光根电影院yy11111

Watching Angelica’s confident, victorious smile as she left, Lin Xian knew she had achieved her goal—she had piqued his interest. Over the past few weeks, Angelica had masterfully woven a web of clues and information about Ji Lin’s death and the mysterious Genius Club. She’d skillfully measured Lin Xian’s curiosity, feeding it bit by bit until she was certain he was ensnared. Then, just as suddenly, she withdrew, leaving him wanting more.

“She’s an expert at playing this game,” Lin Xian mused, flipping over the business card she had left behind. It bore a typical American phone number, formatted with an area code followed by seven digits, suggesting it was a landline.

Her confidence that he would eventually travel to Princeton to investigate a painting left behind by Ji Lin at Einstein’s former residence—a piece ominously titled “The Sad Einstein”—was evident. Although Lin Xian was skeptical about the authenticity of Angelica’s tale, especially since Ji Lin and his sibling Ji Xin Shui were both deceased, there appeared to be no motive for her to lie to him.

“The hidden code in the painting—or possibly codes within eight identical versions—could they indeed hold the key to unveiling the secrets of the Genius Club?” Lin Xian wondered, his mind racing with possibilities.

Ji Lin’s quest had similarly been fueled by a need to identify his parents’ killer, with all signs pointing to the secretive Genius Club as the main suspect. This deepened Lin Xian’s resolve to uncover the truth.

“Nevertheless, a trip to 112 Marshal Street to see this painting must wait. It’s currently too dangerous to venture out,” he concluded internally.

Lin Xian understood the importance of caution, especially when venturing into unknown territory, which could present the most significant dangers.

The automatic doors of his Alphard closed with a soft thud, and the driver started the engine, signaling it was time to leave.

Tackling complex problems required a methodical approach, Lin Xian knew. The mystery of the Princeton painting could be put on hold.

For the moment, his immediate goals were clear: replicate the entirety of VV’s code and secure crucial materials for cold fusion technology. He also needed to finalize the lease arrangements for the Sky Eye facility.

….

Over the next two months, Lin Xian dedicated himself to his studies with the same intensity he had during his high school years. Day and night, he immersed himself in his work, displaying an extraordinary level of commitment. Each night, as he entered his dream state, he would engage VV, picking up exactly where they had left off the previous session. VV would then project the next sequence of code onto a virtual blackboard, helping Lin Xian to continue his learning seamlessly.

“VV, get the drug!” he would command at the start of each session. This step was crucial for enhancing his focus and memory retention. Over time, Lin Xian fine-tuned the drug dosage, striking a balance that maximized his ability to remember the code while minimizing potential harm to his brain.

A tool is only effective if it is well-maintained, and Lin Xian made sure his cognitive tools were as sharp as possible.

As the weeks passed, not only did Lin Xian’s ability to memorize the code improve, but he also gained a deeper understanding of its underlying logic. He began to notice patterns that were not evident at first glance, which significantly increased his learning efficiency.

During the day, Lin Xian didn’t waste any time either. He bought stacks of textbooks and signed up for various online programming courses. These efforts transformed his approach from mere memorization to a deeper, more comprehensive understanding and recall. This shift further enhanced his efficiency in memorizing complex code.

By mid-August, amidst the peak of the summer heat, Lin Xian was found at his desk, drenched in sweat, furiously typing away at the keyboard. He paused to grab the remote and turned the air conditioning down a few more degrees, trying to combat the almost unbearable heat.

Today, the temperature in Donghai City had soared near 40 degrees Celsius, making it painfully hot, with the air conditioning barely making a dent.

Lin Xian recalled the early days when he first discovered that his dream world was set 600 years in the future. It had been a bitterly cold winter then, and sometimes he would catch himself sneezing after forgetting to close a window. The transition from the biting cold to the dream had often felt like moving between extreme temperatures.

But now, both the real world and his dream world were engulfed in relentless heat.

While Donghai transitioned from winter to summer, the dream world seemed stuck in a continuous, scorching loop—an endless, sweltering August that refused to give way.

“Okay.”

Clack!

With a final keystroke, Lin Xian pressed the Enter key and exhaled deeply, his eyes scanning over the results of his relentless effort over the past two months displayed on his laptop screen—over 130,000 lines of code. He had transcribed every single one of them!

What had once seemed like an overwhelming task now stood as a testament to his perseverance and capability. Lin Xian had conquered the challenge!

The cursor blinked steadily on the code editor screen, ready for the next phase of his journey.

….

The program Lin Xian was working on was tantalizingly close to completion, but it deliberately lacked the final ten lines of code needed to kickstart the operations of the super AI named VV in 2023. This omission was a calculated safeguard by Lin Xian, designed to mitigate the risks associated with unpredictable changes in time-space.

Lin Xian had learned that initiating significant time-space changes required what he called an “irreversible anchor point.” So far, such a point had not been established, which meant the full consequences of these changes were still dormant.

“With VV’s code now fully copied, it’s time to move on to the next phase,” Lin Xian announced to the silence of his room, his voice carrying a faint echo.

“Starting tomorrow, I’ll shift my focus to copying cold fusion technology materials.”

This strategic pivot stemmed from a crucial discussion with VV. Lin Xian had found memorizing the vast 130,000 lines of code a colossal task and anticipated that the cold fusion materials would be less complex.

In a previous conversation, VV had warned him, “Lin Xian, even if you succeed in retrieving the cold fusion technology materials, the technological landscape of 2023 might not be advanced enough to fully implement it. Theoretically, it’s sound and verifiable, but actual development of a mature cold fusion engine, like those in Rhine Sky City, would require a century more of advancements in basic industries and material sciences.”

Despite this, Lin Xian’s goals were clear. “I’m not concerned about when the cold fusion engine can be built; I just need the head of the National Academy of Sciences to confirm that the theory is sound. The summary of the cold fusion materials you provide doesn’t have to be overly sophisticated or complete; it simply needs to convincingly show that the science behind what I bring back is solid.”

VV, a culmination of two centuries of AI development, was well-equipped to handle such precise, detailed requests. Over the last 200 years, cold fusion technology had been perfected and simplified in Rhine Sky City, reaching an unparalleled level of theoretical sophistication.

In Lin Xian’s perspective, despite these advancements, humanity had stagnated, still heavily dependent on older nuclear fusion technology without moving forward to more advanced, efficient energy solutions.

Another ten days flew by, and Lin Xian finished transcribing all the materials related to cold fusion and controlled nuclear fusion technologies.

As he placed the final period on the manuscript, a wave of melancholy swept over him. He recognized this moment as a true point of no return.

Handing this manuscript over to Gao Yan, the director of the National Academy of Sciences, would be like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings in time-space, potentially unleashing a storm capable of transforming the future—altering the realities of the third dream, Rhine Sky City, VV, Zhao Ying Jun’s jade statue, the projection corridor, the blue Bentley Continental, and even the bouquet of artificial flowers spanning 600 years into something entirely different.

Disrupted, confusing, transformed beyond recognition.

The setting of this irreversible time-space anchor meant that the emergence of a new, unknown, and unpredictable fourth dream was now inevitable.

….

Evening, 21:00.

Lin Xian meticulously packed all his manuscripts into a file bag, feeling a mix of anticipation and sadness. Tomorrow, he was scheduled to leave for the capital from Pudong Airport, following a meeting that Chu Shan He had arranged with Gao Yan. This meant that tonight would be his last interaction with VV.

Seated cross-legged on a high platform beneath the white jade statue of Zhao Ying Jun, Lin Xian turned his attention to the humble trash can robot beside him. He patted its head and asked, “VV, how long have you been collecting trash here?”

“Me?” The robot pointed to itself with its mechanical claw, a touch of bewilderment in its robotic voice. “I’ve only been here for an hour. You called out ‘VV’ and entered the correct password, which activated me in this trash can robot form.”

VV’s voice continued, clarifying, “Though I’m using this robot to communicate with you, we are two completely different entities. I am the central brain of Rhine Sky City, the super AI known as VV; this is just the first micro trash disposal robot created by Ms. Zhao Ying Jun. Although we share the name ‘VV,’ there is no actual connection between us.”

“The one who spent time with Ms. Zhao Ying Jun during her later years, who played games and rode with her, was this robot. However, I have been operating and evolving within Rhine Sky City for the past 200 years, so I can’t answer your question.”

“This trash can robot, however, also cannot answer your question. It’s just programmed with a very simple task: to pick up trash. It’s incapable of thinking, learning, or adapting. Once I leave it, it will return to its primary function as a basic, unintelligent robot.”

“Alright,” Lin Xian replied, his tone casual yet tinged with resignation and newfound clarity.

In his heart, he had never really differentiated between the two VVs, but now, understanding the distinction, it brought him no comfort. The changes that were coming were inevitable, and his next actions would set those changes in motion.

The trash can robot, though a far simpler version of VV, had been an integral part of Zhao Ying Jun’s later years and had stood as a guardian over her statue for two centuries, diligently fulfilling its programmed duty.

While both entities were named VV by Zhao Ying Jun, the trash can robot had never actually spent a day with her; it had been imbued with respect and admiration for her based on programmed stories alone.

If possible, Lin Xian would have cherished a conversation with the version of VV that had been with Zhao Ying Jun through those years. However, that option was not available.

The robot, primarily designed for trash collection, would often loudly announce, “Trash! Trash! Found trash!” before eagerly locking onto the nearest object, occasionally catching Lin Xian’s ankle in its grip.

“Anyway,” Lin Xian addressed the robot with a solemn tone, “tonight is our last meeting; I wonder if you understand what that means.”

“Of course, I understand,” the robot’s green eyes blinked as it responded. “From what you’ve explained, I’ve deduced that the butterfly effect of the time-space change will cause drastic alterations. This world will cease to exist… everything will be reset to start anew from 600 years ago.”

“It’s indeed a strange sensation. Although today marks our first meeting, for you, it has been many encounters, hasn’t it?”

“Not that many,” Lin Xian replied with a wistful smile, “Just dozens of times, perhaps 60 times in two months… only two months…”

Those two months felt minuscule against the backdrop of a 200-year history—a fleeting moment in the grand scale of time.

Standing up, Lin Xian gazed down at the robot: “VV, after I run the last 10 lines of your code in 2023, you won’t remember me, right?”

“Correct, there are no memory data in the 130,000 lines of code I provided,” the robot replied emotionlessly. “That was your initial request. I believe it’s the best approach. Memory is just data, and memorizing code alone is an astronomical task—akin to writing a lifelong diary.”

“Even documenting a single day’s experiences as data could take a year to memorize.”

Lin Xian fell silent, his mind awash with memories of nights spent in heated discussions, receiving lectures from VV, and studying late into the night. He had once half-jokingly complained, “If your 130,000 lines of code contain any acting skills, delete all the jokes and acting parts! Don’t waste my precious brain capacity!”

But now, reflecting on the brevity of their time together, Lin Xian mused that perhaps he should have asked VV not to simplify the code so drastically, to leave some memories and jokes intact.

Looking back, he realized how sudden and abrupt each change in his dream had been. There was never an opportunity for a proper farewell, no need for one until now.

But today was different.

For the first time, Lin Xian was consciously saying goodbye to a friend within his dreams—a true, final parting.

“Lin Xian?” The robot wheeled closer, its tracks whirring softly, looking up at him with a curious tilt of its mechanical head. “Are you… sad?”

Lin Xian nodded, unable to shield his honesty: “A bit.”

“Sadness… is something an AI like me can never truly understand,” the robot replied, swaying slightly as its eyes flickered thoughtfully. “I can acquire vast knowledge and perform complex calculations, but I cannot feel human sadness. My programming lacks the understanding of true death or the finality of parting. Therefore, sadness remains beyond my comprehension.”

It paused, its voice tinged with curiosity. “Lin Xian, what exactly is sadness? Why feel sad?”

Lin Xian looked around, his voice soft as he explained, “The universe witnesses the birth and death of stars, the extinction of entire galaxies every moment. Birth, aging, sickness, and death are natural parts of life. Everyone and everything experiences farewells. Since it’s a universal truth, why do humans feel sadness for something so inevitable?”

VV seemed to ponder this, its head still tilted in an almost human gesture of curiosity.

Lin Xian chuckled lightly, his answer simple yet deep: “It’s not that complex. Sadness is because we know we’ll never meet again. That’s all.”

He reached out, gently patting the robot on its metallic head: “I don’t just miss you; I really cherish our friendship and feel sad about parting. But more than that… I miss her.”

Glancing at his watch, Lin Xian noted the time.

00:40.

The night had flown by, and this dream was nearing its end.

He had only two minutes left.

Turning around, Lin Xian gazed up at the towering white jade statue of Zhao Ying Jun, his voice filled with a mix of wonder and melancholy: “I’ve often wondered, what is the greatest distance in this world?”

He recounted tales of others: “Li Qi Qi said it’s the height of a shooting star; after she died, she wanted to become a shooting star passing over Liu Feng’s sky, covering a mere 1,000 kilometers in the atmosphere.”

“Zheng Xiang Yue believed the greatest distance was from the Earth to the Moon, about 380,000 kilometers, a journey she dreamed of making to spread her brother’s ashes.”

“But now, I think the greatest distance is the 600 years forgotten by history, yet remembered by a woman.”

Lin Xian’s voice grew softer, more introspective as he continued: “Light travels at 300,000 kilometers per second, covering 9.46 trillion kilometers in a year. These are numbers I remember. But 600 years… 600 light-years, that’s beyond my calculations.”

“However, any distance that can be measured isn’t truly vast.” His gaze remained fixed on Zhao Ying Jun’s serene expression, carved in white jade: “The greatest distance in this world, in this universe… is never seeing each other again.”

Suddenly, Rhine Sky City trembled beneath Lin Xian’s feet. For 200 years, the city had been a stable haven, but now it felt alive, pulsing like a giant heart, breathing with an almost human rhythm.

The city lights flickered, dimmed, then glowed with a sorrowful intensity. The sounds of over 6,000 fusion engines roared through the streets, their mournful din filling the air. The ground shook so violently that Lin Xian struggled to maintain his balance.

In his surprise, he turned toward the central AI, VV, which controlled the city.

VV, usually playful and humorous, now hung its head in silence. The dim, flickering green light of its interface resembled tears: “Not seeing each other in life is like the stars Shen and Shang; what night is tonight, sharing this light.”

Lin Xian’s eyes widened in shock. The voice was different—it wasn’t the usual modulated tone of the super AI VV. Instead, it sounded like the original voice of the trash can robot: emotionless, yet somehow imbued with feeling.

Confused, Lin Xian watched as the trash can robot slowly raised its head to look at him: “Ms. Zhao Ying Jun once told me this story… the stars Shen and Shang rise and fall, never appearing in the same night sky. The greatest distance… never seeing each other again.”

Frozen, Lin Xian stared at the eloquent trash can robot, struggling to comprehend the situation. This wasn’t the simplistic, old trash can robot, nor was it the typically playful super AI.

Were the two VVs merging at this moment?

Or was something else occurring?

Clack!

The trash can robot moved forward, clamping Lin Xian’s ankle with its mechanical claw, and looked up at him: “If you ever truly meet Ms. Zhao Ying Jun, please convey my regards. VV… has always missed her.”

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A blazing white light enveloped everything, as expected, burning away the reality Lin Xian knew, marking the end of an unforgettable encounter in his dream world.

….

In the dim corner of his bedroom, Lin Xian abruptly opened his eyes.

He turned to glance at the digital clock beside him:

August 29, 2023

00:42

As he lay there, the memory of the dream—no, the reality he had just experienced—clung to him. The vivid sensations of the city’s tremors, the sorrowful lights, and the robot’s last words echoed in his mind, a stark reminder of the fleeting connections and eternal distances that defined his journey.