Genius Club

One screen showed an ad for the latest smartphone. It was so thin that it could be folded and transformed into a transparent strip to wear over your eyes like smart glasses.

But at the end of the day, it was just a phone.

There had been no real breakthroughs in communication technology—just shinier, faster gadgets. Even the car wasn’t that impressive. Sure, self-driving technology had improved, but the car still ran on roads, and nuclear batteries had existed for over 200 years. Nothing really new.

“Is this what progress looks like?” Lin Xian asked, turning his attention back to Liu Feng and Gao Yang, who sat beside him.

“Two hundred years… and I haven’t seen any real leaps forward. Everything’s just an extension of what existed two centuries ago. Nothing fundamentally different,” he added, frustration evident in his voice.

Gao Yang shook his head. “Don’t ask me. I only woke up a month before you. Besides, we’re here to save Chu An Qing, not to analyze the future. We can’t control everything.”

“And isn’t it better this way?” Gao Yang continued. “Less change makes it easier for us to adapt. I’ve already fit right in. Life’s not that different from 200 years ago.”

“And that’s the problem,” Lin Xian sighed, leaning back into his seat.

He remembered what Angelica and Elon Musk had told him before he went into hibernation:

“Do you really think you’ll still be the richest man after two hundred years? Do you think people were just sitting idle while you slept? Surely science must have advanced by then.”

“The knowledge you have—in 200 years, it might be in elementary school textbooks. If universities are still teaching the same old stuff, then there’s something seriously wrong with this world.”

And now…

“Liu Feng,” Lin Xian called, glancing at his friend. “Has Musk woken up yet? Is he still the world’s richest man?”

Liu Feng smiled slightly. “He woke up later than I did. I woke up seven years ago, and Musk came around four years ago. And yes, Lin Xian, you guessed right—Elon Musk is still the richest person on the planet.”

“Angelica’s descendants have managed SpaceX well. In fact, it’s even more successful now, and Musk has more money than ever,” Liu Feng added.

“But Musk isn’t happy about it. He told me he’d have preferred to wake up and find a more advanced company outpacing SpaceX, or a technology so powerful that it would force him back to school to catch up.”

Liu Feng shook his head. “But no. Progress has stalled. We’re still sending probes to Mars—no migration ships, no space cities, nothing beyond that.”

“When Musk woke up, he came to X Country looking for me. He said, ‘Who would’ve thought? A 200-year-old relic like me can still stay at the forefront of technology. I could even be a university professor today, teaching the same curriculum they used 200 years ago.’”

It was just as Lin Xian had suspected.

He narrowed his eyes, lost in thought. The Ninth Dream held the remnants of countless brilliant minds; it was a vision they’d all worked together to create. Though Copernicus was gone, his spirit and methods lingered, and as a result, progress had stagnated.

Humanity was still squeezing every drop out of Moore’s Law, refusing to look beyond for something broader, something new.

So where was the problem?

“Are scientists, mathematicians, and scholars still dying mysteriously at 00:42?” Lin Xian asked.

“No.” Liu Feng shook his head. “Musk and I started looking into it as soon as we woke up. We searched all the records but found no evidence of scientists being murdered at that time.”

“There were a few lesser-known scholars who died at 00:42, but those were random events. One was an expert in bearings caught cheating—his wife stabbed him, and he died at 00:42 after failing to recover. Another was a microbiologist who stopped his car on an overpass to relieve himself, thinking it was a flowerbed… and fell to his death. The time was 00:42.”

“These are the only two scientists who died at that time in the past two hundred years.”

Lin Xian waved his hand dismissively. “Those don’t count.”

“Still, the lack of significant progress in the last two centuries suggests someone is controlling things from behind the scenes. What did you and Musk find during your investigation? Any leads?”

Liu Feng nodded. “We do have some clues. Many key scientists have died, but we couldn’t find any pattern. We can’t tell if it was Copernicus’s old methods or just accidents.”

“Musk thinks that Copernicus’s successors have become more subtle, but it’s hard to say. There are still leaders in advanced fields working to push scientific progress.”

“Then where’s the progress?” Lin Xian spread his hands. “How come I haven’t seen it? Surely one of these leaders must have made a breakthrough?”

“That’s where the second clue comes in,” Liu Feng said, as the car sped out of the city and began accelerating.

“Humanity has made a lot of wrong choices in technology over the last two centuries. It’s like what people used to say in our time—‘They chose the wrong branch on the tech tree.’”

“I know what you’re going to say, but until we realize we’ve chosen wrong, who would know? Technological progress always involves trial and error—it’s about trying different things. Humanity hasn’t found the right path in many crucial fields.”

Lin Xian nodded. He understood Liu Feng’s point.

Technology sometimes goes off track, just like companies that rise and fall because of poor decisions. Strategic mistakes happen in research too. If a path turns out wrong, it drains resources, manpower, and time, leaving little left to explore new possibilities.

“But what about the Cold Fusion Manuscript I gave the Research Institute?” Lin Xian asked. “That one was on the right track, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Liu Feng sighed. “But cold fusion needs support from materials science and engineering. That’s where the problem lies. Materials science has barely advanced in the past 200 years.”

Lin Xian leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. “So, in the end, someone is still interfering, suppressing technological advancement. They’re just doing it differently—or more secretly.”

This outcome didn’t surprise Lin Xian.

Before getting in the car, he had asked Liu Feng about the Spacetime Clock and if there had been changes in the reading of spacetime curvature. Liu Feng had handed it over for Lin Xian to see.

It was steady. The number remained 0.0001764, meaning that the worldline hadn’t changed. The future of the Ninth Dream was still the same.

Humanity’s extinction. Technological stagnation. Mai Mai’s “Devouring Heaven Demon Emperor” reigning supreme.

The worldline was strong and firm, holding its path without a ripple, even in the year 2234.

Einstein had disbanded the Genius Club to keep the worldline stable. Copernicus’s will had been passed on, and the methods were getting more concealed. Gauss’s virus might be over, but all the brilliant minds were left in the past.

Newton? He was probably still busy, doing his part in his own way. And then, 200 years later, there was still Galileo—waiting to unleash a devastating disaster on Earth in 2600.

But it wasn’t over yet.

In 24 years, another World-Ending White Light would appear—on CC’s 20th birthday—wiping everything out in a single second.

The only hope was to use the Time Travel Machine, with entangled spacetime particles, to go back to 1952 and see it all—the secrets and truths.

Lin Xian opened his eyes, looking out the window. He frowned, pointing at a long, unending fence that had been running alongside them for over half an hour.

“What’s this place? It’s enormous. We’re going over 120 kilometers an hour, and we’ve been driving along this fence for thirty minutes, and it’s still not ending. Is this a school or something?”

“What kind of school could be this big?” Lin Xian mused aloud. “Just one side of the wall is over sixty kilometers long—it’s almost the size of a city.”

Gao Yang chuckled. “That was my exact reaction when I first saw it. But you’re right—it is a school. And it’s a gift left for you by Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi.”

“Look, we’re at the gate. Look up.”

Gao Yang pressed a button, and the car’s roof turned transparent instantly. The view was clear, as if they were in a convertible, giving them a perfect look at the imposing structure ahead.

Lin Xian looked up, and his eyes widened. Above the grand entrance were four large X Country characters—Rhine University.

“Zhao Ying Jun brought everything together—all of it—to create the largest, most advanced university in the world,” Liu Feng explained. “MX Company, Rhine Company, the Shan He Group… they all became part of Rhine University.”

“You woke up in Rhine University’s Hibernation Base. After it was completed, they moved our hibernation pods here from the Capital City Research Institute.”

“The campus of Rhine University is about half the size of Donghai City. It’s like a small city of its own. Zhao Ying Jun believed that education is the foundation of everything, that talent is the basis for a better future. Instead of leaving you money, she thought it better to leave true hope—a group of young people with dreams and ambitions.”

“The university’s motto is the same as your old company’s: ‘For a Better Future of Humanity.’ I woke up before you guys and have been overseeing things here. Officially, I’m the headmaster of Rhine University, but in reality, I just manage the labs—the actual operations are handled by professionals.”

“Rhine University is incredibly wealthy. Thanks to various patents, our cash reserves and yearly profits are among the top in the world.”

A soft screech sounded as the car braked, stopping not far from the gate. The back door opened automatically.

Gao Yang hopped out first and held the door open for Lin Xian. “Come, see for yourself how amazing your wife and daughter were.”

Lin Xian stepped out, following Gao Yang’s gaze. His eyes widened.

Right in the center of the main entrance stood a tall, white jade statue. On the pedestal were two women—one leading, the other holding her hand—both looking straight ahead.

Lin Xian held his breath. Though time had aged her, the face was still one he remembered well—full of strength and grace. It was Zhao Ying Jun.

The statue before him was different from the one he’d seen in Rhine Sky City. This one showed her smiling confidently, looking forward with determination.

She seemed older, maybe in her fifties, but still radiant and full of life. Unlike in the Third Dream, she no longer appeared afraid of Lin Xian seeing her grow old. Instead, she seemed proud—proud to be the founding headmaster of Rhine University, to welcome every student with a loving smile.

Behind her, holding her hand and gazing forward with the same firm eyes, was Yu Xi—Lin Yu Xi. Lin Xian recognized her instantly.

It was the same face as the girl who had come from a distant time. Only now, she seemed older. Back then, Yu Xi had been a thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl, holding his hand at Disneyland. Now, she looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight—strangely, even older than him.

Lin Xian took a slow step forward.

He was walking toward two hundred years of memories, toward his family—his wife and daughter.

“This statue was built for Rhine University’s fiftieth anniversary,” Liu Feng said, following Lin Xian. “By then, Zhao Ying Jun was almost a hundred and had already stepped down as headmaster. Your daughter, Lin Yu Xi, the second headmaster, was also planning to step down and pass the role to someone more capable.”

“They decided to freeze the statue at the moment when Rhine University was first founded—just as you see it now.”

“I’ve read the university’s history. Yu Xi was every bit the leader her mother was—firm, decisive, courageous, intelligent—a blend of the best of both of you. She made Rhine University stronger and led it into a new era.”

“Zhao Ying Jun passed away at a hundred, surrounded by loved ones. Yu Xi, too, had a full life. She had three children—one son and two daughters—all of whom did well for themselves, though none stayed connected with the university. One of your granddaughters even became a well-known artist. Perhaps that’s your influence.”

“It’s been ten generations since you, but we never looked for them. By now, they wouldn’t remember you anyway. Two hundred years is a long time for any family.”

“There’s no need,” Lin Xian said, standing at the foot of the statue and looking up at Zhao Ying Jun’s smiling face and Yu Xi’s determined one. He could imagine the two of them as headmasters, and a soft smile appeared on his lips.

“There’s no need to seek out my descendants.”

“Our fight isn’t over yet. Let’s not disturb their happiness.”

“We wanted our children to live peacefully in happy times. Let this war end with us—with our generation.”

“Did Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi leave anything else for me?” Lin Xian asked.

Gao Yang walked over, shaking his head. “No. Before they passed away, they erased most of their records, just like when we left Zhao Ying Jun before hibernation. She didn’t want us mourning her—she had a happy, meaningful life and left behind a strong Rhine University.”

“But…” Gao Yang took out his transparent phone, glanced at the time, and smiled. “It’s about time. Something should be coming out soon.”

“What?” Lin Xian turned around.

Suddenly, with a metallic click, a hidden door at the base of the statue opened.

Out came a gleaming silver trash-can robot, sliding on its equally shiny tracks.

“Garbage. Garbage. I see garbage,” it said in a weak voice.

But in an instant, it turned its head towards them, staring blankly as if frozen.

“Garbage! Garbage! I see garbage!” it yelled, its loudspeaker echoing in their ears.

With a burst of speed, it charged straight at Lin Xian—its silver claw extending and locking around his ankle.

“Garbage! Garbage! I see garbage!” it cried.

“VV!” Lin Xian shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief.

He knelt, placing his hand on the robot’s head. The feeling was unmistakable—aluminum alloy.

VV had evolved—not just from a floor-cleaning robot to a trash-can bot, but also from plastic to aluminum alloy. Its strength must’ve skyrocketed.

“VV…” Lin Xian crouched, trying to lift it like he had countless times in the Third Dream.

But it was too heavy. Even with all his strength, VV didn’t budge.

“Give it up. You won’t be able to lift it,” Liu Feng laughed. “VV’s all aluminum alloy now—every part. It weighs 300 kilograms.”

“It was gentle with you. When Gao Yang first tried to greet VV, it rammed him two meters away. Gao Yang got mad and punched VV, but his hand was swollen for days.”

Lin Xian looked at the fully evolved VV and felt a surge of warmth and nostalgia. He ran his hand over its cold, smooth metal exterior, feeling comforted.

“VV, please wait a little longer,” Lin Xian said softly. “I promise I’ll bring you back. You’ve been pretending to be a dumb AI for two hundred years. Once you’re back, you can be as chatty and playful as you want—I won’t say a word.”

“But for now, Cheng Qian hasn’t been born yet. We have to wait a bit longer.”

Suddenly, VV’s eyes flashed green, and it spoke in a mechanical voice devoid of emotion: “Please enter the password.”

“Huh?” “What?” “Excuse me?”

The three men stared at each other, stunned.

Gao Yang and Liu Feng exchanged confused looks. “It has this function?”

“I had no idea.” Liu Feng shook his head. “I’ve seen VV many times. It always comes out, weakly muttering about garbage, then goes back to sleep. It’s never said anything else.”

Gao Yang snapped his fingers. “I get it. It’s voice-activated! It only responds to Lin Xian’s voice—that’s why it’s saying this now. It means Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi left something for you, Lin Xian.”

“But… what’s the password? There’s no clue. How are we supposed to know?”

Lin Xian smiled softly, shaking his head. “Do I really need a hint?”

His expression softened, and he whispered, “The password—what else could it be?”

“It’s a series of numbers with no pattern, no meaning, known only to Zhao Ying Jun and me—a set that neither of us will ever forget.”

“32375246.”

The robot beeped twice, its eyes flashing rapidly.

“Password correct! Storage compartment unlocked!” it announced.

With a click, a small compartment the size of a pencil case popped open in the robot’s belly. Inside was a sealed letter.

Lin Xian, Gao Yang, and Liu Feng leaned in close, peering into the compartment.

It was clear—Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi had left Lin Xian a message.

“Um…” Gao Yang pulled Liu Feng away. “Maybe we should give him some privacy.”

Liu Feng nodded, and the two walked off to a respectful distance.

Lin Xian took out the letter. It was small and thin, and there wasn’t much written on it.

His heart beat faster as he wondered what Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi would say to him.

Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the letter and looked at the delicate handwriting.

It was short—just a few lines.

But seeing the familiar writing made Lin Xian’s eyes well up, as if he could hear Zhao Ying Jun’s gentle voice right beside him:

“Lin Xian, don’t mourn for us. Yu Xi and I lived a happy life.”

“Without you, there were lonely times, full of longing. But Yu Xi and I felt you were always with us—protecting us, our children, and all humanity.”

“You are our hero and our pride.”

“So look forward, don’t look back. Our mission is over, and the baton to save the future is now in your hands. We haven’t left you; we are part of the sunlit world around you, always standing behind you.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise to grow old together until the end of the world. But—be brave, move forward! And don’t forget—”

“There is still a girl trapped in time, waiting for you at the end of the world.”

Lin Xian read the letter twice, then closed his eyes.

He carefully folded it and placed it in his pocket.

Look forward.

Look forward.

Until the end of the world.

Turning, Lin Xian walked briskly to Liu Feng, with VV following closely behind on its tracks.

“Liu Feng,” Lin Xian said. “Has humanity detected the comet carrying Astatine-339?”

“We’ve been monitoring it for a while,” Liu Feng replied. “Nations are preparing for a joint mission in three months to destroy it in the atmosphere, to keep it from hitting Earth.”

Lin Xian nodded. “And what about the Time Travel Machine? Is it ready?”

“It’s almost complete, but there’s a minor issue with one of the modules,” Liu Feng said, frowning. “But I have a new solution in mind, and I think we can finish it before the comet arrives.”

“I’m sorry. Even though I woke up earlier, I couldn’t fully resolve that last bit… I’m just not on the same level as the genius who originally designed the plans.”

Lin Xian smiled. “It’s okay, Liu Feng. This isn’t 2025 anymore.”

He thought back to Gao Wen’s birth year—2182. In this timeline, if Gao Wen hadn’t gone into hibernation, he would be fifty-two, at the height of his career.

If Gao Wen had hibernated, that would be fine too. They would find him. Mai Mai had said the Anti-Hibernation Virus was weakening over the years. Toward the end, only the elderly and weak were affected. Most healthy people were immune, so it was possible Gao Wen had hibernated.

“Let’s go,” Lin Xian said, watching the sun climb higher in the sky. “It’s time to meet an old friend in reality.”

Two days later.

Donghai City. An underground hibernation base.

A man in his thirties slowly opened his eyes inside a hibernation chamber.

He looked at the mist-covered glass, unable to remember who he was, where he was, or why his entire body felt numb.

Following voice prompts, he completed a series of tests, and finally, the chamber door lifted open.

He sat up, and his eyes widened in shock as he saw three men squatting by the chamber—one tall, one short, one chubby, all looking at him with mischievous grins.

“What… what do you want?!” he stammered, fear gnawing at the emptiness in his head.

The chubby man in the back held a strange, terrifying device—something that looked like an octopus tentacle, a tool of torture. It made the man’s empty mind uneasy, frightened, terrified.

“Who are you? And… who am I?”

The tall young man at the front smiled, stepped closer, and extended his hand.

“Hello, Emperor Gao Wen,” he said. “It’s time… to wake up and get to work.”