Chapter 489: 477: Buffer Protocol

Chapter 489: Chapter 477: Buffer Protocol

The root of the problem was now clear.

The soul had operated at triple speed for thirty in-game days, whereas the physical body had only experienced ten. The discharge rhythm of neural synapses and the feedback loop of muscle memory were all stuck on the “older version” from ten days prior.

This frequency mismatch left the physical body unable to respond in time, triggering a rejection response that screamed, “This is not my body.”

When a “fast-forwarded” soul attempted to reconnect with a physical vehicle that had been left idling for ten days, the accelerator, brakes, and steering wheel all felt foreign and sluggish.

“Cognitive dissonance, identity displacement…”

Allen’s fingertips swiped across the light screen, highlighting several key terms.

“This is consciousness jet lag,” he concluded, officially defining the phenomenon.

More questions surfaced in its wake. Would this “jet lag” worsen the longer the consciousness remained digitized? If downloaded a year later, would the rejection be so severe that the soul became utterly incompatible with the body?

These questions directly impacted the ultimate viability of his Consciousness Upload project.

His future goal was to upload his soul entirely into the Allen Network, achieving immortality through a Golem. If returning to his original, carbon-based body triggered such violent rejection, the issues would only magnify a thousandfold when switching to a non-carbon-based vessel.

This was not the first hurdle he had encountered.

He had previously hit a bottleneck when trying to conquer “upload damage”—the challenge of ensuring no information was lost when digitizing the soul.

Through massive data analysis, he had discovered that the stability of a human soul often dangled by a single, slender thread known as an “obsession.”

Deep within everyone’s soul lay an “obsession chain,” a network with the most profound memory acting as the core node, radiating outward to connect all secondary memories. It could be love for a family member, hatred for an enemy, or an extreme craving for a specific goal. Just as a vegetative patient might awaken to a familiar call, the memory network of the soul required a “thread” to guide it.

Based on this, he had written the Obsession Encapsulation Protocol. During upload, the obsession chain served as the framework, anchoring all memory data to this line to ensure lossless conversion.

For himself, the thread of this obsession chain was the “origin of humanity” sealed within the Humanity Operator.

This same logic had also solved the issue of “anchor drift.” The obsession itself was the strongest self-identifier, ensuring the soul wouldn’t be assimilated by the torrent of data.

Now, facing the problem of consciousness jet lag, Allen’s mental sub-threads spun at high speed, formulating a solution.

Since the issue lay in the desynchronization of the soul and the body’s “clocks,” wouldn’t it be solved by adding a “jet lag buffer” before downloading the soul back into the flesh?

He just needed to gradually lower the soul’s operating frequency to realign it with the body’s biorhythms. It was like returning to the plains from a high altitude and needing to spend time in a hyperbaric chamber to adjust.

“Jarvis.”

[Here, Commander.]

“Based on the existing model, construct a Soul-Body Synchronization Buffer Protocol.

“The core logic of the protocol: introduce a pre-link phase before executing the consciousness download,” Allen instructed, his new concept taking shape in an instant. “First, read the real-time physiological data of the target body to establish a physical clock baseline.

“Then, micro-adjust the consciousness, gradually dialing back the soul’s mental frequency until it is fully synchronized with the body.

“The entire process should simulate a real-world sleep-wake cycle. Enforce a hibernation period to let the soul adapt to the new sense of time, and then execute the final download command.”

[Command received. Constructing protocol model…]

“Very good.”

Allen nodded slightly, shifting his gaze to the real-time feed of Sword Art Online.

In the few minutes he had been speaking with Jarvis, the red light representing the boss of the ninety-third floor had dimmed.

After their initial panic and stagnation, the frontline assault team had ultimately rallied under the crack of a whip named “survival.” To return to reality, they had paved a bloody path with their lives.

[Reporting to the Commander. In the past 72 hours, 403 new player casualties have been recorded in the game. These are primarily concentrated in the boss raids against the Abyssal Worm on the ninety-second floor and the Gargoyle Legion on the ninety-third floor.]

Fresh experimental subjects had voluntarily laid themselves on the operating table.

“Jarvis, execute the second batch of the rescue plan.

“The target: the 403 newly deceased players. Execute the Soul-Body Synchronization Buffer Protocol and recalibrate their clocks.”

[Command confirmed.]

…

“It’s a scam again! They just want to hide the patients!”

“My husband is in there! They won’t let me see him!”

Conspiracy theories ran rampant across the spiritual communication network. King William’s reputation had plummeted to freezing point, and rumors of the Duke of the North amassing private troops were practically an open secret.

Three days later, on what was the fourteenth day in the real world, the hospital doors slowly creaked open.

Four hundred and three “recovered patients” walked out, met by the mixed gazes of suspicion, anticipation, and fear from their families.

There was no madness, no abnormalities. They were merely a bit pale, their eyes holding the lingering confusion of someone freshly awoken. But the moment they spotted the familiar faces of their loved ones in the crowd, that confusion was swiftly replaced by excitement and joy.

“Daddy!” a seven- or eight-year-old girl dashed toward a middle-aged man.

The man knelt and hugged his daughter tightly, tears instantly spilling over. He could clearly feel her body heat and smell the faint fragrance of her hair. His own arms, his own body—everything felt so real, so perfectly attuned.

After a brief silence, the space outside the hospital was utterly submerged in a tidal wave of cries and cheers.

“They’re back! They’re really back!”

Upon receiving the latest news, King William finally breathed a sigh of relief. Three days ago, Lord Allen Wesren had sent word that he had found a solution to the “aftereffects” and would be “rescuing” another four hundred or so players.

As expected, there was nothing a Wizard couldn’t do. Surely, those five million others would safely return as well.

In Cybertron, Allen reviewed the second batch of consciousness download reports submitted by Jarvis. Out of 403 experimental subjects, every soul was perfectly compatible with its physical body.

“Continue,” Allen said, his voice devoid of discernible emotion. “Release the third batch of one thousand people in three days. Keep optimizing the protocol.”

The effectiveness of the Soul-Body Synchronization Buffer Protocol had been verified. The problem of consciousness jet lag was officially resolved.

From upload damage to anchor drift, and now the “return paradox”—he had successfully forged a closed technological loop. He could flawlessly extract a soul, run it in a digital world, and place it perfectly back into a body.

In theory, he now held the key to switching freely between carbon-based and silicon-based lifeforms. He could also return those five million souls to their bodies at any time.

But he needed more time to observe the long-term stability of souls existing in a purely digital world.

Moreover…

Allen’s gaze shifted from the lively scenes of the cheering crowd, diving deep into his own Sea of Spirit.

There, the Humanity Operator ran steadily. Like an origin coordinate, it marked his “initial state” as the independent individual known as Allen Wesren.

Within the Consciousness Upload project, an ultimate conundrum that he had temporarily shelved bobbed to the surface once more.

In his pursuit of absolute immortality, he would inevitably leave behind more than one “consciousness backup” of himself in the Allen Network.

That raised a critical question.

Once an “Allen” was successfully backed up, between the original Allen and the backup Allen, who was the real one?

If the original Allen accidentally died during an experiment and the backup returned by loading a save point—inheriting all his memories, personality, and emotions—was he still “him”?

An even more extreme scenario: what if the original Allen didn’t die?

There would be a backup “me” existing in the network, and a living “me” in reality. Both Allens would possess the exact same memories, and both would firmly believe they were the sole original.

In that case, who gets to define what is “real”?

And who gets to press the “delete” key?