The inscription on the bronze bell gleamed in the sunlight, bringing not only clear rules but also unprecedented decision-making efficiency.
The consensus was reached swiftly, as if everyone's will had been forged into an unstoppable torrent.
However, beneath this torrent, a shadow called "the majority is right" is quietly growing.
Three days ago, someone proposed at the council meeting to demolish the old stele forest on the south slope that had been eroded by time, in order to expand the wheat field.
The reason is simple and sufficient: the stone tablet is already mottled, and most of the names on it are unrecognizable, but food is something everyone needs.
The proposal was met with overwhelming support.
No one objected.
Therefore, according to the new regulations, the decision to start construction three days later was set in stone, with no room for negotiation.
Lin Yi happened to pass by that forest of steles at that moment.
The setting sun cast long shadows of the stone tablet, like silent engravings.
He saw a figure, a thin, blind child, sitting in front of the third stone tablet.
The boy's fingers were unusually gentle as he stroked the almost worn-out name on the monument again and again, as if he were reading a wordless book.
"What are you looking at?" Lin Yi asked softly, afraid of disturbing the tranquility.
The boy didn't turn around, his young face carrying a solemnity beyond his years: "My father's name is here. My mother said he never won a battle in his life, nor was he a hero. But he kept watch here for three years, never letting the campfire go out."
Lin Yi's heart sank.
He wasn't a hero, but he kept watch for three years.
The memory of this land is made up of countless silent guardians like these.
Looking at the boy's focused expression, at the nameless and insignificant stone tablet, and then at the iron hammer that would fall in three days, he felt as if a lump of ice was stuck in his throat.
He didn't say anything more, but silently turned and left.
That night, no one was in front of the evaluation urn.
Lin Yi stepped forward, took a smooth pebble from his pocket, and dropped it into the urn.
The pebble landed on the ground with a soft but clear "tap".
Along with the pebbles, a note was also thrown in, containing only one sentence: "Have we forgotten that silence is not consent?"
The ceremony to dismantle the stele forest was held as scheduled the following day.
The crowd gathered on the south slope, where hammers and crowbars gleamed coldly in the morning light.
The atmosphere was lively, and everyone was looking forward to the birth of the new wheat field.
However, Lin Yi, a key figure in the council, did not appear.
A slight commotion arose in the crowd until his student, a boy named Ahe, carrying a lamp, walked through the crowd and stood in front of the host.
It was an old copper lamp, its wick dry and its body empty, without a drop of oil.
Ah He put down the lamp and handed over a note.
The host unfolded it with a puzzled look. On it was Lin Yi's strong handwriting: "If you decide to burn the past, please try to illuminate it first."
The scene fell silent instantly.
That oil-free lamp, like a silent question, looms over everyone's hearts.
Burn the past?
Who wants to burn the past?
We just want to grow more food.
But... can it be illuminated?
We don't even know what kind of past lies dormant in that forest of steles.
The cold gleam of the hammer no longer seemed so assertive, and the crowd's enthusiasm was as if it had been extinguished by a bucket of cold water.
The project was thus suspended.
That evening, the bronze bell was rung again, its sound heavier than ever before.
The Two Soils Review was restarted because of a piece of land that was about to be forgotten.
This time, Lin Yi personally walked up to the high platform and grasped the hanging bell hammer.
He didn't let the students do it for him, but instead knocked it three times himself.
"Thump—thump—thump—"
The sound of the bell echoed through the valley, drawing everyone's attention to the evaluation urn.
The crux of the controversy is sharp and clear: must those memories that cannot be exchanged for food give way to immediate efficiency?
Inside the urn, the black soil, representing "guilt," and the yellow soil, representing "progress," violently trembled and churned endlessly.
They sometimes try to merge, but then violently separate at the moment of contact, as if two completely opposite wills are fighting to the death.
Chu Yao closed her eyes, her face slightly pale. Her brainwaves clearly captured this intense clash originating from collective consciousness—on one side was the guilt towards the blind child and his father for their nameless sacrifices, and on the other side was the yearning for a wider wheat field and the pursuit of progress.
Both of these emotions are incredibly real and incredibly powerful.
The review has reached an unprecedented stalemate.
Lin Yi didn't say much; he turned around and took a file.
It wasn't a thick file, just a thin, yellowed sheet of paper.
This is a record of the blind boy's father keeping watch, which he found in the old archives.
There were no grand pronouncements or thrilling battles on the paper, only two lines of simple, almost monotonous handwriting.
"At the hour of Hai (9-11 PM), the night was cold, and the fire was still burning."
"At the hour of Yin (3-5 AM), the wind was strong, but the whistle never stopped."
Lin Yi gently placed the thin paper on the bottom of the violently shaking evaluation urn, then gestured to everyone to cover the two tangled handfuls of soil back onto the paper.
It was a long night. No one left; everyone remained gathered around the deliberation urn, waiting quietly.
The miracle happened at dawn.
Overnight, those two handfuls of soil that were originally irreconcilable actually merged quietly along the seam of that thin piece of paper.
The tranquility of the black soil and the vitality of the yellow soil achieve a strange harmony above the words "the fire has not been extinguished" and "the whistle has not stopped".
They no longer fight against each other, but depend on each other, as if that piece of paper had become their common foundation.
Everyone held their breath as they passed the record around.
Everyone who saw those two lines fell into a long silence.
A farmer murmured, as if to himself, or as if to everyone else: "He...he is not a hero...but he is really here, on this land, guarding one cold night after another."
These words, like a seed, have fallen into everyone's heart.
The final decision required no further voyages.
The stele forest will be preserved, and the newly opened wheat fields will carefully meander around it, like a gentle river embracing a reef of memory.
However, just when everyone thought the dust had settled, Ivan's long-silent whisper from the earth, like a sharp icicle, suddenly pierced Lin Yi's mind:
"It is ultimately hidden in the 'consensus that requires no choice'."
Lin Yi was jolted awake, and suddenly understood.
The real killer move of that lurking, remnant consciousness that wants to destroy them is not to incite conflict and confrontation, but quite the opposite—it fosters an unthinking, absolute obedience!
When everyone is rushing in the same direction, even if there is a cliff in front of them, no one will stop.
The demolition of the Stele Forest was merely the first test.
If successful, there will be more resolutions that "do not need to be opposed," until the will of the entire settlement is completely tamed and turned into an efficient but soulless machine.
He suddenly looked up, his gaze sweeping over the relieved faces of the group.
He knew he had to act immediately.
He walked to the bronze bell, his voice clear and firm, echoing throughout the hall: "From this day forward, for every resolution, no matter how small, at least one person must raise an objection before it can proceed to the final deliberation. If no one objects, the resolution will be automatically postponed for three days for further consideration."
As soon as he finished speaking, the entire audience was stunned.
What kind of rule is this?
In order to pass a resolution, do we first need to find someone to oppose it?
Isn't this just making trouble out of nothing and contradicting oneself?
The first trial of the new regulations is coming soon, with the topic being "whether to standardize this year's wheat varieties in order to increase overall yield".
This is a suggestion that seems to have no downsides and only benefits.
Just as everyone was looking at each other, wondering who should play the role of the "opponent," Lin Yi stepped forward himself.
"I object."
All eyes were on him.
He calmly stated, "My objection is that while uniform management and increased yields are possible if all wheat is of the same variety, a sudden outbreak of disease affecting that variety could lead to a complete crop failure across the entire region."
He wasn't genuinely trying to reject the proposal; he was demonstrating to everyone through his actions the necessity of questioning.
His words made everyone fall into deep thought.
Three days later, the deliberations resumed, and an elderly farmer who had spent her entire life farming tremblingly raised her hand: "The chief is right. My family's few acres of old wheat seeds, although the yield is not high, are particularly drought-resistant. Could you... leave three acres for my family to continue planting that?"
The consensus was perfectly adjusted amidst the questioning: the main body will uniformly adopt the high-yield new variety, but five acres will be reserved as an experimental field for different varieties in case of unforeseen circumstances.
A safer and more resilient solution has emerged.
That night, Lin Yi sat alone in the mill, the moonlight outside the window as clear as water.
As he was reviewing the events of the day, a slight buzzing sound suddenly came to his ears.
It's that bronze bell.
It wasn't struck by human hands, but rather the night wind passing through a tiny crack in the clock that caused a strange, self-resonating sound.
The voice was deep and resonant, as if it came from eternity.
A thought struck him, and he got up and pushed open the mill door.
He witnessed a sight he would never forget.
In the direction of the Stele Forest, a crystal-clear wheat flower made of faint light is slowly rising from the earth.
It was perfectly intact, each petal shimmering with a soft light.
And deep within the crystallized flower's heart, a blurry silhouette appears and disappears—it is a child, gently stroking the silhouette of a cold stone tablet.
At the same time, Ivan's last whisper, like a heavy piece of lead, slowly sank into the depths of the earth, and there was no more sound:
"Unit 85... Learned to shut up."
In the silence, another sound, Chu Yao's voice, drifted intermittently on the night wind, faint yet clear:
"Unit 86... is waiting for the first disobedient person."
Lin Yi raised his head, gazing at the crystallized wheat flower floating in the night sky, feeling the will that transcended time and space.
He slowly lowered his head and looked at the oil-free lamp he had been holding in his hand.
My turn.
He slowly gripped the cold bronze lamp, its belly empty and its wick dry, yet it seemed to bear the weight of the entire world.
The night breeze rustled through his hair, carrying the cool scent of the grass and trees deep within the Stele Forest.
He knew that the lamp would not be lit, at least not now.
Its mission is not to burn, but to exist.
Its light lies not in the flames, but in the inextinguishable vigilance it represents.
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