Chapter 610

The first dozen or so pages of the calendar were thick, colored paper, with intricate, beautiful illustrations of anime heroines along the edges, including but not limited to Sōryū Asuka, Fu Lilingmeng, Asuna, Tifa, and 2B.

Upon close inspection, one could detect brushstrokes—every illustration was hand-drawn!

“Old in body, but young at heart.”

Li Cheng couldn’t help glancing at the photo of Academician Chen himself on the desk—he wore a suit, his hair was streaked with gray, his smile warm and kind, and seated around the round table behind him were his disciples and students, all exuding the aura of an academic patriarch, utterly unremarkable in appearance for the true old-school otaku he was.

“The constraints of the physical form cannot limit the freedom of the mind—especially after the advent of consciousness upload technology.”

Su Nisheng pointed to the background of the photo, where a banner hung reading: “2061 Forum on Brain-Machine Interfaces and Whole-Brain Digital Migration.”

Uh… considering this Academician Chen’s dual status as both an old-school otaku and an academic titan, wouldn’t he have designed himself a youthful, vibrant avatar when uploading his consciousness?

“Anyway, look at the time.”

Li Cheng flipped the calendar to the back and said solemnly, “From January 2070 to March 2071, the grid squares in these months were all drawn by Academician Chen himself.”

And each grid’s length differed from those before it.

Indeed, each month the grid subtly grew longer—January 2070 showed almost no change.

February: 1.02 times.

March: 1.05 times.

April: 1.09 times.

By March 2071, the grid length had reached 1.4 times its original size.

“What does this mean?”

Hydra asked, puzzled. From the room’s furnishings and the image in the photo, Academician Chen was clearly a meticulous, serious man in his work—he wouldn’t do something absurd like “believing flies don’t land on eggs without cracks, so Dr. Chen decided to file down the seam lines on his own testicles.”

The changing length of the calendar grids must carry deeper meaning.

A flash of insight struck Li Cheng—he suddenly looked up and said at the same time as Su Nisheng, “Flight speed.”

Li Cheng’s mind flashed with insight; he suddenly looked up and said at the same time as Su Nisheng, “Flight speed.”

“What?”

Hydra still didn’t understand. Li Cheng explained casually, “In special relativity, there’s a thought experiment called the twin paradox: two twin brothers, one boarding a spaceship for near-light-speed interstellar travel, the other staying on Earth.”

When the traveler returns, he finds himself younger than his brother who remained on Earth.

The calendar Academician Chen hand-drew doesn’t record time aboard the spaceship—it records the time of the spaceship traveling at sub-light speed relative to Earth.”

Hydra understood. “The crew on the ship age slower than humans on Earth.”

Hydra understood: “Ship crew members age much slower than humans on Earth.”

Li Cheng nodded. “For Academician Chen, his journey from a small-town problem-solver to master’s, then doctorate, then academician, then titan of scholarship—climbing to the Moon like a firework—had already fulfilled his life on Earth. In his later years, he joined the interstellar colonization program, knowing that with consciousness upload technology, even if his body died, his mind could continue shining and radiating in cyberspace—teaching students, offering advice, and so on.”

Li Cheng nodded: “For this Academician Chen, having risen step by step from a small-town exam-taker to master’s, doctorate, and finally academician—a true meteoric rise to lunar fame—his life on Earth was already complete. Thus, in his later years, he chose to join the interstellar colonization program and consciousness upload technology: even if his body died, his consciousness would continue to shine and radiate in cyberspace, teaching students and offering advice.”

“I see,” Hydra paused, hesitating. “But how does this help us?”

“I see,” Hydra paused, then hesitated: “But how does this help our situation?”

Li Cheng laughed heartily. “If I must say something, at least consciousness upload technology is real. That noisy kid didn’t lie to us.”

Hydra set down the photo. Had the situation allowed, he would’ve already snapped back: “Bro, we’ve got one hour left before execution—you’re completely unfazed?”

Matters of urgency came first. Hydra stepped quietly two paces forward and, following the smartwatch’s guidance, began repairing the medical pod and the human scanning equipment.

It wasn’t even really repair—he couldn’t understand the complex structures and precision components inside after lifting the cover, given his current recovered memories. He simply followed the cursor’s instructions: tighten a bolt here, connect a wire there.

It wasn’t really repair; with his currently restored memories, Hydra couldn’t understand the complex structures and precision components beneath the panel at all—he simply followed the cursor’s guidance, tightening a bolt here with a wrench, connecting a wire there.

“This human scanning device seems to be missing a part,” Hydra said.

The instrument consisted of four main components: high-energy ray emitter, omnidirectional six-axis robotic arm, imaging unit, and main unit.

The first three were intact, but the main unit’s chassis slot clearly lacked a square-shaped object.

“Spectrometer core board…”

Li Cheng’s mind automatically surfaced the relevant information. He pressed the power button—the device powered on, but failed to operate normally.

Meanwhile, the smartwatch displayed: all medical room repair tasks completed. Proceed elsewhere.

What did this mean? Did the noisy kid cut corners? Or…

Li Cheng had a faint suspicion in his mind, but his tone remained calm, unchanged. “Let’s go to the recreation room.”

The recreation room’s total area was larger than the medical room and weapons storage combined, divided into several zones: brain-machine gaming room, children’s toy room, holographic cinema, and bar.

Logically, with brain-machine interface technology, most human entertainment could be conducted virtually—freer, and without consuming physical mass, like alcohol wasted in drinking.

If forced to explain, perhaps not all base personnel had installed brain-machine interfaces?

For children still growing, installing a fixed-size interface too early would be inappropriate.

“Let me see what games and movies were available by 2070.”

Li Cheng rubbed his palms together. The moment he opened the recreation room’s main screen interface, he froze.

“Fast & Furious 30? Still Vin Diesel as lead? He’s eighty and still riding around in a senior bumper car yelling ‘We Are Family.’”

“What’s this ‘Half-Life 2 Open-World Brain-Machine Interface Ultra HD Remaster’? You updated it this much and still didn’t release Half-Life 3?”

“2069 TGA Best Ongoing Support Award: GenshinIm…”

Li Cheng quickly closed the interface, glancing around guiltily.

Hydra and Su Nisheng didn’t notice him—one was diligently repairing circuits, the other flipping through a children’s picture book left behind in the toy room.

One image caught Su Nisheng’s eye: a cigar-shaped, elongated spaceship with neat segmented structure, enveloped in an elliptical energy shield, and a massive, nautilus-shaped engine at the rear that emitted You blue particles instead of flames.

Perhaps art education in 2070 was especially advanced—this child’s drawing rivaled professional artwork, using perspective techniques. From the tiny pilot figure inside the cockpit (wearing the same space suit as Li Cheng and others), the ship was roughly 1,000 meters long and 200 meters in diameter.

Before Su Nisheng could ponder further, the recreation room’s loudspeaker crackled with Dir’s frantic voice: “Hey, this is Dir—I’m broadcasting from the base security room.”

Perhaps art education in 2070 was especially advanced—this child’s drawing rivaled a professional artist’s work, employing perspective techniques; from the tiny pilot figure in the ship’s cockpit (wearing the same spacesuit as Li Cheng and others), the vessel’s length was roughly 1000 meters, its diameter 200 meters.

Before Su Nisheng could ponder further, the loudspeaker in the entertainment room blared Dir’s frantic voice: “Hey, this is Dir—I’m speaking to you now from the base security room.”

“The God of Laughter has vanished.”