Lin Jing couldn’t help but laugh. His eyes curved into crescent moons, his deep brown irises gleaming with warmth—gentle as a spring breeze.
The senior turned around just in time to see his smile and asked in confusion, “What are you thinking about? Why do you look so happy?”
Lin Jing pressed his fingers against his lips and shook his head. “Nothing.”
The senior squinted at him suspiciously. “Really?”
Lin Jing looked up and sighed with a helpless smile. “Really.”
It was just that… he felt inexplicably happy.
The senior didn’t believe him but decided not to push further.
When the elevator doors opened, Lin Jing walked into the research facility and saw Dean Chang again.
After an entire night, Dean Chang had finally calmed down. He was sitting behind his desk, his graying hair in a mess, sipping tea to keep himself awake.
Lin Jing felt a little awkward stepping in. He thought maybe he should explain himself first.
But Dean Chang, as if reading his mind, simply waved his hand and got straight to the point.
“No need to explain. This has nothing to do with you.”
Lin Jing let out a quiet breath and smiled obediently, nodding. “Okay.”
Dean Chang snorted, then got up and asked responsibly about his physical condition. “How do you feel after coming out of that game?”
Lin Jing paused for a moment before answering honestly, “I feel fine. My mental power doesn’t seem as weak anymore.”
Dean Chang asked with concern, “Does your body feel uncomfortable?”
Lin Jing shook his head. “No, I feel fine.”
“Strange,” Dean Chang muttered. He stood up. “Little Jing, come with me for a test first.”
Since the research base specialized in mental power, naturally, it had a system to evaluate mental power levels.
After Lin Jing’s test, the screen displayed an “A.”
Although he had expected this, he was still curious and asked softly, “Dean, was this Xu Wanzhi’s doing?”
“En.” Dean Chang examined the data closely for a long moment before saying, “Besides him, who else in this world could so easily manipulate TI90 radiation?”
TI90 radiation.
Lin Jing froze. This wasn’t his first time encountering the term.
On his first night at the main star, he had read about the TI90 asteroid in two books on Dean Chang’s bookshelf.
The author of those books had written like a lonely yet arrogant mad scientist—his words full of madness.
Dean Chang suddenly looked at him. “Have you started remembering things from your childhood?”
Lin Jing’s throat felt dry. “I have.”
“As expected,” Dean Chang said with a bitter smile. “This was all something he wanted you to remember.”
Lin Jing’s heart clenched. He asked, confused, “What?”
Dean Chang continued, “Little Jing, don’t you find it strange? You’re a SS mental power user, naturally possessing an exceptional memory. How could you have forgotten your childhood so easily?”
Lin Jing pressed his lips together and remained silent.
Dean Chang slowly revealed the truth. “Actually, your parents deliberately erased those memories before relocating to Hailan Star.”
Lin Jing’s mind went blank at that. “Why?”
Dean Chang sighed and didn’t answer directly. Instead, he stood up. “Come, I’ll take you to the top floor. You should see how ‘Survivor’ actually operates.”
On the way past a water dispenser, Dean Chang poured a cup of hot water for him.
Lin Jing held the cup, warmth spreading from his palms to his whole body, yet his mind remained blank.
As they entered the elevator, Dean Chang said, “TI90 is actually the name of a star.”
After a brief silence, Lin Jing responded, “I know. I read about it on your bookshelf—along with the ‘God Creation Project’.”
Dean Chang glanced at him in surprise before chuckling. “Since you already know, I’ll keep it short. Wanzhi’s mother was the first successful subject of the genetic modification experiment. In a way, she was the first ‘God’.”
“The soil of the TI90 planet contains an extractable liquid that, when reacting with certain substances secreted by a pregnant woman’s uterus, influences fetal brain development. We already knew that the maximum level of human brain development was SS. When this discovery emerged, some scientists speculated—could we create an SSS-level mental power ‘God’ who would bring immense value to the empire?”
Lin Jing suddenly recalled a particular passage from that book, arrogant yet eerily truthful:
“Humanity has already stepped beyond the Milky Way. This is now a domain where morality holds no limits. In Galactic Year B123, countless SS researchers reached the edge of our supercluster, unable to progress further. The empire needed a new upper limit—thus, the ‘Brain Development Project’ was proposed.”
Dean Chang continued, “The project required extremely high qualifications for the female subjects, and it was also highly dangerous.”
“When the empire barely passed the project in a close vote, the first family to step forward for the experiment was… the Osmond family.”
Dean Chang’s expression was unreadable under the elevator’s light. He said flatly, “Later, the experiment succeeded, and Laixiya was born.”
“As the first-ever SSS-level mental power user, the empire placed great emphasis on her upbringing and protection. She received education from the top experts in every field from a young age. And indeed, Laixiya was a genius.”
“But over time, the empire realized something—Laixiya lacked human emotions. Her first lesson was about loyalty—loyalty to the empire, loyalty to humanity—but Laixiya showed no reaction to it.”
“No matter how many years passed, she never learned it.”
“Laixiya’s complete lack of empathy sparked fear among sociologists at the time, but the empire forcibly suppressed any public discussion. The empire only needed Laixiya to make contributions—just as the Osmond family only needed her to bring them honor.”
Lin Jing suddenly spoke. “Dean, what do you mean by empathy?”
Dean Chang was momentarily stunned. After some thought, he sighed and explained, “You can think of it as a type of understanding. Little Jing, have you noticed that Wanzhi seems particularly cold?”
Lin Jing hesitated for a moment before nodding.
He had thought this for a long time. It wasn’t just an aloof personality that kept others at a distance. Xu Wanzhi could smile, but he rarely showed true emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, or happiness.
A person’s coldness is often influenced by their personality or past experiences—whether it’s arrogance from being born privileged, insecurity from childhood struggles, or emotional numbness from trauma.
But Xu Wanzhi was different. His coldness was too pure, as if it was written into his genes, unrelated to any life experiences. In fact, Lin Jing wasn’t even sure how to define his personality.
He recalled how that book described Laixiya… “A God.”
A girl in the photograph, looking down at the world with an emotionless gaze.
Dean Chang said, “See? Even you think so. That means others must feel it even more strongly.”
“When people are sad, they cry. When they’re happy, they laugh. When they’re insulted, they get angry. When they lose loved ones, they grieve. These are all normal human emotions. Anger and sorrow are taught to us because we learn about dignity, humiliation, and love. But laughing and crying—those are instincts.”
“If your memories were clearer, you’d realize—when Wanzhi was a child, he never smiled at all.”
“Laughter, from a physiological perspective, is a social ability. It’s not necessarily related to humor or mood—it’s one of the oldest forms of human communication,” Dean Chang said. “Wanzhi doesn’t laugh, or rather, he doesn’t understand the meaning of laughter. He has no desire to express his emotions.”
“Every human emotion is something he has to learn and comprehend. Fortunately, he cooperates with us in pretending. His learning ability is incredibly strong, so it’s easy for him to disguise himself as someone with a normal personality.”
“But a disguise is just that—a disguise. I witnessed his birth, yet I’ve never truly understood him.”
Dean Chang suddenly lowered his voice and spoke softly. “The first time I heard him express his thoughts subjectively was when he was eight years old.”
“Laixiya asked him if there was anything he wanted to see. He looked at us for a moment and then said—” The dean looked at Lin Jing. “He wanted to see fireworks.”
Lin Jing’s grip on his paper cup tightened abruptly. The warm water splashed onto the back of his hand, scalding him to the point where even his soul seemed to tremble.
The rising mist drifted into his eyes.
His voice was hoarse as he asked, “He likes watching fireworks?”
Dean Chang gazed at him quietly, his expression gentle and kind. He softly replied, “That’s something you should ask yourself.”
Lin Jing’s eyelashes trembled violently, and he closed his eyes.
And so, those childhood conversations, once lost in the sea of hyacinths, resurfaced one by one, twisting around his heart like vines—stinging, aching.
Back in the deep seas of the Ordovician era, when the nautilus’s mouth was stained with blood, he had asked the same question.
“Fireworks?” Xu Wanzhi had responded. “Depends on who’s setting them off for me.”
Lin Jing had been surprised. “You actually get to be picky about that?”
Xu Wanzhi had chuckled. “Mm. But of all the fireworks I’ve seen since I was born, I haven’t liked a single one.”
Dean Chang said, “Wanzhi struggles to understand the emotions of others—joy, anger, sadness. To him, these emotions are merely data, concrete expressions of instructions we’ve described, which he then receives. You might not know this, but at the end of your first world together, he didn’t even understand why you were angry.”
Dean Chang suddenly chuckled. “But now, he should be acting like a proper lover.”
Lin Jing’s vision blurred. He took a deep breath, drank the remaining water in his cup, and tossed it into the trash can beside him.
The dean tilted his head slightly. Through the soft blue glow, his aged eyes were full of warmth and kindness. His voice was calm.
“You see, the first time he ever displayed emotion was for you. The first time he wanted to understand another person’s feelings was also for you.”
Dean Chang spoke with the tone of a loving father talking about his child, his statement steady and certain. “Wanzhi lacks empathy, but he’s a genius—he absorbs knowledge effortlessly.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen him so fixated on something. He is trying—trying to learn human emotions, to differentiate them, to experience them, to… love you.”
Lin Jing’s eyes turned red, strikingly beautiful. When he heard those words, he suddenly laughed. At the same time, tears spilled down his cheeks.
At last, he felt like he had begun to understand Xu Wanzhi.
The dazzling fireworks, the deafening explosions, the exaggerated cheers of a vast crowd, the envy of millions.
Beneath all the noise and celebration lay a deep, lonely affection.
Dean Chang said nothing.
Lin Jing, however, quickly regained his composure. He wiped away his tears and smiled. “Thank you, Dean. Thank you for telling me this.”
Dean Chang’s heart ached as he spoke, filled with sorrow. He shook his head.
When they stepped out of the elevator, they had arrived at the top floor of the radiation base. At the front of the base stood a massive display screen, connected by countless intricate wires to every terminal in the game. Before the screen was a special glass enclosure, inside which a single drop of suspended, crystal-blue liquid floated. All the radiation originated from this single droplet.
The liquid was perfectly translucent—clean, gentle, like a teardrop endlessly drifting within the test tube.
Lin Jing stopped and gazed at it, speaking softly. “That’s the SI90 extraction liquid?”
Dean Chang nodded. “The last drop.”
“Go ahead. The glass was specially made. The radiation has already been diluted once—it won’t hurt too much.”
For the first time, Lin Jing stepped into the top level of the base. Even though the radiation had been diluted, bathed in the blue light, he could still feel a faint burning sensation on his skin. Every nerve in his body was tense.
Dean Chang said, “We installed specialized extraction equipment on the TI90 planet, but after hundreds of years, we’ve only successfully extracted three drops. After the Brain Development Project was abandoned, we chose to use this last drop to launch the game Survivor.”
“Every world in Survivor carries this radiation. TI90, diluted billions of times, seeps into the air, dust, and particles of the game world. For the sake of gameplay, we designed numerous storylines, but in reality, they all serve a single purpose—to stimulate players’ brains, immerse them more deeply into the world, and enhance their mental strength through radiation exposure.”
“TI90 has been diluted to an almost negligible effect. When the Imperial Council approved the project, we positioned it as a mental training game for the entire population. That’s why we implemented a point and ranking system—to promote it on a large scale.”
“This is the central base, but every planet has a Survivor branch base. The blue light you saw in the last instance? That was actually Wanzhi—he forcibly strengthened the radiation.”
Lin Jing froze and looked up. “Strengthened?”
“Mm.” Dean Chang nodded, his gaze fixed on the blue screen as he sighed. “He restored TI90’s radiation. Probably, he’s the only person in the world capable of doing that.”
Lin Jing’s expression turned blank. He opened his mouth slightly. “Dean, I don’t understand.”
Dean Chang smiled. “I don’t understand either. But aren’t you curious why he shot and killed the other players?”
Lin Jing paused for a moment, then slowly nodded.
In truth, when Xu Wanzhi pulled the trigger, he had already felt something strange.
That night in the castle, gunshots rang out one after another—bang, bang, bang—straining his nerves to the point of numbness.
In the wind and snow, the young man stood with his gun, cold and ruthless enough to make one’s heart shudder.
Dean Chang spoke slowly: “Because if the other players hadn’t been eliminated in advance, when the radiation arrived, none of them would have been able to return to reality. Even if they miraculously did, they would have suffered instant brain death.”
Lin Jing’s eyes widened abruptly, and he jerked his head up.
Dean Chang continued, “TI90 radiation, when not diluted, directly affects the body, causing one’s mental power to collapse, completely shattering and exploding.”
Lin Jing opened his mouth. “Then I…”
Why was he unharmed? The pain had been excruciating, but it was still bearable.
Dean Chang gazed at him and sighed. “Because he was standing next to you, shielding you. He took on ninety-five percent of the pain for you.”
It felt like a bolt of lightning struck Lin Jing’s mind, leaving his brain buzzing. He stood there, struggling to find his voice. “Then he… what about him now?”
Dean Chang reassured him, “You don’t need to worry about that. Wanzhi was born in TI90 radiation. Even if it hurts, I suppose he’s used to it by now.”
At that moment, Lin Jing wanted to see Xu Wanzhi more than ever before.
Dean Chang added, “That’s why I say he’s like a madman. But luckily, your mental power has recovered.”
“When I initially had you train in Survivor, it was because even I didn’t know how to unlock the first door to mental fluctuations. That kid, though… he was ruthless enough.”
“Don’t be fooled by the fact that you’re only at rank A. Once you experience the first mental backlash, the rest is easy. With just minor stimulation, you’ll return to your original level in about two months.”
But after hearing this, Lin Jing didn’t feel the excitement he had expected. Instead, he was strangely calm. He reached out and lightly touched the small pane of glass.
The crystal-blue liquid inside flowed steadily, connected to the massive screen behind it by millions of nano-material transmission tubes designed specifically to conduct radiation.
A needle-like pain pricked his fingertips. After a long pause, Lin Jing softly asked, “Dean, I’m not in a hurry to restore my mental power. Can you tell me where he is right now?”
I want to see him.
These words took root in his heart, growing wildly like vines.
Dean Chang had already anticipated this question. His gaze dropped slightly as he replied, “He’s on Filna Star. You’ll need my recommendation letter to get there.”
“Dean…”
“Alright, I’ll give it to you.”
Lin Jing smiled. “Thank you, Dean.”
After giving Lin Jing a tour of the base’s top floor, Dean Chang returned to his work, continuing to clean up the mess left behind.
Lin Jing took the elevator down to the third floor. Standing in the hallway, he gazed ahead. This place had been abandoned for a long time, its doors tightly shut, leaving no trace of what had once happened here.
The butterfly, the innocent and youthful kiss through the glass.
He shook his head and smiled slightly.
As he walked downstairs, intending to leave, his gaze was drawn to a small bookshelf near the elevator.
The bookshelf had been there for years, usually stocked with The Imperial Daily and various scientific journals. Over time, the publications changed, but one thing remained: a children’s book, Kinder-und Hausmärchen, tucked away in the bottom corner. He had the same book.
Perhaps this had been a childhood promise between him and Xu Wanzhi, one he had simply forgotten for too long.
On the first floor, Lin Jing encountered several researchers. They smiled at him politely before hurrying past. His senior was busy recording data. When he opened the door, he was greeted by a sky of unbroken blue.
The wind was dry, carrying a faint floral fragrance. White hyacinths swayed, forming a sea of flowers. But this time, the sea of blossoms was not just filled with butterflies fluttering away.
He saw a girl sitting amidst the flowers.
She wore a long purple slip dress and strappy high heels. Her figure was graceful, her skin fair, her demeanor exuding an air of haughty nobility. Golden curls shimmered in the sunlight as she flipped through a book with a cold and impatient expression. Sensing someone behind her, she closed the book and looked up.
Her violet eyes were breathtakingly beautiful.
Through the fluttering butterflies and the strands of hair stirred by the wind, her gaze locked onto Lin Jing, unwavering.
The moment he saw her, Lin Jing’s smile faded.
The young man stood tall, his brown eyes equally indifferent.
The golden-haired girl stood up, her high heels crushing the hyacinths without hesitation. She stepped in front of him, extended her hand, and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. Would you be interested in getting to know me? My name is Lilith.”
Lin Jing had never thought much about the Osmond family. But now, knowing the full truth, he felt neither hatred nor any fondness.
He smiled politely but distantly. “Thanks, but no.”
Lilith had expected rejection.
She was the youngest daughter of an ancient aristocratic family, an imperial darling. Though arrogant, she was not conceited.
Born into endless glory, admired by all, she cared little for how a stranger perceived her.
Lilith kept her smile, gracefully withdrawing her hand. “Are you sure? Perhaps we met when we were younger.”
Lin Jing had no interest in engaging in such pointless conversation. “You don’t need to waste your efforts on me.”
Lilith lifted her gaze, still smiling. “I went through a great deal of trouble to gain access to the main base and waited so long just to meet you. After putting in so much effort, isn’t it a little late to ask me to give up now, Mr. Lin?”
She continued, “You don’t need to be so resistant. I’m only doing all this to make my grandmother a little happier.”
Her voice was pleasant—not too soft, not too cold.
Lin Jing replied, “If this is about Xu Wanzhi, then let’s not talk.”
Without another glance, he walked toward the base’s exit.
Lilith followed, her high heels brushing against the trampled grass as her violet dress swayed.
“Aren’t you curious about my offer?”
Lin Jing: “Not interested.”
“Oh, but you will be. Lin Jing, he is my cousin by blood.” Lilith’s red lips curved into a smile. “Perhaps I should call you sister-in-law.”
“Blood ties are permanent. No matter what he does, he will never fully escape the Osmond family. Instead of waiting to face it later, wouldn’t it be better to understand everything now? After all, we have a common enemy—my father.”
Lin Jing’s steps finally halted when those words—”my father”—were spoken.
He turned his head slightly and met the deep violet eyes of the girl.
Lin Jing asked, “Your father?”
Lilith was slender from head to toe, exuding an outstanding aura. When she smiled, it was especially breathtaking. “Yes. Aren’t you curious about what exactly happened decades ago?”
What exactly happened decades ago?
His mother’s deliberate avoidance.
Dean Chang’s vague answers.
He knew that Laixiya was the first SSS-level individual, that she developed Aurora, that she caused the “Cosmic Fireworks,” and that she became a sinner condemned for eternity. But everything in between was a blur. Who was Xu Wanzhi’s father? Why did Laixiya destroy everything at the edge of the universe? And what was the Osmond family’s stance throughout all of this?
More importantly, why did his parents move away from the main star and sever ties with the Lin family?
Taking a deep breath, Lin Jing opened his eyes. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”
Lilith looked at him quietly before nodding. “Let’s go to District Two.”
She wasn’t allowed to bring any vehicles into the base, so after exiting the forest, they were transported to a wide road by the base’s specialized aircraft.
Lilith casually hailed a bus and boarded it with Lin Jing. The buses on the main star were always crowded, but the space, previously bustling, suddenly quieted down because of them.
Lin Jing pulled at the corner of his mouth, clearly wanting to avoid any misunderstandings, and deliberately kept his distance.
Lilith’s violet eyes swept over the crowd indifferently, not bothering to explain.
Every single passenger was dumbfounded—those putting on makeup, snacking, or whispering sweet nothings to each other all froze.
The front screen was still broadcasting the latest hot news on the “Counsel Reshuffle.”
Everyone harbored a bold guess but couldn’t quite believe it. The violet eyes had to be colored contacts, the golden hair had to be a wig, and the face had to be surgically enhanced—how could Lilith possibly appear in a place like this? And the handsome guy next to her—who was he? They actually looked kind of good together…
Lin Jing sat by the window, resting his chin on his hand, meticulously watching the scenery outside.
As the bus headed toward District Two, Lilith tilted her head, noticing his impatient expression. Unable to resist, she mischievously called out, “Sister-in-law, don’t you want to chat with me a little more?”
Lin Jing: “……”
He wanted to curse.
Lilith burst into laughter.
If any of her countless admirers saw this scene, their hearts would probably shatter.
The passengers on the bus were also shocked. Soon, the news on the screen ended, replaced by a trending song. The men and women on the bus returned to their activities—playing cards, touching up makeup, getting handsy—but their ears remained perked up.
Lilith, wearing a spaghetti-strap dress, had fair shoulders and arms. Her collarbone formed a sharp line, with a delicate dip at its center.
She gazed ahead and suddenly said, “Actually, I was also the odd one out in my family as a child.”
Lin Jing’s knowledge of her only came from the media.
And frankly, he had no interest in learning more.
“I was the only child raised by my grandmother. I wasn’t close to my brothers and sisters, nor to anyone else.”
Lilith continued, “I don’t have much emotional connection to my father or mother either.”
“The only family member who left a deep impression on me was my little aunt. Because in my grandmother’s house, traces of her were everywhere. The hallways were lined with her paintings, the tables held her photographs. When I was a child, the thing my grandmother said the most was that I once had an incredibly outstanding little aunt.”
Hearing this, Lin Jing finally glanced at her.
Lilith recounted everything with a calm tone. Then, her violet eyes shifted to him. Her face no longer bore a gentle smile, but a sincere one filled with sorrow. “Honestly, I’m not here to make a deal with you. I don’t want anything from you… I just want to tell you some things.”
Lilith took him to a restaurant near Imperial University. As soon as she entered, the manager warmly greeted her and led them straight to the top floor, where she had a private room.
She seemed well-prepared, instructing someone to fetch a bag from her car.
The private room had an enormous window overlooking the plaza outside, where countless students came and went. From here, one could see the entire Imperial University.
Lilith’s delicate, slender fingers pulled a stack of papers from the document bag and handed them to Lin Jing. “This is everything that happened back then. I spent a long time investigating, and even questioned my mother about it.”
Lin Jing took the stack of papers without speaking. Inside were newspapers, photos, and clippings from magazines featuring extreme societal discussions.
Lilith said, “My grandmother was the first to propose the brain development project. At the time, she was a member of the council, and her mental power was rated S. But it wasn’t her choice—no mother would willingly risk her child’s life. My grandfather and my father kept persuading her, and in the end, she tearfully agreed. The Osmond family’s ancestral motto is ‘Born for Honor.’ Every member of our family learns this as their first lesson. I won’t judge whether it’s right or wrong, but at the very least, it holds its own greatness. My little aunt’s birth seemed to embody this perfectly—she was born for the progress of humankind, and she carried honor from the moment she existed.”
“My father is an extremely authoritarian man. After my grandfather passed, he took over as Speaker of the Council, and his authoritarianism grew even more extreme. Especially towards his children—every step of my older sister and brother’s lives was planned out by him. My grandmother’s health suffered after giving birth to my little aunt, and she spent a long time recovering. Meanwhile, my little aunt was placed under strict Imperial protection. She rarely saw her even once a year. Missing my little aunt’s childhood completely was one of my grandmother’s deepest regrets.”
“Everything my little aunt learned, researched, and even the people she was allowed to meet had to be decided through council discussions. Even her future spouse had to be carefully selected. The council screened the most outstanding genetic candidates to pair with her. In the end, they chose a naturally flirtatious scientific genius—born with SS-level mental power and exceptional intelligence. He already had many women and was known for his romantic exploits, yet the council still arranged their marriage. Neither of them agreed to it, but neither of them opposed it either.”
“My little aunt wasn’t interested in anything, and that man welcomed any beautiful woman who came his way.”
Lilith curled her lips into a mocking smile.
“Their marriage was a joke. Even after Aunt became pregnant, that man continued his debauchery.”
“The Brain Development Project was in full swing at the time, and the news of Aunt’s pregnancy drove the scientists into a frenzy. After all, no subject was more suited for their experiment than the child of an SSS-grade female.”
“And so… he was born.”
“Aunt’s inability to empathize was discovered early on, which deeply worried the Empire’s sociologists. Without cultivating her loyalty to the Empire or kindness toward her own kind, there was always the risk that she would turn into a blade aimed at humanity itself.”
“It was a double-edged sword, and in the end, they were right. They just failed to wield the blade correctly.”
Lilith took a sip of her drink, her eyes filled with undisguised contempt. “Let me tell you something amusing. After Xu Wanzhi was born without complications, the scientists became even more deranged. They believed Aunt’s genes were too valuable to waste, and one of their discussions even revolved around dedicating the rest of her life to breeding superior human offspring.”
Lin Jing remained silent, his expression just as cold.
“What did they take Laixiya for, exactly? A weapon of the Empire or a breeding machine? Fortunately, that proposal was rejected due to insufficient extraction materials. So instead, they set their sights on her child. Around that time, a major breakthrough was made—brain replication. The younger the subject, the higher the success rate.”
Lin Jing’s fingertips trembled slightly as they brushed against a bold, enlarged headline on the second page of the newspaper.
“Brain Replication—The Dawn of the SSS Era, Humanity’s New Limit”
Lilith continued, “The scientists debated, and the votes ended in a tie. That was the only time Aunt ever refused. My grandmother told me that after becoming a mother, Aunt changed in ways no one noticed.”
“My father personally tried to persuade her. He even took her to the family cemetery to show her the ancestral teachings. How ironic—did he really think that would sway Laixiya?”
“Someone incapable of empathy, remembering ‘Born for Honor’? She cared nothing for love, for honor, for anything. That’s why she never reacted, even when others dictated her birth, her education, her love, and her marriage. Because she simply didn’t care.”
“Laixiya’s near-divine indifference was mistaken for meekness and submission by the scientists.”
“So they set their sights on her child. And they had the audacity to proudly report their progress to her, placing her on a pedestal, praising her for her great contributions to the Empire’s future.”
By now, Lin Jing had flipped to the final page. The newspaper was old and yellowed, with a single photograph printed on it.
At the edge of the universe, a spectacular explosion blossomed like fireworks, breathtakingly beautiful. Light-years away, it buried the Empire’s brightest minds.
Lilith stirred the ice in her drink, her expression unreadable—perhaps amusement, perhaps scorn.
“Aurora exploded.”
“This research project, which carried the Empire’s hopes and was led by Laixiya, had achieved a breakthrough in the exploration of the universe. Yet, it never even made it out of the galaxy. It returned with no useful discoveries, only to explode under the scrutiny of the media.”
“And it didn’t just take Laixiya with it—it took the top scientific minds of that time.”
“This was the first sword she thrust—straight into the heart of the Empire.”
“After the explosion, the once-mad scientists of the Academy fell into stunned silence. My father was furious, raging about Laixiya’s selfishness, immaturity, and disgrace. He had a massive falling-out with my grandmother over it. In the end, she moved out of District One, spending every day staring at old photographs and weeping. She told me that true emotional detachment doesn’t exist. At the very least, Laixiya once thought about being a good mother. But they never gave her that chance.”
“Maybe those cosmic fireworks were meant for her child to see. Or maybe, they were meant for the entire Empire.”
“It was her warning, as a mother.”
“But the ridiculous thing is—the Empire never understood her message. That same year, a vote was held. No one knows who initiated it, but the topic was whether Xu Wanzhi should be euthanized.”
“They finally realized they had created a monster. Instead of reflecting on their own actions, they only saw an SSS-grade, emotionless, man-made weapon—a threat to society and humanity. They didn’t dare to take another gamble, to risk Xu Wanzhi growing up into another Laixiya. If a mother was willing to create such destruction for her son, then what might the son do for his mother when he grows up?”
“This vote included the highest-ranking figures in the Empire—lawmakers, scientists, politicians, educators, and military leaders. My father was the only one in our family who voted in favor of euthanasia.”
Lilith couldn’t even recall how disappointed she had been when she first learned of it.
The girl’s voice was eerily calm. “The vote ended in a tie. The final decision rested in Dean Chang’s hands.”
Lilith said, “Dean Chang voted against it—and took Xu Wanzhi home.”
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