychological monitoring data shows that your peak stress response during high-risk events decreases by 18%,” Nana said. “At the same time, decision delay is reduced by 0.7 seconds.”

"Translate it into human language?"

"You've calmed down."

Chen Hao paused for a moment, then laughed: "Hey, I thought I was just numb."

“Apathy won’t lead to increased efficiency.” She paused. “Your behavior pattern is shifting towards a ‘problem-oriented’ approach.”

"What do you mean?"

“In the past, when you encountered trouble, your first reaction was to complain or run away. Now you will look for tools first.”

Chen Hao was silent for a moment, then lowered his head and added another line to his notebook: "A person can be lazy, but not stupid. Laziness can be cured, but stupidity cannot."

The wind outside was blowing in and out, making the clothesline creak. The light inside flickered, a sign of fluctuating battery power.

Nana brought up the energy monitoring interface and casually pushed a to-do item about "optimizing nighttime insulation strategy" to the top.

"Let's put this aside for now." Chen Hao waved his hand. "We're not going to come up with any new plans today. Let's sort out the old issues. Otherwise, if another landslide happens, I'll have to flip through my notes to save my life."

He flipped to the first few pages and pointed to a record: "Look here, the first time I built a shed, I insisted on using a whole tree trunk as a beam, but I couldn't move it and it got stuck halfway. Later, I used two short pieces of wood spliced ​​together, which was more stable."

“Structural redundancy design,” Nana added. “Distributing the load is better than a single support.”

“Yes! So the key is not ‘using rough wood,’ but ‘how to make even rough wood hold up.’” His eyes lit up. “That’s the point.”

Nana nodded and then projected a structural diagram: the living area frame, the layout of the tool rack, the direction of the rainwater gutter... all marked with improvement points.

“These can all be put into the logs,” she said. “Daily new operation suggestions are also archived.”

“Alright, let’s make a rule.” Chen Hao slammed the notebook on the table. “No matter how tired you are, you must write something down before going to bed. Write down everything clearly, including what you accomplished and what pitfalls you encountered.”

"Suggested system: Set a daily recording time limit of fifteen minutes, with automatic reminders if the time limit is exceeded."

"Don't remind me!" he quickly waved his hand. "I feel pressured if you remind me. Let me write whatever I want."

"I understand. Humans generally have a resistance to forced procedures."

"The way you say that makes it sound like you're not human."

"I am not."

"Oh right." Chen Hao chuckled, "I almost forgot, you're a pure rationalist."

He continued flipping through the notebook, and suddenly noticed that the last page had been tampered with. Where it had been blank, several lines of extremely small writing had appeared, as if etched with a needle tip:

> "It is recommended to add a 'psychological resilience assessment' module."

> Observation subjects: Individuals continuously exposed to resource-scarce environments,

> Have you noticed any changes in your sense of purpose, resilience, or self-efficacy?

He looked up at Nana. She was looking down at the device interface, as if nothing had just happened.

"You wrote this?"

"yes."

"You're even observing my mindset?"

"All behavioral data is used to optimize collaboration efficiency."

"That sounds so high-sounding," Chen Hao said, narrowing his eyes. "Actually, you're secretly writing a growth report for me, aren't you?"

Nana didn't answer, but the blue light in her eyes flickered slightly, like the wind blowing across a lake.

He didn't ask any further questions, but instead closed the notebook and placed it next to the rechargeable lamp on the corner of the table. The lamp casing was made of rolled scrap metal, with burrs on the edges, but as long as it lit up, that was fine.

“I used to think that living should be comfortable.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the water seepage marks left on the rock ceiling. “I ate well, slept soundly, and had a high rank in games. Now, I’m busy fixing this and that every day, working like a dog, but I actually feel… at peace.”

“It fits the data analysis model,” Nana said softly. “When an individual consistently completes quantifiable tasks, the brain releases dopamine.”

"Can't you just say 'You're much more reliable now'? Why do you have to use these technical terms?"

"I am stating the facts."

“Facts also depend on the context.” He pointed to the pile of tools in the corner. “Look at that stone axe. It chipped after only five minutes of chopping trees at first, but now it can even carve curves. Aren’t we getting stronger little by little?”

Nana raised her hand, and the light screen reappeared: an optimized plan for building material handling routes, a temperature control curve for pottery firing, a probability model for trap placement...

"These are all results derived from existing experience," she said. "If we continue to accumulate experience, the success rate of dealing with complex challenges in the future will gradually increase."

Chen Hao stared at the picture for a long time, then suddenly reached out and poked the "residential area expansion" section.

"Is this 'phased expansion unit' what I meant by 'building a big house'?"

"yes."

"Does 'crop rotation + lighting optimization' mean 'growing a lot of vegetables'?"

"yes."

He laughed heartily: "You actually took my sleep-talking seriously?"

“All expressions are sources of information.” She put away the projector. “The difference lies in whether they are actionable.”

"So you blew up the balloons in my head and turned them into kites that can fly?"

"The analogy is somewhat misunderstood, but I accept this interpretation."

Chen Hao stood up and dusted off his pants. "So what's next? Do we have to build a gym so I can lose weight?"

"Your body fat percentage is still higher than the standard value."

"I knew you'd bring this up!"

"This is an objective fact."

"Alright, alright, once I build the new house, the first thing I'll do is install a 'shut up' switch for you." He laughed and walked into the house. "But... can you really make all of this happen?"

Nana followed behind him, her voice steady: "As long as you don't give up halfway."

"Me?" He turned around and glared at me. "When have I ever given up? I didn't run away during the last landslide, and you think I'd just abandon this little thing?"

"You once complained for 43 minutes about the lack of seasoning in your breakfast."

"That's different! A person can be poor, but they can't eat without any flavor!"

"Logical contradiction: You ate stewed vegetables without seasoning for five consecutive days last week."

"That's a special case!"

“The records show that you said, ‘This soup is as bland as my life.’”

Chen Hao opened his mouth, but in the end he could only shake his head.

A faint blue light flashed in Nana's eyes.

He picked up the notebook on the table, opened the first page, and reread the sentence he had written: "Don't be afraid of making mistakes, be afraid of not remembering them."

Then he gently blew a breath, blowing away the last eraser shaving.

The wind outside the window gradually subsided, and the light bulb emitted a steady glow. Nana's blue light in her eyes slowly dimmed, entering a low-power state.

A line of small characters still floated in the air, lingering there:

"Experience base update complete. On your next login, we suggest adding the 'Psychological Resilience Assessment' module."

Chen Hao sat at the table and tapped the cover of the notebook with his fingers.

The Way of Living on a Wild Star, Part One.

He smiled but didn't say anything.

Outside, a clothesline suddenly taut, emitting a slight tremor.