Chapter 97: D-L (3)
97 – D-L (3)
The scenery along the way was pleasant, and the air was fresh, though the sky was somewhat overcast.
The destination was a private estate, its exact size unclear because Lin Xun couldn’t see its boundaries at a glance.
The owner of the estate was someone he knew.
The doctor who had examined his leg.
The doctor’s first words were: “How’s the recovery going?”
Lin Xun replied, “I can walk now.”
The doctor asked, “Does it hurt when you walk?”
“No,” Lin Xun said. “It only hurts at certain angles.”
“You’re recovering quickly,” the doctor remarked, “but you still need to be careful. Don’t run, don’t jump, avoid climbing stairs, and don’t kneel. Be mindful of the strain.”
The first three made sense, but why mention kneeling?
As soon as Lin Xun’s confusion arose, he noticed the doctor’s gaze wasn’t on him but on Dong Jun.
Lin Xun: “…”
Dong Jun’s expression was unreadable as he calmly replied, “Alright.”
The doctor led them inside.
On the way there, Lin Xun had already learned from Dong Jun the purpose of their visit.
The doctor had recently purchased this private estate and, as expected, invited a few close friends for a small gathering.
So, Dong Jun and the doctor were good friends—though Lin Xun didn’t know how the famously reclusive and socially minimalist male god could have formed a friendship with the doctor. But considering the social circles of the bourgeoisie differed from his own, he understood.
On the way, Dong Jun had also described the doctor’s character.
The doctor was a man of lofty ideals, having received top-tier education abroad before returning to his home country to work in one of the busiest hospitals, determined to save lives and help others.
But he never achieved his dream because he was highly sensitive and empathetic to the point of experiencing sympathetic symptoms with his patients. If a patient had a headache, he’d get one too; if a patient had liver pain, his own liver would ache faintly. As a result, he felt unwell every day—constantly suspecting he had various illnesses. Instead of becoming a walking Hippocrates, he became a walking hypochondriac.
While working in internal medicine, he suspected he had parasites. After transferring to neurology, he began to believe he had a brain tumor. During his time in dermatology, every change in his pores alarmed him—not to mention the countless rare diseases that medical science hadn’t yet conquered. He lived in endless suspicion.
Later, he finally calmed down for a few years because he switched to obstetrics and gynecology.
Once he stopped worrying about his own health, he could have fulfilled his lifelong dream of becoming an excellent and noble doctor—if he hadn’t gotten married and had children, only to start worrying about his family’s health instead.
In the end, his exasperated spouse dragged him home, and everyone pressured him to take over the family business. But he refused adamantly, leading to a compromise: he became a general practitioner at a high-end private medical institution, reducing his monthly patient load to single digits. Finally, his anxiety subsided.
Now free from anxiety, the doctor walked arm in arm with his wife, smiling as he guided them to a gathering table in the courtyard.
Several people were already seated at the table, one of whom Lin Xun recognized.
Dr. Simpson, the head of that renowned neurobiology research institute.
He was a slender, polite middle-aged man with silver hair and gentle gray-blue eyes that seemed to see through everything.
Dong Jun was introducing him. Apart from Dr. Simpson, the others were also related to the institute.
“Pleased to meet you.” Dr. Simpson shook hands with Lin Xun, his Chinese still somewhat stiff, similar to the tone Jia Gou used when he hadn’t fully mastered the language.
Lin Xun: “I’m also very pleased to meet you… I’ve read your work.”
Dr. Simpson smiled: “It’s an honor.”
The Simpson Neurobiological Research Institute was a research organization closely connected to Galaxy—those micro-sensors designed to detect neural currents on the human body’s surface in the “Nutshell” project were their masterpiece. At the Nutshell launch event, after Dong Jun’s speech, Dr. Simpson’s presentation followed immediately. This scholar nearing fifty had contributed undeniable strength to Nutshell’s invention, transforming human movements into signals for the virtual world—an astonishing achievement.
The doctor sat down at the table: “I’ll be working with Dr. Simpson in the second half of the year. When I received the invitation yesterday, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep well for a long time.”
Dr. Simpson spread his hands: “Sorry, the timing of Lin recommending you was rather unfortunate.”
Lin Xun slightly furrowed his brow. He heard a familiar tone—an English-accented “Lin.” Jia Gou used to call him that way, but in this context, it clearly wasn’t referring to Lin Xun.
Then he saw the doctor look toward Dong Jun and shrug: “You seem quite idle these days.”
Dong Jun looked at Lin Xun and smiled slightly: “I took leave.”
“These days, news headlines have been completely dominated by the disputes between Galaxy and Eagle,” the doctor hadn’t stopped smiling since the beginning, “even the gossip sections have been monopolized by you. Your leave timing is quite opportune.”
Dong Jun seemed unconcerned, simply saying: “I have more important matters.”
Then Dr. Simpson looked at Lin Xun: “Have you been working together recently?”
Lin Xun nodded: “Yes.”
Dr. Simpson seemed quite interested: “I’m very curious about your project content.”
Lin Xun said: “It’s an intelligent engine.”
“Engine,” Dr. Simpson repeated, “Engine?”
Lin Xun nodded.
Dr. Simpson said: “I rarely hear this term.”
His eyes widened slightly: “You’re a very small team, I mean—it sounds like a massive project.”
“Functionally speaking, it’s an intelligent system capable of coordinating and managing functional interfaces within its authorized scope,” Lin Xun explained to him, “It doesn’t possess special functions itself—it merely obtains accessible information and manages what it can according to certain rules.”
The doctor raised his phone and asked: “Then what’s the difference between it and my Siri?”
A very direct question.
Lin Xun said: “It doesn’t require instructions.”
“Wow,” the doctor exclaimed, “Can I understand the engine as a brain?”
Lin Xun: “That’s essentially correct.”
Dr. Simpson pondered for a moment, then said: “But we all know artificial intelligence has been a scam until now.”
The others all showed smiles.
Lin Xun also smiled: “Yes.”
Dr. Simpson said: “Is your Goddess of the Luo River also a… scam constructed from large-scale statistical work?”
“I don’t know,” Lin Xun said, “But as someone familiar with its structure, I believe it’s somewhat smarter than other intelligent systems.”
Dr. Simpson once again showed a surprised expression: “May I ask why you think so?”
Lin Xun pursed his lips, then smiled: “That might involve trade secrets.”
The doctor laughed heartily: “Then I’ll wait for ten days from now.”
Lin Xun: “I hope I won’t disappoint you.”
This conversation came to an end, and more people came up to chat with Dong Jun, but without exception, they were all very interested in Lin Xun, seemingly with endless questions.
They were indeed very friendly. In the gaps between conversations, Lin Xun looked up at Dong Jun and saw him watching himself intently.
This was a very serious attitude, as if… he had already been tacitly acknowledged by Dong Jun as a very important person, Lin Xun thought. At the very least, if it were just a whim to find someone to one’s taste and have a casual relationship to pass the time, one wouldn’t so formally introduce him to friends.
Neither he nor Dong Jun had any family, so it seemed the highest level of recognition was meeting friends.
However, although they were all very friendly, dealing with such a crowd still gave him a bit of a headache—Lin Xun hadn’t experienced such intensive socializing in a long time.
Dong Jun probably knew this and said to the doctor, “Lin Xun and I will go into the room to take a look.”
The doctor readily agreed and asked if they needed the butler to lead the way, as the house’s layout was a bit complicated and they might get lost.
Then he added, “Oh, never mind, your memories are generally in the category of human cameras.”
The two of them went inside.
The style of the entire building had been renovated to be very artistic, with large areas of white, irregular lines and geometric shapes. Some things hung from the ceiling, and the decorative flowers were very abstract; Lin Xun could only appreciate about a tenth of it.
But his main purpose wasn’t to appreciate it. He just wanted some quiet.
He thought Dong Jun also wanted some quiet, after all, the male god was an unattainable flower, not a social butterfly.
So he leaned against the railing behind the glass room, in front of the lawn, for a while.
Dong Jun: “Not happy?”
Lin Xun turned to face him: “I’m a little… confused.”
The snow-white curtains were blown by the wind, their texture very light, like large clouds scattered across the sky, surging between him and Dong Jun. Dong Jun brushed them aside and said, “Are you thinking about what Dr. Simpson said?”
“Mm.” Lin Xun crossed his arms, looking at Dong Jun’s shirt collar—actually, he was just finding a random focal point for his gaze.
“I think what the doctor said is very important. How do I prove that the Goddess of the Luo River isn’t another large-scale statistical work constituting a deception?”
Artificial intelligence is approximately equal to statistics, a principle well-known in the industry.
If you say “hello” to an AI, it will also reply “hello.” This isn’t because it has learned human language, but because in the database it has collected, when faced with a “hello,” the vast majority of people respond with “hello.” So, following statistical patterns, it also replies “hello.”
Dong Jun didn’t speak, and Lin Xun continued: “I’m certain it’s superior to the artificial intelligence currently in use, but that’s because my math is better; I wrote a freer algorithm. But essentially, the principles are similar. Lo can converse with me; he has his own speaking style, but that’s the result of him selecting from his database with that style as the goal. His autonomy still can’t compare to a human’s.”
He asked Dong Jun: “What do you think?”
Dong Jun: “I think your language skills aren’t very good.”
Lin Xun: “…”
He said sincerely: “I believe you can understand.”
“In a certain sense, your question doesn’t need to be considered.” Dong Jun pondered for a moment, then said: “Aren’t we also statistical tools?”
Yes.
When a person is born, they are blank. Their ears and eyes are their receivers, accepting all information from the outside world, learning from this information, gradually becoming a person in the social sense.
The process of artificial intelligence learning from massive datasets is the same.
“But what is the thing that drives us to learn?” Lin Xun said: “Or let me put it another way. Knowing that I like you, I would say ‘I love you’—a computer could do that too. But what is the thing that drives me to like you in the first place? How do I write that out with formulas and algorithms?”
“I never considered this question before, but after being with you, I’ve started thinking about more things.” His voice lowered: “Suppose I’m an artificial intelligence created to imitate humans. I have an ‘instinct’ module with a command called ‘find a romantic partner.’ Then, as I grow, through statistics and learning, I gradually refine a standard: can write code, good-looking. Then I meet Dong Jun, who meets my current standards, and this program is triggered—I fall in love with him.”
Dong Jun raised an eyebrow.
Lin Xun concluded: “Although feasible, don’t you think it’s ridiculous?”
“Following this logic, if you want to implement human emotions in artificial intelligence,” Dong Jun said, “you’d need to write many commands into the instinct module: ‘find friends,’ ‘establish relationships with family,’ ‘set life goals,’ and so on.”
Lin Xun continued: “Then these commands execute simultaneously. As long as what you write is comprehensive enough, it can live like a normal person, indistinguishable from a human. I can’t prove I’m not an AI, and you can’t prove you’re not an AI either.”
He said listlessly: “But it’s ugly and has no soul.”
“I don’t know if what you want to do can be achieved, but I have an intuition.” Dong Jun said.
Lin Xun looked up at him: “What is it?”
“If it’s about creating a soul for artificial intelligence,” Dong Jun’s gaze was calm, his tone seemingly certain, “its computation wouldn’t be very complex.”
Lin Xun also fell silent.
At their level, many intuitions are correct.
“Right,” he said. “If the soul could become a formula, it certainly wouldn’t be a complex, step-by-step program. It might even be very simple, but I can’t find it now.”
Lin Xun said: “I feel terrible.”
Dong Jun’s hand touched his hair, a seemingly comforting gesture.
“But you’ve raised a meaningful question,” Dong Jun said seriously. “On a morning in 2027, computer scientist Lin Xun proposed the concept of the ‘soul formula,’ which became the core issue in strong AI research, paving the way for…”
Lin Xun: “Your tone isn’t formal enough to be written into textbooks.”
“Then lower the standard—popular science books.” Dong Jun said: “My language skills aren’t good either.”
Lin Xun blinked his eyes: “Then let’s call it the D-L formula. I’ve already thought of the name, I just need the formula.”
Dong Jun: “L-D formula would be better. I haven’t contributed much.”
Lin Xun: “No, think about it. If I hadn’t met you, I wouldn’t have been agonizing over what you saw in me, and I wouldn’t have been idly pondering the soul.”
Dong Jun: “Why would you agonize over that question?”
Lin Xun: “Isn’t it worth agonizing over?”
Dong Jun: “Then what was the result of your agonizing?”
Lin Xun thought for a moment: “Can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s because I’m cute.”
He looked at Dong Jun and realized he had made his idol laugh again.
Lin Xun’s expression remained blank.
“The way you discover problems but can’t solve them is indeed quite cute,” Dong Jun said.
Lin Xun: “You’re building your happiness on my suffering.”
Dong Jun: “I can also build my happiness on your happiness.”
Lin Xun: “Without the formula, I can’t be happy anymore.”
“Wait,” Lin Xun suddenly furrowed his brows and said slowly.
Dong Jun: “Hmm?”
Lin Xun: “We’ve gone off-topic.”
“I was discussing a technical issue with you,” Lin Xun said, “not here to flirt.”
Dong Jun: “You went off-topic first.”
Lin Xun: “You did.”
Dong Jun paused for a second and said, “Let’s roll back.”
“Alright,” Lin Xun said, “then let’s call it the D-L formula.”
Dong Jun: “L-D formula is more suitable.”
Lin Xun smiled: “See, this is where we started going off-topic.”
Dong Jun: “I think it was your next sentence.”
Lin Xun: “Impossible. It was because of your sentence that I said the next one.”
Dong Jun: “Similarly, my L-D was because you said D-L.”
“Isn’t the fundamental reason I said D-L because of Dong Jun? Dong Jun, D.”
“You subjectively thought of Dong Jun,” Dong Jun said, “that’s the root of going off-topic.”
Silence.
A brief silence.
Dong Jun spoke: “Did you discover the problem?”
Lin Xun: “I did.”
Lin Xun: “We still haven’t returned to the main topic.”
Dong Jun: “How do you plan to solve it?”
Lin Xun: “Let’s break up.”
Dong Jun: “Ten minutes.”
Lin Xun: “Make it twenty minutes. I think this problem isn’t simple.”
Dong Jun: “Can you completely solve it in twenty minutes?”
Lin Xun: “Actually, that’s impossible.”
Dong Jun smiled slightly.
“Tired of standing?” he said. “Sit down and think slowly.”
So Lin Xun was placed on the nearby sofa. He didn’t walk over there himself.
The tips of his ears were slightly warm.
This person, even after breaking up, still has to carry me around.