Chapter 71: Artificial Stupidity (7)
71 – Artificial Stupidity (7)
He didn’t use much force, just gave a gentle tug.
Dong Jun’s fingers didn’t move.
Lin Xun looked up at him, a hint of caution in his gaze.
As he raised his head, he found himself staring into a pair of deep, dark eyes.
Dong Jun slowly returned the grip, his movements unhurried, but in the end, he held on tightly.
Lin Xun softened his voice and said, “I’ll go to bed early from now on.”
“Hmm?” Dong Jun leaned closer, blocking the light from the desk lamp. Lin Xun’s vision suddenly darkened.
Dong Jun’s tone was calm as he remarked, “You’ve said that before.”
Lin Xun fell silent, not daring to utter another word. He looked into Dong Jun’s eyes, feeling a slight urge to shrink back.
Dong Jun said, “Don’t be afraid.”
Lin Xun replied, “I’m not afraid.”
To prove he wasn’t afraid, he gently scratched Dong Jun’s fingers.
Dong Jun said, “Don’t mess around.”
Lin Xun thought, “?”
Then what should I do?
He said, “I’m not messing around.”
Just then, Dong Jun smiled, removed his hand, and gently kissed his forehead. Then—without doing anything else—he simply asked, “Are you hungry?”
Lin Xun said, “Yes.”
When he left home, he had only hastily eaten a little breakfast before sleeping for nine hours straight. Anyone would be hungry after that.
Dong Jun said, “Your health isn’t great. There’s porridge cooking in the kitchen. Do you want anything else?”
Lin Xun shook his head. “No.”
He had no particular requirements or preferences when it came to food—anything edible was fine.
Dong Jun said, “Alright.”
Having fainted in someone else’s car earlier, it almost felt like he was trying to scam them. Lin Xun felt a bit embarrassed and thought it was somewhat inappropriate. He decided to get up from the bed first.
Before he could act on it, Dong Jun asked, “Drink some water first?”
Reason told Lin Xun he should decline, but the word “okay” slipped out first.
Dong Jun smiled.
A small robot approached, carrying a glass of water.
Dong Jun took the glass from the robot’s tray.
“It’s not ice water,” he said. “I don’t think your current condition is suitable for that.”
Lin Xun said, “Thank you.”
Dong Jun brought the glass closer.
Lin Xun took it—though in truth, Dong Jun had already brought it to his hand, as if treating him like someone incapable of taking care of themselves.
Lin Xun wasn’t incapacitated. After drinking the water, he even felt like he had fully recovered.
Dong Jun took the empty glass back.
The care was almost too meticulous—he had never received this kind of treatment even from Lin Ting. Lin Xun said, “I…”
Dong Jun looked at him.
He took a moment to gather his words. “I’m not quite used to this.”
Dong Jun smiled.
Just then, Zhi Zhen began stepping all over him.
The animal’s fluffy paws moved back and forth, tickling Lin Xun and making him laugh.
Then, it was picked up by Dong Jun.
Zhi Zhen’s ice-blue eyes were full of innocence as it let out a soft “Meow.”
Lin Xun reached out and patted its head, confirming that this was a Zhi Zhen with an empty program frame—its behavior was beyond reproach, just like any gentle and beautiful little cat.
After petting it, he asked Dong Jun, “How old is it?”
Dong Jun replied, “Six years old.”
“But it’s still so small,” Lin Xun glanced at Zhi Zhen’s size. “So it must be a rare breed.”
Dong Jun gently pressed his fingers against the back of Zhi Zhen’s neck. The cat curled up in his arms, its eyes fixed on Lin Xun but slightly narrowed, emitting a soft purr from its throat—clearly enjoying its owner’s touch.
“Actually, I don’t know either,” Dong Jun said calmly. “It was a stray when it was very young.”
Lin Xun: “And then you found it?”
Dong Jun: “Mm.”
Lin Xun: “I want to find a cat too.”
Dong Jun’s voice was soft: “If you want one, you can take care of Zhi Zhen.”
When this person deliberately lowered his voice, the impact was almost enough to make one faint. Slightly hoarse, with a velvet-like texture, like wine, soaking the auditory nerves.
And the content of his words could almost be called sweet talk—only when Lin Xun thought of this did he realize a fact: now, he and Dong Jun were interacting with the purpose of dating, not with the purpose of being friends.
He shifted his gaze and changed the subject.
“I think I’m pretty much recovered,” he said. “After dinner, I’ll have my roommate come pick me up.”
Dong Jun: “And then I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning?”
Lin Xun: “.”
He: “Alright then.”
Before Dong Jun could speak, he added: “I’ll try not to cause you any trouble.”
Dong Jun: “I don’t recommend you spend tonight with the mindset of a guest.”
“Adjusting to a change in identity takes time.” Lin Xun said: “Right now, I’m like someone who just learned about matrices—you can’t expect me to decipher lattice-based cryptography…”
As he spoke, he felt the direction of this conversation was off.
Why had he unconsciously started arguing with Dong Jun?
The next second, something he hadn’t expected happened—Dong Jun argued back.
Dong Jun: “I thought your learning ability was sufficient for you to manage that.”
Lin Xun: “You overestimate me.”
Dong Jun set Zhi Zhen aside.
Dong Jun looked at him.
Lin Xun blinked.
Dong Jun’s tone was very cold—in fact, due to his voice quality, his tone was always cold in his normal state.
Dong Jun: “I can give you three minutes to adjust.”
Lin Xun: “That’s no different from asking me to solve an NP-complete problem in three minutes.”
Dong Jun didn’t speak.
One second, two seconds, three seconds.
At the thirtieth second, Lin Xun: “I’m a little hungry.”
Dong Jun glanced at him lightly: “Eat here or in the dining room?”
Lin Xun looked at this ambiguous environment—outside the window, dusk was deepening, and only a night light was on in the dim room.
He: “The dining room.”
Dong Jun: “Then get up.”
So Lin Xun got up.
In the meantime, Dong Jun seemed to press a button on the wall—the night light turned off, and the main room light came on, casting a warm yellow glow that revealed the room’s full appearance—a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony, and a simple, beautiful rectangular lampshade.
The light beige wooden floor, the room’s decor primarily white, with some fixtures in light gray. Beyond a faintly visible glass door seemed to be the bathroom.
On the wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows was a ceiling-high bookshelf integrated with a computer desk. The silver-white desktop computer was sleek and streamlined, and the case had a futuristic shape. Lin Xun had seen advertisements for this model—it was priced so high that even selling the Goddess of the Luo River wouldn’t cover it.
On the remaining side of the room, there was a bar counter, along with a refrigerator and wine cabinet embedded in the wall.
Overall, it was a room with clean lines and an open feel. There were no inexplicable corners, no circles, ellipses, wavy lines, or similar patterns, and certainly no messy crystal chandeliers or floral decorations—from every angle, it suited Lin Xun’s aesthetic perfectly, almost like his dream room.
“The guest room,” Dong Jun said. “I thought you’d like this style.”
As he spoke, Lin Xun had just stood up, and Dong Jun fastened the first button below his collar for him.
Lin Xun: “Are all the guest rooms in your house like this?”
“After all, as you know,” Dong Jun said, “I’m not exactly short on money.”
Lin Xun: “Now I think you’re being a bit modest.”
“So you prefer a more extravagant style? Galaxy holds stakes in several real estate groups. If you’re interested…”
“Let’s not,” Lin Xun declined. “This is just fine.”
Dong Jun smiled faintly.
Dinner was simple. Dong Jun didn’t seem like the type to step into a kitchen, so it was undoubtedly the product of an automated kitchen assembly line. Yet, Lin Xun found it surprisingly suited his taste.
The after-dinner activity likely involved touring Dong Jun’s house—mainly the high-tech devices, most of which hadn’t appeared on the market yet—like the panoramic virtual walls.
Beyond that, this simply structured three-story villa, composed of white and glass, felt incredibly empty.
Apart from Zhi Zhen and Zhi Zhen’s small pot of cat grass, there were no other living beings.
When night fell, perhaps a hint of lonely emptiness would settle in.
So, they had to do something to dispel that loneliness—Lin Xun held Zhi Zhen and watched Dong Jun optimize the overall structure of the Goddess of the Luo River for three hours.
—Amid the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard, at ten o’clock, he actually felt sleepy again.
He said sincerely, “You write code like you’re playing the piano.”
“Thank you.” Dong Jun closed the Glax and looked at him. “You seem about to fall asleep.”
“Maybe,” Lin Xun said. “But I just slept for nine hours. I feel like going to sleep now would be a waste of life.”
Dong Jun raised an eyebrow. “I permit you to waste life.”
“I don’t permit it,” Lin Xun said. “Just now, watching what you were working on, I had some new ideas. I wanted to discuss them with you.”
Dong Jun: “You can discuss anything you want in your dreams.”
Lin Xun: “…”
“You can’t do this,” he said the moment he was escorted out of the study. “You’re like a dictator.”
Dong Jun: “I never said I wasn’t.”
Lin Xun: “…”
Perhaps because the two of them had been silent for too long, the hallway lights gradually dimmed.
Dong Jun: “Will you accompany me to work tomorrow?”
Lin Xun: “…Mm.”
Dong Jun: “Good night.”
Lin Xun looked up at him. “…Good night.”
Neither of them moved.
After a long while, Dong Jun spoke: “Have you adjusted now?”
Lin Xun lowered his eyes. In the silence, he could hear the sound of breathing.
After five seconds of stillness, he leaned in and gently kissed a stray strand of hair by Dong Jun’s ear.
“A goodnight kiss,” he mumbled, perhaps feeling he’d still chickened out.
He heard Dong Jun chuckle softly—a low, breathy sound.
“I didn’t know the object of a goodnight kiss was hair.”
“…Now you know.”
The next moment, Dong Jun leaned down slightly, lifting Lin Xun’s chin with one hand. His lips were gently captured—an intimate contact, though not intense, even tender. Yet Dong Jun still held the dominant position, causing Lin Xun to go weak all over from lack of oxygen, just like before.
The light kiss didn’t last long—perhaps ten seconds, perhaps thirty. He was released—his sense of time became muddled. Maybe this was relativity.
Dong Jun: “Now you know too.”
Lin Xun: “…Thank you, Teacher Dong.”
Finally sent back to his room, the moment he closed the door, he leaned against it and let out a soft sigh.
Who could withstand this?
But he still had to endure it.
Beauty could cloud the mind, but intelligence must not be lost.
While on a voice call with Zhao Jiagou, expressing his chaotic emotions, he also tapped away in his notes app.
“We insisted on achieving true freedom, absolutely refusing to fall into the trap of love, to let another individual manipulate our emotions and thoughts. Yet you still failed to uphold that—you didn’t even come home last night. Foolish, Algorithm, you’ve ended up at this point after all.” Jia Gou’s voice came through the headphones.
Lin Xun: “I have no choice. I’m certain that if things continue like this, I’ll completely fall in love with him within three days.”
“Do you even know what love is? You can’t say that so lightly, Algorithm, you’re still young.”
Lin Xun: “As if you know.”
“You don’t know more than I do,” Zhao Jiagou said. “So how did you conclude that you’re about to completely fall in love with him?”
Lin Xun typed the final period, closed the “Suspicious Points” folder, and stared blankly into space: “Skills require training to acquire. No matter how talented someone is, their knowledge doesn’t appear out of thin air.”
Zhao Jiagou: “That’s common sense.”
Lin Xun: “So I’m jealous. You can’t imagine how I feel right now—I’m really upset.”
Zhao Jiagou: “Hmm?”
Lin Xun: “My eyes are turning red. Right now, I just want to know who he learned all these flashy tricks from, and I have a prime suspect.”
He waited for Jia Gou’s response, only to be met with a cold, emotionless tone.
“Beep—”
Zhao Jiagou hung up the call, probably feeling there was no further need to speak with Lin Xun.