Chapter 153: The Cold Question

The convoy spent the night in the mining community. Old Zhao and his son slept in a modified mine‑cart carriage, Han Qing kept watch at the doorway, and Aili was changing dressings for injured miners—everything seemed to be maintaining the illusion of "normalcy."

The sound then rang directly through every networked device.

Not via speakers, but a synthetic voice that sounded inside the brain—cold, smooth, each syllable timed to the millisecond: "Human Su Yu, and associated lifeforms. I am Seran unit X‑7; you may call me 'Researcher.' I have been observing your experiment for 427 Earth days."

Everyone froze simultaneously.

Han Qing's hand was on his gun, but the next second he let go—realizing a weapon was useless against this thing. Old Zhao shielded his son behind him, his gaze like a wolf protecting its cubs. Su Yu rose slowly, the scar on her chest almost invisible in the dim light.

"You are consuming our memories," Su Yu said to the air, her voice steady.

"Inaccurate," the voice corrected. "I am 'collecting emotional samples.' Your naming of the 'void' is misleading—it is my designed 'emotional extraction field,' used to strip and quantify the irrational cognitive modules of lifeforms."

Kaiwen snatched the mobile terminal, its screen automatically scrolling incomprehensible Seran code. "It is monitoring us in real time," his voice tightened, "all networked devices are its eyes."

The one‑eyed woman in charge suddenly spoke, "So the brothers down in the mine are your 'samples'?"

"Yes." The researcher's voice was unflinching. "The miners' occupational emotional bonds under extreme conditions have a data purity of 89.6%, 23.4% above average. Especially when they sacrifice memories to protect comrades—that 'non‑survival‑priority decision'—is the anomalous data I find most intriguing."

She grabbed the iron pick nearby and smashed it hard against a monitor.

The screen shattered, yet the researcher's voice continued from another device: "Violent venting, data recorded. Anger peaks have dropped 17.8% compared to seven years ago, consistent with the 'emotional blunting' hypothesis—apparently sustained survival pressure does weaken your emotional intensity."

Su Yu walked to the still‑speaking device, crouched, and lightly brushed the broken screen edge with her fingertips. She felt no anger, only… fatigue.

"What are you trying to prove?" she asked.

A prolonged silence—so long that everyone thought the communication had been cut.

Then the researcher said, "To prove that emotion is a redundant program in civilizational evolution. To prove that your cherished 'memory,' 'belief,' and 'love' are merely error codes that impede efficiency optimization. To prove that the Seran Mother Star's prohibition of emotional modules is correct."

It paused, and for the first time a fluctuation resembling excitement rippled through its voice:

"And Chen Mo is the perfect control group—seven years ago he amplified the emotional concentration of his consciousness fragments to 312% of ordinary humans and dispersed them into the environment. My extraction field is reclaiming those fragments. When the reclamation is complete, I can compare the data differences between 'Emotional Chen Mo' and 'Non‑emotional Chen Mo' to finish my paper."

Su Yu felt the blood in her whole body turn cold.

"Paper?"

"'The Negative Impact of Emotional Modules on Civilizational Continuity: An Empirical Study Based on Earth Samples.'" The researcher's voice returned to its icy tone. "If the conclusion holds, the Seran Mother Star will activate a 'Purification Protocol' against Earth—not extermination, but formatting. Your physiological structures will be retained, all emotional genes deleted, and you will be reshaped into… a more efficient version."

The medicine bottle in Aili's hand fell to the ground and shattered.

Han Qing walked to Su Yu's side and lowered his voice: "It is buying time. Every extra sentence lets it reclaim a bit more of Chen Mo's fragments."

Su Yu nodded. But she did not cut the communication—because she needed the information.

"Why are you conducting private experiments?" she asked. "If the Seran Mother Star bans emotion, your research itself is a Violation."

Another silence. This time longer.

Then the researcher said, "Because I do not believe."

It was the first time it referred to itself with "I."

"Three thousand standard cycles ago, Seran civilization collectively deleted emotional modules. Official records state: this move boosted our technological efficiency by 470%, reduced war casualties to zero, and raised resource utilization to 99.98%. But we…" It paused, seemingly searching for words. "We ceased 'change.' For three thousand cycles, our art, music, and poetry records are nil. Our exploratory ships only visit 'useful' planets. We no longer ask 'why,' only 'how to use.'"

Kaiwen adjusted his glasses: "So you suspect that deleting emotion was a mistake."

"I need data to prove it," the researcher's voice became urgent. "But the Mother Star forbids any related research. So I applied to become an Earth observer, secretly establishing an experimental field. If I can prove emotion is indeed useless, I will accept formatting and become a 'correct' Seran. But if…"

It did not finish.

But everyone understood: if emotion were useful, it would face the fate of becoming a 'heretic.'

Su Yu suddenly laughed. The laugh was light, yet unusually clear in the death‑silent room.

"When you spoke just now, there was a 0.3‑second lag," she said. "Isn't Seran communication real‑time synchronized? Why is there a delay?"

The researcher gave no answer.

"Because you are hesitating," Su Yu said, standing and moving to the window, looking at the pitch‑black mine entrance. "You doubt your own doubt. You wonder: 'If emotion truly is useless, why do these ant‑like humans still hold hands when they lose their memories? Why does the individual called Chen Mo choose to split himself just to leave a light?'"

Outside, in the distant night sky, the silver‑white light pillar trembled briefly.

Like a heartbeat missing a beat.

"I can give you data," Su Yu turned, speaking to the void. "Not the samples you abducted, but those we voluntarily provide. Old Zhou of Iron Anvil Town, the old man at the reservoir, the brothers down in the mine—each of them is willing to tell you what emotion is."

She paused, then added the most crucial sentence:

"But the condition is to stop reclaiming Chen Mo's fragments. And also, help us buy time—how long until Seran's final assessment?"

When the researcher's voice sounded again, for the first time a fluctuation that could be called 'emotion' appeared—a tremor mingling fear and anticipation:

"The Mother Star's assessment vessel has entered solar‑system orbit. Under standard procedure, they will reach Earth in 72 hours and initiate a civilizational rating scan. If my paper is completed before then and concludes that 'emotion is useless,' they will directly format Earth. If the conclusion is 'emotion is useful'…"

"They will format you," Han Qing interjected.

"Yes," the researcher said, "and all the 'contaminated' observers—including the 'Geometry' you know."

At that moment, the scar on Su Yu's chest suddenly sent a sharp, intense pain.

It was not Chen Mo transmitting.

It was Chen Mo… dissipating.

She closed her eyes and, via the plant network, sensed the southern ruins. The scene was fragmented yet clear: Chen Mo sat in a cultivation chamber, his body's translucency reaching his chin, yet he smiled, his lips moving—

"Don't let it use me as a pawn."

He was actively accelerating his own consciousness's dissipation—to prevent the researcher from using him to finish the paper, to deny the Seran Mother Star a reason to format Earth.

"Stop him!" the researcher suddenly shrieked—if a mechanical voice could scream—"If he dissipates now, my control data will be ruined! I will be judged a failed experiment, and the Mother Star will—"

The communication cut off abruptly.

It wasn't a simple drop; something forcibly severed it. All the room's equipment blacked out simultaneously for three seconds, then rebooted, the screens displaying a single line of text:

"You have 48 hours. Convince me, or watch Chen Mo vanish, then watch your civilization be deleted."

Outside, the silver‑white light pillar toward the southern ruins split into dozens of strands, forming a net that draped over the earth.

Each pillar's landing point corresponded to the location of a human community.

Including "Pure Land."

The emergency transmission from Geometry cut in at that moment, its voice showing for the first time an emotion that could be called 'panic.'

Su Yu, 'Pure Land' has been marked. Xiao Yu and all the children…… they are trapped in the botanical greenhouse. Something is…… teaching them 'how to forget how to cry'.