Chapter 10
On the way back from the water tower, Jin Zhaoxuan was as quiet as a chicken.
He clutched the cold, scraped metal in his hand, his fingertips repeatedly tracing the scratches on it, which were even harder to decipher than a QR code. His mind replayed the images and emotions forcibly injected through the "ghostly USB drive" like a movie: the icy darkness, the suffocating despair, and the last vestige of longing for the "spring sun"—a yearning like a starving ghost reincarnating.
Liu Jianjun remained silent, focusing on being the driver. It wasn't until the car stopped near the old house that he spoke, his tone so profound it sounded like he was about to announce some life philosophy:
"Jin, some debts have been settled. What remains are matters for the living."
Jin Zhaoxuan nodded, feeling the weight of the pat on his shoulder: "Thanks, Uncle Liu."
"Don't mention it." Liu Jianjun waved his hand. "Teacher Yin's situation... needs some time to develop. The same goes for you. Just let us know if you need anything."
Watching Liu Jianjun's car disappear around the street corner, Jin Zhaoxuan turned and went inside. The old house was so quiet that you could hear the gurgling of the hot water flowing from the radiator, like the sigh of an old person's stomach. He gently placed the power bank, which carried his "Cyber Baby," back onto the wireless charging pad as if offering it to an ancestral tablet. The indicator light blinked steadily; a peaceful scene unfolded.
They didn't show up, nor did they make a sound.
But Jin Zhaoxuan could sense that the subtle "presence" in the room had changed. Before, it was like a weak WiFi signal; now it felt like a stable fiber optic connection—quiet, solid, and silently recovering.
He didn't disturb the "wounded" person, turned around and rolled into the kitchen. He cooked porridge, stir-fried some tomatoes and eggs, and smashed a cucumber. As soon as the aroma of the food wafted up, the mirror surface rippled, as if it had received a signal that dinner was served.
Yin Shaoqing's outline slowly emerged, much clearer than before. Although he was still a semi-transparent, high-definition ghost, at least his eyebrows and eyes were visible. His gaze was somewhat vacant, like a gaming addict who had just finished an all-night gaming session and was still trying to focus on the real world.
"Awake?" Jin Zhaoxuan placed a bowl of porridge on the stool in front of the mirror, along with a pair of chopsticks (a touch of ceremony). "How are you feeling? How far along are you in sorting out the fragments in your mind?"
“…It’s very complicated.” Yin Shaoqing’s voice was soft, but his voice was stronger. “It’s like having an eighty-episode nightmare, with a few episodes of a heartwarming family drama interspersed in between. The fragments are…slowly piecing together.”
He looked at Jin Zhaoxuan: "Those feelings... were they 'shared' with me? From the air chamber?"
“I guess you could call it… sharing.” Jin Zhaoxuan pulled out the metal fragment and showed it to the air. “You probably grabbed this thing as a lifeline back then, and there was some ‘near-death experience pack’ left on it. I touched it and it downloaded automatically.”
Yin Shaoqing stared at the fragments, his eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions, as if he were looking at his own dark past: "So... I really did go in there. I fucking... really wanted to survive."
"Yeah." Jin Zhaoxuan nodded vigorously. "A real man, absolutely top-notch."
“But…” Yin Shaoqing lowered his head, his voice muffled, “I still hung up. I waited so long, it was cold and dark, and in the end…”
"Stop!" Jin Zhaoxuan interrupted the spellcasting. "That's not your fault! Your adoptive father didn't come, and he probably can't come! The Japanese surrendered outside, the Russians came in, and it's chaos! It's a miracle that you found that dog hole and held out for so long, brother!"
Yin Shaoqing remained silent for a long time.
“Mr. Jin,” he suddenly looked up and asked a philosophical question, “are you afraid of death?”
Jin Zhaoxuan was stunned by the question: "...Scared?! Who isn't? I'm terrified I haven't paid off my Huabei debt yet!"
“I used to be scared too,” Yin Shaoqing said softly. “When I fell into the water, I was so scared I almost died on the spot. But when I was waiting to die in that little shabby house… I wasn’t so scared anymore. I just felt… like I was losing out. I hadn’t finished my work, I hadn’t seen enough of spring, and I hadn’t bought the new comic books.”
He looked up and gazed out the window (even though the mirror faced the wall), his gaze seemingly penetrating: "Now that I think about it, death doesn't seem so bad. What's truly frightening is... being forgotten, as if you've never even made your presence felt."
"No one would dare forget you!" Jin Zhaoxuan patted his chest. "The Liu family remembers, Grandma Xiulan remembers, the viewers in the live stream remember, and now... I remember too. I have plenty of memory!"
Yin Shaoqing smiled. The smile was faint, but incredibly genuine, like the first frost flower to bloom on a winter windowpane, sparkling brightly.
“Hmm,” he said. “I’ve got it.”
These words were like a switch. I remember how I died, and I also remember how I was remembered. That lingering attachment between life and death seemed to have loosened.
"By the way," Yin Shaoqing proactively changed the subject, "how's the museum project going? Did I botch it last time?"
"Smash what? That's just a technical adjustment!" Jin Zhaoxuan lied through his teeth. "But the final hearing is next Friday, and Director Zhang and leaders from the city's cultural bureau will be there. This time... we have to be as steady as a rock."
Yin Shaoqing's expression turned serious, as if he were about to take the college entrance examination: "What do I need to do?"
“You need to fully recover, and then… you might need to try something new.” Jin Zhaoxuan revealed the plan he had been holding back all along. “You’ve been relying on the live stream viewers and me, this ‘human power bank,’ to keep you going. It’s unreliable and drains the battery.”
He rushed to the computer and pulled up a bunch of dazzling code and architecture diagrams: "I want to try to deeply bind a part of you... core code? soul data?... with the underlying layers of the museum's AR tour system. Not a remote-controlled shadow puppet show, but to make you 'become' a part of the system itself."
Yin Shaoqing stared intently at the scrolling cryptic text on the screen: "Like... a viral parasitism?"
"Bullshit! It's symbiosis! High-end stuff!" Jin Zhaoxuan explained, "The system provides you with a stable home and a canteen (user interaction energy), and you infuse the system with a soul and knowledge. A win-win situation!"
He paused for a moment: "The advantage is that as long as the system is running and people are using it, you'll be incredibly stable, and you can even upgrade it. You can also use the museum's WiFi to get a little 'sense' of the audience, see their reactions, and listen to their questions."
"Then... what's the price?" Yin Shaoqing was as perceptive as a cat.
Jin Zhaoxuan hesitated for a moment: "You... might become more dependent on that system. If the system is shut down, or if no one uses it for a long time, you might have to go into hibernation again. Besides, this subscription is a deep package, so it might be difficult to unsubscribe once you've signed up."
"Will I be locked in a museum?" Yin Shaoqing asked.
“It’s not that bad.” Jin Zhaoxuan shook his head. “The mirror in the old house is still your ‘starting point’. You can come back, but you’ll be a little weaker here. In the museum, you’ll be stronger and more durable. Consider it two save points.”
He looked at Yin Shaoqing and said, "But this is just a pie in the sky. It might fail in practice, or there might be bugs. So, the decision is yours."
Yin Shaoqing did not answer immediately. His reflection in the mirror stood still, as if he were contemplating a decision that would last eighty years.
"If I agree," he finally asked, "what's in it for you?"
Jin Zhaoxuan was stumped by the question. He opened his mouth, wanting to say, "If the project succeeds, the company will thrive," but the words came out too cliché.
“I…” He scratched his head. “I don’t want to see you always so weak and unresponsive, like Lin Daiyu, constantly disconnecting. I want you to be consistently ‘online,’ able to do what you want to do—tell history stories, be remembered, or even… just fucking sunbathe.”
He stammered a bit, but he was very serious: "You've been exploiting bugs for eighty years, you deserve a... more spacious server to stay on."
Yin Shaoqing looked at him with eyes as gentle as warm water bathed in moonlight.
“Mr. Jin,” he said softly, “you should think about it for me.”
"Stop being so mushy!" Jin Zhaoxuan turned his head away. "Just tell me if you're going to do it or not!"
"Yes," Yin Shaoqing answered crisply. "I believe you."
Jin Zhaoxuan felt a surge of warmth in his heart, and his nose tingled. He quickly coughed to cover it up: "Then...it's settled! You focus on recovering your health these next few days, and I'll lead the team to work overtime to modify the system!"
Do you need help?
"You'd better make sure you're in top shape first!" Jin Zhaoxuan waved his hand. "You're in the spotlight on the day of the demonstration, so don't crash me at the crucial moment!"
"Okay." Yin Shaoqing smiled. "This time, I'll reboot you even if you crash."
Over the next few days, the old house transformed into a Matrix film set.
Xiao Chen and two other core employees were brought in by Jin Zhaoxuan, and a cot (crossed out) and workbench were set up in the living room. Wires, equipment, and servers were piled up like in a junkyard. Jin Zhaoxuan explained Yin Shaoqing's situation (packaged as a "hyper-realistic historical AI model") to Xiao Chen, omitting the ghost part. Although Xiao Chen felt that this technical concept was as fantastical as cultivating immortality, he had unwavering faith in his boss's technological cult and led the team to begin a grueling reconstruction.
Yin Shaoqing then entered "power bank+" mode. During the day, he would huddle inside a mirror or a power bank, slowly "reading" the new system through a special interface set up by Jin Zhaoxuan, trying to "shake hands" with the test database. At night, after the programmers left, he would briefly project himself out and test the interaction with Jin Zhaoxuan, refining the explanation text.
His condition visibly improved. His features became more defined, his voice clear and free of noise, and he could even project for over ten minutes without the charging pad. Those fragmented memories seemed to be automatically archived; when he talked about the past, the pain and confusion were lessened, replaced by a calm that had settled, and... an undisguised anticipation for the "future."
Thursday night, the night before the final test.
After everyone else left, only Jin Zhaoxuan and Yin Shaoqing, who had just finished a long-term test, remained in the room.
Yin Shaoqing sat in the virtual "study" in the system with a clear projection that was almost physical—this was a personal space that Jin Zhaoxuan had designed according to his wishes, and he could change the skin at will.
"How does it feel?" Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the monitoring data stream.
“It’s…strange.” Yin Shaoqing reached out, his virtual finger tracing across the virtual bookshelf (containing old books generated from his memories). “It’s like I have an extra body, made of data. Here, I can ‘touch’ things, even though they’re fake.”
He paused for a moment: "Moreover, I can feel... a lot of faint 'signals.' Like the lingering warmth of time emanating from those old objects in the museum? I can't quite put my finger on it."
Jin Zhaoxuan's eyes lit up: "This might be 'interactive energy' collected by the system! The fact that you can sense it means the binding is working!"
Yin Shaoqing nodded, then added with some worry: "If there are a lot of people present during the demonstration tomorrow and the signal breaks... can I handle it?"
"The system has a firewall and a buffer pool!" Jin Zhaoxuan encouraged him. "Besides, I'll be right here! If it crashes, I'll manually restart it for you!"
Yin Shaoqing looked at him and suddenly asked, "Mr. Jin, if it works out tomorrow, will I... mainly 'live' in the museum system from now on?"
Jin Zhaoxuan paused for a moment while typing: "Theoretically, yes, the environment over there is better. But this will always be your 'hometown,' you can go back whenever you want. I... will also visit you in prison often."
He said it in a somewhat awkward way.
Yin Shaoqing smiled, a clean and bright smile: "Okay. It's settled."
Outside the window, the night was so thick it seemed impenetrable.
Jin Zhaoxuan gave all the code and hardware a final check, confirming that everything was in perfect order (at least on paper). He got up and walked to the mirror. Yin Shaoqing's projection had faded, but the person in the mirror was clearer than ever before, even the fine lines on his long robe were visible.
"Go to sleep," Jin Zhaoxuan said. "Tomorrow... the new version will be released."
"Mr. Jin, you should also get some rest," Yin Shaoqing replied softly.
Jin Zhaoxuan rolled back to his room, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. His mind raced, rehearsing every step of tomorrow and every possible mishap.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard a very faint sound.
It sounded like someone walking barefoot on an old floor.
He sat up abruptly and looked towards the doorway—it was empty.
But the room temperature seems to have dropped a little bit.
Then, he felt a slight slump beside the bed, as if someone... sat down very lightly.
It has no physical form and no shadow.
But that "presence" was so clear that it gave him goosebumps.
"Yin Shaoqing?" Jin Zhaoxuan lowered his voice.
"...Hmm." The voice sounded directly in his mind, very close, very soft, with a hint of embarrassment, "I...I'm a little nervous. And a little...reluctant."
Jin Zhaoxuan felt as if his heart had been squeezed.
"What are you reluctant to part with? This dilapidated old house?"
“I can’t bear to do this…” Yin Shaoqing’s voice lowered even further, “It’s just the two of us, chatting idly all night. In the future, at the museum, there will always be many people watching and listening. We can’t… be so casual anymore.”
Jin Zhaoxuan's throat tightened, as if a wad of cotton was stuck in it. He raised his hand and reached out towards the invisible "existence" beside the bed, then stopped in mid-air.
“You can come back anytime you want,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I… I always have a seat here.”
The invisible "presence" beside the bed was silent for a few seconds.
Then, Jin Zhaoxuan felt a cold, transparent, unreal yet incredibly clear hand gently cover his suspended hand.
There was no real tactile sensation, only a bone-chilling cold and an unmistakable sense of "I am here."
But that's enough.
“Good night, Mr. Jin,” Yin Shaoqing said.
"……good evening."
The chill receded like the tide, and the temperature rose.
Jin Zhaoxuan remained in that position for a long time before slowly withdrawing his hand and clenching it into a fist.
My palms were empty, yet heavy, as if I were holding the entire silent yet turbulent night.
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