In the abnormal zone, new buildings rose rapidly from the ground. Researchers and various teams took their positions urgently.
Along with the military clearing away the piles of debris, people came and went nonstop, completely erasing the previously desolate, wasteland-like atmosphere.
Liu Daming stared out the window at the wondrous scenery, never having imagined that a wasteland could be associated with the word “vibrant.”
It was always filled with despair, death, and madness, yet never before had it given people such a fragile illusion of life.
Chuanzi followed his gaze and glanced outside: “Sooner or later, they’ll turn this place into something else.”
Ah Guang leaned back in his chair, yawning tiredly: “Isn’t that just perfect? I’m already bored of the wasteland. Compared to that, what I really care about is—when do we get to finish class?”
Banshou flipped the book rapidly to the end, then flipped it back to the first page, tossing the materials in his hands restlessly, feeling a bit puzzled: “Why do we still have to attend classes? And it’s even…”
He looked up at the screen on the podium, where a huge title loomed above.
Banshou read the line word by word, expressing his strong confusion with a dramatic tone: “Elementary Social Knowledge Course?”
Aqi said: “If there’s an elementary course, maybe there’s a middle and advanced one too… Honestly, I have a bad feeling about this.”
Lao Shu, who was listening attentively, patted his shoulder: “Congrats, your bad feeling is spot on. Teacher Li explained earlier that only by passing the Social Knowledge exams can you unlock corresponding rewards.”
“Passing the elementary Social Knowledge exam grants you a phone with several registered games; passing the middle-level exam unlocks a one-day local tour; passing the advanced exam unlocks the grand prize!”
“Ding ding ding, a nationwide long-distance tour!”
“The tiered reward system is pretty thoughtful, huh?”
Liu Daming chuckled.
“Looks like times really have changed. Even the stereotype of the government being rigid and inflexible is becoming outdated.”
Banshou frowned: “Isn’t that just useless busywork? We have Ah Guang here, so why would we need them to give us phones?”
Ah Guang, who had recently been surfing the internet heavily and had learned many useful and useless things, immediately explained: “The point isn’t the phone, it’s the games already registered on it. You don’t know—here, games require real-name verification. Without an ID card, you can’t play at all.”
Unfortunately, everyone present was undocumented…
Except for Ah Guang and his group, the rest of the base personnel were undergoing social knowledge training.
This was the easiest course on their schedule.
Besides this, they had a bunch of messy experiments and dialogues to cooperate with.
These arrangements mainly studied the other impacts brought by the fusion of novels and reality, such as…
“What do you think of Ji Ting?”
Liu Daming’s mouth twitched: “Didn’t we just talk about this yesterday?”
“Your answer was valuable, but I want to explore more possibilities,” the team leader adjusted his glasses.
“After knowing all the intel, has your view on him changed?”
Liu Daming replied, “Not really. In fact, I think he’s well-suited to be a friend.”
The team leader scribbled on the paper and continued, “Let me confirm—you know the latest conclusion, right? Ji Ting, as the ‘author,’ has varying degrees of influence on his characters.”
“The protagonist is most affected. At the same time, the protagonist of a finished novel is less influenced than one from an unfinished novel. In other words, most of your perception of him comes from an unknown force’s interference, not your true will.”
He looked at Liu Daming.
“I thought you might have changed your view? Or is the unknown force’s influence so strong that you can ignore this fact?”
Though the leader’s words sounded like he was stirring trouble between Liu Daming and Ji Ting, after many days of one-on-one talks, Liu Daming knew this was not the case.
He was objective and calm; all sharp questions were aimed at obtaining the most accurate answers.
These answers would be compiled into conclusions, forming new contingency plans.
They never seemed to think the current plans for emergencies were sufficient.
They always prepared for the future.
Just this fact alone made Liu Daming cooperate honestly with their arrangements.
Such an astonishing ability to mobilize and respond quickly was not just the result of a few people’s selfless contributions or brilliant inventions but the crystallization of countless people’s wisdom and hard work, upholding peace in the midst of crisis.
He patiently answered the team leader’s questions: “But he didn’t mean to, and from one perspective, he’s also a victim. So I can accept this level of influence.”
He paused.
“We’re all victims here. We can’t just take it out on Ji Ting, right?”
The team leader glanced at him, his pen flying over a long list, then returned to the original question: “So, what do you think of Ji Ting? I can give you options: family, friend, trustworthy friend, passerby, comrade you can rely on behind your back…”
Liu Daming quickly made his choice and explained.
“Between trustworthy friend and comrade you can rely on, I don’t have family, so I’m not sure what kind of feeling that is. But I think Ji Ting is trustworthy.”
In the next room, a similar conversation was taking place.
“What do you think of Ji Ting? I have options like family, friend…”
Chuanzi said, “Better than a passerby, but because of his special influence on the boss, I find it hard to let my guard down.”
Ah Guang: “Passerby, we haven’t known each other long enough. I’ve already forgotten what he looks like.”
Banshou: “Are there no other options? Like enemy… I’m not saying we are enemies. But if Chuanzi made a reasonable request—like he thinks Ji Ting influences the boss too much and wants him eliminated—then I wouldn’t hesitate to take him out.”
From these varied responses, the intelligence data team found a pattern: the more often a character appeared in the novel, the higher the affection toward Ji Ting.
Those barely mentioned in the novel were mostly unaffected, making rational judgments possible.
“I noticed that when you first met Ji Ting, you treated him like your younger brother. But you clearly don’t have a brother. Can you tell me what you were thinking at the time, and why you had this mistaken perception?”
Liu Daming recalled: “Thinking back now, it’s unbelievable, but at the time, I didn’t realize it was wrong because I really felt I had a younger brother, and it was Ji Ting.”
“As for why, it must be because of the ‘fusion of reality and novel’…”
He glanced at the line the other was writing, feeling speechless.
“It definitely wasn’t because I wanted a brother that badly, that’s just ridiculous.”
The other calmly crossed out the line just written: “This might be because the world completeness of the unfinished novel isn’t high enough, and the protagonist’s perception of reality and the author is unclear. That’s why the author is mistaken for a character not existing in the novel.”
Next door, another conversation was ongoing.
Ji Ting summarized what Director Wang meant: “In other words, the level of world completeness might be the biggest factor in the ‘fusion of novel and reality’ process?”
Director Wang sipped from his tea cup and nodded slowly.
Ji Ting rapidly ran through the number of outline documents stored on his hard drive.
In Ji Ting’s “writing career,” the only completed novel was 《Tian Shu》.
Several had been abandoned halfway, and those that only had an opening but then dropped off soared into double digits.
The most were just outlines written for fun and left unfinished.
Director Wang: “According to the order of fusion between 《Tian Shu》 and 《I Have a Base in the Apocalypse》 and the comparison between completed novels and outlines, the degree of world completeness directly affects the order of fusion with reality.”
“We compared the full texts of 《I Have a Base in the Apocalypse》 and other novels.
《I Have a Base in the Apocalypse》 has over three hundred thousand words, second only to 《Tian Shu》, making it the novel with the second highest world completeness.”
Ji Ting brightened: “If this conclusion is correct, then we can directly identify the next novel fusing with reality? Which novel ranks third in word count?”
Director Wang nodded, signaling his idea was correct, and pushed a thick file toward Ji Ting: “After comparison, the novel with the third-highest total word count is this one.”
Ji Ting flipped through the file, surprised: “Urban genre?”
***
Wang Xiaoyun once suspected she had stepped into a new kind of scam—until her salary was deposited on time and she dismissed the thought.
Though the boss was elusive and nowhere to be found, as long as the money came, who cared if the boss was alive or dead?
Besides, was there any job in this world happier than one where the boss wasn’t even present?
After fretting for a while, Wang Xiaoyun quickly adapted to her new routine, diligently guarding the coffee shop, even if not a single customer came all day.
After all, even after the “apocalypse,” the city returning to normal was still busy.
At first, they were busy clearing trash heaps and parasitic plants of unknown origin, but now, “clean energy” was being heavily promoted.
The TV on the wall repeated the morning news, proclaiming the country’s major breakthroughs in energy with a stirring tone.
Bored, Wang Xiaoyun leaned against the bar counter, half-listening to the news while secretly checking a novel on her phone.
She hadn’t completely let go, keeping partial attention on the door’s wind chime, making sure she’d notice if a customer came in.
But it wasn’t until a shadow fell over her and a strange voice spoke that Wang Xiaoyun belatedly realized someone had arrived.
Why didn’t the wind chime ring?
Normally…
Wang Xiaoyun instinctively glanced at the door.
The wind chime hung behind the door, motionless, as if the door had never been opened.
She looked again at the tall man standing before the counter—a square-jawed face, his aura vaguely reminiscent of an old customer.
Seeing Wang Xiaoyun’s stunned silence, the man repeated: “Is the boss here?”
“Huh?”
Wang Xiaoyun finally reacted.
“You’re looking for the boss? He’s not here.”
“When will he be here?”
“I don’t know. The boss hasn’t been to the shop recently…”
Wang Xiaoyun hesitated, “Do you know the boss?”
“We’ve known each other for a long time in spirit,” the man smiled lightly, not elaborating.
“How about this, I’ll leave him a note. If he sees it, he’ll contact me naturally.”
Wang Xiaoyun handed him paper and pen.
The man quickly wrote something and passed the note back with a friendly smile: “Thanks for your trouble, miss.”
Wang Xiaoyun glanced at the note.
Seeing no contact info, she instinctively asked: “Don’t you want to leave your contact? How will the boss get in touch with you?”
The man waved dismissively as if her question was nonsense: “If the boss wants to contact me, he can.”
He strode toward the door, allowing Wang Xiaoyun to see why the wind chime didn’t ring.
His way of opening the door was strange—the door slid open slowly, maintaining a relative stillness until he stepped out.
The wind chime on the door remained silent as ever.
A strange person.
Wang Xiaoyun thought, lowering her head to examine the note again.
“Bottle broken, trash disposed, urgent!”
At the bottom of the note was a simple sketch—a snake biting its own tail, forming a circle.
While Wang Xiaoyun turned the note over and over in her hands, the man who had left the coffee shop quietly merged into the crowd, like a drop of water flowing into the ocean, disappearing without a trace under countless surveillance cameras.