The No. 1 Hunfen King in the Entire Server [Interstellar] Chapter 29

Lin Jing’s emotions were incredibly complex. He turned away, gazing absentmindedly at the scene before him.

The wristband on his arm had entered standby mode.

After the jellyfish had carried them down into the deep sea, its massive yellow form dissipated with the flowing currents.

The deep sea was actually brighter than one might imagine. Many marine creatures emitted light to attract prey.

Especially now, as time was in flux—life evolving, the auroras in chaos.

The system’s updates reshaped living beings, while non-living elements, like rocks on the surface, remained mostly unchanged. In the depths, they found a cave, and once inside, Xu Wanzhi immediately removed his wristband, revealing another function—illumination.

The cave was vast and empty. Lin Jing found a clean spot and sat down.

Diving into the deep sea on a jellyfish had been exhilarating—only now, upon landing, did he finally feel at ease.

Distant waves echoed through the hollow space, vast and empty, making this small, isolated shelter feel like a world apart.

The cave entrance was like an invisible barrier, dividing two realms.

Outside, the Earth shifted, eras changed, and the deep-sea light flickered in chaotic beauty, as magnificent as cosmic explosions unfolding across the universe—billions of years condensed into a single night.

Xu Wanzhi’s voice, softened by the surroundings, said, “Get some rest first. Regain your strength.”

Lin Jing stared at him for a while before replying slowly, “I might not be able to sleep just yet.”

Xu Wanzhi turned his head, smiling. “Oh? Do you need me to lull you to sleep?”

Lin Jing was used to his careless teasing and replied, “No need. I’ll probably fall asleep soon.”

Xu Wanzhi smirked. “What a coincidence. I’m not sleepy either.”

Lin Jing tugged at the corner of his lips, then lowered his head to examine the codex and camera.

The Xu Wanzhi who had been perpetually drowsy in the Doors of Life and Death seemed to have broken free of some kind of seal in this world—no longer so lethargic.

Leaning against a rock, one arm resting behind his head, his sharp, icy eyes also gazed outward.

The next era would be the Silurian period.

Most of Lin Jing’s knowledge of the Paleozoic era came from Xu Wanzhi.

The Silurian was a critical phase in the evolution of vertebrates—the time when fish began their rise.

Yet the rulers of the era were not fish, but sea scorpions and eurypterids.

The prey that had once been hunted and devoured by nautiloids in the previous world had finally turned the tables, becoming apex predators, wielding their massive pincers as they roamed the depths.

Lin Jing flipped through the pages of the codex again. Each photo seemed to capture the essence of an entire species.

He paused for a moment, then asked a question, “What do you think truly counts as a species’ victory?”

Xu Wanzhi: “Hm?”

Lin Jing thought aloud, “Standing at the top of the food chain, or surviving and reproducing endlessly?”

Xu Wanzhi: “What do you think?”

Lin Jing: “I think both count. To shine brilliantly until the end, or to persist humbly like dust and live on—they’re both victories in their own way.”

Xu Wanzhi smiled faintly. “An individual’s victory is the former. A species’ victory is the latter.”

Lin Jing: “Is there really a need to distinguish between individual and species?”

Xu Wanzhi said calmly, “Yes. In nature, the species usually outweighs the individual. The same goes for humans.”

Lin Jing was puzzled. “Humans? Why are we talking about this now?”

Xu Wanzhi’s gaze reflected the faint light outside the sea, and he smiled slightly. “Haven’t we always been taught that collective interests outweigh individual ones?”

Lin Jing froze for a moment.

Ever since the last world, he had felt an inexplicable indifference in Xu Wanzhi toward certain matters. It was the kind of detachment that lacked any emotion—a purely external perspective, like a detached observer commenting on something, such as the phrase “collective interests outweigh individual interests.”

Lin Jing suddenly worried that Xu Wanzhi might have some sort of antisocial personality and asked cautiously, “That’s what we’ve been taught, sure, but it’s just an idea to keep in mind. It’s not like individuals are being forced to sacrifice themselves. That’s not too much, right? Also… were you particularly rebellious as a kid?”

Xu Wanzhi replied, “No. By society’s standards, I’ve been very well-behaved from childhood to adulthood.”

Lin Jing: “…” You call this “well-behaved”??

Xu Wanzhi’s lips curved into a strange smile, but his eyes were serious, as if genuinely pondering something. “Then, if individuals were forced to sacrifice, would that be excessive?”

Lin Jing was momentarily stunned. “That would be pretty excessive.”

Xu Wanzhi murmured softly, “I see.”

Lin Jing set down his camera, crossed his legs, and carefully chose his words. “But, this kind of thing needs to be evaluated case by case. After all, everyone sees things differently.”

Xu Wanzhi chuckled, gazing intently at Lin Jing, and unexpectedly clarified, “Don’t worry. I actually agree with that sentiment.”

Lin Jing swallowed the words he had been about to say. You sure don’t look like you agree with it. Then again… you don’t seem entirely opposed to it, either.

Xu Wanzhi continued, “From the perspective of humanity’s advancement, sacrificing the interests of a small minority is often considered worthwhile. But if you treat it as a transaction, there’s always risk involved.”

Without hesitation, Lin Jing guessed that Xu Wanzhi’s words hinted at a less-than-pleasant memory. Yet, given their current relationship as tentative acquaintances, he chose to remain silent.

Perhaps it was the deep-sea quiet that loosened tongues, for Xu Wanzhi kept talking. “I first heard this idea when I was seven, from a middle-aged man yelling in anger. Back then, I thought it was just his excuse for failing and shirking responsibility.”

After a brief pause, he chuckled softly. “But at seven, I didn’t believe in anything, nor was I interested in anything. Having such thoughts was only natural.”

Lin Jing asked, “And later?”

Xu Wanzhi: “Later, my perspective changed.”

Through the seawater and faint light, Lin Jing silently observed him.

When their eyes met, Xu Wanzhi’s faint smile faded. His deep, dark gaze was as cold as the long-frozen tundra.

Lin Jing had lived on Hailan Star for as long as he could remember.

On that tranquil planet of eternal spring, time seemed to flow gently, carried by a soft breeze. It was impossible for him to truly empathize with the intermittent loneliness emanating from Xu Wanzhi.

After a moment of silence, Lin Jing said, “Maybe you weren’t wrong at seven. It really was just an excuse.”

Xu Wanzhi blinked. “Hm?”

Lin Jing said, “No one is obligated to sacrifice themselves, and no one has the right to demand greatness from someone else.”

Xu Wanzhi chuckled softly. “Perhaps.”

Outside, time continued to pass—millions of years in a heartbeat.

When the gamma-ray burst struck Earth, Lin Jing could feel its immense force. The mass extinction at the end of the Ordovician period, wiping out 85% of life, was terrifying even in numbers.

Even deep in the ocean, he could sense the fear and despair of all living things.

All evolution came to an abrupt halt.

Oxygen depletion in the oceans, global cooling, tectonic shifts, volcanic eruptions—the once-clear and pristine seabed was now shrouded in smoke and filled with toxic gases. A cataclysm from the universe brought chaos to the world.

Everywhere he looked, there was disorder.

Lin Jing watched the upheaval outside the cave with quiet awe.

In Earth’s history, there have been five mass extinctions, the most well-known being the extinction of dinosaurs at the end of the Cretaceous.

4.4 billion years ago, 3.65 billion years ago, 2.5 billion years ago, 2 billion years ago, and 65 million years ago.

So when would the next extinction occur?

Humanity is as insignificant as dust. Even after leaving Earth, there is the solar system, and beyond that, the galaxy. A single rogue meteor shower or the explosion of a planet could destroy the Milky Way.

Lin Jing rubbed his face, shaking off the jumble of thoughts in his head. He picked up his camera, sitting in the deep-sea cave, and captured the scenes outside.

After taking the photos, fatigue crept in. The long day’s journey had worn him out. Earlier, his tension had kept him awake, but now that he felt safe, exhaustion washed over him like a tide, making his eyelids heavy.

Lin Jing turned to glance at Xu Wanzhi, who had already closed his eyes, his long lashes casting faint shadows, his expression cool and serene.

Suddenly, Lin Jing recalled Xu Wanzhi’s casual remarks about his childhood. “Didn’t believe in anything, wasn’t interested in anything.” Without knowing why, Lin Jing began imagining what Xu Wanzhi must have been like as a child.

He was probably “obedient,” or maybe just withdrawn—quiet, unsmiling, indifferent. The kind of child who would sit silently in a corner, lost in his own world.

Lin Jing couldn’t help but laugh at himself.

He placed the camera back onto the album, leaned against a rock, and closed his eyes.

When he woke up, the post-extinction wasteland period had already passed.

At the very least, when Lin Jing opened his eyes, he saw a vibrant, colorful underwater world once again.

Various jellyfish swam gracefully in the deep sea, and new species have also emerged.

Rubbing his eyes, Lin Jing asked, “Is it the Silurian period already?”

Xu Wanzhi responded, “Yes. Let’s go.”

Lin Jing packed his belongings and asked, puzzled, “We’re not going to ride a jellyfish up again, are we?”

Xu Wanzhi laughed, “Then do you want to climb up yourself?”

Lin Jing: “…” Nope, riding a jellyfish is fine. After hearing Xu Wanzhi’s explanation about jellyfish last time, Lin Jing had developed a deep sense of reverence for them.

They managed to catch a ghostly blue jellyfish this time.

When they dove into the deep sea, they had felt the passage of time keenly, as though they were sinking through millions of years. But now, ascending from the deep sea, everything became incredibly slow, as if the light from above was falling inch by inch.

Looking across the Paleozoic Era, the underwater vegetation hadn’t changed much.

The Silurian and Devonian periods were considered the age of fish. In the codex for this page, armored fish occupied nearly half of it.

With their front half resembling a block of stone and a tail extending from the rear, they looked odd and monstrous, peacefully feeding on plankton in the seawater. When encountering predators, they’d bury themselves in the mud, pretending to be a rock.

Lin Jing remarked, “So, these are the ancestors of vertebrates?”

Feeling a flood of emotions, he quietly took a photo of his “ancestors.”

After surfacing from the deep sea, a hundred million years had passed, and the environment was naturally different from when they had descended.

Lin Jing began looking for something to eat, targeting his “ancestors” first. After all, fish might be edible, right?

Xu Wanzhi laughed, “Don’t tell me you really plan to eat the creatures down here?”

Lin Jing asked, “Mm?”

“Ancient animals might contain toxic proteins. If you eat one, you might be out of the game instantly.”

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