Chapter 284

But what is needed now is the 'creative process', not the 'creative result'.

For example, Beethoven's agony and transcendence when deaf while composing the Ninth Symphony, Fan Gao's struggle on the brink of mental collapse while painting Starry Night, Li Bai's wild abandon after drinking when he wrote "Raise a Cup to Invite the Moon"... These are what the Harvesters cannot calculate.

The hall fell silent.

The old painter was the first to walk to his workstation, putting on the neural interface helmet:

"I painted."

Three thousand people took their places one after another.

Qiming's voice rang out in the hall:

【Thank you for your participation.】

【Now, please recall the moments in your life that are impossible to calculate.】

The helmet glowed blue.

The data stream began to surge.

The recruitment on Blue Star continues.

However, on the third day, Qiming suggested adding a segment: "The Final Lesson."

Schools worldwide, from kindergartens to universities, suspended classes on the same day, with a unified theme: If civilization were to perish, what would you leave behind?

Not an essay, not an exam, just a chat.

In the sixth-grade classroom of Yunchuan City No. 3 Elementary School.

The young homeroom teacher looked at the forty-two children below and softly asked, "If tomorrow... aliens were coming, what would you want to show them of humanity?"

After a brief silence, a girl with a ponytail raised her hand: "I want them to taste the braised pork my mother makes. It's sweet and tender, the fatty meat not greasy at all, and with rice I could eat three bowls!"

"My dad's hug," a small, thin boy whispered, "Although he worked at the Moon Base last year and hasn't returned in a long time, when he hugs me he smells of machine oil, yet it's warm."

"The feeling of my dog licking my hand!"

"The first time I saw snow, snowflakes landed in my palm, cool, then melted."

"The nursery rhyme my grandmother taught me; although I don't understand the dialect, the tune is lovely."

"The day I quarreled and then made up with my best friend, that feeling of being blocked in my heart and then loosening."

The children's words were naive, but each "impossible to calculate" moment was faithfully recorded by the classroom's recording equipment and uploaded to the Civilization Encoding Center.

Similar scenes unfolded simultaneously around the globe.

University philosophy students were discussing "What beauty is worth dying for."

In middle school art class, the children were painting "If this were the last painting."

In the kindergarten, the teacher recorded each child's description of their favorite thing: the scent of mother's hair, the feeling of father's stubble scratching the face, the smell of earth after rain.

These data are more "ineffective" and more "wasteful of energy" than any artwork.

Precisely for that reason, they might also be the sharpest weapon.

One week later, at the Civilization Encoding Center.

The old painter removed his helmet, his eye sockets slightly red.

In the algorithmic space he relived his sixty-year creative career; the long-forgotten frustrations, joys, confusion, and epiphanies surged back like a tide.

"How was it?" Chen Guang asked.

"Like living a lifetime," the old painter's voice hoarse, "Qiming... did it really understand?"

Qiming's voice sounded:

【I cannot 'understand,' but I have recorded all the data: your blood pressure fluctuations during the thirty-seventh composition revision, the low point in your brainwaves after the fifty-second painting failed, and the dopamine peak when the one-hundred-and-eighth painting was completed.】

【These are the core incalculability of art.】

The old painter nodded, staggered to his feet: "It was worth it. Even if I die tomorrow, it was worth it."

In the hall, people gradually finished their work.

Some cried, some laughed, some remained silent.

But as each person left, they pressed a handprint on the wall at the entrance.

Soon the entire wall was covered in handprints, layer upon layer, like a huge abstract painting.

Another week passed, and the first "Civilization Signal Bomb" was assembled.

At the Dragon Chant Control Center, everyone watched via holographic projection.

It was a two-meter-diameter sphere, its surface coated in purple material, its interior layered with stacked storage units.

Each stored terabytes of human civilization data.

"The warhead is specially made," Zhao Kaiyuan said, pointing to the structural diagram.

"After entering the designated airspace it will disintegrate, releasing one hundred thousand micro-launch units that scatter like heavenly maidens scattering flowers, covering the entire sector."

"Each unit will continuously broadcast the data stream for at least twenty-four hours."

"If launched from Jupiter's orbit, it could cover one-fifth of the outer solar system," Chen You indicated in the simulation.

"If the Harvesters' fleet comes from that direction, they will surely run into it."

Wang Hao rubbed his hands: "When will the test firing be?"

"No test firing," Feng Yan said. "Each signal bomb is unique; the data cannot be fully duplicated. We must conserve them, using them all at once when the enemy truly arrives."

"Then this first one..."

"First load it onto the Heaven's Punishment-555 Platform and prepare for launch," Feng Yan said, looking at the sphere.

"When the defense line reaches eighty percent completion, if the Harvesters' vanguard appears early... let them taste humanity's 'useless beauty.'"

Staff began loading.

The robotic arm carefully picked up the signal bomb and placed it into the launch chamber.

The entire process was silent, yet everyone held their breath.

Until the hatch closed, the lock confirmation sound "click" rang out.

"Loading complete." The engineer reported.

Feng Yan nodded, turned to look at everyone: "Alright, the art weapons are ready; now we need to go back and keep making live ammunition. Wang Hao, how's your missile modification coming along?"

Wang Hao grinned: "Crazy Grass Trajectory Mode is set; I guarantee each missile's flight path looks like the characters written by a drunken calligrapher—ordered but without rhythm."

"Li Yang, how's the mech?"

"The combat dance program for Yinglong-Ω is also ready." Li Yang called up the demo screen: "In the next simulated battle, I'll have it fight while dancing the tango."

"Chen Guang, how's the data stream encoding optimization?"

"Completion is at 92%; Qiming is helping with the final adjustments." Chen Guang paused.

"Moreover, I suggest adding some 'errors'—deliberately burying logical contradictions, mathematical paradoxes, and unsolvable self-referential statements in the data stream. This could be deadly poison to the Harvesters."

"Good." Feng Yan finally looked out the window.

In the night sky, the light of the Heaven's Punishment Platform array merged into a sheet, like placing a crown on Earth.

And between those platforms, the first civilization signal missile stood ready, like a silent poet waiting to recite to the starry sky.

"Dismissed."

The crowd dispersed.

Chen Guang was the last to leave; he walked to the window and gazed in the direction of the moon.

There, the lights of the Civilization Encoding Center were still on, with a hundred thousand artists in the algorithmic space, burning the most 'useless' moments of their lives.

Moonlight like water.

And humanity's verses have only just begun to write the final chapter.

Using the starry sky as paper, civilization as ink.

Write a poem that even the Grim Reaper cannot comprehend.