Chapter 13
The shift in consciousness took only a moment, and Tuosi opened his eyes, which were a few shades darker than wine red.
Or perhaps he simply closed his eyes briefly while eating dinner, then opened them again—just like that, blinking slowly.
For anyone, when there are no gaps in their memory and all the details of what happened can be connected reasonably and smoothly, they will not have any doubts about their own existence.
But Tuosi—even though he was only fifteen or sixteen years old—almost instantly sensed something was wrong.
This time it took longer than last time. Even the fingertips that were originally bitten down to the nail bed have grown a new nail, which has been carefully trimmed by someone and feels very smooth to the touch.
In his memory, he hadn't done anything.
After leaving the church, Dostoevsky sought a new path to his ideal, and this did not take long.
Once he realized he needed to obtain certain intelligence, his plan instantly took shape in his mind—to infiltrate this music academy, a gathering place for nobles and capitalist elites, under a convenient guise.
Students, teachers, or other administrative staff were all acceptable, but this school clearly gave him a surprise: Ivan Goncharov.
A wanderer caught in the conflict between faith and reality, like a desperate beast imprisoned in boundless suffering, is about to self-destruct or destroy everything.
He simply gave the other person a small helping hand, implanting something deeper into the mind that was suffering from mental torment, giving the poor teacher Ivan a new spiritual anchor.
Before this plan was completed, Dostoevsky did not intend to do too much to him—such as performing surgery to remove the nerves or areas in his brain responsible for sensing misfortune—but instead had Ivan Goncharov assist him in completing his mission.
At the same time, this is also a cautious consideration to prevent any further accidents. He needs someone who knows a little about the situation to stay by his side at all times and observe him from a third-party perspective.
To this end, Dostoevsky disguised himself as Ivan Goncharov's cello teaching assistant and easily got the job under the alias Mikhail Popov.
In the words of Ivan Goncharov, "This truly moves me! No one can utter a single word of objection to your musical talent and mastery on the cello. You could easily become a teacher, no, a musician—yes, this is a supreme gift that only a god could display, and no one can compare to you!"
If Ye Yihe had been the one using the body at the time, he would have been absolutely disgusted by this exaggerated, effusive praise, to the point of getting goosebumps all over.
Fortunately, Dostoevsky remained calm and composed in the face of Ivan Goncharov's heartfelt flattery, rarely even showing a smile—he ignored the praise and simply assigned Ivan two tasks.
One of them is... "Ivan".
His thumb slowly traced the smooth skin that had returned to its original state. With a blank expression on his face, Dostoevsky looked up at him and said, "Come and tell me your memories of this period."
Even if it was just the normal routine of attending classes, leaving classes, and walking back and forth in the corridors of the teaching building, that ordinary memory without any ups and downs.
"Yes, ma'am."
Even while sitting face-to-face with Dostoevsky, Ivan Goncharov still placed his hand on his chest and bowed slightly in greeting.
Before that, let's rewind two days.
[Xiao Ai (AI assistant).]
The bright moon hung high outside the window. Ye Yihe rested one hand behind his head, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling light.
Lying on his dormitory bed, he couldn't fall asleep for a long time. Instead, he suddenly called out to the system in his mind.
The system is becoming increasingly familiar with this name, which is not actually its own.
[My actions will inevitably leave some traces in this world... those can be erased by fabricating memories, making them impossible for the original owner to trace.]
Using the dim moonlight to see, Ye Yihe raised his right hand. His pale fingers were slender and long, and the faint blue veins beneath his skin were faintly visible.
But upon closer inspection of his knuckles, one can see that the scar left by the original owner's biting is gradually disappearing—he has never had the habit of biting his fingers, and he never will.
[But how can we explain the changes to this body? The original owner will always be suspicious.]
[Typically, these changes are very subtle; the other person will feel as if they've suddenly realized they've "quit or started a new habit during this period." It's like how people sometimes unconsciously discover a change in their taste in clothes or suddenly want to try a new style.]
The system dutifully explained, "[This is the key role that 'fabricating rationalized memories' and 'unconsciously ignoring contradictions' play in processing the original owner's memories.]"
[Really... Even if I were drinking hot water with goji berries in a thermos and handing over the body in that situation, the original owner wouldn't be confused?] Ye Yihe gave a detailed example.
[Absolutely not, he'd just feel like he suddenly wanted to try soaking goji berries in a thermos.]
The system patted its non-existent electronic chest to make guarantees.
[This method has been used for many years without any problems. Even if the original owner suddenly wanted to share past memories with someone else, there wouldn't be a single flaw.]
[Putting the host into a deep sleep is to preserve mental energy, but this system will always monitor the outside world—even if the original host hears any truth, it will be processed into a rationalized version of the memory.]
[If the original owner could see the other person speaking, even lip reading would be matched and modified during visual reception.]
[……oh. ]
After finishing this long speech, Ye Yihe paused for a moment before responding with a faint reply.
[...As monitored, the host's level of doubt regarding the system's interpretation has exceeded a critical threshold.]
[I don't really believe it.]
Because it was his true feeling that he couldn't hide, Ye Yihe always spoke the truth and was very sincere in his communication with the system.
system:[…………]
—Click, the clock on the wall moved one notch, and time continued to flow.
After listening to Ivan Goncharov's detailed description, Dostoevsky fell into deep thought.
No. Even if it completely overlaps with his memories, there's always an indescribable sense of unease.
It's like when you're talking to someone and you suddenly remember something, but just as you're about to say it, you forget it and can't recall the details, but subconsciously you vaguely remember that there was such a thing, a strange sense of attachment.
At this moment, this feeling is particularly strong.
But when Dostoevsky looked at Ivan Goncharov again, the man still cast a fervent and reverent gaze into his silver-grey eyes—the gaze of a fanatic, utterly genuine.
Someone like Ivan Goncharov, who is religious and stubborn to the point of being prone to getting stuck on a particular idea, is very difficult for others to fabricate lies about his "god" without brainwashing or control.
The details of the memory were exactly the same.
The steak in front of Dostoevsky was half-eaten and had completely lost its temperature; the black pepper sauce on the edge of the plate had turned into a dried brown spot.
"Indeed, there is no difference. It seems I was just overthinking it."
With his fingers interlaced in front of him and a smile playing on his lips, he tilted his head slightly, causing his fine, dark bangs to sway gently, a few strands falling onto his eyes, which resembled crimson rubies.
If I had to describe it, it would remind me of a dry red wine from the Valpolicella region, with beautiful, rich aromas of purple grapes and dried flowers.
Based solely on appearance, most of Dostoevsky's enemies, who have never experienced his terrifying nature, would dismiss him as harmless, completely unaware of the true horror of his wisdom.
"Let's discuss the progress of another task."
Dostoevsky spoke slowly, each syllable imbued with a peculiar and elegant rhythm, as if he had no intention of delving any further into the matter of memory. "Was something unexpected?"
"Hopefully you'll consider this good news."
Upon hearing this, Ivan Goncharov got up and went to his bedroom. After a moment, he returned and handed Dostoevsky a document in a brown paper bag. "As you wish, all the intelligence I have obtained is here."
Top music conservatories are equipped with luxurious concert halls specifically for orchestra performances. Given that these institutions gather so many children of the upper class and are places for cultivating high art, many prominent government officials also frequent them.
For Ivan Goncharov, a popular young faculty member at the academy, it wasn't particularly difficult to glean clues from a few words of conversation.
In the task of putting important figures at ease, Ivan Goncharov, a teacher with many years of experience, had it much easier than Mikhail Popov, a newly hired teaching assistant.
When Dostoevsky took the paper bag, he raised his eyebrows slightly, seemingly a little surprised by the result—not because he doubted Ivan's ability to do it, but because the previous two plans had been thwarted.
Is it easier to accomplish a plan by having someone else do it than by doing it yourself...?
Many guesses still remain in my mind, and further verification is still needed.
“Well done, these clues are enough.”
After reading those few thin sheets of paper, they were put back on the table. While thinking, Tuosi habitually put his right hand to his lips.
The teeth slowly fit into the skin, and a familiar, dull pain spread from the knuckles.
"Since someone possesses a secret powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the nation, let's put on a spectacular show for him."
Finally, Dostoevsky spoke.
“Perfect timing, I also have another [lead actor] I want to test out, someone even more exciting.”
…………
This time, it was the gentle music that woke Ye Yihe.
He initially thought it was a new trick from the system, but after opening his eyes, he could still hear the soothing melody playing.
The environment has also completely changed again, and I wonder where the original owner, whose name is so long and difficult to pronounce, has gone this time.
[Fei...what?] Ye Yihe called out to Xiao Ai in his mind.
He had only heard Ivan say it once, and he didn't remember it very well, but he was sure the system was working correctly.
[Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.] The system indeed repeated it word for word.
[It is indeed a bit hard to remember.] Ye Yihe whispered.
The name sounded strangely familiar, but there are just too many Russian names with "-ski," and he had a hard time recalling where he had heard a similar pronunciation before.
But now was not the time to dwell on the name. Ye Yihe finally realized where the melody came from—the old-fashioned cell phone in his pocket.
It paused briefly because no one answered, but then stubbornly rang again.
It seems I should finish this call before considering anything else.
Ye Yihe pressed the answer button on the phone and held it to his ear.
"The script has been arranged, sir."
As if using some cheap electronic voice changer, or perhaps in some kind of electronically interfered environment, every word spoken on the other end of the phone crackled and crackled, radiating an air of smug satisfaction: "We cordially invite you, sir, to the VIP section. This time, victory will surely belong to our organization [V]..."
The letter was so familiar that Ye Yihe reflexively picked up on the joke, "V...V, let's see how strong I am at 50?"
The voice on the other end of the phone suddenly stopped.
"...?"
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