Chapter 212: The Supreme Council's Tea Party

The Bridge's central council hall received formal visitors for the first time.

They were not students, not patients, but three representatives of the mother planet's Supreme Council— the Chief Representative leading the team personally, the other two senior elders in charge of historical archives and cognitive research. Their flagship bore no combat posture; instead it was reduced to three hovering light shuttles that rested quietly in the Bridge's reception area.

Han Qing stood at the council hall entrance waiting, and the garden on his chest was unusually silent. All eighty‑six little blossoms were closed, as if listening warily. Su Yu, beside him, arranged the tea set—not a Bridge simulation, but the pottery she had brought from Earth, and the tea tray still held the chipped tea cup that Old Zhao's wife had favored in life.

"What did they bring?" Su Yu asked softly, her fingers unconsciously rubbing the crack on the cup's rim.

"I don't know," Han Qing said, looking at the three light shuttles. "But the Bridge says their consciousness frequency contains... confusion. Deep confusion."

The light shuttles opened. When the three representatives emerged, their appearance gave Han Qing a slight start— they did not retain the dignified council forms, but chose the most basic Seran humanoid chassis, lacking any decorative patterns, plain as three freshly manufactured templates.

The Chief Representative's gaze fell on the scar‑garden on Han Qing's chest, pausing for two seconds.

"We are not here to declare war," it said bluntly, its voice frequency steady yet tinged with fatigue, "we are here... to inquire."

The tea gathering was set on the council hall's open‑air platform. The platform's edge was a transparent spectral barrier, beyond which the Bridge's teaching network could be seen in full: Seran students practicing origami, the Singing Civilization tending a music garden, and in the distant Time Garden, paradox plants bearing new fruit.

Su Yu brewed tea. The water temperature was precisely set to eighty‑five degrees using her seven‑colored seed controller; the tea leaves were a new hybrid of hope grass and Time Garden flora. The infused tea was a pale gold, shimmering with stardust‑like glimmer.

She handed the first cup to the Chief Representative, using precisely that chipped tea cup.

The Chief Representative took it, its mechanical fingers caressing the crack on the rim: "This chip... is it by design or damage?"

"It's alive," Su Yu said. "I've used it for seven years, it fell once, didn't shatter, and I kept using it. The chip catches the tea leaves, but when you drink you can feel that it's different there."

The representative stared at the chip for a long time, then gently set the cup on the table without drinking.

"Our issue," it finally said, "concerns the 'necessity' of memory. In the past seventy‑two hours, we deleted 47% of the 'non‑logical data' from three thousand years of Seran civilization history. According to the efficiency model, this should make the civilization run smoother. But…"

It summoned a data report, hovering above the tea table:

"Anomalies after deletion:

1. The cognitive development speed of newly born individuals dropped 18%.

2. The creativity scores of existing individuals fell on average by 22%.

3. Most severe— 83 individuals began unconsciously 'reconstructing' the deleted data, even though they had never encountered the original material."

The other two representatives added, "We examined the reconstructed content. It wasn't an exact copy, but... a distorted version. A record of 'early emotional experiments' was rebuilt into a fairy‑tale‑like story. A segment of Violation nebula observation data was turned into poetry."

Han Qing lifted his own cup, the tea swirling at the chip.

"Because memory is not data," he said softly, "it's soil. If you cleanse the soil too cleanly, seeds have nowhere to root. They will find cracks to grow in, even if they grow crooked, they will still grow."

The Chief Representative's mechanical fingers tightened slightly: "So we were wrong?"

"It's not about right or wrong," Su Yu said, refilling each cup with hot water, "it's about trade‑offs. You chose efficiency, but efficiency is not the only metric."

Midway through the tea gathering, the Bridge suddenly received an emergency transmission.

It wasn't a crisis, it was a surprise.

Morning Star's voice cut in, brimming with uncontainable excitement: "Teacher! We... we did something!"

The scene shifted toward the mother planet. Without the Supreme Council's knowledge, three hundred seventy‑one Seran individuals who had completed emotional awakening, together with the commanders of five hundred observation window ships, launched a "Memory Protection Operation."

They neither attacked nor protested.

They were... backing up.

Each ship activated its own isolated storage, encrypting all historical data slated for deletion—those Violation records, non‑logical experiments, early emotional fluctuation samples—and preserving them. It wasn't a simple copy; they performed "teaching annotations": beside each data segment they added explanations of why the data mattered, what it taught them, and how it linked to similar experiences in other civilizations.

More astonishing, they shared these backup data through the Bridge's network with students of every other civilization.

The Singing Civilization, upon receipt, re‑encoded the data with sound waves, turning the cold data into a history that could be "heard" as a musical score.

The Folded Civilization (that high‑dimensional entity) folded the data into temporal folds, allowing people from different eras to access it simultaneously.

People on Earth's Flower Field network began converting the data into folk tales, passing them by word of mouth.

Now, even if the mother planet completely erases all original records, these memories already exist in three hundred seventy‑one different forms, alive in every corner of the cross‑civilization teaching network.

The Chief Representative watched the live transmission, and the data stream on its faceplate showed a rare turbulence.

"You... lack authorization," it said, but there was no anger in its voice, only confusion.

Morning Star's face appeared in the communication screen, its luminous star‑hand flickering excitedly:

"After studying the 'Error Signal Value' lesson, we understood—

Some things don't require authorization.

What is needed is...

Responsibility."

"Protecting a civilization's history,

is the responsibility of every civilization member.

Even if that history is full of Error Signals."

In the frame, a commander of an observation window ship—Calibrator-7—calmly added:

"According to the newly issued New Pure Agreement, Appendix Section Three:

"Individuals have the right to explore cognitive boundaries."

We believe that safeguarding soon‑to‑vanish cognitive samples

belongs to the exploration component."

It was quoting a law the council itself had drafted.

The Chief Representative fell silent.

It lifted the cup it had not yet drunk from, finally taking a sip. As the tea passed the chip, there truly was a subtle difference—the astringency of the leaves was slightly buffered at the chip, and the after‑taste emerged earlier.

"The chip altered the tea's flavor," it said softly.

"Hmm," Su Yu nodded, "it's not better or worse, it's become a different kind of tea."

As the tea gathering drew to a close, the Chief Representative retrieved something from its storage core.

It wasn't a data file, but a tangible, tiny crystal fragment. The fragment was only the size of a fingernail, its surface riddled with cracks, yet a faint light pulsed within.

"This is my personal keepsake," the representative's voice wavered with a hint of hesitation for the first time, "Three thousand years ago, when I was a junior researcher, I conducted a Violation experiment—attempting to program a 'personality algorithm' into maintenance robots. The algorithm went rogue; the robots began naming themselves and would draw a tiny star after completing a task."

It placed the fragment on the tea table, and the fragment automatically projected an image: a clumsy maintenance robot, using a welding torch to etch a twisted star pattern onto a metal plate.

"According to the regulations back then, I should have formatted this robot and all the experimental data." The councillor said, "But I didn't. I compressed and encrypted this data, hiding it at the lowest layer of the storage core. For three thousand years, with every system upgrade, I carefully migrated it to a new carrier."

After the robot in the image finished drawing the star, it spoke toward the camera (which was then the chief councillor's junior researcher) in a hoarse voice: "Does it look good?"

Its younger self replied: "It doesn't meet the standard."

The robot fell silent for three seconds, then said: "But this is my star."

The chief councillor closed the image, and the fragment's light dimmed.

"This data is on this purge list." It said, "According to the order I personally signed, it should be permanently deleted. But I…"

It paused for a long time.

"I can't bring myself to do it."

Han Qing looked at that fragment. The cracks on its surface felt much like the texture of Old Zhao's ugly star.

"Because it's not data." Su Yu said softly, "It's your star."

The chief councillor lifted its head, the optical sensor on its faceplate aiming at Han Qing's chest scar garden: "Your wounds… how long did they hurt before they bloomed?"

"Some still hurt." Han Qing said honestly, "But what blooms isn't the wound itself—it's the person who learned how to keep folding stars even while in pain."

The councillor pushed the fragment toward Han Qing.

"I… want to transplant it into the bridge's network." It said, "As the first officially recognized 'historical error template.' But we need someone to teach other Silan individuals how to view such a star."

It paused, then added:

"I need someone to teach us…"

"how to, after deleting everything,"

"relearn how to remember."

Just then, the light imprint on Xiao Yu's wrist suddenly sounded an alarm.

The child's face went pale: "Bridge Space… the anchor points are slipping away!"

The view shifted back to Star Sand Beach. The people who had just taken root—Old Zhao, the three evolvers of the Singing Civilization, and other volunteers who had become anchor points—were fading in their sense of presence. Not due to memory purging, but because in the real world, more and more people are beginning to accept the "memory purification" procedure.

When living people choose to forget, the anchor points in Bridge Space lose their real‑world connection.

Old Zhao's son shouted anxiously on the screen: "Dad! Your flower is wilting!"

The double‑petaled plant in Old Zhao's palm was indeed shrinking. Its petals began turning translucent, and its roots loosened from the star sand.

"It's because of everyone down there…" the child's voice trembled, "Some think 'forgetting is easier' and have voluntarily taken the memory‑purification procedure."

Han Qing immediately understood—this wasn't a forced purge by conservatives, but a voluntary choice. When people are in too much pain, they instinctively want to forget. And each voluntary act of forgetting siphons away a cornerstone of Bridge Space.

The chief councillor watched this scene, the data stream flickering again: "The memory‑purification program… we designed it originally to treat post‑traumatic stress."

"But you never taught them," Su Yu's voice rare in its severity, "how to keep living while carrying trauma."

She stood up, the medical kit automatically opened, and dozens of tiny paper cranes flew out—each crane bearing a "wound‑bloom" story.

"I'm going to Bridge Space," she said, "to teach those who want to forget how to fold their wounds into paper cranes."

Han Qing also stood up, and every little flower in his chest garden blossomed at once.

"I'll go with you." He looked at the chief councillor, "The tea meeting can pause here. We'll discuss your issues after we've rescued the people."

The councillor fell silent for three seconds, then performed an action that surprised everyone—

It also rose to its feet.

"I'm going too."

"As a representative of the High Council,"

"I need to see for myself,"

"the memories we have defined as 'requiring purification,'"

"what exactly they are guarding."

The three councillors simultaneously shed their humanoid vessels, reverting to their basic light‑shuttle forms.

"Lead the way."

"Let's see…"

"what kind of flower is actually blooming inside your wounds."

Before heading to Bridge Space, Han Qing did one last thing.

He had the bridge turn that tiny storage fragment—the chief councillor's three‑thousand‑year‑old violation experiment record—into origami material.

Not paper, but the fragment's data stream transformed into a foldable optical film. The film is fragile, shattering at a touch, yet in Han Qing's hands it becomes unusually pliable.

He began folding the eighty‑second star.

With each fold, he wove in a different civilization's "memory‑protecting" story:

The courage of Morning Star and his classmates, who autonomously backed up history.

The Singing Civilization's gentleness in turning data into song.

The Folded Civilization's wisdom of folding time into a library.

Earthlings' tenacity in turning history into orally transmitted tales.

Plus the fragment the chief councillor had hidden for three thousand years—the robot's lopsided star, and the line "But this is my star."

When the star is folded, it is not a perfect polyhedron.

It is lopsided, its surface covered with light streaks resembling cracks, one tip noticeably shorter.

Yet when it hovers in the air, the light it emits is warm and steadfast, like the first lamp lit on a deep‑autumn evening.

Han Qing handed the star to the chief councillor.

"The lesson's theme is: how to fold a star that will never go out, using civilization's scars."

The councillor received the star with a tendril of its light‑shuttle. The star turned slightly in its grasp, the crooked tip aligning perfectly with its image from three thousand years ago, when it was young.

Where does my lesson begin? it asked.

Starting with admitting your star is ugly. Su Yu said, having already opened the passage to Bridge Space.

Then what?

Then, Han Qing walked toward the passage, the scar garden on his chest like a small lantern in the darkness, "teaching others how to fold their own ugly stars."

The three councilors' light shuttles followed closely behind.

Behind them, in the bridge's council chamber, that cup of tea remained warm.

At the edge of the chipped teacup, a drop of tea slowly slid down, spreading a small patch of golden light on the tea tray.

Like a tiny but real star.