877: Chapter 872 You're Only Three and a Half Years Old

Franz lunged toward the keyboard, his ten fingers blurring as he hammered the keys, muttering various parameters under his breath.

He had completely entered a state of manic obsession; everything around him ceased to exist.

Even if the ceiling were to collapse right now, he would probably finish typing this line of code before running.

Shen Yan watched the newly busy Franz, the corner of his mouth curving up into an almost imperceptible angle.

This was the effect he wanted.

Genius doesn't need to be whipped; you just need to show him a higher peak, and he will run himself ragged climbing it.

Shen Yan unplugged the USB drive and turned toward the elevator.

As he passed Pei Jue, he paused.

Pei Jue immediately straightened up, not daring to breathe, like a soldier awaiting inspection.

"Since you're back, don't laze around."

Shen Yan didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the constantly changing numbers in the elevator.

"Although Liang Zexu, that idiot, has withdrawn his investment, the channels he controls are still somewhat useful."

"Go tell him that Shenyan Group is preparing to acquire his nearly bankrupt shell company."

"Squeeze the price down to one-tenth. If he doesn't sell..."

Shen Yan paused, then turned to glance at Pei Jue.

His look was calm, as if he were watching an ant on the roadside.

"Then let him know what a real South American gangster is."

Pei Jue felt a chill run down his spine—the sensation of being targeted by a ferocious beast.

He remembered how he had intimidated Hans at Changi Airport.

It turned out that such tactics were truly just introductory lessons in Shen Yan's eyes.

"Yes, CEO Shen, I know what to do."

Pei Jue lowered his head, his voice respectful to the point of being servile.

"Go on. I'm going home."

The elevator door opened, and Shen Yan stepped inside.

As the silver metal door slowly closed, it sealed off the underground world filled with sci-fi elements behind him.

Chen Guangke was still waiting in the car.

Seeing Shen Yan emerge, he stubbed out his third cigarette.

"Done?"

"Just getting started."

Shen Yan sat in the back seat, and the aura of absolute control instantly receded, replaced by the gentleness of a husband and father.

He glanced at his watch: three-fifteen in the morning.

"Let's go home. Drive steadily."

"You got it, boss."

The morning in Jinghai arrived earlier than a year ago, or perhaps the blackout capability of the curtains had worsened.

When Shen Yan opened his eyes, Liu Hui was still fast asleep in his arms, her breathing even and long.

He got up quietly; the turmoil and aggression of the past year seemed to have been washed away by the calm morning light.

The man who once threatened to turn Jinghai upside down in a night of torrential rain now looked like any ordinary family man.

Only the faint blue light occasionally flashing from the special phone without any logo on the bedside table served as a reminder of the undercurrents surging in the world.

Since the 'Ghost' protocol covered all data transmission channels of Shenlan Group, Shen Yan rarely went out in person anymore.

Over the past year, he had almost moved his home to the penthouse suite atop the company building, or simply brought his work home.

Chen Guangke was no longer just the underling who handed him cigarettes; now, anyone who saw him conducting business would greet him as CEO Chen.

The intelligence refreshed punctually at eight every morning by the tycoon system was like a spoonful of sugar in Shen Yan's coffee.

Sometimes it was a plot of land about to receive policy support; other times, it was concrete evidence of a unicorn company faking its financial reports.

Shen Yan's method of handling this information became increasingly casual; with a flick of his fingers, tens of millions or even hundreds of millions of capital flowed silently between accounts.

He no longer needed to engage in physical brawls or compete in drinking contests. Capital at this magnitude was a nuclear weapon in itself.

But his current worry had nothing to do with money.

It didn't even have much to do with Artificial Intelligence.

His worry stemmed from the little fellow currently sitting on the living room's wool rug, engrossed in an original text larger than his own face.

Shen An was not yet four years old.

Children his age were still rolling on the floor fighting over an Ultraman toy or wiping snot on the kindergarten teacher's skirt.

Shen An was different.

He was too quiet, so quiet he didn't seem like a child, more like a miniature Shen Yan, but even more... preposterous than Shen Yan.

Shen Yan walked down the stairs holding his coffee cup and saw his daughter, Youyou, lying on the sofa, reading a storybook to her younger brother.

"Once upon a time, there was a little rabbit..."

Youyou's voice was crisp and pleasant; she genuinely enjoyed the process of telling her brother stories.

Shen An looked up at his sister. A flicker of helplessness crossed his distinctly dark eyes, but he still listened obediently.

Shen Yan only realized when he got closer that the book Shen An was pressing down was not a picture book at all.

It was an English original monograph on neural network natural language processing, with several sheets of paper covered in crooked characters scattered nearby.

Those characters weren't random scribbles either. Shen Yan squinted to identify them.

It was Hebrew.

"Daddy!"

Youyou saw Shen Yan and fluttered over like a cheerful little sparrow.

Shen Yan scooped his daughter up with one hand, kissed her cheek, and the stubble made the little girl giggle.

"Was little brother good today?"

"Little brother was the best, but he just said my pronunciation was wrong."

Youyou pouted slightly, a little aggrieved, and pointed at Shen An.

"He said that word isn't read that way in Old English."

Shen Yan raised an eyebrow and looked at his son sitting on the rug.

Shen An closed the thick book. His small face was expressionless, merely looking intently at Shen Yan.

"Daddy, Chomsky's theory of generative grammar has flaws."

Shen An uttered this sentence in a childish voice, his pronunciation standard enough to be a news anchor.

Shen Yan nearly spilled his coffee.

Although the tycoon system had mentioned that due to the gene optimization fluid, the child's intelligence would far surpass ordinary people, this was too far beyond the expected curriculum.

"You're only three and a half, son."

Shen Yan squatted beside him and gently rubbed the clever little head.

"You should be playing with mud or chasing dogs, not researching Chomsky here."

"Mud is dirty, and it lacks logic."

Shen An wrinkled his small nose in distaste and handed Shen Yan the paper covered in Hebrew.

"I want to learn this, but we don't have enough books at home."

Shen Yan took the paper. It was an excerpt from the Old Testament of the Bible. Although the handwriting was childish, the spelling was perfectly correct.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Grandma Liu hurried to open the door and soon ushered in an old man with white hair and thick-rimmed glasses.

As soon as the old man entered, his eyes swept across the living room like radar, finally locking onto Shen An.

That look was a hundred times more fervent than seeing a peerless beauty.

"CEO Shen! CEO Shen!"