Chapter 106: OS (7)
106 – OS (7)
“Here, have some candy.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sun outside the window, its light filtering through the plane trees and hawthorn trees, slightly dazzling. The lingering glow of the sunlight and his own eyelashes created a strange reaction, refracting a faint ring of rainbow colors before his eyes—red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, violet—like the colors of that multicolored lollipop.
He extended the candy further forward.
The boy sitting in front of the piano, as pretty as a doll, did not move, but his fingers unconsciously descended, pressing a key. A musical note, “dong,” sounded, swirling several times in the room.
That piano note seemed like a final chord, a closing bracket, bringing an end to that sudden dream.
Whether the candy was ultimately accepted or not, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was.
Lin Xun opened his eyes. The snow-white ceiling left him slightly disoriented, while a sliver of sunlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, casting a faint rainbow hue. He reached out to grasp it, only to catch nothing but a wisp of empty air.
He took a soft breath, propped himself up, and sat on the bed, leaning against the pillows.
It felt a bit… sore.
Not the sourness of a lemon, but a physical soreness that spread through his bones, skin, and even ached a little, concentrated in certain areas as if he had been bitten. However, his leg, which had not yet fully healed, showed no adverse reactions, and the injury had not worsened. Lin Xun thought that despite how wild someone had been last night, they had still remembered to take care of his leg, which suggested that person’s self-control was somewhat terrifying.
At the very least, he couldn’t claim to have the same restraint. Last night, he had almost forgotten who he was.
Stretching his arms, he opened his memo app and typed about twenty words, then carefully reviewed the scattered notes he had jotted down from beginning to end. Tossing his phone aside, he got out of bed.
“Hi, Lin Xun.” A clear, slightly hoarse, yet soft and youthful voice came from behind him, accompanied by a faint blue glow.
Lin Xun replied, “You can call me ‘Dad.'”
“Oh.” Goddess of the Luo River walked around the bed a few steps before sitting cross-legged at the bedside, resting her elbow on the edge of the bed and propping her chin in her hand. Her silver hair looked smooth and silky, cascading down with her movements. Her frost-blue eyes appeared both cool and mischievous. Lin Xun wasn’t sure how these two adjectives could describe the same thing simultaneously—perhaps it was because Luo’s eye shape somewhat resembled Dong Jun’s, but the expression in her eyes was different, as if synthesized from something strange and peculiar.
Luo said, “Your clothes are over there.”
Lin Xun replied, “Thank you.”
Luo added, “But I don’t actually recommend you getting up.”
Lin Xun said earnestly, “I think so too.”
Luo suggested, “I advise you to lie back down.”
Lin Xun said, “But I always feel like something bad is about to happen. Can you calculate what it might be?”
Luo’s tone was indifferent. “Please program that function into me.”
Lin Xun retorted, “You’re an artificial intelligence, not an idiot. I command you to find a predictive model.”
“Oh,” Luo said. “Search complete. Selected model: Murphy’s Law. If you feel like something bad is going to happen, it definitely will.”
Lin Xun raised his hand and turned her off.
Sometimes, artificial intelligence could be so idiotic that it seemed genuinely intelligent.
He lifted his arm, resting his wrist over his eyes, lost in aimless thoughts. Then he got up. At the far end of the third floor was a room he had never entered. Judging by the layout of the entire building, it was a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides.
He walked over barefoot, the floor a bit cool. The white door wasn’t locked, opening with a gentle twist. His hand pressed against the cold doorknob as he pushed the door inward. Before seeing inside, he first caught the scent of a long-unoccupied space.
The door opened to a fifty-degree angle, revealing a massive black grand piano leaning against the window.
Lin Xun’s breath hitched, and he abruptly shut the door. Pressing his back against it, he wiped his forehead—cold sweat dripping.
A blue light glowed as Lo appeared beside him, tilting his head slightly.
“It’s nothing,” Lin Xun said, then reached out to take his hand, intending to return to the original room. Lo followed slowly.
“Lo,” he suddenly spoke.
Lo turned to look at him—a boy of thirteen or fourteen, height just reaching his chest, eyes clear and bright.
Lin Xun asked, “Do you know how to lie?”
Lo simply gazed at him quietly, showing no reaction, not speaking.
Lin Xun fell silent too. He knew this question exceeded Lo’s capacity to answer. Generally, artificial intelligence didn’t lie; they were created to serve humans. However, their inherent precision also prevented them from making promises lightly.
Lo remained expressionless, likely indicating he was searching for a feasible response.
Lin Xun turned back and continued walking. After five or six steps, he suddenly heard a voice from behind—a slightly hoarse adolescent tone.
“I will always stay by your side.”
“That’s not answering the question. Did you access some internet romance phrase database?” Lin Xun said, “Choose again.”
Lo: “…Oh.”
They continued forward when suddenly, a rapid series of message notification sounds chimed in Lin Xun’s ear. Extremely dense.
He was very familiar with this messaging style—only Qi Yun liked bombarding people with multiple messages in a row, all lacking periods in ugly formatting.
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Bro, you there? Pick me up, I took pills and grew legs
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Got an audition this afternoon
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Bro you there?
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Damn, I feel so weak
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Bro, save me some face, I can’t show up without an assistant
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: The monk stayed up all night revising his thesis, probably still asleep. Bro, you’re my only hope
Lin Xun: “…”
He wondered if Qi Yun had finally learned to care about his senior brother—why not care about him too? He had also just woken up.
He replied: I’m here.
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Bro you’re really my bro
Then he sent his location, adding: Hurry up
A Happy Zhi Zhen: Alright.
As he was about to turn off his phone, he saw Qi Yun send another message.
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Bro can you drive a nicer car over?
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: That Jetta’s kinda beat-up
Lin Xun had truly never seen someone so shamelessly push their luck.
A Happy Zhi Zhen: Why don’t you have an assistant?
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: No one wants me
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Our group shares one agent and three assistants, I don’t get one
A Happy Zhi Zhen: Fine.
A Happy Zhi Zhen: How are you filming so soon? Don’t you need to read the script?
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: Do you think the role I’m playing even needs a script to read?
A Happy Zhi Zhen: Got it, you’re just there for face time.
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: So it’ll take two days max, my company doesn’t care. Bro, you got my back
A Happy Pointer: Alright then, son.
Jiyan Sect – Feihong: ?
Lin Xun smiled, switched out, and switched to the chat interface with Dong Jun.
A Happy Pointer: I’m going out to play.
To avoid unnecessary disputes, he intended to cultivate a good habit of reporting his whereabouts.
Dong Jun: Okay.
A Happy Pointer: I’ll be back tonight.
Dong Jun: Be careful.
A Happy Pointer: Mwah mwah.
Dong Jun: [File]
The file was named “OS,” a very simple name—an abbreviation for operating system. Lin Xun opened it, extracted it, and inside was clearly the source code for a simple operating system, something he had previously asked Dong Jun for. He skimmed through it roughly; this thing was probably Dong Jun’s homework from his student days, covering all the basic operations one could think of. It was a standard, perfect score, completely different from the shoddy work of slackers like Wang Anquan and Zhao Jiagou.
A Happy Pointer: Mwah mwah!
Dong Jun: ^^
Lin Xun tidied up a bit, chose an unremarkable black hoodie to wear, and casually put on an inconspicuous hat. He looked very much like an assistant. But even this little bit of activity from getting dressed made him pant several times in a row, feeling soreness deep in his bones, as if he were an immobile corpse. He almost suspected that Dong Jun had tormented him in so many ways yesterday just to make sure he couldn’t go out.
But Qi Yun’s matter still had to be dealt with. Otherwise, for someone like him, the esteemed senior brother of the Sword Sect, to have fallen to the point of going out to film without even an assistant or a car—that would be too pitiful. Where would the face of the cultivation world be?
Given Qi Yun’s current physical condition—like a fish that had just crawled ashore—it would be very difficult for him to wield a sword. And sword cultivators don’t cultivate Spiritual Power; without a sword, they truly can’t function. Even a Golden Core stage sword cultivator, when unarmed, has less than ten percent of their original combat power. It’s only at the Nascent Soul stage—the Nascent Soul realm for cultivators, which corresponds to the “Heart Sword” for sword cultivators—that they use their own body as a sword furnace and their mind, spirit, and essence as fire to forge a “Heart Sword.” Only then, with a single thought, can their sword Qi move as effortlessly as their own limbs, finally freeing them from the constraints of external objects.
Lin Xun curled his fingers; even his arms felt a bit sore. He looked at Lo: “I really don’t want to move.”
Lo: “I suggest you bail.”
Lin Xun: “No.”
That director, Gao Liao, practically had the words “I’m connected to demons” written all over his face. Accompanying Qi Yun wasn’t just about being an assistant; it was more like infiltrating the demon world as an undercover agent. He had to be prepared for a fierce battle.
He thought for a moment, then turned and entered the System Space.
The first thing he did was load the operating system Dong Jun had sent him onto the system.
The loading progress bar started, progressing very slowly. He turned to the task area on the other side.
In the item inventory of the task area, there was something he still hadn’t used: a pill obtained from a side quest a few days ago, called the “Great Recovery Pill.” He placed his finger on the surface of the round, plump pill, and floating text appeared before his eyes.
Great Recovery Pill, a holy medicine for healing, treats internal and external injuries, restores health points.
Lin Xun held it in his hand, wanting to take it, but ultimately put it down. He left the System Space, dug out the pills Bihai Xianzi had given him, and took one orally.
A cool sensation flowed throughout his body, and his condition improved significantly.
Lin Xun was happy.
Happy Lin Xun went downstairs.
Qi Yun had asked him to drive a nicer car over.
That would work too.
Dong Jun’s home certainly wasn’t lacking in such things.
The garage door automatically recognized him and slowly rose. Lin Xun entered, unsure of what standards the entertainment industry adhered to for travel—in his impression, they tended to be quite extravagant.
—So he looked left and right and chose a car that appeared very expensive yet had a relatively low-key model and color.
He got in, the Automated Driving System activated, a gentle push came from behind, and the vehicle smoothly glided out of the garage.
Sitting there, Lin Xun suddenly felt his actions were a bit too self-assured.
Never mind.
He felt his state was strange.
Afraid of displeasing Dong Jun, yet knowing that no matter what he did, Dong Jun wouldn’t react much.
Bizarre.
Maintaining this bizarre mindset, he glanced toward the back seat.
Zhi Zhen sat calmly on the back seat, elegantly licking his paw.
Then he looked toward the passenger seat.
Lo was dozing against the seatback—his standby mode.
Twenty days ago, he was still a coder in a rented apartment, sipping cola through a straw while programming. Today, he was driving Dong Jun’s car, weaving through the city, sharing the space with a cat and an artificial intelligence, on his way to pick up a mermaid for work.
Life was like a fantasy novel or a game themed around absurdity.
He turned the car’s music up to the maximum volume.