Chapter 250: The Dangerous Tea Table

When the envoy arrived, the grafted sapling was bleeding.

It wasn't red blood but a transparent, crystal‑melted liquid that seeped slowly from the crack edges, and when it dripped onto the warm soil it made a faint "sizzle," like a sigh. The GuiHuaYuan map shows the Thirteenth Civilization fleet has halted outside the garden—not encircling, but lined up, as if waiting for entry permission like guests.

"They only sent one," Xiao Yu said, staring at the data stream on the light imprint. "Vital signs… are strange. It's not a full entity, it's a 'memory aggregate'; the carrier can only sustain three hours."

Han Qing sat before the tea table beneath the sapling, heating a cup. The water had just boiled, and steam drew long white threads in the morning light. The ninth fruit in the scar garden on his chest had already formed—not the previous transparent or deep‑purple, but a flowing hue between silver and gray, like unfixed metal.

"Three hours is enough," Han Qing said, adding tea leaves to the kettle—not osmanthus, not sesame flower, but ordinary green tea. "Enough for three brews, three questions, to decide whether to continue as a Harvester, or …"

"Or what?" Su Yu's folding‑paper hand paused.

"Or become another, more troublesome thing." Han Qing poured out the first rinse water; the splash into the waste basin sounded crisp like some signal. "For example, a student."

Old Zhao was preparing tea snacks in the kitchen. With no sesame left, he used the last bit of glutinous rice flour to make small tangyuan, unfilled, pure white, like miniature moons. Aili was beside him checking the medical kit—the seventh injection was still there, but she had prepared three extra ordinary analgesics.

"Why?" Kevin recorded the detail.

"If the arrivals are wounded," Aili said calmly, "pain also needs treatment."

Zhao Xiaoshu sat in the kitchen corner, his complexion still pale. After Bridge Space closed, his "Bridge Eye" ability weakened, yet he could still perceive things ordinary people cannot. He stared out the window and suddenly said, "The envoy is arriving soon. Its gait… looks like it's learning how to use its legs."

The Efficiency‑1 Light Sphere floated above the tea table, its color a vigilant dark blue: "My mothership reports: the Thirteenth Civilization's current operation has been classified by the Silent Observers' United Council as a 'Level‑One Observation Event.' If they display aggression during contact, we will be granted counter‑attack authorization."

"What if they show no aggression?" Su Yu asked.

The Light Sphere's color shifted to a puzzled pale yellow: "Then… it's even more troublesome. Our armory and contingency plans have no entry for 'how to have tea with a Harvester.'"

When the envoy appeared at the edge of the ruins, everyone was stunned.

It came on foot, not in a craft. Its body truly was a memory aggregate—a semi‑transparent humanoid, its outline subtly rippling like a reflection in water. Yet it wore clothing: a long robe woven from light, embroidered with intricate patterns that, upon close inspection, were miniature depictions of countless civilizations' "death bloom" moments.

It held a box in its hands.

It wasn't a weapons case but an exquisitely carved wooden box, its surface bearing a natural wood‑grain pattern—a tree in bloom, each flower a star.

The envoy stopped three meters before the tea table, bowing—a standard yet slightly stiff salute. Then it spoke in a synthetic voice, neutral and emotionless, but its wording was carefully chosen:

"The Thirteenth Civilization's Memory Tasting Division envoy, designation 'Echo‑7.' Acting on council orders, I have come to verify the 'Temperature Answer.' This is a greeting gift; please accept it."

It extended both hands, offering the wooden box.

Han Qing did not take it immediately. He first completed his current action: pouring the second brew into a fair‑measure cup, the tea golden and clear. Only then did he rise, walk to the envoy, and receive the box.

The box was light. Opening it revealed not a bomb nor a sensor, but a handful… of soil.

The soil was moist, dark‑brown, exuding a faint fresh scent. At its center lay a sprouted seed—the shoot silver, its two young leaves spread like unfolded wings.

"This is…" the light imprint on Xiao Yu began frantic analysis.

"A sample of our civilization's 'origin soil,'" Echo‑7 said, its synthetic voice adopting, for the first time, a tone of earnest explanation. "One hundred‑thirty‑thousand years ago, when we were still in the 'Dreamer' stage, this soil was used to cultivate 'Starlight Flowers.' That seed… was the last unused Starlight Flower seed. We believe that verifying the 'Temperature Answer' requires an exchange of 'origin.'"

Silence enveloped the area around the tea table.

Even the wind had ceased.

Han Qing closed the box, placed it back on the tea table, then performed a simple gesture: extending his hand, pointing toward the opposite cushion.

"Sit."

When Echo‑7 sat, its body rippled more noticeably—it was simulating "tension." Han Qing pushed a cup of tea toward it; the liquid quivered slightly within.

"Tea should be drunk while hot," Han Qing said, lifting his own cup, "but 'scalding' isn't data; it's a real experience. So I won't explain—just drink."

Echo‑7 stared at the cup, extending a hand—at the instant its hand touched the cup wall, it became completely transparent, as if to merge itself into the tactile experience. It lifted the cup but did not drink, instead bringing the rim close to its face (if that could be called a face), pausing for a full ten seconds.

Then it said, "The ascent trajectory of the steam… shows 1,674 irregular fluctuations. The temperature transmission curve of the cup wall… contains 37 peaks that thermodynamics cannot explain. The light‑reflection pattern on the tea surface…"

"Drink." Han Qing interrupted.

Echo‑7 remained still for two seconds, then tilted the cup, letting the tea flow into its semi‑transparent "mouth."

The next second, its entire body began to surge violently, like water struck by a stone. The death‑bloom pattern on its robe suddenly altered—the frozen beauty began to "play in reverse": flowers retracted from bloom to buds, stars regressed from explosion to condensation, civilizations rewound from termination to flourishing.

"Record…" its voice trembled for the first time, "Taste data: bitter, astringent, then… sweet? No, not sweet—'after.' Temperature data: from 'tolerable threshold' to 'slight pain' to 'adaptation' to… 'desire more.' Emotional simulation data: incomprehensible, massive overflow Error Signal—"

It set the cup down; its body was no longer humanoid, having become a swirling mass of light mist. Within the mist came intermittent sounds:

"Is this… scalding?"

"It's one kind of scalding." Han Qing finished his own cup, then poured another, "There are other scaldings. Like waiting for a tangyuan to cool completely, that scalding; the itching scalding when a wound heals; the scalding when you see four thousand Light Spheres choose to become 'contamination.'"

He pushed the small tangyuan forward: "Want to try? This one isn't scalding; it's warm."

Echo‑7 enveloped a small tangyuan with light mist. The tangyuan rotated slowly within the mist, its glutinous surface developing fine cracks—not damage, but a microscopic "tasting."

"Warm…" it murmured, "the opposite of scalding, yet it also has an 'after.' What follows warmth?"

Old Zhao spoke then, his voice steady as tea: "After warmth comes cool. After cool comes reheating. After reheating comes warmth again, then cool, then heat. As long as the fire burns and the pot isn't empty, there will always be another round."

He pointed at the dancing flame in the tea stove:

"You harvest 'death bloom' because after the bloom there is nothing—clean. But after 'scalding' and 'warmth' there is always a 'next.' That's the trouble of being alive—and the whole meaning of life."

Echo‑7's light mist suddenly solidified, then began contracting inward, re‑coalescing into a humanoid. This time, its face bore a rudimentary outline of features—its eyes were two dark vortices, something flickering deep within.

"We…" it said, voice soft, "for one hundred‑thirty‑thousand years have only collected 'the beauty of ending,' because an ending does not change, does not bring the trouble of an 'after.' But the answer you gave… 'scalding'… it has an after; it will become warm, then cool, then something that needs reheating again."

It stood, bowed again, this time deeper:

"I need to take this 'troublesome answer' back to the council. But before that, may I ask a… personal question?"

Han Qing nodded.

Echo‑7 pointed at the reversed death‑bloom patterns on its robe: "If… if we stop harvesting and begin learning to 'cultivate'… these beauties that have already ended, can we… regain the 'after'?"

The moment the question was posed, the wooden box on the tea table emitted a faint glow.

Everyone turned. The soil inside the box was "breathing"—slightly undulating as if a heart beat. The silver seed's sprout, at a visibly rapid pace, grew a third leaf, its surface etched with fine, text‑like patterns.

Xiao Yu's light imprint flickered wildly: "Active memory fragments detected in the soil! Memories from the 'Dreamer' era—how they cultivated Starlight Flowers, danced around them when they bloomed, and were joyous for an entire stellar cycle because of a single flower's opening…"

Echo‑7 stared at the box, its humanoid form rippling again. It extended a hand to touch, then withdrew.

"This answer," Han Qing closed the box and pushed it back to them, "you must grow it yourselves to know."

When the envoy departed carrying the box, the grafted sapling's crack ceased bleeding and began to heal slowly. The GuiHuaYuan map showed the Thirteenth Civilization fleet beginning an orderly withdrawal, but a small vessel remained parked outside the garden, as if … waiting for an invitation to the next tea gathering.

And the ninth fruit on Han Qing's chest finally stabilized in color: a warm amber gold, like dawn shining through tea.

The tea had gone cold. Han Qing was tidying up the tea set; when his finger touched the tea cup that had been used by Echo-7, a faint silver trace remained on the inner wall of the cup—like a fingerprint, but more like some unfinished question.

Su Yu stared at that trace and whispered, "We seem to have... taught them something they shouldn't have learned."

"No." Old Zhao washed the teapot, the water flow steady, "We merely reminded them of something they already knew but dared not admit—no matter how beautiful an ending, it cannot compare to the sting of a seed that will sprout."

Outside the window, the small ship of the Thirteenth Civilization that had been left behind began to broadcast some kind of frequency around it—not a harvesting frequency, but rather like... tilling the soil.