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Gao Wen was strapped to a restraining chair, an octopus-like neural electric helmet clamped tightly on his head. His screams echoed through the bare, sterile room, each sound bouncing off the cold, empty walls. His whole body convulsed, his eyes rolled back, and bright flashes of light rushed through his mind—his memories flickered like a broken film reel. Then, abruptly, everything stopped.

The tremors subsided, the light on the helmet switched from red to green, and Gao Wen’s gasping breaths slowly filled the silence. He lifted his head, eyes fluttering open, squinting at the three men standing in front of him.

“Thank you… I remember everything before hibernation now,” Gao Wen managed to say, still breathing heavily. He paused, studying the faces in front of him. “But… I don’t know any of you. Who are you people? You don’t look like the staff from the hibernation center. Who are you?”

Lin Xian smiled softly and took a step forward, reaching out to unbuckle the leather straps that held Gao Wen down. “Who we are doesn’t really matter,” Lin Xian replied. “What matters is… Gao Wen, what do you want to do now?”

Lin Xian finished undoing the straps and stepped back, giving Gao Wen space to sit up.

“Do you have a dream?” Lin Xian asked, his voice gentle but probing.

For a moment, Gao Wen sat still, holding his breath. His eyes flickered, and his expression grew distant.

“I used to have dreams,” he said quietly. “But every time I tried to chase them, it felt like fate was playing tricks on me. Everything I was interested in, someone else always beat me to it. And the strangest part—their ideas were always exactly like mine.”

Gao Wen paused, staring down at the helmet that had just been removed from his head. “Even this helmet—it’s exactly what I envisioned, both in how it looks and how it works. But… it wasn’t mine. It was created two hundred years before I was even born.”

“It kept happening,” Gao Wen continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Again and again, I felt like some dark hand of fate was mocking me. So, I decided to go into hibernation—to escape that hand and maybe, just maybe, find my true purpose in a future far from the one I knew.”

Behind Gao Wen, Liu Feng and Gao Yang exchanged a glance, biting their lips to stop themselves from giggling and ruining the serious mood.

Lin Xian patted Gao Wen’s shoulder, his expression sincere. “Exactly, Gao Wen. That’s why I’m here,” he said. “Right now, humanity—the world—needs you. Your life’s purpose, your value, is far greater than you think.”

Lin Xian extended his hand. “My name is Lin Xian. Join us, Gao Wen. Let’s work together to build a time machine and save the future.”

Gao Wen blinked, taken aback. He stared at Lin Xian’s outstretched hand, a sense of connection forming between them.

“A time machine?” Gao Wen’s voice trembled with excitement. “You’re researching time travel too? That was my dream before I went into hibernation!” His face brightened. “I’ve even done some preliminary work—some rough ideas, really—but I can’t believe you’re pursuing the same goal!”

Lin Xian smiled, and Gao Wen continued, “What stage is your project at? Could you show me? Lin Xian, I want to join you. I promise to follow all the confidentiality rules. I just want to contribute, to make something meaningful in this time, to fulfill my dreams.”

“No problem.” Lin Xian nodded, gesturing to Liu Feng, who stepped forward.

“This is Liu Feng,” Lin Xian introduced. “He’s in charge of the Rhine University lab and has been overseeing the time machine project.”

Gao Wen immediately bowed deeply to Liu Feng. “Professor Liu,” he said earnestly.

“Oh no, no, no!” Liu Feng stammered, quickly bowing even lower. “Professor Gao, you’re the true expert here!”

“Professor Liu, you’re too kind,” Gao Wen replied, bowing again. “I’m just a junior.”

“Professor Gao, you are remarkable!” Liu Feng insisted, bowing once more.

“Professor Liu.”

“Professor Gao!”

Lin Xian quickly stepped between them, gently pulling them apart. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said with a grin. “Let’s get going. We’re heading to Rhine University’s lab to show you the prototype of the time machine.”

The four of them left the room and climbed into a car headed for Rhine University. Lin Xian turned to Gao Wen during the ride, asking about his age. Gao Wen looked younger than Lin Xian had expected, perhaps in his early thirties. This was the youngest version of Gao Wen he’d ever met—he lacked the aura of authority Lin Xian remembered from his older self.

“Gao Wen,” Lin Xian called from the front seat, “how old are you now?”

“I was thirty-five when I went into hibernation,” Gao Wen replied.

Lin Xian did some mental calculations. Gao Wen was born in 2182 and went into hibernation in 2217. The anti-hibernation virus had spread for about two centuries before fading away.

“So, Gao Wen, you weren’t affected by the anti-hibernation virus when you were born?” Lin Xian asked.

“Not exactly,” Gao Wen answered. “When I was born, the virus’s impact had lessened significantly, but it was still around, with a 20% infection rate. I was infected, but it didn’t seem important at the time.”

“As the virus weakened, people started to recover. By the 23rd century, it was so weak that it couldn’t survive outside a lab—it couldn’t handle temperature changes or the human immune system. Even in ideal conditions, it’d just die out.” Gao Wen smiled wryly. “Back in university, the students in the virus lab struggled just to keep it alive in petri dishes.”

Lin Xian nodded. Viruses, like all things, had a lifespan. They weakened, faded, and eventually disappeared, much like people. Lin Xian might have had personal reasons to dislike the idea, but he had to admit—Gauss had a point about fairness.

“So, the virus in your body eventually died off on its own?” Lin Xian asked.

“Yes,” Gao Wen said. “It didn’t affect my health, so I never paid it much attention. By the time I chose to go into hibernation—feeling disillusioned with the world, feeling like fate was playing games with me—the virus was already long gone.”

Gao Wen sighed deeply. “Lin Xian, thank you so much for giving me the chance to join your team. I finally feel like someone understands me. I’m no longer fighting alone, and I think that dark hand that played with my fate is finally gone.”

“Don’t worry,” Lin Xian reassured him. “That hand is out of moves.”

The car ride was mostly silent after that, Lin Xian watching the passing cars and thinking about their ages. Liu Feng was thirty-seven, Gao Wen thirty-five, and he and Gao Yang were both twenty-six. Elon Musk was still in his fifties, and Du Yao was twenty-seven, still in hibernation. This was the team for now—a small but elite group, the best of the best.

Well, except for the chubby guy napping in the front seat.

When they finally arrived at the secret lab at Rhine University, Gao Wen stared in awe at the sleek, white structure of the time machine. He rushed forward, his fingers brushing over its polished surface.

“Amazing… absolutely amazing,” Gao Wen whispered, his voice filled with wonder. “This is exactly how I imagined it—beautifully designed, flawless.”

Lin Xian cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Well, you know what they say—great minds think alike. Beautiful ideas are always similar; it’s the ugly ones that vary wildly.”

Ignoring Lin Xian’s comment, Gao Wen turned to Liu Feng, grabbing his hands. “Professor Liu, you’re a genius!”

“No, no, no,” Liu Feng stuttered, deeply embarrassed. If Lin Xian hadn’t insisted on keeping the truth from Gao Wen, Liu Feng would have confessed in an instant. Being called a ‘genius’ by the original ‘master’ himself was more uncomfortable than flattering.

Tears gathered in Liu Feng’s eyes as he looked at Lin Xian, silently pleading for permission to tell Gao Wen the truth. Lin Xian shook his head—not now, not yet.

“Gao Wen, the time machine still needs a few components,” Lin Xian said. “We need to wait three more months for a comet to help with the calibration module. We’re hoping you can help us solve the remaining issues.”

“No problem!” Gao Wen said, rolling up his sleeves, eager to get started. “Don’t worry, Lin Xian, Professor Liu. I won’t let you down!”

The next step was waiting—waiting for the time machine to be ready, waiting for the comet. Lin Xian spent his days riding his motorcycle, searching for something he couldn’t quite name, always coming up empty-handed.

During those months, Lin Xian would often visit Rhine University, sitting by the statues of Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi. Sometimes, Gao Yang joined him, and they would sit silently in front of the statues—two figures holding hands, staring resolutely into the future.

One sunny afternoon, Gao Yang put out his cigarette, tossing the butt into a shiny aluminum trash can named VV. He took a deep breath, letting the smoke drift away.

“Do you miss them?” Gao Yang asked.

“Of course,” Lin Xian replied without looking up. “When I first woke from hibernation, it didn’t feel real. It was like I’d just left them yesterday—no sense of time passing.”

“But now, each day that goes by, it’s starting to feel more real. The distance is growing,” Lin Xian said softly, his eyes misting over. He recited the poem they had once discussed in Dream Three, in front of the statues in the Sky City:

“Lives apart, as far as the stars and moon,

Tonight, once more, we share a single candle’s light.”

“Lives apart,” Lin Xian murmured, his voice breaking. “That’s the greatest distance there is—farther than time, farther than space, farther than anything.”

There was a long pause, and Lin Xian finally raised his head, staring at Yu Xi’s statue—so young, so determined, holding her mother’s hand, gazing into the future.

Lin Xian’s voice trembled as he finally asked the question that had been weighing on him for so long:

“Does Yu Xi hate me? Did she ever forgive me?”

Gao Yang turned to Lin Xian, a confused look in his eyes.

“Why do you think that? I think you’re wrong, Lin Xian. If Yu Xi hated you so much, why would she become the president of Rhine University? She did it for you. Zhao Ying Jun founded this place, but it was Yu Xi who made it thrive. She knew how important it was—what it meant for your future.”

Lin Xian didn’t respond at first, his gaze still distant. Finally, he sighed.

“It’s not about that, Gao Yang. Zhao Ying Jun and I made a decision, as adults, without ever considering Yu Xi’s feelings,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “Wang once told me that a child’s world is so small that every little thing becomes incredibly precious. Yu Xi’s world was small, and I took something irreplaceable from her.”

Gao Yang frowned, watching his friend.

“Even if she hated me, I can’t blame her,” Lin Xian continued quietly. “Even if I do save the world one day, even if I fulfill all the expectations that Zhao Ying Jun had for me, I will never be able to say I was a good father.”

Gao Yang put a hand on Lin Xian’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“By that logic, every father who ever went to war would be a bad father,” Gao Yang argued. “Yu Xi will understand you—I know she will. When the world is in danger, everyone has a duty. If every parent said they’d stay home for their children, who would protect the world?”

Lin Xian chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“I understand what you’re saying, Gao Yang. I do. But it’s just… Yu Xi left me nothing. No letter, no word, nothing. Zhao Ying Jun left me a letter, but from Yu Xi—there was silence. I can’t help but wonder what she felt, what she wanted to say to me.”

Gao Yang scratched his head, looking perplexed.

“I don’t know why that is. I woke up only a month before you, and I didn’t know Zhao Ying Jun left you a letter until VV asked for the password when we met,” Gao Yang said, nodding towards the shiny trash can in the corner of the room. “If you want to know if Yu Xi left something for you, don’t ask me. Ask VV!”

Lin Xian turned to look at VV, the robotic trash can that had been watching them quietly from its place near the wall. The robot shuffled awkwardly, as if it were trying to sneak away unnoticed.

“Hey!” Gao Yang shouted, lunging forward and slamming his hand down on VV’s metal top. “Ow, ow, ow!” he yelped, pulling his hand back and cradling it. “Who made this trash can out of aluminum alloy?! It’s too tough!”

Lin Xian frowned, stepping closer to VV. Something about the way it was acting was strange. VV, usually aggressive and loud, calling out “Trash!” at every opportunity, was now trying to slip away unnoticed. Lin Xian narrowed his eyes, kneeling in front of VV.

“VV,” he said, looking directly into its glowing green eyes. “Did Yu Xi leave me a letter?”

VV didn’t respond, its sensors focused elsewhere, as if it had frozen.

“Say something!” Lin Xian shook VV gently, but the robot remained silent.

Gao Yang groaned, standing behind Lin Xian.

“I knew it! VV is hiding something from you!” Gao Yang said, pointing accusingly. “It’s acting way too suspiciously. When it first met me, it practically knocked me over. It’s definitely hiding something!”

Lin Xian’s frown deepened.

“No,” he said slowly. “VV isn’t hiding something from us. It’s trying to tell us something. Think about it, Gao Yang. VV is just a robot—if it really wanted to keep something secret, it wouldn’t act so obviously guilty. It’s almost as if it’s trying to lead us towards something.”

Gao Yang’s eyes widened.

“You mean it’s doing this on purpose?” he asked. “To get us to notice?”

Lin Xian nodded, standing up and crossing his arms.

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s trying to make us realize something, but it can’t say it outright. There must be a reason for that.”

Gao Yang stared at VV, then at Lin Xian.

“This thing is a terrible actor,” Gao Yang muttered. “But I guess it’s just an artificial idiot—it can only do so much.”

“Trash! Trash!” VV suddenly shouted, ramming into Gao Yang and knocking him into a flowerbed. It picked up a scrap of paper from the ground with its claw, waving it around triumphantly.

Lin Xian watched the scene, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. VV was definitely doing this on purpose. It wanted him to understand something without outright telling him.

Lin Xian knelt in front of VV again, staring at the storage compartment on its side. He tried to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

“VV,” he said softly. “Did Yu Xi leave me a letter too?”

VV remained silent.

Lin Xian sighed, understanding what the silence meant.

“Alright,” he said, locking eyes with VV’s glowing sensors. “So Yu Xi did leave me a letter, but you’re not giving it to me. Is it because Zhao Ying Jun told you not to? Did she program you to keep it from me?”

VV’s claw clamped down on Lin Xian’s ankle, and it shouted, “Trash! Trash!”

Lin Xian shook his head, smiling faintly.

“No? Then let me guess again,” he said. He could feel it—he was getting close. There was a mutual understanding between him and VV now. If VV stayed silent, it meant he was right. If it yelled, he was wrong, and he had to guess again.

“If the letter was just an ordinary one, you could’ve given it to me alongside Zhao Ying Jun’s letter,” Lin Xian mused aloud. “No matter what Yu Xi’s feelings were—anger, forgiveness, or something else—I should have seen it. We’re father and daughter. There’s no reason not to share those feelings.”

VV remained still, its sensors locked on Lin Xian.

“So, the letter must contain something important,” Lin Xian concluded. “Something more than just her emotions—a secret, perhaps. Something that Zhao Ying Jun didn’t think I should see just yet.”

VV stayed silent, as if frozen again.

“You’re not giving me the letter because you think it’s not the right time yet,” Lin Xian continued. “There would be consequences if I read it now, wouldn’t there?”

VV stayed silent.

Lin Xian smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. He was finally getting somewhere.

“VV,” Lin Xian said quietly, “one last question. Did Zhao Ying Jun set a specific time for me to read the letter, or did she not want me to see it at all?”

VV clamped down on his ankle, yelling louder than ever, “Trash! Trash! Found trash!”

Lin Xian patted VV’s lid gently and stood up, looking up at the statues that loomed over them.

“I see,” he said.

Gao Yang climbed out of the flowerbed, brushing dirt off himself. “What’s going on? What do you mean you ‘see’?”

Lin Xian exhaled slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Zhao Ying Jun must have given VV instructions,” he said. “There’s a time or a condition that has to be met before I can see Yu Xi’s letter.”

“What?!” Gao Yang looked indignant. “Your daughter wrote you a letter, and your wife and a trash can decided to hide it from you?!”

Lin Xian smiled slightly.

“If Zhao Ying Jun made that decision, there must have been a good reason for it,” he said. “Something happened during those 200 years that changed everything—something she and Yu Xi learned. But it’s not something I’m meant to know right now.”

Gao Yang huffed, wiping dirt off his face. “But when will you be able to see it? Why does everything have to be so mysterious?”

Lin Xian’s gaze softened, his voice filled with determination.

“I don’t know what’s in Yu Xi’s letter,” he said. “But I trust Zhao Ying Jun. I trust Yu Xi. I trust the future we worked together to build. Whatever she left for me—it’s important. Maybe even miraculous.”

Lin Xian turned, walking away from the statues, VV rolling along beside him.

“Where are we going now?” Gao Yang called after him, still brushing dirt off his coat.

“Look ahead,” Lin Xian said, his voice carrying a sense of purpose. “Zhao Ying Jun knew everything. She told me to look forward, not back—to keep moving.”

Lin Xian looked up at the sky, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon.

“Tomorrow, the comet carrying Astatine-339 will pass by Earth,” he said. “We’re going against time itself.”

Gao Yang jogged to catch up, his face a mix of confusion and awe.

“Time to set out!”