Chapter 144: Extra Chapter: Hello World

Extra Chapter: Hello World

The curtains were drawn, and in the dimly lit room, a light flashed—a message notification.

Dong Jun picked up his phone from beside Lin Xun’s pillow. The lock screen automatically opened, revealing a new message.

Qi Yun: You there?

Lo: I’m here.

Qi Yun: Not dead?

Lo: Alive.

Qi Yun: Wanna hang out?

Lo: What to do?

Qi Yun: Dad’s movie is about to release, I’ll take you to see it.

Lo: False Slumber?

Qi Yun: Yep.

Lo: He hasn’t woken up yet. I’ll ask when he does.

Qi Yun: ??

Qi Yun: Oh! So it’s you.

Qi Yun: Congrats on getting back together.

Lo: ^^

After sending this emoji, he stopped communicating with Qi Yun, turned the phone face down, and placed it back beside the pillow.

The person in his arms stirred slightly.

Dong Jun’s gaze shifted from the pillow to the person nestled against him.

In his sleep, Lin Xun furrowed his brows slightly and shifted closer, pressing himself even nearer.

In the dim light of the bedroom, Lin Xun’s silhouette was as gentle as twilight. His long, delicate eyelashes curved slightly upward, trembling faintly with each breath. When his eyes were closed, he seemed profoundly still. Following the elegant line of his jaw downward, his neck and collarbone emerged from the snow-white blanket, appearing fragile in their slender delicacy.

—He gently rested his fingers on Lin Xun’s neck.

The warm pulse of the carotid artery beat steadily, once, then again, with a 0.3-second delay from the rhythm of his heart.

Lin Xun.

A living Lin Xun.

The last time he had held him like this was two years ago.

Back then, Lin Xun was just as slender, quiet as if carrying unspoken thoughts, yet never sharing them. Only in the depths of night, when sleep stripped away all conscious awareness, would he turn over and unconsciously nestle into his embrace, his fingers clutching his arm or the edge of his clothes. Back then, his breathing, his heartbeat, the touch of his fingers, even the shadows cast by light passing through his eyelashes—all seemed to whisper that this person was about to leave him.

He also remembered how it was when they were twenty.

Back then, the skin of this neck was fair and smooth, carrying the faint scent of milk and lemon when kissed. The curve of his collarbone was soft and refined, as boldly beautiful as its owner. Every morning, he would wake in his arms—Lin Xun always seemed full of energy, sometimes waking even earlier. When he opened his eyes, he would find Lin Xun gazing at him intently, eyes crinkling into a smile before leaning in to kiss his cheek.

He still recalled the scene from twenty years ago.

Dense ivy climbed outside the window, and the morning light filtered through it into the room. Outside, the sounds of neighbors haggling with the breakfast stall owner drifted in. He and Lin Xun slept holding hands and would still be holding them when they woke. If he woke first, he would stay still, waiting for Lin Xun to open his eyes—Lin Xun would rub his eyes before opening them, and in that moment, his own reflection would fill Lin Xun’s gaze. He would stare for a while, then smile and say, “Good morning.”

A stray strand of hair drifted down from above. Dong Jun reached out and brushed it aside, just as he had done two years ago, seven years ago, and even twenty years ago.

—Yet, even with the same person and the same gestures, so much had changed between them over these two years, seven years, and even twenty years.

The light, fleeting touch seemed to stir something in Lin Xun’s dream. He reached up to rub his eyes, then lowered his hand, his fingers unconsciously resting on Dong Jun’s arm before he opened his eyes. Dong Jun saw his own reflection mirrored in those eyes.

He watched as Lin Xun simply gazed at him for half a minute, then curved his eyes into a smile and said, “Morning.”

The curtains weren’t fully drawn, and a sliver of sunlight streamed in, glimmering in Lin Xun’s eyes as if twenty years of time had turned into shimmering dust between them.

Dong Jun was momentarily stunned.

In truth, there are few feelings in this world that last twenty years, and even fewer people are granted the chance to regain what was lost. Over the past two years, and especially in the recent month, he had long prepared himself for everything. He knew the sun would no longer rise each day, just as no one would ever wake up in his arms again.

But Lin Xun reached out, his hand gently touching Dong Jun’s cheek, his fingertips lingering at the corner of his eye.

“Don’t cry,” Lin Xun said.

Even though his own eyes were red, he was telling someone else not to cry.

Dong Jun smiled, took Lin Xun’s hand, and brought it to his lips for a soft kiss.

Lin Xun looked at him for a long moment before saying, “It feels like I’m dreaming.”

Before Dong Jun could respond, he added, “When I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up. I’m afraid that when I do, I’ll be alone in the room. But I also want to wake up, just in case… it’s not like that.”

People aren’t fully awake when they first stir from sleep, so they sometimes say things they wouldn’t when fully conscious—confessions, or declarations.

Sure enough, after saying this, Lin Xun seemed to regret it, burying himself under the blanket with the tips of his ears turning red.

Dong Jun held him close, whispering over and over in his ear, “It won’t happen again.”

“I won’t leave you for a single day.”

Lin Xun wrapped his arms around him, and Dong Jun embraced him back, gently stroking his shoulders and back. After two years apart, Lin Xun had become much more clingy, like the big rabbit in his dreams that kept calling him “idol.” Perhaps he had always been this way but never showed it.

Lost in thought, Dong Jun heard Lin Xun mumble, “Idol.”

Dong Jun replied, “You don’t have to call me ‘idol’ anymore.”

Lin Xun asked, “Then what should I call you?”

Dong Jun suggested, “Maybe you could call me ‘husband.'”

Lin Xun fell silent for a moment.

“I can’t say it,” he whispered. “I’ll just call you ‘baby’ instead. Baby.”

Dong Jun didn’t stop him or insist on a particular term. In certain moments, Lin Xun could call him anything.

He simply smiled, pulled Lin Xun out of bed, helped him change out of his pajamas, and got ready for the day.

While choosing clothes, he picked out a soft, slightly long-sleeved gray sweater for Lin Xun, as there was a faint red mark on his wrist from the previous night—something not meant to be seen by others.

When Lin Xun heard that Qi Yun had invited him out, he agreed without hesitation, even seeming delighted.

However, when they met, it wasn’t just Qi Yun who showed up—Chang Ji was there too. Chang Ji had just completed his Ph.D. this year and secured a teaching position at the university, continuing his research in Buddhist studies. He was a friend Lin Xun had known since college, from the neighboring school.

Dong Jun was not clear about the origins of the inexplicable friendship between Lin Xun and Qi Yun, nor did he know how Chang Ji and Qi Yun had come to know each other. He only knew that because Qi Yun was filming a religion-related movie but lacked the corresponding religious aura, he had been thrown under Chang Ji’s supervision to do odd jobs.

As for the movie they were about to watch—Dong Jun and Lin Xun had already seen it once in the virtual world. The only differences might be that some plot points had changed in Lin Xun’s consciousness world, and the face representing the artificial intelligence had been replaced with Qi Yun’s.

In this film, Qi Yun wore a silver-white uniform, appearing fragile and aloof. His tall, slender figure and perfect proportions seemed as if they had been meticulously calculated. His silver hair and pupils—especially the pale-colored pupils—revealed a certain inhuman coldness and compassion. Perhaps this was what artificial intelligence, a virtual creation, looked like.

Qi Yun’s performance was as flawless as his appearance, impeccable. This likely relied on Director Gao’s strict demands, and perhaps it was also thanks to Director Gao throwing him into Galaxy’s artificial intelligence department for half a year to gain experience—this was how Lin Xun had met him, back when he had not yet left Galaxy.

Qi Yun, however, did not know what Lin Xun had encountered over the past month. The news had been tightly sealed, and he only knew that Lin Xun had suffered a minor physical accident and had been hospitalized for a month.

Just then, Qi Yun nudged Lin Xun’s elbow. “Do you know how I acted?”

Lin Xun asked, “How?”

Qi Yun: “During my time studying at your Galaxy, I kept thinking every day, ‘What is this thing?’ ‘What the hell is this thing?’ But every one of you seemed to understand it all, with this pretentious aura.”

“That’s not right,” Lin Xun said. “We really do understand.”

Qi Yun looked skeptical. “Really?”

Lin Xun: “Really. Don’t use your intelligence to gauge ours.”

Qi Yun: “Do you think I don’t understand you’re insulting me?”

Lin Xun laughed. “So how exactly did you act?”

Qi Yun: “I felt out of place with all of you, so I pretended I understood too, just like you. Every day, I’d space out and put on a look of understanding.”

Lin Xun: “…”

Lin Xun: “And then you could act?”

Qi Yun: “Not really. Director Gao said I passed, but it still wasn’t enough. At that time, your husband was still tinkering with my nephew’s virtual avatar.”

Lin Xun: “You mean the Goddess of the Luo River?”

Qi Yun: “Yes, but it wasn’t fully completed yet. It couldn’t make expressions. So I hung around that office every day, copying whatever expression it made—just like that, eyes glazed over. I figured if I was going to play an artificial intelligence, I’d learn from a real one. That’s how I did it.”

Lin Xun laughed and patted his shoulder. “You really are a genius actor. But what about the emotional parts?”

Qi Yun: “Let’s not talk about that. I suffered a lot. Just focus on the movie.”

So Lin Xun focused on the movie.

The atmosphere of the film was like an eternally silent voyage through the cosmos, from the plot and visuals to the soundtrack—everything conveyed this feeling. It was a sci-fi art film; some might find it dull or even doze off, but more would be struck by its breathtaking beauty.

Lin Xun brushed his hand against Dong Jun’s.

Dong Jun clasped his hand in return, intertwining their fingers.

At this moment, the atmosphere in the room was as silent as the film itself. In the vastness of the universe, people often realize their own insignificance, and yet it is precisely because of this insignificance that they come to understand the preciousness of life—especially for those who have narrowly escaped life-and-death separation.

However, there are still those who remain unaware of life’s value.

Chang Ji’s gaze shifted from the screen to the person beside him.

Lin Xun’s eyes also gradually drifted from the screen to the side.

Finally, Dong Jun’s gaze followed.

The eyes of all three converged on Qi Yun.

But Qi Yun had slumped against Chang Ji, completely unaware.

He had fallen asleep.

Watching the film he had starred in, he had fallen asleep.

And he was sleeping soundly.

Lin Xun whispered, “From this perspective, I think the film is a failure.”

Chang Ji murmured softly, “Although he is a competent actor, it seems he still lacks the corresponding appreciation skills.”

Lin Xun: “He’s really adorable.”

Dong Jun’s hand rested on Lin Xun’s shoulder.

Lin Xun quickly changed his tone: “Hahahahaha.”

By the time the film ended, Qi Yun still hadn’t woken up. He slept as deeply as an animal. It was a failed gathering, and a failed gathering had a failed ending. Chang Ji bundled up the nearly unconscious Qi Yun, tossed him into the car, and drove away. Meanwhile, Lin Xun, laughing until his stomach hurt, clung to Dong Jun and was also taken away.

On the way back, Lin Xun was full of enthusiasm, discussing the film’s plot with Dong Jun, the meaning of human immortality, and the issues humans would face after uploading their consciousness. As he spoke, his eyes sparkled, no different from many years ago.

“For a computer to gain human thinking abilities and for a human to gain a computer’s computational abilities—these two propositions are equivalent. When that day comes, there will be no need to consider ethical issues because, in a way, we will have become the same kind of beings.” Lin Xun said, “From an emotional perspective, when a computer says ‘Hello World’ to a human for the first time, it already marks the beginning of a new era.”

After finishing his words, Lin Xun fell silent, instead staring intently at Dong Jun.

Dong Jun asked, “What’s wrong?”

Lin Xun: “I suddenly thought of a question.”

Dong Jun: “Hmm?”

“That day, I asked you to tell me a string of characters that held the most significance for you, and I used it as the root password for the permission system.” Lin Xun said, “After I forgot all these things, I only had one chance to guess what that meaningful string of characters was, but I actually guessed it right. Thank you for being a competent programmer, or I might never have woken up.”

Looking at him, Dong Jun smiled faintly: “I’m not a competent programmer.”

“Impossible.” Lin Xun said, “That string of characters was ‘Hello World’.”

In the car, Dong Jun turned to look at him—yet he wasn’t really looking at him. His gaze traveled through twenty years of time, arriving at the old bedroom with ivy crawling outside the window.

Here, Lin Xun had pulled him along—or rather, he had used a lollipop to bring Dong Jun home. But what truly took Dong Jun away wasn’t the candy; it was Lin Xun’s eyes.

“Starting today, you’re going to be my good friend!” Lin Xun smiled at him. “What do you like to eat?”

Dong Jun shook his head.

“No favorite foods?”

He nodded.

Lin Xun: “Then what do you like to play?”

Dong Jun looked at him, who was asking questions with great enthusiasm, but could only shake his head in silence.

Lin Xun: “What about someone you like? Or a favorite little animal? Don’t you have any games you enjoy playing?”

He had nothing to answer this lively boy before him. In Lin Xun’s eyes, stars seemed to shimmer, as if he loved everything in the world. But his own world was the opposite—a desolate, monochrome landscape devoid of life.

In the end, he could only slowly shake his head.

“Then I’ll show you my favorite thing!” Lin Xun jumped off the bed, took his hand, and led him to the computer in the corner of the room.

“This is a compiler. I only know C language for now, but I’ll learn many more in the future.” Lin Xun’s fingers tapped on the keyboard. “Let me show you my favorite program. It’s really simple—just an output statement. Look, p-r-i-n-t-f.”

He typed a semicolon, pressed Enter to start a new line, added a closing brace, and then ran the program.

A black screen with gray text popped up on the computer, and the words “Hello World” appeared on the display.

“This is the first thing a computer ever said to humanity. From that day on, computers truly came to life,” Lin Xun turned to look at him. “See!”

But he wasn’t looking at the screen.

Lin Xun seemed displeased, his voice softening. “I told you to look at the screen, not at me…”

Yet he continued to gaze at Lin Xun—at the stars in his eyes, at his joyful expression, at the spark of passion in his gaze, at all the things he himself had never possessed. Many years later, he would still recall this moment.

If a programmer could give a computer true life with a simple “Hello World,” then what about him? When, and by whom, would he be given true life?

In a sense, he wasn’t truly a living person—he had never thought about liking anything or anyone. He knew the dark fate and lonely life that awaited him, until he met someone.

Yet even so, there was no warmth in his nature. He was not gentle or kind. He wanted to entangle with him to the point of mutual torment, to confine him tightly, to drag him down into the abyss and fall together into the endless depths.

But he wouldn’t.

Hello World.

You love the world.

I love you.