Chapter 107: OS (8)
107 – OS (8)
“Bro.” Qi Yun looked earnestly at Lin Xun.
Lin Xun: “Hmm?”
Qi Yun: “I told you to get a nicer one, but not this nice.”
Lin Xun glanced around, noticing a few eyes looking their way. “I didn’t know either. I picked one that seemed relatively low-key.”
Qi Yun showed him the search results on his phone.
The car’s brand was indeed well-known, but not among the absolute top-tier ones. Lin Xun had known this from the start and thought it was fine—not too attention-grabbing.
His gaze shifted downward to the model description.
Limited to three units worldwide.
Lin Xun: “…”
Qi Yun: “Will rumors spread that I’m being kept?”
Lin Xun: “It’s fine. You haven’t broken any laws. If someone takes a photo, just say I’m your brother.”
Qi Yun: “Yours?”
“Wait, not yours.” Qi Yun seemed to suddenly remember something. “Right, it’s your sugar daddy’s.”
“Not a sugar daddy,” Lin Xun said. “Boyfriend.”
As they spoke, they got into the car.
Qi Yun: “A rich boyfriend is a sugar daddy.”
Lin Xun: “A rich boyfriend is still a boyfriend.”
Qi Yun: “You can’t say it like that.”
Lin Xun said expressionlessly, “His money has nothing to do with me.”
Qi Yun: “Impossible.”
Lin Xun: “It’s possible. He’s only given me two hundred thousand in total.”
Qi Yun: “Two hundred thousand in pocket money—isn’t that a sugar daddy?”
Lin Xun: “It’s not pocket money. It’s for buying my project.”
Qi Yun’s expression turned serious.
Qi Yun: “That’s already more than my acting fee.”
Too tragic.
Lin Xun thought both of them were too tragic.
“He doesn’t love you,” Qi Yun said. “You should run. I’ll find you a rich lady.”
“No, the two hundred thousand wasn’t his real intention,” Lin Xun said.
He continued, “My boyfriend is really weird.”
Then he saw Qi Yun’s eyes light up.
Qi Yun: “Does he have any special preferences?”
“Not that kind of meaning,” Lin Xun said. “He’s a bit obsessive-compulsive. I only noticed recently—like… I found out he arranges toothbrushes at the exact same angle, with an error of no more than five degrees.”
“When we go out to eat, no matter where, he always picks seats that are almost the same,” Lin Xun said, recalling. “He pours wine exactly three-quarters full, arranges utensils in fixed positions—it’s almost like when he writes code. Before, he tricked me into thinking the two hundred thousand was for… for what? I forgot, but he definitely tricked me.”
He pondered for a moment. “He’s actually not very good at lying. I think he might either have some special preference, wanting to see me build something from scratch. Or maybe two hundred thousand is a meaningful number to him—he’s obsessive, and not giving exactly that amount makes him uncomfortable. This guy, really… The other day, I just casually placed two things, and when he passed by and saw them, he insisted on arranging them parallel. If the cat’s fur gets messed up, he has to smooth it back.”
He noticed Qi Yun subtly shifting away.
He glanced at Qi Yun.
Qi Yun: “Sword cultivators don’t date. Don’t tell me this kind of stuff.”
Lin Xun raised an eyebrow. “But you and I have nothing in common to talk about.”
Qi Yun: “Then play on your phone.”
Lin Xun: “I don’t like playing on my phone.”
Qi Yun tossed him two things. “Just shut up, then.”
Lin Xun caught them.
Two books with oddly colored covers—dark green. He flipped through them. The top one was a script, which didn’t interest him.
The next book appeared to be the original work of the script, sharing the same title as the film. The cover featured large swathes of dark green ink, within which faint, chaotic tentacles could be glimpsed.
Beneath the title was a line of small silver text.
“In places you cannot see, many things are happening.”
This line captured his attention more than the title itself. He flipped open the cover to the title page, which followed a style similar to the book title, cover, and subtitle, also bearing words that resembled delirious murmurs.
“Metaphors, metaphors, and appearances constitute this world. The world perceived by the naked eye is merely the projection of another vast and inconceivable existence onto the visible dimension. Both the comprehensible and the incomprehensible hold deeper interpretations, yet humanity remains incapable of grasping them throughout their lives.”
He stared at this passage for a long time—so long that Qi Yun leaned over and asked, “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “These words are quite true.”
“To be honest, I didn’t understand it,” Qi Yun said.
Lin Xun: “I know. Your level basically disqualifies you from reading scripts.”
Qi Yun: “So you’re the cultured one?”
“I’m about the same as you,” Lin Xun said. “But this is my field.”
Qi Yun: “Oh.”
Since there was nothing else to do on the road, Lin Xun began chatting idly with him.
“For example, an operating system has a very complex structure. It’s difficult to write, but what appears on your computer screen is simple.” Although Lin Xun’s understanding of operating systems was also somewhat superficial, it was the kind of superficiality that scored ninety-seven on an exam—enough to bluff with basic concepts. He continued, “Take memory, for instance. Software must be loaded into memory to run. Just this concept involves things like physical addresses, logical addresses, registers, and so on. Then there are various storage methods like contiguous, paged, segmented, and so forth, each involving the data structures needed to implement them. Of course, hardware is also quite important.”
Since Qi Yun couldn’t understand anyway, Lin Xun glossed over it briefly and went on, “In short, they are all very intricate things. Every operation you perform on a computer or other electronic device involves structures and computations beyond your imagination—both detailed and grand. But to you, it’s just an action and its result.”
Qi Yun: “And to you?”
Lin Xun: “Of course, I’m different from you.”
Qi Yun: “But what does this have to do with this book?”
Lin Xun: “Nothing, really. It’s just… as a computer user, you don’t need to understand the structure of the operating system to use it well.”
Qi Yun: “But my computer often crashes.”
Lin Xun: “That’s because you didn’t spend enough money on it.”
Qi Yun: “…Fine.”
“Similarly, we are people living in this world. We don’t need to understand its structure to live well. But it’s possible that this world truly contains many things we cannot comprehend. Perhaps the world I inhabit is indeed different from the one I can understand.”
Qi Yun shrugged.
But for Lin Xun, these words were genuinely heartfelt. In the past, he believed the world was exactly as science explained it. However, Cultivation, the system, and even the appearance of Dong Jun had left him unsettled.
The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. He felt that Qi Yun didn’t understand operating systems, and perhaps somewhere higher up, there was someone who felt that Lin Xun didn’t understand this world.
He continued flipping through the book, only to be met right at the beginning with a sensual description—a half-naked, long-haired merman on a reef in the sea mist.
In truth, the description wasn’t really sensual; it was quite sophisticated. Lin Xun knew this, but he couldn’t help it—he lacked the literary taste to appreciate it.
He could only laugh, laughing until he convulsed, until Qi Yun finally couldn’t take it anymore and snatched the book back: “Are you insane?”
“Sorry,” Lin Xun said. “I’m not laughing at the book, I just…”
Qi Yun: “Then what are you laughing at?”
Lin Xun: “Just thinking about you acting out this scene makes me want to laugh.”
Qi Yun ignored him.
Lin Xun: “My bad, bro.”
Lin Xun: “This is art, I know.”
Qi Yun glanced at him sideways.
Qi Yun: “Actually, I don’t understand art either.”
Lin Xun: “Then why are you still acting?”
Qi Yun: “Because I’m vain.”
Lin Xun: “Today, I’ll become your sworn brother.”
Qi Yun: “Sure, little brother.”
Lin Xun: “Never mind.”
He finally understood why he found Qi Yun rather amusing—birds of a feather flock together, after all, and there’s a certain attraction between illiterates.
As they neared their destination, he took out a black mask and put it on. Qi Yun silently put one on as well. Honestly, Lin Xun had no idea what an assistant was supposed to do on a film set. When he asked Qi Yun, Qi Yun didn’t know either—perhaps this was the straightforwardness of a sword cultivator.
As the simplest scene in the entire film, this one was shot indoors. Lin Xun expected it wouldn’t even require any props, relying entirely on special effects. Qi Yun just needed to dress as a merman, lean against something, and gaze into the empty air. After all, with his merman bloodline bonus, his current aura was as damp and fragile as a dewdrop that might shatter at a touch.
The car slowly came to a stop, and the door opened. Lin Xun stepped out first, then opened the passenger door. Upholding what he believed to be the professional ethics of a competent assistant, he half-supported Qi Yun’s arm and helped him out of the car.
Qi Yun communicated telepathically with him: “You don’t seem like an assistant.”
Lin Xun: “?”
“Do you know what a maidservant is? The kind that follows a young lady around. You’re like that.”
Lin Xun let go of his hand, expressionlessly took a few steps back, and let him walk on his own, trailing a couple of steps behind.
Qi Yun: “Now you look like a bodyguard.”
Lin Xun: “That’s enough. It’s not like there are fans filming you.”
“Who says?” Qi Yun replied. “I deliberately leaked my schedule.”
Lin Xun: “?”
Qi Yun: “I have a secret account in the fan groups.”
Lin Xun: “…”
As they spoke, a few sudden screams erupted from outside: “Gege!”
Lin Xun looked over and saw several young girls holding up their phones to film.
There really were live fans.
Qi Yun pulled down his mask and smiled in their direction, putting on a professional display as he slowly made his way inside.
Once through the door, it was a different story. After all, a fish’s legs aren’t as sturdy as a human’s, and after a few steps, he grew weak. Just as Lin Xun was about to support him, he suddenly saw someone approaching from ahead.
It was Gao Liao.
Gao Liao’s eyes seemed to hold a smile, his demeanor polite and courteous.
“Hello,” he said to Qi Yun. “Was the journey tiring?”
Qi Yun: “It was alright.”
“You’ve worked hard.” Gao Liao walked over to him, reaching out as if to help him up the stairs. Qi Yun sidestepped slightly, and Gao Liao didn’t insist, instead walking alongside him up the steps, with Lin Xun following behind.
“Actually, I’m quite sorry. This scene shouldn’t have been filmed so early, and my preparations were rushed. If possible, I wish we could have shot on a real beach with actual rocks.” Gao Liao said quietly, “But I was just too eager to see the merman portrayed by you. I hope you can understand my pursuit of beautiful things.”
Qi Yun responded with an indistinct “Mm.”
Gao Liao continued, “After meeting you yesterday, I had some new ideas about the film’s plot. I hope we’ll have a chance to discuss them.”
Qi Yun again replied, “…Mm.”
Gao Liao chuckled.
“Sorry, I might be coming on too strong,” he said. “There’s a certain beauty about you that aligns remarkably with what I’ve always been pursuing. The moment I saw you, I knew I had found my muse.”
Qi Yun paused mid-step and looked up at Gao Liao.
Lin Xun watched quietly from behind.
He saw Qi Yun open his mouth. His lips, after blending with merman traits, had an unusual hue—thin, cleanly shaped, redder than normal, and… moist, as if about to drip.
Gao Liao’s gaze seemed glued to those slightly parted lips.
Not only were Qi Yun’s lips beautiful, but his expression was also earnest.
His eyes sparkled with a studious light, which made him look somewhat like a little fool.
He asked Gao Liao, “What’s a muse?”