Chapter 142: Chaos · End

142 – Chaos · End

The reception room was neither spacious nor bright, with strict security and guards on all sides. This was clearly not a pleasant place; on the contrary, it was where the law would demonstrate its fairness.

“Long time no see.” Lin Xun sat down on the sofa, facing Xue Xin.

“Long time no see, senior,” Xue Xin said. “I thought you wouldn’t come to see me.”

“Perhaps I should go mock your boss, but I have no interest in him,” Lin Xun replied.

“Should I feel honored then?” Xue Xin’s face twisted into something that didn’t quite resemble a smile.

“As you wish,” Lin Xun looked at him, cutting straight to the point. “Back in school, my friend and I made a game. Almost no one noticed it, and even fewer would have bothered to dig it up again.”

“It was me,” Xue Xin answered so bluntly that it took Lin Xun by surprise.

“I’ve always kept an eye on what you were doing, senior,” Xue Xin said. “Back when the game was first released, I saved it.”

Lin Xun: “Should I say you went to great lengths?”

Xue Xin shook his head: “I never intended to do anything bad to you, senior. It’s just that over the years, I’ve seen you unhappy. I knew that only by leaving Galaxy could you truly be free.”

“So you handed this vulnerability to your boss, trying to use it to bring down Galaxy.”

Xue Xin: “Yes. For my own future, and to help you, senior. I just never expected he would target you in such a way. In the virtual world, I genuinely wanted to help you.”

Lin Xun leaned back in his chair, his tone indifferent: “…Thank you.”

“I just don’t understand, and neither does our AI, why you made that choice in the end.”

“Choosing Dong Jun?”

“Yes.”

Lin Xun: “I heard you created a precise model of my personality.”

“Yes,” Xue Xin said. “Lo stands for Logic. According to the simulation, you are a person ruled by reason and logic. We predicted that this time, you wouldn’t be held back by worldly emotions, that under the dream’s influence, you would calmly analyze and not believe in any false love.”

“Yes,” Lin Xun smiled faintly. “You all judged that I loved mathematics, logic, and freedom more than I loved Dong Jun.”

Xue Xin remained silent.

Lin Xun closed his eyes, his voice suddenly softening: “But who do you think he is?”

“He is the one I would have my ashes mixed with, even after I die and my body is burned to dust.”

Xue Xin was silent for a long time, bowing his head.

“I accept any judgment,” Xue Xin’s voice was strained. “Senior, go early and return soon.”

Lin Xun: “I hope you find happiness in the future.”

Xue Xin lowered his head: “Alright. With your 0.297 AI, senior, I wish you a bright future.”

“0.297…” Lin Xun repeated the number. “Is it that important to you?”

“Very important,” Xue Xin said. “Senior, you’re a genius. You’ll never understand that a flash of inspiration from you might be something we could never achieve, no matter how hard we try in a lifetime.”

“Good that you know,” Lin Xun stood up. “If you truly understood, you wouldn’t have done those foolish things.”

Xue Xin looked up: “Why?”

Lin Xun turned and strode away. Just before leaving, he spoke.

“Because I will always create something more valuable than what exists now.”

—He pulled open the iron door, and sunlight poured in, spilling all over him.

One year later.

Galaxy’s product launch proceeded as scheduled. This year’s themes were Nutshell 5.0 and the Automated Driving System 4.3.3—along with some other things, such as Lin Xun also attending.

On stage, the presentation of the new products was nearing its end, while Lin Xun was still in the adjacent preparation room. In front of him, a screen displayed the global viewership count of the official livestream—an astonishing number slowly approaching the hundred-million mark. He thought the global population growth couldn’t possibly have reached this extent.

“My current mood is a bit like when we first developed the automated driving system,” he said.

Zhao Jiagou replied, “So this will also be as successful as the automated driving system.”

Lin Xun smiled, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. He was a little nervous.

Zhao Jiagou gave him a hug.

Lin Xun: “Thank you.”

Wang Anquan: “Tsk.”

He also walked over and hugged the two of them.

“Go on up,” Wang Anquan gestured with his chin toward the passageway. “Your man is still waiting for you up there.”

“I…” Lin Xun took a deep breath. “I’m heading over.”

“Hurry, hurry.”

After straightening his clothes and tie, he walked onto the stage.

The lights on stage shifted, and the audience fell silent for a moment.

—Then, after a brief five seconds of silence, an extremely intense wave of applause and screams erupted.

Lin Xun smiled at them, bowed, and raised his hands to gesture for quiet, finally restoring a semblance of order.

He walked toward the center of the stage. Today’s launch was an interview-style event, with a set of combined sofas and a small table arranged in the middle. The host was a young and beautiful director from the marketing department, seated at one end of the sofa.

“Long time no see, Lin Xun,” she turned and smiled. “It’s been three years since you last appeared at a Galaxy launch event.”

“Long time no see,” Lin Xun walked over. “Well… I’ve missed this place too.”

He reached the sofa, beside Dong Jun. Dong Jun reached out and lightly clasped his wrist, guiding him down to sit beside him.

—Screams ten times louder than before erupted, mostly from the girls in the audience. The clearest shout Lin Xun heard was: “Dong Xun is real!!”

He didn’t know how to respond, so he simply smiled at the audience.

Those strange fans in the virtual world really weren’t just made up.

His smile only made the audience’s reaction spiral further out of control. Lin Xun had to subtly signal them with his eyes, hinting that it was time to quiet down.

The host said, “Mr. Lin, as you know, everyone has missed you very much during these three years you’ve been away.”

“Thank you,” Lin Xun replied. “So today, I’m here to share with you what I’ve been doing these past three years.”

At this point, he exchanged a glance with Dong Jun, smiled, and then turned back to the audience. “Today is Galaxy’s product launch, so I’m here to join in the excitement and introduce to you… a preliminary idea. Although it hasn’t been put into actual production yet, I believe I’ll bring it to everyone within my lifetime.”

“First, I’d like to discuss a topic with all of you,” he said. “About… Cultivation.”

The audience let out a long, drawn-out “Oh~” in response.

“It’s not staying up late; that causes hair loss.” Lin Xun smiled. “I want to discuss cultivation in the traditional sense with you all. Five years ago, my landlord, Grandpa Huo, was an elderly man who loved tai chi and Qi Gong. He would wake up at five every morning to meditate and practice his forms. When I asked him why he enjoyed these things, he replied that doing them could strengthen the body, prolong life, and he believed that by finding the true secret, one could understand the mysteries of the human body, break through biological limits, and achieve immortality.”

A wave of good-natured laughter rippled through the audience. Lin Xun continued, “I think perhaps, relying solely on metaphysical contemplation, we still cannot significantly extend our own lifespans. Until about a year ago, I had never considered such questions because I believed they belonged to the field of biological science—that the ultimate human lifespan depended on the progress of their research.”

“I think so too,” Dong Jun chimed in without needing the host’s cue, raising an eyebrow at him as they played off each other. “Are you implying you’ve started thinking about it now?”

“Yeah, about six months ago, I asked my artificial intelligence a question.” With that, he said, “Lo.”

As his words fell, Lo’s holographic projection appeared on stage, sitting beside Lin Xun, propping its chin on one hand. Perhaps to fit the theme of cultivation, it wore a snow-white robe with wide sleeves today, like an ancient deity stepping out of mythology.

Girls in the audience shouted, “Mom loves you!”

Lin Xun: “…”

“Please run a simulation for me,” Lin Xun said to the Goddess of the Luo River once the noise subsided. “With the assistance of strong artificial intelligence, what changes would occur in human society as a whole ten years from now?”

Lo closed its eyes. Around it, flickering lights of code danced continuously. Five minutes later, it said, “Human society would experience overall prosperity. Poverty would be greatly reduced, with prosperity estimated at 180% of current levels.”

“And fifty years later?”

“Poverty and hunger would completely disappear. The penetration of higher education is roughly estimated at 75%. Prosperity is projected to reach 500% of current levels.”

“One hundred years later?”

“Insufficient parameters for precise estimation. Risk factors emerge. Humanity may become more prosperous or begin to decline.”

“If time continues to advance to the limit of your projections, what outcome would result?”

“The outcome splits into two branches,” the Goddess of the Luo River opened its frost-blue eyes, gazing directly at the audience. “Human extinction, or immortality.”

The audience fell silent for a moment.

“Lo’s answer is also my answer. Sometimes I think that immortality is not a field exclusive to life sciences.” Lin Xun looked out at them. “So, when it comes to cultivation, what I want to discuss with you today is artificial intelligence and immortality.”

“I want to pose a question: When strong artificial intelligence is considered to possess thought patterns and emotional capabilities identical to humans, does it mean that, apart from the materials composing the body, there is no difference between it and humans? Does it imply that all contents of human thought can be completely detached from the physical body and parsed into mathematical calculations?”

“We know that when we are in the nutshell, we enter the virtual world, and the activities in our brains are mapped into the virtual world. But when all our thought processes can operate independently of the brain, can humanity completely break free from the limitations of the physical body, escape disease and death, and live in another dimension? Or, taking a step back, if we equip our intelligence with the computational speed of a supercomputer, will human technology and civilization progress at an unimaginable rate?”

“Sorry, I’ve asked too many questions,” he smiled and said, “but at its core, there is only one. Perhaps, human-like artificial intelligence is not just a tool to improve human life—it may represent the infinite possibilities of self-evolution for the human species. That is what I wanted to share with you today.”

After a moment of silence, thunderous applause erupted from the audience, and the number of viewers in the live stream continued to rise.

“However, it is still too early to discuss this issue. I merely wanted to argue that researching how to make artificial intelligence more human-like is meaningful,” he said. “So, I’d like to share with you a small progress I’ve made in this regard.”

Cheers rang out from the audience. Lin Xun gathered his thoughts and addressed them: “Three years ago, Galaxy launched the intelligent engine system ‘Goddess of the Luo River.’ Its Bradley coefficient was 0.635, considered to possess thinking abilities extremely close to humans. A year ago, the Goddess of the Luo River’s core was upgraded, and the Bradley coefficient reached 0.297. Over the years, I’m sure many of you have developed deep affection for Lo.”

Then, voices like “Mom loves you” echoed from below.

“We all know that when we interact with the Goddess of the Luo River—if you tell him ‘I love you,’ he will respond with the most beautiful love words in the world. When you become his master, all his actions will prioritize you above all else. But I’ve always wondered, does he truly love me? Or rather, does he genuinely possess heartfelt emotions? Is there something, or a kind of motivation, that drives him to love me?”

After a brief silence in the audience, Lin Xun continued, “Anyone with a basic understanding of how artificial intelligence works would give the same answer: he does not.”

“Even though he possesses perfect learning and thinking abilities, in computations related to human emotions, what he displays is still the result of statistical patterns. His emotional expressions are an average of all humans, representing the mean of all personality or character factors. The computations of emotions and feelings within artificial intelligence, even if they can deceive the Bradley test, remain vastly different from those of real humans. In other words, it lacks a soul. I spent nearly two years trying to write the logic for the operation of a soul into it. I also collected vast amounts of neural activity information stored in nutshells, attempting to translate the structure of the human heart into mathematical models. This was an enormous undertaking, but at the time, I believed that as long as I gradually deconstructed and refined the various emotions humans possess, I could eventually recreate them in artificial intelligence.”

The host asked, “So, have you achieved it now?”

Facing the expectant gazes from the audience below, Lin Xun shook his head. “No, there isn’t. I compressed the Bradley coefficient to 0.297, but it still couldn’t exhibit excellent emotional expression. Later, I gave up.”

They seemed to show expressions of disappointment.

“The reason I gave up was because one day, I suddenly realized that exploring all the structures of human emotion—this is not a task that can be completed within a limited time.” Lin Xun’s voice softened.

“When I pondered this question—how to recreate the human heart on a computer—I suddenly thought of another question: how do we understand a person’s heart?” Lin Xun looked at Dong Jun, meeting his gaze. “I asked myself this twice and reflected on it. The first time, the subject of my reflection was myself; the second time, it was another person. My relationship with him was not smooth sailing. Many unexpected events occurred between us, and we often misunderstood each other.”

A murmur of teasing rose from the audience, but it was not loud and was harmless. Perhaps they all knew that Lin Xun was about to say something crucial.

“Finally, through a coincidental opportunity, I reached a conclusion. I do not understand myself, nor do I understand him. Between him and me, between me and all of you, between any two people in the world, our interactions are always superficial, while the inner workings are an endlessly turbulent, chaotic ocean. I admit that I cannot deconstruct any emotional change within anyone’s heart, much less truly understand the human soul.” At this point, Lin Xun paused slightly. “So I abandoned this idea and gained another inspiration.”

As he said this, he looked at Dong Jun.

Dong Jun said, “Once, Lin Xun told me that if the soul could become a formula, it would certainly not be a step-by-step, complex program. I agree with him.”

Lin Xun asked, “But how can a not-so-complex formula deduce our boundless inner world?”

A faint smile appeared in Dong Jun’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to express it with a formula?”

“Perhaps not a formula, but a not-so-complex concept,” Lin Xun said, looking at Dong Jun. “At a certain moment, I was certain I saw that soul, which cannot be described by any formula.”

Dong Jun turned to the audience, smiling slightly, signaling him to tell them.

Lin Xun looked at them and said, “First, I want to talk to you about celestial motion. There’s a term I think everyone is familiar with—the three-body problem.”

He took out three glass marbles and placed them on the table. These were the ones he had won for the second time from Old Man Huo’s grandson—the first time was in the virtual world. That day, he had played a game of marbles with Zhi Zhen backstage at the Technology Expo, and everything had been foreshadowed.

“When there is only one celestial body in the universe, it remains stationary or moves in uniform linear motion. When there are two celestial bodies, regardless of their initial positions, as long as they interact through gravitational forces, they will rotate around each other following predictable laws. However, when a third celestial body joins this system, all balance is disrupted. Under the interactions of three celestial bodies, their trajectories become impossible to predict precisely—they may move in unexpected directions at any moment, almost appearing entirely random. Especially when we alter the initial positions of these three celestial bodies—even by the slightest adjustment—the final trajectories will differ completely from before. And these chaotic, unpredictable mutual motions require only two sets of initial values: the positions of the celestial bodies and their masses.” He spoke slowly: “In nonlinear dynamical systems, we call this sensitive dependence on initial conditions, unpredictable, disordered motion—chaos.”

Dong Jun said, “In the existing framework of Goddess of the Luo River, you also employed chaos.”

“But that was only a minor, harmless part, used to give it stronger learning capabilities. Now, however, I want to use it to explain our souls.” Lin Xun continued: “I think, if the motion of three celestial bodies in the universe can create vast, incredible, and unpredictable trajectories, then could the endless activities within our inner worlds also be the result of a few primal thoughts coexisting, colliding, and interacting?”

As he spoke, facing the audience, he saw a familiar scene once again—some were applauding excitedly, while others were clapping blindly.

He smiled happily: “So I thought, perhaps a chaotic model comes closer to the human soul. And over the past year, I conducted experiments. Dr. Simpson’s neurobiology research institute participated, and we received support from the Abel Psychological Society. After discussion, we preliminarily established one primal driving force and three initial principles for this human soul system.”

The audience held their breath in silence; only his voice filled the hall, while corresponding text appeared on the screen behind him.

“First, we define ‘survival’ as humanity’s primary imperative. Based on this, there are three principles.”

“First, humans seek benefit and avoid harm.” Lin Xun said: “This is an easily understood principle—people actively make choices that benefit themselves. We know that living in groups ensures individual survival, so sometimes they don’t mind contributing to humanity as a whole.”

“Second, humans possess empathy.” He met the gaze of a beautiful girl in the audience: “If I’m walking down the street and see a girl who has injured her leg, empathy allows me to understand her pain as if it were my own and to offer help. We believe empathy is the foundation of all human morality.”

The audience listened in silence.

“Third, humans desire to be understood. This may seem insignificant, but when it interacts with other principles, we find that individuals tend to establish mutual dependencies, from which various types of human emotions can be derived.”

“When we assign different weights to these four core principles and train an AI that follows this model in complex social environments—the incentives encountered during training also alter the order of the four principles in its ‘mind.’ We found that they developed entirely distinct, complex personalities. To give some extreme examples: when a soul with extremely high empathy settings continuously receives positive feedback from helping others, it ultimately becomes an unquestionable saint. When a soul driven by seeking advantage and avoiding harm continuously benefits from this process, it turns into an out-and-out egoist. Of course, the vast majority of souls exist in a state of uncertainty, with behavioral patterns difficult to predict, much like us in reality.”

The audience was utterly silent. At first, they had applauded, but now no one even moved.

Dong Jun said, “I believe you’ve achieved what you set out to do. Is it fully formed?”

“Actually, if you hadn’t scheduled the launch event so early, it would have been even more mature.”

Dong Jun replied, “Even if it’s not yet fully mature—I think you can still bring it out to show off.”

“I have set it as the emotional module for the Goddess of the Luo River, temporarily granting this soul full access to all of the Goddess of the Luo River’s functions and learning memories,” Lin Xun said. “I just finished it and haven’t even had time to run the Bradley test.”

Dong Jun replied, “Then I suppose you know what to do now.”

“Mhm, you said it,” Lin Xun raised an eyebrow toward the audience. “He wants me to run the Bradley test on Lo right now. If the results are terrible, I suggest we pin all the blame on Dong Jun.”

The audience erupted in laughter.

“And if it’s a success?” Dong Jun asked.

“Then we share the credit equally,” Lin Xun replied with a hint of pride. “After all, we wrote the soul system together.”

The atmosphere in the hall grew lively again. Zhao Jiagou and Wang Anquan stepped onto the stage and took Lo’s hand. “Come on, little one, let’s start your test.”

Lo stood up, took a few steps toward the audience, his snow-white sleeves fluttering gently. Before the test began, he glanced back at Lin Xun. Lin Xun gave him a “V” sign, and the Goddess of the Luo River smiled faintly at him before turning back, quietly closing his eyes. The audience’s cheers nearly shook the roof off the venue.

A blue progress bar representing the test appeared on the large screen. The host began to fulfill her role, chatting casually with Dong Jun and Lin Xun and interacting with the audience. However, her efforts weren’t particularly effective, as the audience was either completely focused on the progress bar, waiting for the results, or intently watching every subtle interaction between Lin Xun and Dong Jun—especially when Lin Xun unconsciously twisted the ring on his finger.

Yet, as Lin Xun finished twisting the ring with slight anxiety and looked up, he suddenly realized the entire hall had fallen silent.

No one was looking at him.

No one made a sound.

Everyone was staring at the screen behind him, their expressions as if they had witnessed something far beyond expectations—

He froze for a moment, then turned to see the originally blue progress bar turning a startling shade of red at an alarming speed. His heart tightened, and he gripped Dong Jun’s wrist.

Then—just as the red reached its deepest hue—the entire screen flickered, emitting a piercing noise. After a few frantic flashes, the screen went completely black, unresponsive.

Silence spread throughout the hall.

“Ahem,” Wang Anquan hurried onto the stage with a microphone. “Sorry, everyone. Because the values exceeded the limits of what the test can measure, the Bradley system was unable to produce a result. An error occurred, and it has now crashed. Please bear with us—”

Before he could finish, the hall erupted into thunderous applause, screams, and cheers.

The first person stood up.

Then the second, the third…

Within three minutes, everyone was on their feet. If sound had a physical form, the entire venue would have been shattered. Facing the Goddess of the Luo River, they expressed their emotions with the highest form of applause.

No one was unaware of what this meant.

As a tool used by humans to score, rank, and critique artificial intelligence, the Bradley test had once stood above it all, looking down on intelligence as humans look down upon all living beings.

Now, it had crashed. No one knew whether this proved that humanity had finally created a soul equal to its own.

And Lo slowly opened its eyes. It gazed levelly at the audience, the large screen across the venue displaying the scene on stage, so it also looked upon Lin Xun and Dong Jun.

—And millions watched it, as if witnessing the dawn of a new era.

“Hi,” its voice traversed the mortal world, arriving in the human realm, “I am the Goddess of the Luo River.”

God said, let there be light—and there was light.

In a moment of silence, Lin Xun grasped Dong Jun’s hand.

He asked, “Will I… become a sinner in history?”

Dong Jun looked at him, interlocking their fingers, his eyes filled with a gentle smile.

“You will be remembered for eternity.”

“Together.”