Chapter 140: Chaos (1)

140 – Chaos (1)

The kiss ended.

“But I…” Lin Xun lowered his head.

Dong Jun: “Hmm?”

“I still want to wake up in reality,” Lin Xun said.

“Stay here,” Dong Jun kissed his forehead. “I’ll give you everything from reality here. You can have anyone come in if you want.”

“I don’t want that,” Lin Xun raised his head, his fingers tracing the side of Dong Jun’s face. “I want to see… what you’ve become in reality. I can’t… I can’t let you stay there alone anymore.”

Dong Jun: “I can’t let you take that risk either.”

“It’s not really a risk,” Lin Xun said. “If I forget something, or don’t remember you again, you can just come find me. You don’t even have to pursue me—I’ll fall in love with you a third time.”

Dong Jun gazed at him. After a period of silence, he said, “What if you become less intelligent?”

“If your intellect is damaged, if you can never write meaningful algorithms again, if you never achieve anything more, if you can no longer change the world with your creations,” Dong Jun murmured softly. “Wouldn’t that still be a risk?”

Lin Xun froze, his eyes widening. He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

Dong Jun pulled him into an embrace. “Be good, stay here.”

In the silence, Lin Xun suddenly said, “No.”

His gaze drifted past Dong Jun’s shoulder, seeing the thousands of people below watching with joy, applauding and cheering for him because he had created value. He loved being watched like this, loved glory and achievement, loved creating algorithms that had never existed before, loved leaving his mark on this world.

“I’m willing,” he whispered. “Willing to take this risk… for you. Okay?”

“Is it worth it?”

—”It’s worth it.”

The person holding him trembled slightly.

“…Alright.”

—Once again in the void, Lin Xun and Dong Jun looked at each other.

“The awakening program will activate in three minutes,” Dong Jun said. “Follow its guidance.”

Lin Xun nodded. “I will.”

He looked at Dong Jun and smiled. “Goodbye.”

Dong Jun’s eyes seemed filled with worry and reluctance, but in the end, he returned the smile. “Goodbye.”

Then, Lin Xun watched his figure disappear from this place.

He knew that some processes no one could experience for him, some decisions no one could make for him, some bets only he alone could uncover.

But if someone was waiting at the end of this road, it wouldn’t be lonely.

For whatever reason, he had once left him.

This time, he would walk back to him.

He closed his eyes.

At the one hundred and eightieth second, an indescribable electric current spread throughout his body. Unlike the previous pain, it felt like a sweeping spring breeze, and he was like a feather lifted by the wind, freed from all tangible restraints, flying higher and higher in the wind.

—Then, at the highest point, he was swept into a vortex in the sky.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the dream.

A dim room, with cigarette ash burning on the bedside. Slender—the kind Dong Jun always used.

After the earlier heart-pounding events, he could already grasp the shadow of some memories, though they remained elusive, like reflections beneath water, unclear and indistinct. He couldn’t quite recall when Dong Jun had started smoking—likely during Galaxy’s early days, the busiest and most chaotic period. There was no particular reason for it; it was simply more effective than coffee at keeping one alert. When deprived of rest, a person’s mind gradually dulls. Coffee and tea could maintain about eighty percent of one’s original mental sharpness, while cigarettes could keep it at ninety-five percent. It never reached the point of addiction, merely serving as a tool.

But Lin Xun was never quite happy about it.

He felt that for the sake of Galaxy, there was no need to push oneself to such extremes.

Yet he never voiced this thought. He believed this was Dong Jun’s beloved endeavor, a sacrifice he willingly made—something Lin Xun had no right to comment on, even as Dong Jun’s boyfriend.

It just felt a little uncomfortable, a little sour.

Dong Jun often worked late into the night for the company. In the first couple of years, Lin Xun would stay at Galaxy with him, but as the nights grew later and later, he’d end up dozing off at the desk, only to be packed up and sent home by Dong Jun, with a firm “don’t come back again.” Gradually, he grew accustomed to waiting for Dong Jun to finish work—though it wasn’t always a return home, sometimes just a text saying, “Not coming back tonight.”

Lin Xun couldn’t do much about it, so he’d just continue reading his research papers. His work wasn’t particularly demanding; as someone who designed algorithms, his workload was far lighter than that of coders, though finding the right ideas was more challenging. Thus, his days were spent either reading papers or on his way to read more papers. Staying at the forefront of knowledge was fascinating, though occasionally he’d find himself missing that room with the hawthorn tree outside the window and the person who’d stay up late with him, poring over papers.

But he had his own activities too. For instance, today there was a mathematics conference in the capital, and he returned home rather late. When he arrived, Dong Jun was already waiting in the room, his expression seeming slightly dangerous.

That day, he had also received an invitation from the IMU to an international mathematics forum, attended by several old friends. The event was quite long—twenty-five days. Whether to go or not didn’t matter much to Lin Xun, but he still told Dong Jun about it.

Dong Jun said, “You’re not allowed to go.”

Lin Xun tilted his head, catching his breath as the other man kissed and bit his neck with intensity.

His dream had ended here last time, but this time, the scene continued.

He smiled softly and said, “But I want to go.”

Dong Jun looked down at him in the dim light, then after a moment, gently pecked his cheek. “Then go.”

Lin Xun replied, “…Oh.”

Dong Jun asked, “Have you been unhappy lately?”

“It’s nothing,” Lin Xun habitually said, then paused before adding, “A little.”

Dong Jun suggested, “Then go out and clear your mind.”

Lin Xun murmured, “…Mm.”

He buried his face in Dong Jun’s chest.

Even though Dong Jun always indulged him, he still felt unhappy.

Closing his eyes, he suddenly remembered ten years ago—that beautiful child who, when a classmate knocked on the door to ask him out to play, had gripped his wrist tightly, eyes red and glaring, refusing to let him go with anyone. But people change.

He remembered again the Galaxy documents he had flipped through, discovering that aside from a portion of Galaxy’s profits continuously flowing into his bank account, he had no authority whatsoever to intervene in this vast corporate structure.

Perhaps, the things that matter to a person are constantly changing.

…When did he start feeling that Dong Jun no longer liked him?

Perhaps it was at this moment.

—That year he was twenty-three. Two years later, he left Dong Jun, and another two years after that, he left this world to a certain extent.

Fortunately, it was only to a certain extent.

He sank down.

His spirit was like a feather, descending through water. The shimmering surface of sunlight gradually faded away, bubbles floated upward, and eventually vanished from sight. Everything around him grew darker and deeper, and at the moment when not a single ray of light remained, he gently settled onto the soft riverbed.

He seemed to grow heavier, each breath rising and falling, even every beat of his heart had to overcome the pressure of the water—he was no longer as light and unrestrained as a feather drifting in the wind. Something was restraining him.

What was it?

—It was the earthly shell.

Lin Xun abruptly opened his eyes.

A black world, unable to see anything, only faint, scattered lights rushed into his eyes in an instant.

As if separated by a thick shell, the sounds of instruments outside clamored together. He felt like someone who had lived in a vacuum for too long—any hint of color or sound was amplified infinitely in his senses to an unbearable degree. Hurried footsteps sounded, followed by a “beep,” and the smooth sliding of metal. Outside, a white light first appeared as a blinding line, then gradually expanded.

Lin Xun’s thoughts were slow. It took a full two seconds before he sluggishly realized—this was the pod. He was lying inside the pod.

The light was soft—though it still caused some irritation to his retinas.

He slowly curled his fingers. Though his fingertips remained lazily immobile, he could feel the existence of his limbs.

A face appeared above him.

Lin Xun squinted. Everything before him was blurry, but he could vaguely recognize the doctor from the outline of the features.

The doctor was smiling.

“You’re awake!”

“I told you there wouldn’t be any problems. I’ve never lost a patient under my care—you can’t be the first.”

Lin Xun: “…”

“Come on,” the doctor reached out a hand, “you can come out now. Staying inside isn’t good for your recovery.”

Lin Xun grabbed his wrist and was helped out. Beside the pod was a bed. He sat on the bed, looking around. It was a windowless room with white decor. He vaguely felt it was somewhat familiar, but couldn’t pinpoint why. Many of his memories were still unclear.

“Does it look familiar?” the doctor said while connecting some instrument to his hand. “This is your family’s underground facility, security level S. Look at those machines behind the glass wall—I brought everything I own. Treating you is more than enough.”

Lin Xun actually found him a bit noisy.

But he didn’t have the strength to speak, so he let the doctor chatter on.

“I have identical equipment in my hospital, and everyone thinks you’re there. But that’s not the case at all—your consciousness is generated in this Nutshell, then projected into that one, and from there, you enter the virtual world. If someone tries to trace the source of your consciousness through the virtual network, they’ll only find that Nutshell, but any operations on it can’t harm you personally—I never imagined someone would actually try to kill you through a Nutshell. He said he just wanted to ensure your absolute safety out of habit, but this setup still shocked me. What kind of person is your husband, really? If I get the chance, can I dissect his brain?”

Lin Xun took a few breaths before finally asking, “Where is… Dong Jun?”

“He’s at my place. He needs to be there regularly so Eagle can confirm they’ve found the correct Nutshell serial number,” the doctor replied. “But once it’s confirmed, he’ll head over here. You woke up so quickly—we expected you to wake up only after he arrived. I never thought I’d be the first person you’d see when you woke up. I can brag about this for the rest of my li—”

Lin Xun cut in, “You talk too much.”

“Cut me some slack. If you hadn’t woken up, I’d be dead. You have no idea—while you were living it up in the virtual world, those of us outside went through what felt like a war. Seriously, I don’t even know how we survived these thirty days.”

Lin Xun’s gaze drifted toward the door on the side of the room as he said slowly, “Thank you, I…”

“Hush, don’t talk,” the doctor moved to the other side. “Let me take a few measurements for you.”

Lin Xun simply stared at the door. All the sounds around him seemed to fade away, and the entire world fell into silence. He felt like someone who had just arrived in this world, unsure of where he was or what he was looking at.

Suddenly.

The airtight door shifted slightly.

Lin Xun’s body trembled.

Then, the tightly sealed airtight door slid open smoothly, and someone stepped inside.

—But he only took one step in and froze there, not moving forward any further.

Time seemed to stand still at that moment. Lin Xun watched Dong Jun.

What was he thinking?—Even he himself didn’t know. The moment he saw that familiar figure, their eyes met, and the world went blank.

A minute passed—or maybe five, or ten. He had lost all sense of time.

His voice trembled as he said, “You… come here.”

Footsteps sounded as Dong Jun walked toward him.

Those eyes, that nose, those lips he could never forget; that long hair, that neck, that Adam’s apple, those shoulders—the person he could never forget was walking toward him step by step, getting closer and closer.

Time ebbed and flowed, fate rose and fell. A distance of just over ten meters felt like thousands of meters, like decades, like the space between life and death.

He reached Lin Xun. When his right hand took Lin Xun’s, it seemed to tremble ever so slightly. His left hand gently cupped Lin Xun’s cheek, brushing aside the stray hairs on his forehead before slowly tracing the contours of his eyes and lips.

Lin Xun looked up, staring at him in a daze. A thousand words surged in his chest, yet he couldn’t utter a single one. He hated himself for not studying Chinese diligently as a child and for lacking Jia Gou’s talent for playing with language. He should have spoken the most heartfelt words in the world to the person before him, yet he could only use the simplest language. He opened his mouth, but in the end, all he could manage was a trembling voice: “…Long time no see.”