Chapter 75: Compression (2)

75 – Compression (2)

The tips of the ears were Zhi Zhen’s sensitive spots.

Whenever Lin Xun petted the cat and touched the tips of its ears, Zhi Zhen’s ears would perk up and it would back away. A few more touches, and it would try to bite.

When it came to Lin Xun himself, the situation was… actually the same.

At that moment, he couldn’t utter a single word and instinctively tightened his grip on Dong Jun’s hand.

But Dong Jun didn’t stop there.

His tongue pressed against Lin Xun’s earlobe, teasing it inch by inch. A fine, electric current radiated from his earlobe, spreading throughout his entire body. If he hadn’t bitten his lip, Lin Xun felt he would have gasped aloud. His whole body went soft.

Xue Xin’s voice came through the receiver: “Senior? Are you listening?”

“I’m listening, I…” Lin Xun only wanted to end the conversation quickly, but as soon as he spoke, Dong Jun’s arm wrapped around his waist. His tone immediately shifted, and he didn’t dare utter another word.

The clothes underneath were thin, and the warmth and sensation seeped through the fabric, making Lin Xun’s entire body tense up.

Compared to having his waist touched, Lin Xun would rather Dong Jun touch his earlobe.

Xue Xin: “Senior?”

A hand gripped his waist, sliding across it as if carelessly.

Lin Xun closed his eyes, trembling slightly.

—He hung up the call.

The moment the call ended, he let out a soft sigh, only to be flipped over and pressed against the office desk in the next instant.

His fingers were spread apart, pressed down, and intertwined with another’s, the backs of his hands pressed against the desk.

His body was restrained, and a fierce kiss followed—unrelenting, not gentle, but an invasion like a siege.

When he was finally released, Lin Xun gasped for breath. His body was still weak, oxygen-deprived, and everything before his eyes was slightly blurred.

He blinked a few times, and Dong Jun’s appearance finally came into focus.

The man looked at him, his eyelashes slightly lowered, his expression unreadable, as if he had done nothing at all.

Lin Xun felt he knew why this was.

He thought he should be a little angry, but facing Dong Jun’s face, he couldn’t muster any anger.

In the end, he could only say, “…You’re so annoying.”

Dong Jun remained in the same position, holding him, and leaned down to kiss the corner of his eye.

Lin Xun felt a bit ticklish and laughed, dodging slightly. “I didn’t plan to play with him.”

Dong Jun: “Mm.”

—Only then did the pressure on his waist ease slightly.

How could this person be like this?

Strangely, Lin Xun even found it a little endearing. He felt Dong Jun had become a bit more real.

He looked at Dong Jun.

Dong Jun looked back at him.

Their breaths mingled closely, and Lin Xun was pressed down again.

This time, the movements were gentler, but the position was far too dangerous.

When Lin Xun sensed a hint of something more, he turned his head with difficulty, gasping a few times.

He said, “This is the office…”

Dong Jun chuckled softly against his shoulder.

Lin Xun was pulled up and placed back in the chair.

Lin Xun studied Dong Jun—his pale, thin lips now had a hint of color, making him seem less human. His features suddenly came to life, danger lurking just beneath the surface, like a demon with a thousand years of cultivation or a monster with ten thousand years of power. If you closed your eyes, he would devour you whole in the next moment.

Lin Xun blinked.

A faint smile appeared in Dong Jun’s eyes. “…I’m not a beast.”

Lin Xun thought to himself, you certainly seemed like one just now.

Dong Jun picked up the glasses on the table and put them back on.

That somewhat obsessive and domineering aura was completely subdued by a pair of glasses, vanishing without a trace. But at the same time, his entire demeanor became distant again, reverting to that aloof, untouchable male god who paid no mind to worldly matters.

Lin Xun straightened his tie for him.

Xue Xin called again, but he hung up and sent a text message instead, explaining that he was currently unavailable to take calls and, due to various reasons such as project planning, had no intention of collaborating. Apologies, apologies.

Dong Jun: “Looking at the Goddess of the Luo River?”

“Mm.” Lin Xun turned his attention back to the screen.

After the earlier commotion on the desk, many documents had been disturbed—but the desktop was large enough that his computer remained unaffected.

“I think it’s a bit strange, smarter than I imagined. It’s not impossible that…” Just as he was speaking, Lin Xun frowned.

Before Xue Xin’s call came through, he had noticed a string of suspicious code and was about to investigate—he remembered clearly that he had left the cursor there.

But now, when he looked back, he found it was just an ordinary string of code, perfectly harmonious with the surrounding context.

He pursed his lips.

To be honest, it was somewhat expected.

“But it’s also not impossible that there are factors I haven’t discovered yet.” He finished his sentence in his usual tone.

Dong Jun: “So, have you reached a conclusion?”

“I have.” Lin Xun closed the interface. “It secretly learned from external sources.”

Dong Jun: “Impressive.”

“It is quite impressive…” Lin Xun muttered softly. “Even Dong Shen spent two hundred thousand to buy it.”

Dong Jun smiled deeply. “Just an investment. As for buying it outright… I’m afraid I can’t afford that.”

Lin Xun found it amusing too.

“After Ruan Zhi called me that day, I had already planned how to hire people and develop external features once I secured tens of millions in investment,” he said. “By today, according to the plan, the Goddess of the Luo River should have become a mature, multifunctional management system.”

“Compared to external features, I think the core of the Goddess of the Luo River is the most important thing,” Dong Jun said. “Just like how you are more important. I don’t really want to see you spending your energy on managing employees or developing those superficial features.”

“Now I won’t be spending my energy on that anymore.” Lin Xun looked at Dong Jun, feeling bolder. “I’ll spend my energy on dating you.”

Dong Jun laughed.

He said, “That’s an exception I can make.”

Lin Xun got up from him and returned to his own seat, asking, “What are we doing today?”

Dong Jun replied, “Let’s do some planning.”

And so they began.

Dong Jun at work once again refreshed Lin Xun’s understanding.

After three hours of discussion, a detailed schedule appeared before him, outlining tasks for the next twenty days, precise to a quarter of a day.

If Lin Xun hadn’t pointed out, “My teammates and I aren’t that strict with time,” he felt Dong Jun might have even broken it down to the hour.

Well.

The boss is the boss.

While planning together, others occasionally entered Dong Jun’s office—mostly for tasks like signing documents. At noon, they spent some intimate time together, and the afternoon passed in work. Lin Xun had to admit he had a highly productive afternoon.

As the workday neared its end, the task progress sheet was filled with checkmarks. Lin Xun stretched his joints.

Dong Jun poured him a cup of coffee: “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Lin Xun felt somewhat satiated, lazily drawing a few irregular straight lines on the paper: “I feel like I’ve returned to my student days.”

Dong Jun: “You seem like the type who starts reviewing on the last day before final exams.”

Lin Xun laughed.

That was the truth.

During his student years, he spent every day hanging around the mathematics and physics departments, attending lectures. Even if he only flipped through brand-new textbooks right before exams, he could still score around ninety.

Dong Jun: “Shall I take you home?”

“Hmm…” Lin Xun said.

Dong Jun: “Or you could come stay with me.”

“Not tonight,” Lin Xun replied: “All my things are still at home.”

Dong Jun leaned down and kissed his forehead: “Think about it.”

Lin Xun neither refused nor agreed.

In the car, he sent a message in the group chat.

Lin Suanfa: I’m heading home.

Wang Anquan: Don’t come back.

Zhao Jiagou: Don’t come back.

Lin Suanfa: ?

But the group chat fell silent, with no further replies.

Lin Xun: “?”

He felt a bit puzzled—Wang Anquan was one thing, but what was wrong with Zhao Jiagou? Had his stance changed drastically overnight?

He was sure something was off, which only strengthened his resolve to go back. Although, he really wanted to stay by Dong Jun’s side.

He held Dong Jun’s hand, said goodnight, and watched Dong Jun’s car drive away before carrying Zhi Zhen back to the third floor.

He knocked, but no one answered.

Lin Xun frowned—could it be that some demonic creature had invaded?

Without hesitation, he passed the fingerprint verification, and the door opened.

The living room was empty. There were takeout boxes on the table, and a few professional books were scattered messily on the sofa—everything looked as though someone had just been living there. Yet, the entire room was completely silent, with only the sound of his own footsteps.

Lin Xun’s heart immediately tightened.

He set the cat down and quickly walked to Zhao Jiagou’s room, which was closest to the entrance. The door wasn’t locked, and he opened it with a force almost like breaking it down, his eyes immediately landing on the computer desk where Zhao Jiagou usually played games.

The desktop computer screen was dark, and no one was in the chair.

Lin Xun’s heart raced violently.

However, the next moment, he saw something.

Lin Xun: “…”

He almost blurted out a curse word.

Against the wall near the door stood an oval-shaped, elegantly designed silver object, large enough to fit a person inside.

Lin Xun certainly recognized this thing.

Nut Shell.

The immersive full-body holographic experience pod developed by Galaxy.

His emotions swung wildly, and for a moment, he felt like he was about to faint. Taking a deep breath, he kicked the silver-white holographic pod.

A minute later, the pod lid slid open smoothly, and Zhao Jiagou’s golden-haired head peeked out. Then he sat up inside and looked at Lin Xun.

“You’re back.” Zhao Jiagou’s tone was indifferent: “I’m gaming. There’s food in the fridge, help yourself. I’m going back in.”

Lin Xun stared at him: “I thought you were dead.”

Zhao Jiagou: “Get lost.”

Lin Xun glanced at the Nut Shell again: “Did you take out a loan for this?”

“Your husband sent it,” Zhao Jiagou said: “Said it was a Children’s Day gift. He sent four.”

Alright.

One Nut Shell, and he immediately switched to calling him “your husband.”

He had overestimated Zhao Jiagou’s integrity after all.

Lin Xun sat down on a nearby chair: “Are they playing too?”

“Yes,” Zhao Jiagou replied: “I’m going to lie down now. You should go play too. I’ll add you as a friend.”

Lin Xun: “…Alright.”

Zhao Jiagou was true to his word. As soon as he finished speaking, he settled back into the Nut Shell, the hatch closed, and he lost all connection with the outside world.

Lin Xun thought that if an earthquake struck now, none of the three people in the house would be able to escape.

But then it occurred to him that if an earthquake did happen, scrambling around inside the building might not be any safer than staying inside the Nut Shell.

With Zhao Jiagou gone, the room once again fell into a graveyard-like silence, with only the faint hum of machinery around. Lin Xun turned and returned to his own room.

An identical Nut Shell lay beside his bed, and the instruction manual was on his desk. He opened it and read, discovering that this was not just any Nut Shell—it was the top-of-the-line model. The pricing for Nut Shells was tiered: the standard configuration cost two hundred thousand, and beyond that, the prices were practically limitless. The highest configuration listed on the official website was seven hundred thousand, and for custom orders, the price could be anything.

According to Zhao Jiagou, during his absence that day, Galaxy had delivered four top-of-the-line Nut Shells to them—this was likely the reason Zhao Jiagou had remained silent all day. He might have been completely won over, or perhaps he was pretending to be won over, his mind entirely captivated by the game, leaving him no time to go to Lin Xun and voice his opinions.

Never mind.

Lin Xun composed a message to Dong Jun, mainly to express his gratitude.

Beyond gratitude, there wasn’t much else he could offer—Dong Jun had just gifted them nearly four million worth of equipment, and Lin Xun couldn’t reciprocate with anything of comparable value unless Goddess of the Luo River succeeded a month later.

The message was sent, but there was no immediate reply—he knew it was because Dong Jun was driving.

Putting down his phone, he examined the elegant design of the Nut Shell, then followed the instructions in the manual and lay down inside the chamber. The silvery-white lid closed smoothly, and the moment it shut, all the faint sounds from the outside world receded like a tide, leaving him in a vacuum-like silence, his vision filled with a vast expanse of silvery white.

The mechanical device began to operate, securing his body in place. A faint current seemed to flow around him, spreading throughout his entire body, accompanied by an indescribable sensation. He knew this was the effect of the legendary tens of thousands of neural probes.

About five minutes later, a gentle mechanical female voice sounded from somewhere: “Configuration complete. Please cooperate to complete activation.”

A three-dimensional interface unfolded before his eyes, somewhat similar to the System Space. Lin Xun followed the system’s prompts to configure various options, register an account, and complete other necessary settings.

About five minutes later, the account creation was complete, and the interface before him suddenly changed.

After a momentary dizziness, the scene gradually cleared—it was a silvery-white cubic space, like a room. And he was no longer lying down but standing.

Lin Xun looked down. He was wearing the system-configured outfit—simple jeans and a white T-shirt with the Nut Shell logo on it. The fabric felt remarkably realistic. He took a few steps, feeling slightly light-footed, but he could indeed move freely within this space.

At the same time, the system’s female voice sounded again: “Welcome to the Nut Shell Space. Please read the operation guide.”

Lin Xun began to read.

The world inside the Nut Shell was divided into three parts.

One part is the “Nutshell Space” he is currently in, which is a private, home-like personal space for each user. Users can customize it according to their preferences—whether you want to live in a castle, a modern building, or even a cave like a caveman, it’s all possible. Of course, you can also invite other users to visit.

The second part, aside from this, is the community, designed to meet users’ social needs. This part requires little explanation, as human social interactions are limited to just a few types. However, the instructions specifically mention that, for various reasons, Nutshell strictly restricts physical contact between users. Intimate actions below the neck are not allowed, and if users insist on attempting them, the system will forcibly separate them.

The third and most important part is the gaming platform. Major game developers have set up shop here, allowing users to enter various games designed by them through Nutshell and experience the joy of full-immersion virtual reality gaming.

Due to technical challenges, there are currently only a handful of games available on the platform. However, it’s easy to imagine that in the coming years, they will sprout like mushrooms after rain, building a vast ecosystem of full-immersion games.

Lin Xun wasn’t particularly interested in games. He adjusted a few settings, turning his personal space into a spaceship, adopted a white cat as a pet, and began petting the cat while sitting in the spacecraft.

This theme suited his aesthetic perfectly—a sleek silver-white structure, the spaceship drifting slowly through an endless sea of stars, with eternal starlight washing over him as if he were in a sci-fi film about a long voyage.

The texture of the cat’s fur under his hand felt quite realistic, very much like Zhi Zhen’s. However, virtual products lacked the liveliness of real creatures, and their reactions were mechanical—for example, purring at a specific frequency when its neck was scratched, making another sound when its ears were touched, and following closely along the path you walked after being set down.

The butler NPC—a silver-haired, blue-eyed little girl—also exhibited this state. Her appearance was incredibly lifelike, on par with the highest-quality CGI, and her interactive movements and speech were highly flexible. But—you could still tell she wasn’t a real person, as a true artificial intelligence system had yet to emerge.

After analyzing all the parts that interested him, Lin Xun received a friend request from Zhao Jiagou and added both Wang Anquan and Jiang Lian to his friend list.

The friend list showed that Zhao Jiagou and Jiang Lian were both in games, while Wang Anquan was in the social area.

Lin Xun selected the option “Invite Friend to Home.”

After tapping it, a response popped up: “Friend ‘PHP Is the Best’ has accepted your invitation.”

Five seconds later, a silver glow appeared beside him. When the glow faded, a figure emerged.

A handsome man with silver hair, a black trench coat, black sunglasses, and a tall, slender figure.

Lin Xun stared at him for three seconds before bursting into laughter.

“Impressive,” he said. “Your makeover is a huge success.”

The handsome man, “PHP Is the Best,” took off his sunglasses and sat down beside him, gazing out the porthole at the stars. The scene was beautiful, poetic, and Lin Xun almost felt like applauding.

But the moment Wang Anquan spoke, the lovely atmosphere was completely shattered.

Wang Anquan: “What kind of ridiculous name is that?”

Lin Xun glanced at his own name: “A Lively Maxwell’s Demon.”

He: “Just picked it randomly. What kind of dog name is yours?”

Wang Anquan argued with conviction: “I just started playing this game, so my skills are definitely rusty, and I’ll probably get yelled at by teammates. So I named myself ‘PHP Is the Best in the World.’ That way, after I mess up, my teammates will remember my name and start discriminating against the PHP language, thinking everyone who uses it is a noob.”

Lin Xun applauded his convoluted thought process and his relentless crusade against PHP.

He didn’t continue the topic. Instead, he gazed at the virtual starry sky, then glanced at the NPC butler standing nearby. Her snow-white puffy dress looked as soft as clouds in the sky. Lin Xun said, “I think it feels pretty realistic.”

Wang Anquan: “Maybe that’s what top-tier equipment feels like.”

Lin Xun didn’t respond.

Wang Anquan: “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m thinking about a question,” Lin Xun said, slowing his voice a little. “How can we be sure that the real world we live in isn’t another virtual reality?”

Wang Anquan: “You’re just overthinking it.”

Lin Xun: “I’m not overthinking it. I’m serious. Do you remember the brain in a vat? And self-awareness? We took that philosophy course for credits back then, and it covered that.”

“You got a seventy-two in that class,” Wang Anquan said. “I got a ninety, so in front of you, I’m a philosopher.”

“Philosopher Wang, what’s your take on this question?” Lin Xun asked sincerely.

“This question doesn’t even need philosophy. I can debunk it right now,” Wang Anquan said.

Lin Xun: “Go ahead.”

Wang Anquan stretched out his hand and stared at it. First, he looked at the back of his hand with faint bluish veins, then at his palm with shallow lines. It felt real, but some parts lacked detail, appearing too smooth—like the perfectly shaped nails and the skin so smooth and delicate it could belong to a top hand model.

“The technology is almost top-tier,” Wang Anquan said, “but it still feels pretty fake. If they wanted to make it completely realistic—like adding an old scar here or a pimple there—the technical requirements would be even higher.”

Lin Xun: “Mm.”

As he spoke, a can of Coke materialized out of thin air in Wang Anquan’s palm. He pulled the tab, and after the distinct fizzing sound of carbonated drinks, he poured the Coke out—right onto the floor.

The dark liquid spread evenly across the floor, forming a large puddle before seeping through the gaps in the alloy floor panels. The scene, though lifelike, lacked the layered texture unique to the real world, feeling somewhat rubbery.

Immediately after, Wang Anquan crushed the can with his hand—it crumpled into a ball of tin, the design on the surface squeezed and distorted, the body covered in folds.

“This isn’t a 3D game; it’s holographic—think about the computational power needed for the physics of just this one can,” Wang Anquan said. “The physics feedback here is all at this level. NutShell has nearly a hundred million units in use globally now. How many supercomputers would it take to handle that kind of computational load?”

Lin Xun thought for a moment and smiled. “Quite a few, I guess.”

If it were an ordinary machine, and you wanted to use it to create a holographic model of that hand from earlier—sorry, all it could give you would be a crash or a blank screen. For computations of that magnitude, you’d need a supercomputer, and not just one—and everyone knows the cost of supercomputers is astronomical.

“So only Galaxy or Eagle can afford the operating costs, and even then, what we’re seeing still looks pretty fake,” Wang Anquan said. “If this holographic world were so realistic that you had to think philosophically to figure out whether it was real or not, just imagine the technical difficulty.”

Lin Xun gazed at the starry sky and sighed in confusion.

“Even if it’s technically feasible, the construction costs would be astronomical. How much money would that even take?” Wang Anquan concluded decisively: “Let me tell you, not even ten Galaxies could withstand burning through funds like that.”

Lin Xun: “You’re right… I need to think of another approach.”

Wang Anquan: “What?”

Lin Xun: “…Never mind. I’m starting to regret not paying more attention in that philosophy class.”

Wang Anquan patted his shoulder: “Don’t question life, young man. You’ve got a cat, a career, and a husband—you’re practically a winner at life.”

Lin Xun: “Why aren’t any of you even slightly surprised about my sexual orientation? I don’t think society is that open yet.”

“Save it,” Wang Anquan said. “We know exactly what you’re like.”

Lin Xun raised an eyebrow: “What am I like?”

“You just like people who are better than you,” Wang Anquan replied. “So I deduce that not only do you have a crush on your idol, but you’re also a bottom.”

Lin Xun: “.”

He tapped the option to kick Wang Anquan out of his home: “I’m so disappointed in you.”

In the last second before disappearing, Wang Anquan struggled to speak: “Then refute me.”

—If he could refute it, would he have kicked him out of his home? Wang Anquan clearly didn’t understand this logic.

Lin Xun continued to face the starry sky, pondering life.