Chapter 390: The Secret of Ascension

The world is material; at least, the vast majority of what can be perceived is material.

Electromagnetism arises and transforms, fire rises and steams—even seemingly immaterial things either cling to matter or are special forms of matter.

Even so-called spirits and souls might merely be unknown types of matter, governed by natural laws beyond current understanding, awaiting some future person to integrate them into a unified system at the right time.

But "information" or "knowledge" is a very ambiguous concept.

It clings to matter, manifesting as states and differences of matter.

Theoretically, wherever there is material difference, there is information—from ink on paper, to rock textures, to base sequences in genes—all objectively preserve information.

Yet as an appendage of matter, information itself has no substance; it cannot directly influence the material world, nor exist independently. In a certain sense, it can be said to "not exist," or rather, to be a "potential unmanifest existence."

A book unread still contains information at the material level; only when a reader's consciousness intervenes is it endowed with thought and value.

It cannot be classified as matter, nor reduced to conscious activity. Rooted in matter, yet destined for consciousness, it lies at the boundary between the two.

It never existed, yet is everywhere.

Kraft has always been a flexible materialist and supporter of knowability, believing the world contains only things yet undiscovered and ununderstood.

Even the most absurd and bizarre depths failed to fundamentally shake his worldview, instead expanding his scope of cognition.

Thus, the shock he now felt was greatest: a living knowledge, overturning past understanding, plunging him into utter confusion.

The barrier between matter and consciousness has been utterly shattered; it drifts between them, sometimes existing in consciousness, sometimes manifesting in matter—a direct refutation of materialism.

【Higher-level things?】

True magic—a passage, a bridge.

That makes sense. What he saw were merely phenomena, just as one cannot explain to an ordinary person that there exists a world overlapping yet utterly distinct from this one, and how one moves between them, because spatial cognition forbids them from comprehending how two layers without a passage can communicate.

Kraft faced a similar situation; limited by his cognition, he could not perceive the higher essence of matter and consciousness, so he could not understand how a living entity could exist between them and shift seamlessly.

Of course, even without understanding, mortals can still severely injure or kill deep-layer beings; there is no necessary causal relationship.

Similarly, Kraft could capture this being beyond his comprehension.

Now it is frozen within consciousness, tightly wrapped by a succession of thoughts.

Consciousness, through frequent contact, generated these thoughts—some coupled with the unknown, others comprehensible, like specific antibodies latching onto their targets.

Thus, it did not merge into consciousness; it was merely caught.

A fascinating and dangerous state.

Kraft still cannot precisely describe where it came from or where exactly it resides, but he can indirectly observe and sense its strange mode of existence.

It can be a smooth, silver or glass-like mirror, reflecting half-true memories that make one unable to tell which side is real.

From another angle, it resembles a scale, growing on some being's hidden back or belly, independent yet not entirely so; when touched, one feels the distant, majestic pulse reverberating, shaking the soul.

It has no head or tail, yet has inner and outer boundaries; it can extend infinitely, or fit within the grasp of a palm, within a mustard seed.

At times, it appears as a bone—the sole remaining trace of its former self, once deeply embedded in the nexus where thought and consciousness were born, now unbound by matter, open to all things.

【Sphenoid bone】

This seems to reveal an unbelievable truth: it may have originated from humans, transformed from a being entirely based in matter into this form.

"Fascinating."

All notions of worldview collapse had been cast aside; Kraft was entirely captivated by new hypotheses.

"Human" beings could completely shed their bodies and exist in this manner.

The benefits are obvious: any bodily disease, even aging, loses meaning; for outcomes beyond medical repair, this mode of persistence might be an acceptable final solution.

The eternal life countless people yearn for lies before him—even with a thousand flaws, it surpasses the ultimate cure achievable only after exhausting all physiological limits.

Yet the problem is equally clear: can this truly be called life?

It is not even fully consciousness; it endures merely as a string of information.

Does it possess complete self-awareness? Does it retain memories from when it was human, latent thoughts or behavioral habits?

Or has it long since discarded its past and body, existing merely as a negligible part of something vast, not as an individual?

In prior interactions, only human-like cunning and self-preservation were observed; no "humanity" was detected.

It is a minion of the "serpent," a scale upon its body—nothing like its former self. What was shed went beyond human form.

At this thought, Kraft felt a sudden weariness. This mode of existence seems less "human" than that of a vegetative patient; at least vegetative patients still retain a human shape, with occasional reports of awakening.

Losing the body, then losing original consciousness, resembles death more than eternal life.

HeLa cells used in cancer research are immortal—but that does not mean HeLa herself is immortal.

Yet the insights are not meaningless; he noted the inspiration, perhaps some optimization method could harness it.

Before this, he finally connected the known clues, clarifying the full sequence of events.

The pathological changes once incomprehensible now had explanations.

He had once puzzled over the purpose of abnormal pituitary tumors causing osteoporosis—reducing bone weight at the cost of durability made no sense for movement needs; only birds required such lightweight bones.

Now everything became clear: they indeed needed to become "birds."

The gales from the cloud-dwelling entity were strong, yet insufficient to carry seekers through the final leg from mountaintop to sky, unless they grew lighter, imitating creatures naturally suited to flight.

At this stage, bone durability naturally ceased to matter; those rejected or who faltered would plummet and shatter—no matter how resilient the skeleton, it meant nothing; the successful would shed their past, no longer needing flesh and blood.

They rose higher and higher, until they faced the formless, infinite thing, entering the nonexistent heights.