Chapter 190: Starlight on the Eve of the Storm

Countdown: 62 hours.

The healing forest's night has never been so bright— not artificial light, but the plants' own faint glow. Countless leaves shimmer with silvery‑green phosphorescence, as if the whole forest is performing photosynthesis in reverse: not absorbing light, but releasing memory.

Han Qing stands on the central clearing, surrounded by three hundred floating luminous leaves. Each leaf carries a Memory Fragment stripped from him by the formatting protocol, now being slowly "retransmitted" by the plant network. The process resembles a blood transfusion, but what's transferred are images, temperature, the rough feel of his father's palm, the sweet‑tart taste of his first fully ripe wild fruit.

"Retransmission at 41%." Kaiwen stares at the monitor; his glasses had to be adjusted three times before settling—a nervous habit of his—"but there's a problem… the memory isn't returning unchanged."

Su Yu reaches out to touch a drifting leaf. The leaf turns to light dust at her fingertip, and the scene that emerges in the dust is not Han Qing's perspective but… the plant's perspective: five‑year‑old Han Qing being hoisted on his father's shoulders, but seen from the grass on the ground, only the swaying shoe soles and a corner of the starry sky are visible.

"Plants are interpreting memory in their own way," Xiao Yu's wrist light‑mark flashes in sync, "they 'translate' human memory into root‑touch, light angle, water flow…"

Lao Zhao crouches on the ground, tapping the earth three times lightly with his wrench— his habit for calling Chen Mo, even though he knows there will be no response: "So, the memory Han Qing has retrieved now is 'Han Qing as seen by the plants'?"

"More like an IOU," Han Qing suddenly speaks. He keeps his eyes closed, and the star‑string harp string at his chest emits a steady low hum, "the plant network says: these memories are lent to me for now; when the storm plan ends, they'll be returned."

Aili's hand, which was arranging a potion, stops: "Return them? Then you will…"

"I'll forget again," Han Qing opens his eyes, the rainbow‑string reflection in his left eye mirroring the sky‑full of leaf light, "but this time it's voluntary. I'll pawn these memories to obtain the energy that triggers the emotional storm."

At two a. m., most people have taken a brief rest. Han Qing, however, sits on Chen Mo's blue stone, clutching the crooked paper star in his hand. Su Yu brings two cups of dandelion tea— the drink that Lao Zhou's daughter loved most in life, now a nightly camp routine.

"What are you thinking?" Su Yu asks.

Han Qing does not answer immediately. He spreads his left hand, the palm revealing the outline of that wild‑flower Star Map, then spreads his right hand, the palm showing the silvery outline of his father's back. The two halos rotate slowly, like some ancient dance.

"I'm thinking," he says softly, "if memory is borrowed, is my current 'feeling' also borrowed? For example… when I touch this paper star, the… that thing that wells up inside me."

Su Yu grasps his wrist—not to hold hands, but to press his palm against her chest. Through the clothing she can feel his heartbeat and, deeper, the resonant frequency of the multicolored seed.

"The feeling is real," she says, "even if the memory is borrowed, you are here now, holding the star, drinking tea with me—this is the reality that is happening. Chen Mo once said the most important thing isn't what you remember, but what you are experiencing."

Han Qing stares at the intertwined hands. The sight reminds him of a covered memory—not a picture, but a feeling: a dusk before the disaster, his mother holding his hand the same way, teaching him to write, the strokes heavy, saying "write the characters steady, like a person standing steady."

That memory didn't return, but the feeling resurfaced.

"I want to run an experiment," Han Qing suddenly says, "can you use a tuner's ability… to help me 'see' those forgotten warmths? No details, just outlines."

Su Yu nods. The seed at her chest begins to glow, its light passing through the fabric and weaving a flowing light‑shadow tableau in the air between them: a woman's profile (her mother's smile), a hand patting a shoulder (a comrade's encouragement), a bowl of steaming hot soup (a stranger's kindness)…

All the images lack facial details, containing only light, shadow, and temperature.

But Han Qing, looking at those outlines, suddenly says, "Thank you."

"Thank what?"

"Thank you… for remembering when I have forgotten."

Three new life‑forms suddenly dart out from the forest's depths—not walking but gliding lightly, feet never touching ground. The silver‑green glow in their eyes shines three times brighter than usual, their voices overlapping with excitement:

"We've found the 'ecological memory'!"

"Not human's, but the plants'!"

"They remember far older things!"

Kaiwen pulls up a deep‑layer map of the plant network, inhaling a cold breath: "At the deepest roots of the plants… they have awakened a memory code at least three thousand years old. It's not data, it's… a growth pattern."

A holographic screen displays a complex root‑network diagram. The distribution of those roots is clearly not natural growth but a precise geometric structure— as if a book were written on the ground with plant roots.

Xiao Yu's wrist light‑mark flickers wildly, the projected Serlan characters trembling:

"Detected early experimental traces of Ai O.

Timestamp: one hundred years after the Sower arrived on Earth.

Content: how to make the plant network a 'cross‑civilization memory carrier'.

Key line: 'Memory should not be stored only in brains that will die.'"

Han Qing's star‑string harp string at his chest suddenly emits seven self‑generated notes. The seven notes coalesce in the air into glowing Serlan glyphs, which drift toward the three new life‑forms and embed into their foreheads.

In an instant, the three life‑forms speak simultaneously, their voices no longer childish but an ancient chorus:

"Lesson One: Memory Grafting.

Graft human emotional memories into the plant life‑cycle.

Thus even if a human individual dies, those 'feelings' will persist as the plant blossoms, bears fruit, sheds leaves, and rebirths.

A civilization's most precious thing is not its knowledge base, but the 'heartbeat frequency of the first time seeing a rainbow.'"

Lao Zhao's wrench clatters to the ground. He stares at the three children temporarily possessed by ancient consciousness, suddenly recalling Chen Mo's final words before death:

"Tell Han Qing… seeds are the most patient revolutionaries. They don't rush to change the world; they wait for the world to awaken on its own."

"The resonance model for the emotional storm is calculated," Kaiwen's voice pulls everyone back to reality, "it requires at least 270 tuners to resonate in sync, with intensity enough to cover 1.2 astronomical units. But the problem is…"

He brings up another data chart: a 3‑D model shows that if they fully launch an emotional‑frequency shield for the Serlan awakening fleet, Earth's position would shine as clearly as a lighthouse in the night. The second stage of the formatting protocol could likely lock onto this spot directly.

"Do we have a choice?" Aili, already prepared with sedatives and adrenaline— she knows the cost tuners pay for enduring peak resonance.

"We do," Han Qing stands, the wild‑flower Star Map in his palm fracturing into hundreds of tiny light points, "we can forego shielding the entire fleet, shielding only the core awakening entity. But then the peripheral, newly awakened, hesitant Serlan… would be formatted."

Su Yu grabs his arm: "Han Qing, this isn't a math problem. It's not a 'sacrifice the few to save the many' multiple‑choice question."

"I understand," Han Qing turns his head to her, the rainbow‑string reflection in his left eye showing her anxious face, "so I'll pawn all my memories to obtain enough energy to shield the whole fleet. The plant network says— if I voluntarily donate my memories permanently to the ecological memory vault, they can release all emotional frequencies stored over three thousand years."

Silence.

Lao Zhao is the first to react: "Are you fucking crazy? Permanent donation? Then are you still you?!"

"I will be," Han Qing pulls the ugly paper star from his chest pocket, "a being composed of three thousand years of collective memory, plus my own pledged memory, plus everyone the tuners are resonating with right now. I will be… a 'proof of existence' that is happening now."

He looks at Xiao Yu: "Ask the civilization seeds in your wrist—are they willing to join this high‑stakes gamble? The wager: if we lose, the emotional samples of three thousand civilizations could be completely erased by the formatting protocol."

Xiao Yu closes her eyes. The burst of light from the wrist mark makes the whole forest bright as day. Three thousand colors of light streams intertwine in the air into a magnificent Star Map, and at its center appears a line of text understandable to every civilization:

"Pledge memory, redeem the future.

Deal.

At that moment, the synchronized‑orbit Serlan detector transmits an urgent signal.

It's not a distress call, it's a warning.

Kaiwen's displayed scene freezes everyone's blood: in Deep Space, a massive Serlan fleet is gathering—not the awakened refugees, but the conservatives' formatting enforcement fleet. They have received the emotional‑frequency test signal sent from Earth and are now leaping toward the Solar System.

"They've received a dual signal," Han Qing's voice is cold, "we sent a weak test signal for the storm model, and also… the awakening fleet's distress signal. Now the conservatives think Earth is the awakened's 'rear base.'"

Aili was already adding medicine to the medical pack: "How far until arrival?"

"45 hours." Kaiwen's hand pushing his glasses trembled, "It's 21 hours ahead of the formatting agreement's total attack. They need to… first eliminate the 'pollution source'."

The three new life forms suddenly pointed at the night sky together. Their eyes reflected trajectories invisible to ordinary people—hundreds of jump channels were generating, like countless silver-white swords stabbing toward the solar system.

"The rift is bleeding." said the first life form.

"It's not physical blood." added the second.

"It's the blood of time." the third whispered softly, "If we don't repair it now, there will never be a 'later'."

Han Qing clenched the paper star. The rough texture of the paper transmitted through his fingertips, and he suddenly recalled Su Yu's words: the time to fold one star is how long light takes to travel from the Sun to Earth.

45 hours. That's the distance light can travel from Earth to Pluto.

He still had time to fold many stars.

At three in the morning, Han Qing began folding the second star.

This time he was a bit more skilled; although still crooked, at least he didn't tear the paper. Su Yu sat beside him, folding her forty-seventh star. They didn't speak, just repeating the motions of aligning, creasing, and flipping, one after another.

Old Zhao walked over holding a kerosene lamp, its light spreading a soft yellow halo in the mist. He set down the lamp, sat as well, pulled out an oily mechanical drawing from his pocket, and began folding clumsily—not a star, but a paper airplane.

"When my son was little," Old Zhao said while folding, his voice hoarse, "he always had me fold paper airplanes. He said Dad's airplanes fly the farthest."

Han Qing looked up: "And then?"

"Later he grew up and said paper airplanes were childish." Old Zhao finished folding, breathed on the nose of the plane, and gently tossed it. The paper airplane glided through the night wind, winding past the glowing vines, and finally landed softly in the Hope Grass Field. "Now thinking about it, childish things… are actually nice."

In the distance, the three new life forms held hands, standing at the core node of the plant network. Beneath their feet, the ground rippled with silver-green waves, spreading through the entire forest; wherever they passed, the fluorescence of all leaves doubled.

They were pre-awakening the ecological memory bank—not waiting for the storm to begin, but starting to preload now. The emotional frequencies accumulated over three thousand years, like a river before the spring flood, began to slowly flow through the plant root systems.

Xiao Yu sat beside them, her wrist light-seal connected to the consciousness network of the three thousand civilization seeds. She was transmitting a simple request:

"Please lend us, for one night, the most useless, most beautiful, most easily formatted memories from your civilization."

"Return them at dawn."

"The interest is: a chorus about 'It's great to be alive' that blankets the sea of stars."

The starlight in the night sky suddenly brightened.

It wasn't a physical change; those civilization seeds began to respond. The 'useless beauty' of the three thousand civilizations—a lullaby without lyrics, a doodle drawn in starlight, a time unit invented solely for appreciating falling leaves—turned into three thousand faint but firm frequencies, merging into the plant network.

When Han Qing finished folding the fifth star, he looked up at the night sky.

In the rainbow-string shadow of his left eye, the starlight of the three thousand civilizations was reflected. In the human pupil of his right eye, the side profile of Su Yu folding paper was reflected.

"You know," he suddenly said, "even if everything ends tomorrow, tonight… is still worthwhile."

Su Yu folded her fiftieth star and gently placed it on the bluestone. Fifty ugly paper stars lined up in a row, casting long shadows under the kerosene lamp light, like a road leading to the Milky Way.

"Chen Mo once said," she gazed at those stars, "'Some battles aren't fought to win, but to prove that some things are worth fighting for.'"

In the distance, the first ray of dawn began to lighten the eastern horizon.

Countdown: 44 hours.