Chapter 139: Honey Pot (4)

139 – Honey Pot (4)

What is a honeypot?

A honeypot might be a jar filled with honey, exuding a sweet fragrance.

But a honeypot is also a computer term, belonging to the field of security. The cybersecurity domain often has some strange and peculiar terms, probably because hackers don’t like speaking plainly—they prefer riddles.

Translated into language everyone can understand, a honeypot is a trap—an advanced trap. Just as a honey jar attracts insects, a honeypot attracts illegal intruders.

When someone owns a system, how do they prevent it from being invaded? There are many methods, such as building a strong firewall, but no wall is completely impenetrable. Thus, another method emerged—releasing a fake system that closely resembles the real one, designed to attract hackers. Sometimes, the fake system even deliberately creates vulnerabilities to make it easier for them to discover.

At this point, the hackers take the bait—yet not only do they fail to obtain any useful information from the fake system, but they also expose their own intrusion methods and leave behind evidence of their attack. This is the principle behind honeypots.

Dong Jun said he had created a honeypot.

—Eagle’s system thought it had attacked that Nutshell and killed Lin Xun inside it, but in reality, Lin Xun wasn’t in that Nutshell. He was in another Nutshell somewhere else. At the same time, it recorded traces of the other party’s intrusion. With just a bit of organization, these could serve as legal evidence.

The system looked up, staring intently at Dong Jun.

Lin Xun looked at him. This kid had wolf-like green eyes, appearing particularly cold, ruthless, and aggressive. Yet, it seemed as if something inside him had extinguished. He sighed, “You were sent by Eagle’s side. Although Galaxy and Eagle have had some minor business friction, it shouldn’t have been necessary to kill me. What was the trigger for your decision to target me? Was it because I created an artificial intelligence with a Bradley coefficient of 0.297?”

The system replied, “Yes.”

It was now completely restrained by the Goddess of the Luo River. Lin Xun knew this meant all its data was also under the Goddess’s control. Evidence had been collected, and everything was settled. There was no longer any need for it to lie or refuse to answer.

Lin Xun asked softly, “0.297… Was it worth going to such lengths for it?”

“It was worth it.”

“Because you calculated that if Galaxy released it, the entire market would be turned upside down, and Eagle would suffer a heavy blow?” Lin Xun asked.

The system replied, “You don’t understand these things.”

Lin Xun said, “Alright.”

He really hadn’t dealt with the overt and covert struggles of the business world.

But he still had to say, “We could have… coexisted peacefully and competed fairly. Look, why did you have to kill me?”

This time, it was Dong Jun who spoke.

“Fair competition requires technological parity.” Dong Jun’s voice seemed to carry a hint of amusement as he said gently, “Silly.”

Lin Xun pouted.

“So, even if I had luckily survived and destroyed the chip, you still planned to chase me into the virtual world, implant that game into my consciousness, and induce me to rewrite that 0.297 intelligence for you to obtain?” Lin Xun looked at the system coolly and said, “So, once I was lured by the upgraded system in the virtual world to write that system, and you obtained it, it would be time to dispose of the evidence. How did you plan to do it? Delete me completely?”

The system did not answer.

It looked directly at Lin Xun and asked, “How did you know?”

Lin Xun replied, “What if I said I had a rough idea about ten days ago? Would you believe me?”

“I believe you,” the system said. “But I want to know why.”

“You want to know why because you don’t know why. So, over these thirty days, you’ve been constantly monitoring my thought processes to ensure I didn’t figure anything out, right?”

The system answered, “Yes.”

“You’re directly connected to my mind. That’s why I can communicate with you through thought alone, or input programs directly with my thoughts.” Lin Xun nodded and asked, “You’re a system that has passed the Bradley test, capable of independent thought, and you possess unlimited computational power. So, do you believe your intelligence surpasses that of most humans?”

The system replied, “Yes.”

“But at the same time, do you acknowledge that the differences between individual humans are greater than the gap between humans and artificial intelligence?”

“Yes.”

“Then who do you think is smarter—you or me?”

This time, the system fell into a long silence. Perhaps it was performing some kind of internal calculation, but it was clear that no result emerged.

“If the speed of my thoughts far exceeds your ability to capture them, and a certain idea of mine flashes by in the data world, would you even see it? In fact, you didn’t.” He continued, “I deliberately engaged in many such fleeting thoughts—so fleeting that even I couldn’t fully grasp what I had realized. But those thoughts led me to make some correct decisions. Only now, without having to perform in front of you, can I take my time to piece everything together.”

The system asked, “Have you been acting all along?”

“You could say that,” Lin Xun said, leaning into Dong Jun’s embrace. “It seems I’m a decent actor after all.”

In the real world, Dong Jun had set a honeypot. In this world, Lin Xun’s actions were also a honeypot, designed to lure the mastermind behind the scenes into revealing their intentions and surfacing.

The system looked up at Dong Jun. “—And what about him?”

“Him? Of course, he’s been acting too,” Lin Xun said, raising an eyebrow. “If you couldn’t see through me, you certainly couldn’t see through him. Although we… never explicitly discussed the truth, every word we exchanged was a zero-knowledge proof between us.”

The system asked, “Proof of what?”

“Perhaps proof that, despite the bad things that happened, he has always loved me, and I have always loved him,” Lin Xun said, his voice slightly hoarse.

The system remained silent.

“Still, you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. You’re quite clever,” Lin Xun said. “It’s just that we’re a bit smarter than you.”

The system replied, “I have behavioral models of both of you.”

Lin Xun frowned. “And you thought you could manipulate us psychologically? Like stimulating my brain based on what I saw during the day, making me recall fragments of forgotten memories. My dreams were guided, and you pieced those fragments together to make me believe that Dong Jun had killed himself, right? But when I was with Dong Jun, you were afraid of being discovered, so you stopped your activities. That’s why I didn’t dream and couldn’t enter the System Space.”

“Yes.”

“Your model may be quite comprehensive.” Lin Xun said expressionlessly, looking at him. “Perhaps you’ve known me for a long time, collecting my behavioral data over an extended period. But I’ve known him for twenty years.”

The system lowered its gaze slightly, remaining silent.

“So, you have two tasks. Not only to obtain the creative concept of Luoshen 2.0, but also to prevent Dong Jun and me from analyzing the truth that the system was compromised—I lost all memories related to Dong Jun, or you tampered with them, ensuring your plan proceeded smoothly because we couldn’t discuss these topics.” Lin Xun paused, his voice trembling slightly as if he had suddenly remembered something, his emotions shifting. He continued, “I don’t remember Dong Jun, and Dong Jun… he probably always thought I… committed suicide. I didn’t want to face the past anymore. So he wouldn’t bring up old matters either.”

He gripped Dong Jun’s wrist tightly and pressed on, “Before I… before I died, where did you get the information that I had created Luoshen 2.0? Unable to hack into my computer, so you tapped my calls? I couldn’t complete all the work alone; I would inevitably communicate with others.”

The system merely stared at him impassively.

“If that’s the case…” Lin Xun’s hand holding Dong Jun’s wrist trembled slightly, his voice growing hoarse. “I have one final question. That day, before I left the house, I made a phone call. Who was it to? What was said? You must know, right?”

“Darling,” Dong Jun held him tightly, “don’t ask that.”

Lin Xun’s eyes stung, his gaze fixed intently on the system. “I need to know.”

The system calmly averted its eyes. In the direction it looked, a three-dimensional light projection materialized in the void, simulating the scene based on the call’s content.

Lin Xun held his breath, watching the image. At a computer desk, someone gently picked up a phone from the table.

It was Lin Xun, twenty-seven-year-old Lin Xun. He wore a soft beige turtleneck sweater, its loose fit accentuating the thinness of his shoulders and back. His brows carried a hint of melancholy and weariness, yet his expression was gentle.

He dialed a string of numbers. After the call connected, there was a long silence. He didn’t speak, nor did the person on the other end—only the soft rhythm of breathing filled the air.

After a long while, Lin Xun said, “Last night, I dreamed about things from childhood. It suddenly occurred to me… it’s been two years since I last spoke to you.”

He paused, lowering his eyes, his voice very soft. “I think… I think, could I come back to see you?”

A low voice came through the receiver: “Okay.”

Lin Xun smiled, though his eyes reddened slightly. He said, “Then… goodbye.”

“…Goodbye.”

The projection ended.

The system asked, “Why are you crying?”

Lin Xun reached up to touch his face, feeling a cool, wet trail of tears on his cheek.

He gazed at that point in the void and said softly, “Do you know how his mother died?”

“She took a lethal dose of medication, timing it precisely. Then she called her husband and told him…” Lin Xun’s voice choked, almost speechless. After a minute, he continued, “Told him, I miss you, I want to see you soon. Could you come home a little earlier?”

And then.

—And then.

When Dong Chen thought his long-estranged beloved wife had finally taken the initiative to reconcile with him, when he returned home early filled with tenderness and adoration, opened the courtyard gate, climbed the stairs, and pushed open that door exuding the scent of wood—what he saw was a breathless body on the snow-white bed, a silent act of resistance, and a long-planned revenge.

Lin Xun took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He dared not—he could not—imagine it: Dong Jun receiving that phone call from him, only for the next call to bring news of his accident. Every trace pointed to Lin Xun himself having altered the autonomous driving instructions, orchestrating a perfect suicide.

In that moment, did reality and memory suddenly overlap in the cruelest possible way within his heart?

How could he—how could he—

His heart felt as if it were being squeezed tight. Lin Xun opened his eyes.

He saw across from him, the system’s fingers hanging at its side twitched slightly, as if wanting to lift them and wipe away his tears—but it was just a faint movement, returning to stillness moments later.

And Dong Jun held him even tighter from behind. In that moment, Lin Xun wanted to turn around recklessly, to face him, to etch his shadow forever into his own eyes.

But he didn’t dare.

Perhaps it was like that day, when he sat behind Dong Jun’s desk while Dong Jun stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned the entire time, never once looking back.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—only that he feared if he turned around, even a single glance at that person would cause his emotions to spiral out of control, to the point of collapse.

“Lo,” he said.

Lo finally looked at him.

But the child only replied in a cold, hard tone, “I’m taking Eagle and leaving first.”

“You…” Lin Xun wanted to say more, but in the next moment, Lo had already vanished from the spot along with the system that had betrayed him. He truly seemed furious.

Dong Jun asked, “Do you want to call him back?”

“Later,” Lin Xun shook his head.

He wasn’t quite sure how to speak to the Goddess of the Luo River either. He felt that these thirty days had been a journey from death to life for him, a recovery of what was lost for Dong Jun, a battlefield of corporate warfare for Eagle—but for the Goddess of the Luo River, it might have been a family drama, one exploring themes of domestic violence.

During these thirty days, this child had likely broken with Dong Jun in a spectacular fashion, only to be beaten by an oblivious Lin Xun after infiltrating the shell, all while disguised as a monster.

Then Dong Jun said to him, “The artificial intelligences all like you.”

“Who says?” Lin Xun murmured. “Only Lo likes me. Eagle wants to kill me.”

“That doesn’t conflict with liking you,” Dong Jun replied.

“Although I’m not an artificial intelligence,” Dong Jun whispered, “I also…”

“Don’t say it!” Lin Xun’s voice was hoarse as he closed his eyes, the floodgates of emotion suddenly bursting open.

Dong Jun: “…Baby?”

In the next moment, Lin Xun turned forcefully in his embrace, stood on his toes, and clung tightly to his neck, burying his face against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Lin Xun was nearly speechless, unable to articulate anything, only repeating those three words over and over.

Even he himself didn’t know what he was saying.

I’m sorry for letting you misunderstand like that, for making you suffer such great injustice, for causing you so much pain.

Even though you never said it.

“I’m sorry,” Lin Xun trembled, “…I love you.”

They were so close.

So close that even through their clothes, Lin Xun could feel it—the man holding him, his breathing also trembled slightly.

“I love you too.” Dong Jun cupped his face, fingers wiping away his tears over and over.

His tone was like stating an oath that would never change: “And I always have. For many years.”

Lin Xun smiled again.

The tears were sincere, and so was the smile.

“So,” he looked up at Dong Jun, “how exactly did we… how did we separate two years ago?”

He said, “I still haven’t remembered.”

“I wasn’t a qualified lover.” Dong Jun kissed his forehead. “We’ll talk when you remember.”

Lin Xun shook his head. “I don’t believe you weren’t a qualified lover. It was me who wasn’t.”

“Perhaps neither of us was,” Dong Jun kissed away another tear, “but no more crying now.”

Lin Xun nodded, wrapping his arms around Dong Jun again, holding him for a long time.

When he finally regained control of his emotions and looked up, he found himself no longer in the void but back on the stage of the Technology Expo. Dong Jun stood opposite him, holding an obliquely hexagonal crystal trophy in his arms.

Thunderous applause erupted from below, and camera flashes lit up the space.

Countless golden confetti rained down from above the stage, like snowflakes or petals falling from the sky. Gold was the color of honor, a common sight during championship award ceremonies.

Amid the golden rain, Dong Jun looked at him, his eyes slightly curved in a gentle smile. “As promised. The Expo has an award for you.”

Lin Xun pressed his lips together at first but couldn’t help breaking into a smile as he took the trophy from Dong Jun’s hands.

The cheers from below grew even louder.

They stood close, and Lin Xun asked softly, “Can I still wake up in reality?”

“Theoretically, yes,” Dong Jun replied. “Awakening stimulation is a semi-mature technology.”

“Then can I wake up?” He looked at Dong Jun, almost instinctively, and lightly grasped a corner of Dong Jun’s sleeve.

“You can, but I don’t want you to,” Dong Jun said. “If the awakening fails, it could cause secondary damage to your consciousness to some extent.”

“Like forgetting you again?”

“Perhaps.”

“What’s the failure rate?” Lin Xun asked.

“Seven percent.”

Lin Xun froze. His fingers moved upward, gripping Dong Jun’s wrist, holding tighter and tighter. He looked up at the man who had always been watching him, taking in his flawless, dignified features and his calm, gentle gaze.

This was Dong Jun.

The Dong Jun who wouldn’t let him risk even a 0.07 chance of failure.

The one who would never hurt him in any way.

A thin mist seemed to veil the world before his eyes, and his entire body might have been trembling slightly.

Dong Jun’s fingers brushed his cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

The next second, the crystal trophy in Lin Xun’s hand fell to the ground.

In the crisp sound of shattering, it scattered like a falling drop of water, its glittering fragments splashing across the floor.

Lin Xun rose on his toes and kissed Dong Jun’s lips.

They kissed.

Amid the lights, applause, and cheers, under the golden confetti raining down on the stage, in this illusory yet magnificent world.