Chapter 99: D-L (5)
99 – D-L (5)
The corridor outside was empty.
Lin Xun instinctively used the Heavenly Eye technique. In the void, a string of code swiftly flashed past, disappearing into the corner of his vision. He hurried over, placing his fingers on the railing, and saw a flickering black shadow rapidly vanish at the end of the staircase, moving at a speed so frantic it almost felt unreal to him.
He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination.
A hand gently rested on his shoulder. The familiar touch didn’t trigger any instinctive alarm—it was Dong Jun.
Dong Jun asked, “What’s wrong?”
Lin Xun thought for a moment before speaking up, “Did you… see something pass by here just now?”
Dong Jun frowned slightly.
Lin Xun added, “A… black shadow. Moving very fast.”
“No,” Dong Jun replied. “Did you see something? The security system didn’t alert anything.”
Lin Xun didn’t press further.
So far, every demonic creature he had encountered had come straight for him. He had never seen one flee after just a brief encounter.
He looked toward the end of the spiral staircase—a floating structure that connected the floors from top to bottom. Below might be an underground garage, a wine cellar, or something else entirely.
Dong Jun walked over to stand beside him.
Since Dong Jun hadn’t seen anything, Lin Xun didn’t want to disturb his perception with these supernatural matters. He said, “It must have been my imagination. Maybe this place is just too quiet.”
Dong Jun asked, “Haven’t you been resting well lately?”
Lin Xun shook his head. “Weren’t you watching me sleep?”
Dong Jun replied, “Your reaction just now was intense.”
It really had been quite intense.
Lin Xun clearly remembered the scene—his own shadow cast on the floor, and at that moment, a mass of blackness lunged from behind his shadow, as if something had attacked him from behind. His instinctive reaction, of course, was to turn and face it, then go out to investigate.
But putting himself in Dong Jun’s shoes, the action must have seemed strange.
And Dong Jun said he hadn’t seen anything. That was understandable—Dong Jun wasn’t a Cultivation practitioner. But at the same time, the system had remained completely silent, as if dead. Usually, the system was highly proactive in issuing tasks. Generally, as soon as a demonic creature appeared, the mechanical voice would immediately chime in, assigning him a mission.
Was it really an illusion?
But this place was far from ordinary.
Well, with Dong Jun following him, it wasn’t a good time to go down and investigate.
Lin Xun felt like he was playing the part of a ghost from a Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio story, hiding some secret and trying his best to conceal his true identity, not wanting Dong Jun to discover he wasn’t an ordinary person.
He blinked, attempting to brush it off.
Dong Jun’s gaze followed the direction Lin Xun had been looking earlier.
In the silent building, a draft swept through from somewhere, perhaps from a floor-to-ceiling window on one of the levels, its mournful howl echoing through the space.
“It’s a bit eerie,” Lin Xun said. “Let’s go out.”
Dong Jun turned and headed toward one side of the corridor. Lin Xun followed, stealing glances at Dong Jun’s back as he walked.
Dong Jun hadn’t pressed further about the earlier question. Lin Xun had expected him to. Many things today felt oddly off.
In truth, there were many things about Dong Jun that Lin Xun hadn’t pressed about either.
He quietly curved the corner of his lips.
Just as he was thinking this, Dong Jun turned his head.
Dong Jun asked, “What are you smiling about?”
Lin Xun quickly wiped the expression from his face. “I was just thinking how good-looking you are.”
Dong Jun’s gaze swept over him briefly as he reached out to support him, guiding him downstairs.
The sunlight on the lawn was warm, and Lin Xun felt that the strange chill he had picked up inside the house was now being offset by the sun outside.
The gathering area was divided into many small tables. The doctor and Dr. Simpson sat together, surrounded by their other colleagues. Lin Xun observed quietly, feeling that these people had already turned the gathering into a high-end academic conference.
Dong Jun, however, was not focused on that. He was wholly dedicated to feeding Lin Xun, only occasionally chiming in with a word or two.
The topic of their conversation was the concept behind Nutshell 2.0.
Unlike the 1.0 version, which focused on gameplay and was slightly more expensive, 2.0 would be divided into several models tailored for professional fields. By reducing some visual and experiential effects, it would significantly lower costs, making it more accessible to the general public. One of these fields was healthcare—there are many patients worldwide who are unable to walk or are bedridden for long periods. By connecting to Nutshell, they might be able to experience a normal life in the virtual world. Existing data also suggests that the mutual conversion of neural signals between the human brain, limb extremities, and the Nutshell receiver could, to some extent, stimulate the organs themselves—potentially holding significant medical implications.
The implications were indeed significant, but the challenges were equally daunting.
Nutshell 1.0’s ability to translate activities in the human brain into actions in the virtual world didn’t rely solely on reading neural signals from the brain. In fact, only one-quarter of the process involved reading brain signals, while the remaining three-quarters captured signals from subtle movements of the limbs. Combined, these two aspects allowed the user’s intentions to be projected almost perfectly into the holographic world. But what if the person lying in the Nutshell was a patient with full-body paralysis?
Thus, the technical challenge for Nutshell 2.0 was how to achieve a comprehensive method of “reading the brain.”
Lin Xun listened intently until the doctor asked him, “What are you thinking?”
“I have a question, but it’s very unprofessional,” Lin Xun said, using his usual opening line.
He had discovered this while gaming. Under normal circumstances, losing a match would lead to teammates mocking him. However, if he started by saying to his randomly matched teammates, “I’m so scared, QAQ,” the likelihood of being scolded would drop significantly. If they won, his teammates would praise him; if they lost, they wouldn’t blame him too harshly—provided his in-game character wasn’t unattractive.
So, when discussing professional topics with others, he would also start with, “I’m very unprofessional.”
The doctor replied, “I wasn’t expecting you to ask professional questions anyway.”
Lin Xun smiled.
After smiling, he said, “If the ‘brain-reading’ technology is fully realized, would it mean… all activities in the human brain could be represented externally as electrical signals?”
The doctor said, “That’s extremely difficult, but theoretically, yes.”
Lin Xun continued, “And then those electrical signals could be converted into signals that a computer can recognize.”
The doctor nodded, “Exactly.”
“Then, if I think in my mind, ‘123456789 x 987654321,’ upload that signal, feed it to a computer, and the computer sends the result back to my brain, would my brain essentially gain an extension in computational power? The same goes for things like memory.”
The doctor looked at him seriously. “I recall you work in artificial intelligence.”
Lin Xun nodded, “Yes.”
“You should be thinking about how to make computers more like humans, not making humans more like computers.” The doctor patted his head. “Young man, your ideas are dangerous.”
Lin Xun swatted the doctor’s hand away. “Actually, those two problems are one and the same.”
The doctor asked, “How so?”
“If a computer’s operations could fully simulate the activities of the human brain, then human brain activity could also be reflected in computer operations,” Lin Xun explained. “I think this is a topic worth discussing.”
The doctor shooed him away. “This has nothing to do with today’s theme. Go talk to Dong Jun about it.”
Then, turning to Dong Jun, he added, “Keep him in check.”
Dong Jun merely smiled faintly.
Lin Xun pouted.
Then Dong Jun said, “You want to do it? We can consider it after finishing the Goddess of the Luo River.”
“That won’t do,” the doctor chimed in again. “Ethics—both issues involve ethical controversies. I’ve always wondered why genetic experiments spark widespread social debate, but no one criticizes artificial intelligence.”
Lin Xun retorted, “You’re being unprofessional too. Our field hasn’t advanced to the point where we need to discuss ethics yet.”
The doctor asked, “What if you actually succeed?”
Lin Xun replied, “I was just talking casually.”
He continued, “It’ll probably take at least another hundred years before something like that can be realized.”
The doctor said earnestly, “Then you should focus on managing the Goddess of the Luo River properly and stop thinking about these far-fetched ideas. Be good.”
Dong Jun said expressionlessly, “Don’t be harsh with him.”
“You shouldn’t spoil him either,” the doctor countered. “Look, you let him go out on his own, and he ended up breaking his leg. If you let him pursue strange research, something might happen again.”
Lin Xun: “?”
Why bring up his leg again?
His leg was already healed, really.
Ignoring the doctor, he picked up his phone and sent a message in the group chat, marking the location’s address and saying there might be demons here, suggesting close monitoring.
The senior responsible for daily surveillance of the Zhou Tian Xing Dou Grand Array replied with an “ok” emoji.
The rest of the activities proceeded normally. After the gathering, the estate had many places to explore—what could be summed up as the joys of the wealthy. However, Lin Xun played absentmindedly, constantly watching for any traces of demons. Unfortunately, the entire day passed with an infuriatingly uneventful calm.
As they were leaving, under the setting sun, he took one last look at the snow-white estate.
“Sometimes I feel like this world is strange,” he said.
Dong Jun also glanced back and replied calmly, “What’s strange about it?”
Lin Xun said, “It’s hard to put into words.”