Chapter 137: Honey Pot (2)
137 – Honey Pot (2)
Looking around, there’s only so much content on the internet. Due to the influence of the Technology Expo, discussions about it are everywhere—some envisioning the future society under the rapid development of artificial intelligence, others warning the public that strong AI is a Pandora’s box that should never be opened, and still others speculating which products will win top honors at this Technology Expo and what impact they will have on society. Most of it is just empty talk, because those who can truly understand the Technology Expo are watching it and have no time for grandstanding.
Meanwhile, Dong Jun, as a key figure, is frequently mentioned, while the real tech fans are watching the livestream. The fans active on social platforms, however, are a bit more one-dimensional.
No… not one-dimensional. Lin Xun stared in disbelief at the flood of messages.
“Dong Jun didn’t even come to the Expo, hahahahaha, CP dogs are so dumb, right?”
“Fake, all fake. If you really loved him, how could you not be in the audience watching him? How could you not wait to give him an award?”
“Oh, right. Your little Xun made it to the finals, sure, but Galaxy’s surprise entry isn’t him at all—it’s another project from Galaxy. He clearly has nothing to do with Galaxy, so don’t get carried away with your fantasies.”
These were Dong Jun’s wife fans.
However, their targets had shifted. It was no longer Lin Xun, but…
Lin Xun tried to sift through the messages, picking up clues here and there. He even learned a new term—CP dogs. After clicking on the profile of one of the attacked CP dogs, he understood what it meant: CP fans, people who believed he and Dong Jun were real and cheered for their love.
But even within the CP fan community, there was infighting.
Some seemed sorrowful: “What do we do? It seems like it’s BE.”
Some seemed optimistic: “I bet they’re kissing backstage right now.”
Some were even more optimistic: “They’re starting to avoid suspicion. I bet they’ve already gotten their marriage certificate.”
And some seemed to be wife fans infiltrating: “BE at the Expo, what a grand send-off. Congratulations.”
After frowning and getting a rough understanding, Lin Xun exited the CP fan camp. But then, amid the wife fans’ fierce battlefield, he discovered a new faction.
“Get lost, don’t mention Lord Xun.”
“Do some people even know what the Goddess of the Luo River’s performance in the preliminary round means? [smirk] Would we even care about your Galaxy?”
“Some people shouldn’t get too full of themselves. Is our Lord Xun less good-looking or less intelligent than your guy? Watch out or Galaxy might come begging to acquire us.”
Lin Xun: “?”
Well, now he had fans too—in just these few short days.
He felt this wasn’t right.
No matter what, both he and Dong Jun were tech people. They shouldn’t have so many fans with such complicated backgrounds. These girls should go contribute to the entertainment industry instead. But on the other hand, young people always need something to do. Since he had given them something to pass the time, he didn’t mind too much.
There was just one thing that puzzled him: the world he was in now wasn’t real. So how were these things generated? His subconscious? Impossible. How could his subconscious contain such things? Perhaps virtual technology had advanced so much that it could gather enough information to mimic even the online world perfectly.
Lin Xun scrolled through a bit more, feeling a headache coming on, and turned off his phone.
He tossed his phone aside. The backstage area was relatively high-spec, with different teams separated by small partitions. A central LCD screen streamed the stage content in real time. However, rooms within the same category were still quite close. Hearing some movement at the door, he turned and saw an ordinary-looking programmer approach Wang Anquan. They all knew this person—a good friend from their school days, nicknamed Little K. The two began whispering about something.
He didn’t pay close attention, lying back on the sofa and lifting Zhi Zhen.
Zhi Zhen looked at him.
Its ice-blue eyes were translucent, and its feline face showed no expression—only cuteness.
Lin Xun stared at Zhi Zhen. “What are you thinking? I can’t read a cat’s expression.”
Zhi Zhen let out a soft meow: “Meow.”
Lin Xun scratched its chin and placed it on his chest.
Zhi Zhen then moved forward, insistently curling around his neck and resting its head beside his. Lin Xun nearly choked; even though Zhi Zhen was small and light, it still obstructed his breathing. He had to sit up again in this scarf-like position to relieve some of the pressure.
With nothing else to do, he pulled three transparent marbles from his pocket—won from Old Man Huo’s grandson. He arranged the three marbles into a triangle, flicked one, which struck the second, setting it sliding across the smooth glass tabletop. The angle was just right, causing it to hit the stationary third marble. All three began rolling in different directions across the table.
Lin Xun reached out, pressing down on two with his hands to prevent them from falling off the edge—but there was still a third, and he had no third hand at the moment.
Suddenly, a cat’s paw pushed off his shoulder, and Zhi Zhen landed steadily on the table, pressing the third marble with its right front paw before nudging it. The marble rolled toward Lin Xun.
Lin Xun immediately smiled brightly, flicking his own marble to collide with Zhi Zhen’s. Zhi Zhen then pounced on another, continuing to play with him.
With just three marbles colliding in straight lines, they could create many variations. For a while, the only sounds were the rolling and clinking of glass marbles and the hushed whispers of the three at the door—Jia Gou had joined them.
After Lin Xun and Zhi Zhen had played for a full fifteen minutes, the conversation at the door ended.
Wang Anquan sat across from him with a serious expression. “Stop playing.”
Lin Xun pressed down on two marbles and looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“0.623,” Wang Anquan said, stating a number.
Lin Xun narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“The Bradley coefficient,” Wang Anquan replied.
Lin Xun: “From Eagle’s team?”
Wang Anquan: “Yeah, now the whole group knows. Several big companies have testing channels, and many teams have secretly tested once. But the results weren’t great—all above 1. Everyone thought getting below 1 would be hard. Unexpectedly, someone from Eagle’s team flaunted a score of only 0.623.”
The distance between artificial intelligence and humans—the Bradley coefficient. 1 was the sole dividing line. Above 1 meant it remained ordinary weak AI, while below 1 indicated extreme human-like qualities, belonging to strong AI.
Lin Xun: “I don’t know the specific scoring criteria, but I know Lo’s will be below 1.”
“But what about the specific numbers?” Jia Gou’s expression was equally grave. “0.623 is already a very small figure. I’m extremely nervous right now. Little K told me the Eagle project has been in preparation for six or seven years, and the learning costs alone were enough to burn through half of Eagle. He asked about our learning costs, and I said they were manageable—we haven’t gone bankrupt. He said that sounded way too risky.”
Lin Xun smiled faintly.
Research in artificial intelligence wasn’t something you could pursue just by having an idea. It required acquiring massive amounts of information and performing enormous computations. Only through day after day of learning could it develop sufficient capability, establish its own cognitive system, and become a qualified intelligence. This process wasn’t just expensive—it was downright money-burning. The server costs alone were astronomical, because ordinary consumer computers couldn’t provide that level of computing power. They had to rent servers or purchase time on supercomputers.
That was precisely why they had been so poor in the early stages and couldn’t find investors—because diving into AI was a bottomless pit, especially for an AI based on a new concept.
Later on, it didn’t cost money anymore.
During the most critical and expensive training phase, they had received Dong Jun’s assistance—not the playful two hundred thousand, but remote, free access to Galaxy’s servers and supercomputers.
“We might not be worse than Eagle,” Lin Xun said, crossing his hands on the table—a habit he adopted when thinking. “But we might not be better either. Their lineup is too strong.”
“Exactly,” Wang Anquan chimed in. “Their team of a hundred people includes so many top mathematicians and programmers. They must have made major breakthroughs in research, pushing weak AI to strong AI through a neural network-based architecture.”
Lin Xun replied, “Let me think…”
“I think we should mentally prepare ourselves,” Wang Anquan said. “0.623—let’s keep our expectations realistic. Winning would be a pleasant surprise. Losing would mean we’re just not as skilled, and we’d accept it. At worst, we’d just disband.”
Lin Xun sighed, “Bajie, you’re at it again.”
“I can’t help it,” Wang Anquan said. “Half an hour ago, I wasn’t worried. The leap from weak AI to strong AI is huge. Without someone like Lord Xun dropping in with divine inspiration, it’s nearly impossible to cross. Who would’ve thought they managed it? And using neural networks, which we don’t even like. Bro, I’m really feeling a bit shaky now.”
“Hold on, let me think,” Lin Xun said, pressing his fingers to his temples and closing his eyes. “They used neural networks… let me mull it over.”
Jia Gou added from the side, “Little K also mentioned that one module in the Bradley test is emotional analysis. I think that might put us at a disadvantage…”
“Stop!” Lin Xun abruptly opened his eyes, speaking at an extremely rapid pace as if desperately grasping at a fleeting inspiration: “Forward propagation in a multi-layer neural network allows it to go deeper and enhances its simulation capabilities. If we modify some aspects of our model, restructure the framework to adapt to a multi-layer progressive decision-making pattern similar to that of a multi-layer neural network—our model can be further upgraded. By adding a few initial sensitivity parameters at this stage, we can introduce a certain emotional bias. The overall capabilities of the Goddess of the Luo River will experience a leap, and its Bradley coefficient can also be reduced. I believe this is feasible.”
“Completely impossible,” Wang Anquan shook his head. “Our mathematical model is entirely different from a neural network; there’s simply no way to change it into a multi-layer progressive mode.”
“Others might not be able to, but I can.”
“Even if you can, if you had thought of this idea ten days ago, it might have worked.”
Lin Xun: “How much time do we have left?”
“Seven hours.”
Lin Xun took a deep breath: “Give me paper and pen.”
“Holy shit, you…” Wang Anquan widened his eyes: “You’re serious?”
Lin Xun: “What else?”
The moment Jia Gou handed over the paper and pen, Lin Xun began writing rapidly on the white paper. His handwriting was even somewhat messy due to the speed, but he paid no mind, continuing to write swiftly. Complex formulas and symbols flowed rapidly from his pen. In less than forty minutes, he had already filled three sheets of paper and torn up two. The room was silent, with only the sound of his pen pausing as he wrote continuously. An hour later, he tore off a sheet and placed it in front of Wang Anquan: “You write this.”
He handed the second sheet to Jia Gou: “Jia Gou, write this. Some modules can be separated. Brother Jiang, help them both.”
Wang Anquan: “Really?”
Lin Xun: “Stop talking nonsense.”
Wang Anquan took it: “Alright.”
Then the three of them each pondered, and after about ten minutes of scribbling and sketching on white paper, they opened their respective preferred programming languages and began typing rapidly on their keyboards—different languages didn’t matter; Glax possessed strong compatibility and could seamlessly integrate them.
Amidst the clattering of keyboards, Lin Xun continued to purse his lips and write and calculate swiftly. High-intensity mathematical computation was a killer that accelerated the passage of time. He could feel every second ticking away rapidly, while the parts that needed to be resolved only increased.
Two hours later.
Jia Gou spoke first: “Mine’s done.”
“My hard drive is over there; upload it first,” Lin Xun said without looking up, pulling a sheet from the pile of algorithm-filled papers divided into three parts in front of him and handing it to him: “Then you write this.”
He took another sheet from a different section: “If Brother Jiang has time, write this.”
Four hours in, a staff member came to deliver boxed meals. Seeing the scene of draft papers flying everywhere in their room, they were clearly taken aback and asked, “Excuse me… have you encountered some problem?”
“We’ve hit a bug. Thanks for your concern.”
The staff member: “Then… do you need help?”
“Could you go next door and call a Mr. Little K for me? Thank you.”
“O… okay.”
Soon after, Little K also joined their life-or-death programming session.
Five hours later.
Lin Xun tossed his pen aside: “I’m done.”
Wang Anquan: “Are you really done, or are you done for?”
Lin Xun: “Completely finished. All that’s left is the program.”
“I’m fucking not going to finish in time!” Zhao Jiagou shouted. “Come over here and write too!”
Lin Xun quickly opened Glax and positioned his keyboard. “I spend more time fixing bugs than writing code. What do I do?”
“At this point, just getting something written is a victory,” Wang Anquan said. “Pick the easy parts.”
Lin Xun: “Glax… I can handle Glax.”
Zhi Zhen paced back and forth beside his laptop screen and let out a soft meow: “Meow.”
“Even the cat is laughing at how many bugs you have,” Wang Anquan said. “Just write it first, then we’ll see.”
Lin Xun: “Okay.”
He looked seriously into Zhi Zhen’s eyes. “Bless me, okay?”
Zhi Zhen: “Meow.”
Lin Xun placed his hands on the keyboard, took a deep breath, and began typing rapidly.
Six and a half hours later, Eagle had already taken the stage.
“I’m done,” Wang Anquan said.
“I’m done too,” Jia Gou said.
Jiang Lian: “Let me save—I’m done too.”
Little K, who had already given his team’s presentation and returned to help them, also raised his hand. “I’ve finished packaging the shell for you.”
“I’m almost there, wait…” Lin Xun made a few final adjustments. “The main module is done too.”
He opened his hard drive and checked each module one by one. Fifteen minutes later, he spoke rapidly: “We’re missing one training session to determine the initial sensitivity characteristics.”
Wang Anquan said, “With this framework, one training session takes too long. By the time it’s done, the expo will be over.”
Jia Gou said, “If we had enough computing power, it might be possible, but right now—”
Lin Xun: “We do.”
Wang Anquan: “Where are we going to find a supercomputer?”
He looked around—over the past six hours and forty-five minutes, his program had been spreading continuously among everyone present. After six hours and forty minutes of propagation, the computing platforms he could control had already reached a staggering number.
Lin Xun said, “I am a Cultivation practitioner.”
But just then—wild applause and screams suddenly erupted from the live stream!
They had all been completely focused on writing their own programs and hadn’t paid attention to the live stream. Now they saw Eagle’s team standing in a row, bowing to the audience. Behind them, the large screen projected a massive number.
0.623.
“Fuck,” Jia Gou cursed.
Little K said, “They finished early.”
Lin Xun: “You all go up first. Jia Gou, present the slides.”
Jia Gou: “They’ll test it live. What do we use for the test?”
“I’ll come up once I’m done here,” Lin Xun said. “If I’m not there yet, use the old version for now.”
—The old version could at least guarantee stable operation.
Jia Gou: “Okay.”
Just then, a staff member knocked on the door, and they hurried out.
“Good luck!” Little K encouraged him before leaving, then muttered to himself, “Why am I so excited? My project isn’t as advanced as yours…”
In the empty preparation room, Lin Xun closed his eyes, sank into the System Space, opened the folder “L,” selected the file named “Lo 2.0,” opened it, imported the data, and began running it using the computing power of the System Space.
—A string of bugs.
Lin Xun took a deep breath and told himself this was normal. Each module worked fine on its own, but problems arose when they were combined—a common occurrence for programmers.
He forced himself to calm down, spending just over ten minutes to locate the error that had triggered the cascade of bugs, fix it, and run the program again.
This time, everything went smoothly. The program began running, and with powerful computing capabilities as its foundation, results would be obtained in about three minutes.
After writing a program that would feed the results back into the model as initial sensitivity values, Lin Xun quickly opened his eyes. At that moment, the live stream interface showed that Jia Gou’s process had already reached the stage of connecting the Goddess of the Luo River to the test entry for the Bradley test. He grabbed the hard drive from the desk and sprinted toward the front desk—bumping into a staff member along the way.
He hurried through the corridor and buffer zone. With his badge, the security guards didn’t stop him. He rushed up five steps and reached the edge of the stage. At that moment, the large screen flickered with light and shadow—the Bradley coefficient had been calculated: 0.625.
0.002 higher than Eagle.
—Still a loss.
But now, things were different.
He was acutely aware in his heart: if the Goddess of the Luo River scored 0.625, then Luoshen 2.0 on the hard drive in his hand was expected to score 0.3.
What did 0.3 mean?
It meant a groundbreaking concept. Even a living person taking the Bradley test could still end up with a positive number below 0.4, because every individual differs from the general human population.
Thus, not only would it match or even surpass human learning capabilities, but it would also possess emotional tendencies similar to humans—albeit only superficially. The Goddess of the Luo River’s performance in the preliminary round had already stunned the industry, and the impact of version 2.0 would be ten times greater than version 1.0—who wouldn’t want it?
The audience below, seeing the slightly inferior score compared to Eagle on the screen, offered scattered applause but couldn’t hide their disappointment.
Lin Xun strode forward: “Wait!”
Jia Gou made way for him.
Lin Xun connected the hard drive to the computer on stage, linked it to the test entry, and apologized to the audience: “Sorry, we loaded the wrong version. Please give us another chance.”
Whispers rippled through the audience before silence fell.
The Bradley test restarted, the progress bar slowly advancing.
Lin Xun’s heart pounded violently, taking a long time to calm down. And just then, the large screen flickered, beginning a countdown before revealing the answer.
Everyone held their breath.
The number appeared.
0.297.
Jia Gou beside him let out a startled cry, and the next moment, frenzied applause and screams erupted from the audience, nearly deafening Lin Xun.
Lin Xun exhaled in relief and closed his eyes.
Thump, thump, thump.
A mechanical voice echoed in his ear: “Main quest ‘Shattering the Void’ completed. Congratulations.”
The tone was flat, mechanical, cold.
Thump—
Suddenly, it stopped.
The next moment, his blood froze.
In that fraction of a second, excruciating, unbearable sharp pain erupted throughout Lin Xun’s body. Every nerve ending sent waves of agony to his central nervous system. His body swayed, his vision blurred with dark red streaks, and he trembled violently, collapsing forward. His elbows shook as he desperately braced himself against the table.
In the pain that made him forget everything, he felt himself rapidly losing all life, swiftly and irreversibly leaving this world—leaving all worlds.
He was forgetting everything, or rather, something was erasing all of him. He suddenly recalled terms like “safety,” “Jia Gou,” and “Jiang Lian,” but just as quickly, he could no longer remember their faces. He sensed his own existence in the world, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall his own name. His mind was a blank, with only one fragment of memory flashing back repeatedly.
A truck roared toward him from the opposite direction. In that moment between life and death, he crushed a chip as thin as a cicada’s wing in the final second.
He gasped for breath, each inhalation sending waves of pain surging toward him, tenfold stronger than the last. The immense terror of that life-and-death moment gripped his heart.
He clutched the edge of the table tightly with his right hand to keep from collapsing, forcing the corners of his lips into a ghastly smile. Unable to make a sound, he mouthed each word deliberately.
“Got… you.”