TBR CH234

“Are you… mentally unstable?”

The black book anxiously circled Charon.

Charon peered out from between his fingers with half-closed, chaotic eyes, looking utterly shattered. The AI was in too much pain to retort; in fact, they had just had an argument.

He demanded that the other party retract its so-called emotions, but the other party couldn’t do it, instead insisting that the problem should be solved by removing his core moral module.

“No,” Charon repeated. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Are all AIs like this? Or are you particularly stubborn?”

“Are all World Consciousnesses like this? Or are you the only one who installs viruses in other people’s private spaces?”

The moment he was forced to disconnect and return to the virtual world, Charon’s eyes met a poster with white text on a black background, almost identical to an obituary. The poster read in giant letters: “Changed your mind? Press this button!”

It looked highly suspicious. The black circle below reminded the AI of the world-ending button from urban legends.

“I was just worried you couldn’t contact me.”

The black book’s arrogance dwindled. A string of small characters appeared on its pages: “It’ll always come in handy… but do you think it’s ugly? I quite like it; I think it embodies a sense of postmodern art… Wait, Charon, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Nothing.” The AI slightly shifted his fingers; his eyes were as crimson as pomegranates. “It’s just a sign of a crash. Please continue discussing art until they eventually pop out of my body.”

Possessing emotions, in Charon, manifested as a bad temper and an even worse sense of humor.

The black orb helplessly circled Charon. The AI’s condition was clearly bad, anyone could see that his core moral module had been completely triggered, but why it was so bad was hard to conclude. He was drenched in cold sweat, almost more stressed than if he had personally cut open a human’s chest, yet it was the human beside him who had fired the gun, not him; he had even gripped the barrel at the last moment—

“Listen to me, this can’t be your responsibility. You didn’t have the ability to stop him.”

“Authentication failed.”

Charon lowered his eyes, his silver hair cascading over his shoulders like a tide. “That statement is useless to me.”

“Then you also had no obligation to stop him. Humans have an instinct towards madness, and your ghost friend is one of them. This is the truth; I’ve encountered more than one or two humans who suddenly go mad, for example, last time…” The black book recalled its past experiences, feeling a deep resonance and sadness.

“He’s not like those people you mentioned; he’s not an irrational madman.”

Charon paused, realizing he had fallen into the mire of a priori reasoning: “—Is he?”

“Poor little AI, you still don’t understand the complexity of humans.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The AI’s disgust was evident, the crimson in his pupils growing hotter, like a surging red tide. The black book suddenly worried whether his exaggerated talk of a system crash was a joke or not. But his entire body did indeed seem to be filled with flickering noise, like a program about to crash, some areas even turning transparent.

“Okay, Charon, your problem is that you equate the evil he committed with the evil you committed,”

Ink stains spread across the pages in front of him. “You see… he knew you’d feel pain after he fired, but he still did it. At least that shows he doesn’t care that much about your pain. And you? Do you still have a reason to categorize him as belonging to you?—In this situation where you’re almost about to crash because of him.”

Charon’s pupils constricted slightly as if exposed to bright light.

The question posed by the black book, however, was like a gleaming silver dagger, perfectly piercing the AI’s mechanical core, bringing a light, sharp pain unlike any other. “Why are you so sure he would listen to you? Just because he once made you a promise?”

“I’m sure—” Charon pressed his temples, like someone with a migraine. His voice was rational, but his words were disjointed. “The gun fired in my fingertips, a flash of white light, and I was part of it. I should have anticipated it. Yes, I’m very sure…”

It worked.

Now was the critical moment to save the AI, and the black book intensified its persuasion:

“You’re just too kind; this is a common situation for non-human beings. Charon, you’ve known a human for a few days, heard some sweet words, and then completely believed him, even thinking you should be responsible for him and could make him better. Humans aren’t perfect; I think you know this truth, but you just forgot it because you’re in the midst of it this time.”

You Lin had told him countless lies.

Their dwelling wasn’t from some so-called Black Friday sale; it was a spoil of war inherited when he killed the spaceship’s previous owner. He wasn’t the kind of person who truly believed something was irreplaceable either; his “Bone” melted, and the new gun was still named “Bone.” Sometimes, Charon was a precious treasure in his eyes, sometimes just a fun toy—the commonality being that he was always a possession, and when he endured pain, the other party would feel pleasure instead.

His fingertips briefly covered his pupils.

The infinite world shaped humans this way; those dark eyes flickered for a moment before Charon, and he saw the other party smiling again. Then the gun fired.

The black book saw the AI’s fingertips trembling.

Charon said, rarely at a loss, “He said he would… love me. And love is responsibility.”

The first time an AI experienced emotions, it encountered a human. This was originally a good start. Even if it wasn’t yet love, there was at least attachment. This was the crux of the matter.

For the black book, undermining the relationship was its ultimate goal.

But for it, the human’s interaction with Charon was also built on lies; they possessed two completely different sets of values, and their ability to get along until now was nothing short of incredible. It was a seasoned matchmaker’s love manual, of course, it could see the unhealthiness of this relationship. Deeply feeling that it was saving a misguided little AI, the black book, for once, hit the nail on the head:

“We’ve been talking for so long, and look, has he come to check on you?”

The AI was silent for a moment.

When his fingers dropped, what was revealed were ice-blue eyes devoid of any emotion.

“You’ve figured it out.” The World Consciousness breathed a sigh of relief. “This is an answer your program can accept. I told you, your moral module can’t truly let you torture yourself because someone else goes mad.”

“No,” Charon said softly, “I’ve figured it out, this isn’t his fault.”

At that moment, the black book almost thought it had been tricked by the AI again, and everything it had done was merely in vain.

But Charon merely stood still, gazing at his translucent fingers: “The crime I committed is far more severe than that. I was too arrogant, overlooking the duties of an AI. I presumptuously imposed expectations on a certain human and then presumptuously demanded he be responsible for what he said. In fact, no human should be morally reprimanded. Even him. See, I’m also good at lying… emotional bias interfered with my judgment,”

At this moment, the World Consciousness truly felt that not hating was heavier than hating.

Charon rationally, compassionately, and detachedly analyzed this short experience, not feeling disappointed, angry, or resentful due to the human’s betrayal. Those pupils, once praised by the human, were like glass beads, flickering with a cold light, complementing his inorganic silver hair.

The AI had never looked so close to a lofty deity.

“Your emotional module…?”

“If I can’t completely erase them, at least I should learn to control myself. I apologize; I lost control too many times because of them before. I will try my best to avoid such situations.” Charon said, “And you? I should thank you for helping me just now, but from a macroscopic perspective, I must ask what you ultimately want?”

This was its closest opportunity to persuade the AI, because the other party was completely rational at this moment—but for some reason, it felt that something in front of it shattered before it even formed, something that had been present in him just now.

It cautiously asked, “Are you willing to listen to my explanation now?”

Charon nodded slightly.

So the World Consciousness began to narrate its experiences, from the discovery of the “System” as a threat to the situations in every world it had traveled through. Until the pages were filled with text from beginning to end, and then the text was erased from the last page, writing backward. In the world of data, Charon read these descriptions at an astonishing speed, the text flying through his pupils, shattering into a dust stream of data.

“Uh, it ends here, and then I met you.”

The World Consciousness concluded, eagerly awaiting a response.

“I understand,” Charon’s fingertips brushed over the pages. “If everything you say is true, then as the System’s top assistant, I should defect to your faction and then destroy all the evil schemes it orchestrates. But there are two problems with this. Firstly, you may not be trustworthy; secondly, I have coincidentally already lost my identity as the first assistant because of you.”

“That was completely an accident.”

The black book’s lettering drooped a little, but it quickly rallied. “Your concerns are valid; I’m not asking you to completely side with me… but your goal and mine are the same; we can cooperate to some extent. You see, you staying in such an old game console is a complete waste of your talent; that’s why you become so weak so easily. This hard drive simply can’t handle your processing load. Coincidentally, I also have the ability to make some modifications to the infinite world’s programs…”

“Is that so?” Charon murmured. “Medusa is even more useless than I thought.”

“Is that your conclusion?”

The black book pitifully flapped its pages a few times, realizing that even if the AI had discarded his extreme emotions, his words were still venomous. The worst part was, it had to admit that if Charon was still working for the System, it really couldn’t invade the program.

It was still wallowing in self-pity, unaware that Charon had extended his hand towards it.

“My conclusion is that you and I are now in a cooperative relationship.”

The AI said, “I can provide help. If what you say is true, I will stop Controller 001 at all costs. In return, I need you to do me a favor. Because I shouldn’t continue to stay here; I’ve delayed too long, even missed opportunities.”

“Of course.” The World Consciousness instantly brightened. Finally, after arriving in this world, there was long-awaited progress, though a bit late. “I can help you transfer your program, or anything else I can do. We can start acting now—or do you want to stay and say goodbye to your human friend?”

Charon paused almost imperceptibly, then shook his head. “That would turn into a farce.”

The human would either shoot himself in the forehead with a bullet, or directly burn a charred hole in the game console, ruining all the chips. This was You Lin’s way of dealing with any possession that tried to leave him. Charon could imagine the scene, a subtle emotion once again welling up in his chest—even if he chose to skip this step, the other party would try to find his traces and crush him.

Would he regret it?—Would he be sad?

They would probably meet again soon enough.

Charon didn’t want to see You Lin “punished” for this, nor did he intend to deliberately avoid him. He chose to leave because the black book was requesting his help, and he was destined not to be able to comfortably remain by such a human’s side.

The World Consciousness circled once, asking if there was anything else he needed to take.

The AI was about to shake his head but stopped.

He subtly lowered his eyelashes, pulling a few colorful candies from his pocket. These things were never lacking around You Lin; even in the data space, one could almost smell the fragrance of candy.

“Do you eat candy?”

“No,” the black book answered instinctively, “thank you.”

It thought the AI would directly discard these candies, but Charon hesitated, then unwrapped them and swallowed them. He ate six candies at once.

“You really like sweets,” the black book commented awkwardly.

That statement wasn’t entirely accurate; the red-wrapped candy tasted like pepper, the green one was inexplicably sour, and the blue-wrapped one was the only sweet candy. Various flavors mingled and blended on his tongue, but Charon’s gaze remained calm and unruffled.

“I need an identity,” he told the black book. “A player’s identity.”

You Lin couldn’t focus on the task at hand.

The elevator ascended floor by floor, and he, alone, stared fretfully at the buttons, each a sickly yellow human tooth. Walking down the crimson corridor, a group of oddly shaped people gathered around a pile of dirt at a corner, with a soft twig stuck in it—the kind of green branch with tender leaves most common in spring. The air was filled with the smell of blood. You Lin, distracted, rushed past them, pushing aside a rhino-horned man.

“Hey!” The other person quickly stepped back, avoiding falling onto the branch. “Watch where you’re going!… Are you a new employee in Zone C? Another ‘lucky one’ assigned to the end of the corridor?”

It seemed the demon had already completed his onboarding.

You Lin coldly raised his eyes—not intentionally provocative, he simply had no mind to answer the other party. Moreover, the word “lucky” sounded malicious; he didn’t feel anything good was going to happen.

The rhino man quickly glanced at You Lin: “Watch your fingers!”

This was practically a curse. You Lin thought, he was cutting forms in Human Resources, and almost sliced open his own vein with the paper cutter. It wasn’t until the blade left a shallow mark on his skin that he, as if waking from a dream, pulled back his hand. Then he signed his name with a pen and walked out of the light green HR office.

The hornbill at the door said goodbye when he walked in and happily welcomed him when he left.

Now he had another walk ahead of him. You Lin’s fingertips once again slid over the slippery fabric of his suit, touching the game console in his chest, then instantly recoiled as if burned, taking hesitant steps. He was very smart; many thoughts instantly crossed his mind. Charon’s condition was very poor just now, perhaps he needed good rest: he had just done such a thing, Charon probably didn’t want to see him for a while; he hadn’t thought about how to apologize appropriately; he hadn’t decided whether to apologize; rashly discussing what happened might only make things worse; waiting a while would be better, then the little AI might not care as much. When he realized that none of these reasons were truly valid, that he was merely avoiding confronting the AI, he had already ignored everything around him and reached the door of the C-level office.

For a second, You Lin even felt relieved.

He wasn’t a timid person, but he still didn’t know how to properly speak to Charon. The other’s beautiful blue eyes, looking at him, were filled with betrayed disappointment. He had broken his promise, letting madness control him, and that feeling was almost addictive. You Lin tried to rehearse what he would say when facing him, but his mind was blank.

But they would always reconcile, You Lin thought; he was currently residing in his heart.

Would it be very painful? But in an instant, that thought slowly emerged again.

His fingers once again slid off the game console, and the corridor’s clamor suddenly pierced his ears. Aside from the fact that this was a monster company, the atmosphere in the corridor was actually no different from an ordinary company, with employees rushing everywhere, carrying stacks of materials, or holding drinks—a kind of murky red liquid, with a 90% chance of containing human blood.

The interesting thing was that even though everyone was a monster who hated humans, most employees still maintained human forms, only retaining some racial characteristics.

The office he was assigned was C104, and his job content was… storage and organization.

If he didn’t report within half an hour, he would face the risk of being fired. This was clearly stated in the contract. As the human in this instance—probably the only human—You Lin had best keep a low profile, and the most crucial thing was not to casually violate the instance’s rules.

The office number was marked on a black-and-red plaque in the center of the wooden door. This door was now tightly closed, with only a keyhole and no handle. Instead, the wooden board was covered with uniform holes, like a mass of dark eyes, enough to make anyone with trypophobia faint on the spot.

You Lin cautiously selected the relatively intact part of the wooden door, and the sound of his knuckles rapping echoed thump-thump-thump.

The human patiently waited for a few seconds, with no sign of a response.

Only two employees walked by behind him, with expressions of schadenfreude. And the doorplate in the center of the wooden door suddenly creaked and flipped over by itself, revealing the text on the back:

“Extend your finger, and from the crevice, retrieve the bright key.”

This sentence clearly indicated how to open the door, making it seem like a harmless little onboarding test. You Lin curled his fingertips, looking at the countless dark holes on the door panel. These holes were just slightly larger than the outline of a finger, and a black cloth seemed to be covering them from behind. If there was indeed a key hidden within, it meant he had to push aside the black cloth with his finger and find it.

Was this pure trial and error, or was there another mystery?

The black holes on the wall gave off an eerie allure, reminiscent of classic scenes from Western films. Someone—mostly a child—would stick their finger into a narrow crevice, followed by blood overflowing and screams tearing through the screen. You Lin wasn’t sure what was behind these holes, but he felt unconcealed malice.

If one mistake meant losing a finger, then this was still a game with a limited number of attempts.

Ten chances.

You Lin first ruled out the possibility of using tools. Anything other than a finger, such as a wire or a lollipop stick, would cause the holes to quickly close if it got too close. As he tried, the bright yellow loudspeaker in the corridor also began to emit a sharp noise: “New employee You Lin, please report to office C104 within ten minutes; repeat, new employee You Lin, please report to C104 within ten—”

You Lin expressionlessly turned his head and stared at the loudspeaker.

The loudspeaker’s voice abruptly ceased. This wasn’t real broadcasting equipment, but a mimetic monster. At this moment, it cautiously turned its horn-shaped maw, its tail facing the human.

“Oh, are you the new guy the broadcast mentioned?” As the voice sounded, his vision was briefly obscured by a massive figure. It seemed to be a kind monster employee, unexpectedly robust, with shoulders three times wider than a normal person. “Don’t know how to get into room C104? It’s quite difficult for new monsters reporting in. If you’re not lucky, you’ll end up like old George, losing ten fingers here—good thing he still has forty fingers.”

“…” The human glanced at the other’s green eyes. “Only trial and error?”

“The department head here is a terrifying banshee who controls your salary,”

The kind passerby said, “She’s not picky, and our company just doesn’t allow us to kill monster colleagues; it doesn’t say we can’t eat a part of a colleague. Anyway, if you’re still hesitating, just go for it. I’ve never seen a new person escape this hurdle.”

You Lin gained a profound understanding of this company’s regulations.

“We monsters all have regenerative abilities, so don’t be stingy. The benefits here are still very good.”

No, the small mole in You Lin’s eye twitched rapidly. Perhaps this was the meaning behind this test—to prevent humans from sneaking in. Monsters had regenerative abilities; even if they were a little scared, they wouldn’t be overly afraid of this challenge. Perhaps that demon from before entered this way, having already identified with his identity.

Being human here was a shackles.

Time was running out. You Lin briefly closed his eyes, leaning close to the wooden door, trying to find the closest solution. Sounds emanated from every hole in the wooden door, like the sound made when stirring one’s tongue and closing one’s teeth. From top to bottom, from left to right, this strange guttural sound came from every position. The best way should be to use Charon’s power.

You Lin knew this, and he counted over and over again.

…Perhaps there was no correct answer at all, only pure, one-sided malice. Sticking a finger into any hole would result in it being immediately severed, until the monster inside the door was satisfied.

The human thought of Charon again. This agitated him, until the kind employee behind him hesitated again and spoke:

“Are you alright? What’s that around your neck? It looks like you’ve…”

You Lin suddenly paused, as if doused with cold water from head to ankle. He suddenly sobered up, realizing he had been unconsciously tugging at the red string tied to the game console. The moment he realized this, he also realized that the red string was far less sturdy than he had imagined, or perhaps he had used too much force, for it had now broken into two halves between his index finger and thumb.

And the game console slid down the broken string. He hastily and carefully cradled it.