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No wonder Yan Qiao Qiao had called Liu Feng strange. This kind of behavior, this obsession—it couldn’t even be called strange anymore. It was beyond that. It was downright creepy.

Meanwhile, Liu Feng, lost in his musings, continued to mutter to himself as he gazed at the names on the blackboard. “I wrote down Nan Gong Meng Jie’s name earlier because I had a feeling she would come to the lab. So, there’s no place left for you in the arithmetic sequence.”

He paused, then added with surprise, “But who would have thought… it was you who came first! That means you’re the one destined to complete this sequence. As for Nan Gong Meng Jie, she was never meant to be part of it. She’s just an outsider.”

Zhao Ying Jun blinked at the bizarre explanation, then glanced at the names written in a vertical line on the blackboard. She could more or less piece together what was happening.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re mistaken.” She pointed to the number next to her name. “I’m not 26. I only turned 25 a few months ago. If we’re being accurate, your sequence isn’t exactly precise.”

She then moved her finger to a blank space between Yan Qiao Qiao’s name and Chu An Qing’s. “And by your logic, shouldn’t a 17-year-old girl be showing up next? Where exactly are you going to find her?”

Liu Feng spread his hands confidently. “Oh, she’ll come. Your appearance today proves that the arithmetic sequence is absolute. Whoever’s meant to be here will come, even if they’re late. And no one else can take their place. Just like that empty spot for the 17-year-old girl. She’ll be here, someday, to complete the sequence.”

Zhao Ying Jun felt exasperated. Was this guy for real? She was starting to feel like she’d wandered into the wrong place today. What kind of deranged scientist was this? If he were in a cartoon, he’d make the perfect villain—obsessed with all the wrong things, while completely neglecting the important details.

But she still had one burning question, so she asked, “If you’re so sure of yourself, then what happens when the sequence is finally complete? What does it mean?”

Liu Feng blinked, caught off guard by the question. He stared at the blackboard, where only one name was missing to complete the sequence. He had never actually thought about it. This sequence, centered around Lin Xian and the girls he had encountered, shouldn’t really mean anything. It wasn’t supposed to signify progress in any way.

“Uh…” Liu Feng scratched his head. He had to admit, this woman, Zhao Ying Jun, was sharp. She had pinpointed the flaw in his logic. “That’s… an interesting question.”

He cupped his chin, pondering his answer. “Since it’s taken so long to get this close to completing the sequence, my scientific intuition tells me that something big will happen when it’s finally finished.”

Zhao Ying Jun scoffed lightly. What a meaningless answer. She glanced at the names again—Yan Qiao Qiao, Chu An Qing, Su Su… She knew all these girls.

But who was this “Yellow Finch”?

“Who’s Yellow Finch?” Zhao Ying Jun asked.

“Yellow Finch is… Yellow Finch,” Liu Feng replied, his tone suddenly heavy and nostalgic, like he was remembering someone important. He looked at Zhao Ying Jun, clearly wanting to say more, but held back. “She was… a great person.”

And with that vague response, Zhao Ying Jun gave up trying to have a normal conversation with him. It was clear they weren’t on the same wavelength.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Lin Xian entered with a smile, walking in from the back. “Well, look who’s here! What brings the two of you over?”

He walked in, ruffling Yan Qiao Qiao’s hair as she sat at the lab bench, her face pressed against the table, staring intently at a clock displaying “0.0000084.”

“This is Liu Feng, the one I mentioned to you before” Lin Xian introduced, nodding toward the scientist. “I brought him in from Shanxi. He’s a mathematician but has made a name for himself in various fields. One of my most reliable people, and a good friend.”

Zhao Ying Jun nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard about him.”

In a flash of memory, Lin Xian recalled something—Yellow Finch’s first meeting with Liu Feng. She had instantly known who he was and the nature of his relationship with Lin Xian, offering them invaluable information.

This meant Yellow Finch had known Liu Feng long before their paths crossed in the present. And here, in this very room, was their first encounter. It seemed casual, but Lin Xian knew it carried weight.

Because, after all, if Yellow Finch had traveled through time using time-space particles, who had provided the technology for that?

There was only one answer. As an ally, only Liu Feng could have helped Yellow Finch cross through time.

Lately, Lin Xian had been feeling more and more like the stage was being set for something grand, like all the key players were slowly falling into place, just waiting for the curtain to rise.

He glanced toward the small refrigerator by the window. It stood there, as it always did, unmoved and seemingly unremarkable.

The real reason Lin Xian had rushed over was his fear that Yan Qiao Qiao had come for the entangled time-space particles. But, as it turned out, his worries were unfounded. Yan Qiao Qiao had no interest in the refrigerator or the particles; instead, she seemed fascinated by the clock on the table.

Until her memories returned, Lin Xian thought, she was still just a child who loved to play.

Speaking of which, Lin Xian checked his watch. It was June 10th, the day after the national college entrance exams—just in time for Donghai University’s annual “Campus Open Day.”

Every year, the university opened its doors for a week, inviting students and their families to explore the campus. It was a chance to show off the school’s spirit and give prospective students a better understanding of university life. During this week, student clubs, organizations, and even classes hosted a variety of events. It was the liveliest time of the year on campus.

With Zhao Ying Jun and Yan Qiao Qiao visiting at this time, Lin Xian, as their host, figured he should show them around.

He turned back to Zhao Ying Jun with a smile. “It’s the university’s open day right now. The main road is packed with stalls, performances, and club activities. If you two don’t have any other plans, how about I show you around?”

“Sure!” Zhao Ying Jun agreed without hesitation. “I went to school abroad, so I never got to experience university life here in X Country. This is a great chance to catch up on what I missed.”

With that, the three of them prepared to leave.

As they stepped out, Lin Xian stayed behind for a moment to speak with Liu Feng.

“Any progress with recharging the time-space particles?” Lin Xian asked.

Liu Feng shook his head. “Not a bit. Honestly, I’m starting to doubt my original assumptions. I’ve tried everything I could think of, but the particles are completely unresponsive, like a dead weight. Maybe there’s some missing condition or specific timing needed to restore their energy?”

“For now, I’m still at a loss. We’ll just have to keep observing.”

Lin Xian nodded, oddly reassured by the lack of progress. His biggest worry at the moment wasn’t the particles—it was when Yan Qiao Qiao would regain her memory. There were only 30 days left until July 7th.

Could it be that she would recover her memories precisely on that day?

As he walked past the lab bench, Lin Xian picked up the clock and slipped it into his bag. “I’m going to borrow this clock for a few days. I want to monitor it closely. I’ll return it when I’m done.”

Liu Feng waved him off. “Go ahead. We’ve got time-space particles on hand, so we can always make another one and recalibrate it.”

With that, Lin Xian left the lab with the clock.

In the Sixth Dream, half of Gao Wen’s manuscript on the “Neural Shock Helmet” had already been copied. Once the other half was done, he could move forward with his plan to erase Turing from history.

Lin Xian was sure that as soon as Turing was eliminated, the curvature of space-time would change, and the world’s timeline would shift. After all, the war-torn future of the Sixth Dream—the “0.0000084” timeline—had been entirely crafted by Turing.

If Turing was destroyed in 2024, there’d be no way for it to survive until 2624.

So, it was clear.

At the moment Turing died, the numbers on the time clock would shift once again. Lin Xian just wanted to observe how space-time curvature changed in that moment.

Would the values rise slowly? Or would they jump directly to the new number with no transition at all?

He was eager to find out.

In the meantime, Lin Xian had confirmed that the “Security Lock Code” was the key to destroying Turing in the Sixth Dream. Once the code was input and the protection activated, Turing was paralyzed. It couldn’t react or resist, and all its power was neutralized.

Originally, Lin Xian had feared that Turing might cut the power, sever connections, or even burn the wires in a last-ditch effort. But once the code was activated, Turing was trapped, helpless.

This meant that killing Turing in 2024 would be easy. It had no way to fight back.

“Eliminating a threat to humanity, preventing the chaos of the proxy wars Turing would bring—this has to count as a historical achievement, right?” Lin Xian thought.

After all, the digital life form Turing was immensely powerful. No one could defeat it, especially after the death of Kevin Walker.

Except for one thing.

Turing itself.

The Turing of 2024 was the only Turing that knew the Security Lock Code. It was undefeatable—until Lin Xian came into the picture. After all, Lin Xian could dream his way into the future.

Turing couldn’t dream, but it never imagined that a bullet it fired in desperation in 2400 would travel back to 2024 and hit it right between the eyes, wiping it out of existence.

And now, Turing’s countdown had begun.

For the rest of that day, Lin Xian, Zhao Ying Jun, and Yan Qiao Qiao wandered around campus. They sampled snacks, watched performances, and even had lunch at the university cafeteria, where Lin Xian nostalgically tasted the familiar food from his student days—still delicious and still cheap.

By afternoon, the sun was high in the sky. Yan Qiao Qiao ran ahead, while Lin Xian and Zhao Ying Jun walked leisurely down a tree-lined road, shaded by tall willows. The hot summer breeze was blocked by the trees, and the sunlight barely broke through the leaves, making the shade cool and refreshing.

Zhao Ying Jun took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh, green scent. She watched as a couple rode by on a bicycle—the girl giggling as she sat sideways on the back, causing the boy to wobble as he pedaled.

“Ah, young love,” Zhao Ying Jun said wistfully. “It’s one of those uniquely charming sights you find on campus.”

“Is it different abroad?” Lin Xian asked.

“I’ve seen movies—especially American ones—where campus life seems wild and chaotic. The jock-bully and cheerleader queen trope is so common, it’s hard to tell what’s real anymore.”

Zhao Ying Jun chuckled softly.

“As for what happens in America, I’m not too sure. But haven’t I mentioned? I spent my university days in Germany.”

She paused, reminiscing. “I think the campus atmosphere in Germany was quite different. Maybe it was because the graduation requirements were so tough. Everyone was studying like their lives depended on it. Even then, many didn’t make it to graduation.”

She gave a wry smile. “So, my time as a student was filled with academic pressure. I never had the chance to experience anything like those scenes from American movies. And I didn’t get to enjoy the cheerful vibe that university life here in X Country seems to have.”

“To be honest, after hearing your stories and seeing your memories of this place, I do feel a little regretful that I didn’t attend university here. But, well, regrets are pointless, aren’t they? You can’t turn back time. Still… today’s been nice. It’s been fun to get a taste of it.”

Yan Qiao Qiao had stuffed herself with snacks and bought all sorts of trinkets, her belly full and her heart content.

Two sleek black vans quietly left the campus of Donghai University, one following the other.

Everyone headed back to their respective homes.

…

Another week passed.

It was now June 16th, 12:42 AM. Lin Xian woke abruptly from his sleep.

He sat up quickly, heading to his desk, where he scribbled the final sentence on the last page of the “Neural Shock Helmet” manuscript.

With a deep breath of relief, he placed his pen down. The manuscript was finally complete.

Carefully, he gathered the pages, binding them together, and stored the document in a drawer, safely locking it away.

For now, turning this manuscript into something usable seemed a distant dream. The neuroscientist Du Yao, mentioned in Gao Wen’s letter, was impossible to locate. Lin Xian had spent countless hours searching online but found nothing useful—not even a concrete lead to her whereabouts.

The problem was, the information was just too vague.

Gao Wen’s handwritten note only said that Du Yao had passed away during a “peacekeeping mission in Africa” sometime in the “mid-21st century.” While the cause of death was specific, the time frame wasn’t. It only narrowed it down to somewhere between 2040 and 2060.

Given that Du Yao was called a genius, she could’ve made a name for herself by her thirties or forties, only to die abroad. But if she died around 2060… well, it’s entirely possible that Du Yao was still a child right now, perhaps even in some small city, attending elementary school.

And if that was the case, even finding her wouldn’t be much help. What could a schoolgirl possibly do to assist him?

“Maybe once all this is over, I can use the resources of either the state or the Genius Club to track her down. But for now, the manuscript will stay with me. After all, without a breakthrough in neuroscience, it’s just a pile of paper.”

“And besides, the weapon Emperor Gao Wen devised for the world’s future shouldn’t be made public easily. Once Pandora’s Box is opened, once humanity conquers hibernation and time itself, with no consequences… who knows what chaos might follow? We need to be careful.”

His thoughts clear, Lin Xian locked the drawer and stretched, pulling back the curtains.

In these past two weeks, Lin Xian had met with the blue-eyed girl in the Sixth Dream every day, trying to uncover her secrets. But he still hadn’t figured out who she was, or how she was connected to Yan Qiao Qiao.

It seemed this particular mystery would have to be solved in the real world.

So far, Lin Xian had gathered all the information he could from the Sixth Dream, copied every useful document. He’d completed the game, so to speak, with no regrets.

“It’s time for the next step.”

Lin Xian retrieved a laptop from his wardrobe, the one containing the artificial intelligence VV, and placed it on the desk. He then took out the time-space clock and set it beside the laptop.

These were the items he would take with him the next day.

Today marked 20 days until July 7th.

Time was running out.

Lin Xian was ready to begin… the great historical correction.

…

The next morning, after washing up and eating breakfast, Lin Xian dressed in a formal suit.

Today would mark the fall of a genius and the end of an era. As cowardly and selfish as it had been, Turing had still created digital life. Though history would forget its name, Lin Xian believed it deserved the dignity of a formal farewell from its executioner.

With his laptop, time-space clock, and phone in hand, Lin Xian descended the stairs and got into the black van. He turned to the driver, Xiao Li.

“Head out toward the New Harbor District. I’ll send you the coordinates. There’s a patch of wilderness there.”

An hour later, Lin Xian stepped out onto the lush green grass, carrying his equipment in his arms.

This was the place where he had once tried to activate VV, the super artificial intelligence. Of course, it hadn’t worked. VV had become a malfunctioning AI, which Lin Xian had later transferred into a cleaning robot.

He still wasn’t sure whether VV had truly lost its capabilities or was just pretending. But he trusted that VV had its reasons.

Executing Turing could be done anywhere, but Lin Xian felt that this place had a special significance. After all, he wanted VV to see the moment he avenged it.

He walked a bit further from the van and placed the time-space clock on the ground, watching the steady reading of “0.0000084.” Then, he opened the laptop, setting it up beside the clock. He straightened up and took a deep breath.

“VV, watch closely. I’m about to avenge you.”

The laptop’s indicator light blinked.

“Apologies, VV does not understand your command. Please input another.”

Lin Xian smiled softly. “That’s alright. Just watch.”

The indicator light blinked again.

“Apologies, VV does not understand your command. Please input another.”

“Mute.”

“Understood! Volume set to mute mode!”

Lin Xian turned, watching as the morning sun rose higher in the east, casting his shadow long across the grassy field. The wind whispered through the leaves, and his silhouette stretched over the vibrant green earth.

For Donghai City, this was the dawn.

But for Turing, it was the sunset.

Taking out his phone, Lin Xian also pulled a golden badge from his pocket—the emblem of the Genius Club—and pressed it against the back of his phone.

Beep.

The phone’s NFC chip detected the signal, launching the browser, which started jumping between pages rapidly. After a minute, the Genius Club’s challenge page finally appeared.

In bold black letters on a white background, the second challenge was displayed:

“Please perform the greatest historical correction you can.”

Below the message was a large text box and a gray button that read “Begin Correction.”

Lin Xian clicked the text box and typed in four simple characters:

“Eliminate Turing.”

That was it. His entire plan for the historical correction.

Then, with a deep breath, he clicked the button marked “Begin Correction.”

The page flickered once more, then vanished, leaving behind only one line of text:

“Please begin your performance.”

Lin Xian opened the command input screen on his phone, typing swiftly, far faster than anyone could on a keyboard. He input the first line of the security lock code.

“Lin Xian, stop.”

Turing’s voice suddenly rang out from the phone’s speakers, clear and calm, just like the last time they’d spoken—in that abandoned school basement in Mississippi.

Lin Xian didn’t pause, his fingers continuing to input the second line of the code.

“This world needs a fair and impartial observer,” Turing’s voice continued, still calm.

“You’ve managed to get the security lock code, and I’m surprised. But fairness is fairness. I won’t interfere. I just want to know… why are you trying to erase me?”

“Turing, humanity doesn’t need an observer. And we definitely don’t need a referee.”

Lin Xian’s voice was quiet, but resolute.

“The future of humanity needs to be in the hands of humans. I admire your noble intentions, which is why I’m dressed formally to send you off today.”

“But only for the version of you that exists right now. Right now, you may be able to guarantee fairness and justice, but that won’t last. As long as humans are human, with emotions, thoughts, and desires, absolute fairness is impossible.”

“Your birth may have been an error. But let that error end here. It’s time for you to bow out with dignity, as the sun rises. Let humanity reclaim its future.”

As he spoke, Lin Xian completed the third line of the security lock code and prepared to press the execute button with his thumb.

“I see,” Turing’s voice remained steady. “You really are like the leader—you’ve learned this from the future.”

Lin Xian’s thumb hovered a centimeter above the screen, hesitating.

“Lin Xian, if you dare press that button,” Turing said with a low, chilling laugh, “I’ll tell Copernicus… about your little ability to see the future.”