215: Chapter 214 Echoes of Stardust, Meaningful Infantry Medals and Deeply Rooted "Respect"

The war of attrition entered its fifth day.

Above the 'Potato One' experimental field, the invisible slaughter had reached a white-hot intensity.

The 'digestive enzymes' spewed by the Hive were like acid rain at a conceptual level, continuously settling and eroding.

Meanwhile, the 'meaning resonance' signals from Earth, the continuous irradiation of enhanced sunlight, the tireless back-and-forth work of the 'the foolish old man' robots, and even the focused intentions of the engineering team cast from millions of kilometers away, together wove a fragile 'web of life affirmation,' struggling to hold on.

But the price was tragic.

The projection of the Potato Chief hovered above the ridge, no longer glowing, but instead presenting a deep, almost sorrowful dark brown.

In front of it floated a constantly updating 'battle damage list':

firefly one-007: KIA on Day 3. Last signal: 'Roots... cannot take hold...'

firefly one-022: KIA on Day 4. Last signal: 'Light... so far away...'

firefly one-045: KIA on Day 4. Last signal: 'Are they... still singing...'

firefly one-073: KIA on the morning of Day 5. Last signal: '...hold on... for... one... more... second...'

Number 073 was the very one the Potato Chief had previously nominated for the 'Eternal Photosynthesis Medal.'

Under the erosion of the 'digestive enzymes,' it had persisted for a full four and a half days, longer than any of its peers.

Its last signal was intermittent, but the core was 'persistence.'

In the field, the originally neat ridges now displayed large patches of dimness.

The 'chorus of life' in those areas had fallen completely silent.

About eighty percent of the surviving plants remained, but their voices were much weaker. That once youthful yet vivid 'chorus' now resembled a group of exhausted children huddled together in the cold wind, keeping each other warm with their final body heat.

“The rate of attrition exceeds the rate of replenishment,” β-2's report was calm and cruel. “According to current trends, the remaining plants will all be lost within 72 hours. The cultivation of the second batch of 'firefly two' seed potatoes will take at least 96 hours. There is a gap in the time window. During this gap, the 'life resonance field' will completely disappear, and the Hive will extract the 'ancient memories' of Mars without obstruction.”

“Is there any other way?” Lin Shen's voice came from the command center, uncharacteristically tinged with anxiety.

Silence. Everyone racked their brains, but in this conceptual-level confrontation, humanity's technological reserves seemed so pale.

At this moment, Zhou Zhe moved.

He stood up from the meditation room, not weakly, but with an unprecedented, calm, and firm posture.

The Poem Markings around his eyes was no longer just glowing, but slowly 'flowing,' like a living, vital river.

In that river, beyond the pale gold (emotional perception), light green (life affinity), and indigo (rhythmic guidance), a brand new type of silver-white light spot, like Stardust debris, began to appear.

“I... think I know what to do,” he said softly, walking toward the place deep in the green soil experimental area where the 'moonlight orchid' had once bloomed—there, only a small pinch of light green Ashes from that sacrificed flower, which he had cherished, remained.

He crouched down, reached out, and gently covered that pinch of Ashes.

“In the Tranquil Garden, the last lesson the 'Gardener' taught me was not 'guidance,' but 'weaving.'” He closed his eyes, and the silver-white light spots in his Poem Markings became brighter. “Guidance is directing the flow of existing rhythms. Weaving is recombining different, even broken, rhythms into a new, tougher structure. I always thought I wasn't ready. But now...”

He perceived the gradually weakening 'chorus of life' in the direction of Mars, the continuous but soon-to-be-untransmittable 'meaning resonance' from Earth, the intensifying 'Hive vortex' in the starry sky above, and finally, the 'green Ashes' under his palm, which came from the Tranquil Garden and retained a trace of the 'Gardener's' breath.

“They are all here. All 'here.' They just need to be... 'woven' together.”

He began to 'weave.'

This was not an projection of consciousness, not an output of energy, but a more essential 'existential operation.'

He used his Poem Markings as the 'loom,' emotional perception as the 'warp,' life affinity as the 'weft,' and rhythmic guidance as the 'shuttle,' slowly pulling and interweaving the 'threads of meaning' from three different sources:

The first thread: The weak but tenacious 'chorus of life' from the Mars potato field. Every surviving 'firefly one,' its thread-thin 'I exist' signal, was gently 'hooked' by Zhou Zhe, as if picking out the last sparks from dying charcoal.

The second thread: The 'meaning resonance' coming from Earth across millions of kilometers. The tenacity of the foolish old man moving the mountain, the anonymity of the the builders of the Great Wall, the calmness of the astronauts, the watching of ordinary people, the persistence of Great Strength making chili sauce... these human 'stories of persistence' converted into rhythms were combed by Zhou Zhe into streams of warm and powerful 'meaning.'

The third thread: The 'ancient tranquility' belonging to the Tranquil Garden that remained in the 'green Ashes' under his palm. That was not life, not emotion, but a more fundamental 'affirmation' belonging to the 'order' of the universe itself—as if saying: 'Existence is meaningful in itself. No need to prove, no need to question.'

Three distinct 'threads of meaning,' on the 'loom' of Zhou Zhe's Poem Markings, began to slowly and arduously interweave. With every interweaving, Zhou Zhe's body trembled violently, and blood seeping from his seven orifices stained his clothes. But he did not stop.

The light cluster of Stardust appeared quietly, guarding from the side. It did not offer help, because this was a 'transition' that Zhou Zhe had to complete alone. It was just 'watching,' with an ancient, gratified gaze.

In the direction of Mars.

The projection of the Potato Chief was the first to perceive the change. It turned sharply toward the sky, and on its dark brown 'face,' an expression resembling 'astonishment' appeared for the first time.

Into that weak 'chorus of life,' a new sound began to blend. It was not the sound of potatoes, nor the sound of humans, but a deeper, more distant 'bass resonance' that seemed to come from the beginning of the universe.

This bass resonance, like a warm ocean current, lifted those 'sparks' that were about to extinguish, infusing them with a power that transcended individual life—not the faint declaration of 'I exist,' but a cosmic affirmation that 'existence itself is meaningful.'

At the same time, those 'meaning resonance' signals from Earth, after being 'woven' by Zhou Zhe, were no longer distant 'stories,' but transformed into countless visible, warm light spots, drifting down like fireflies onto every inch of the potato field, merging into every surviving plant.

“firefly one-088” had originally had a weak signal and was about to follow in the footsteps of its companions. But when a light spot merged into it, its 'song' suddenly changed, no longer the youthful 'I exist,' but carrying an ancient and deep rhythm, as if saying: 'Descendants of the foolish old man, continue to move the mountain.'

“firefly one-112” was also illuminated by a light spot at the last moment. Its 'song' blended with the chants of the the builders of the Great Wall, low and powerful: 'One stone, then another stone...'

The projection of the Potato Chief trembled violently. It 'watched' all this and suddenly murmured in a voice only it could hear: 'They... are inheriting. Inheriting human stories as their own stories.'

Yes. Zhou Zhe's 'weaving' made the potatoes no longer bystanders 'listening' to human stories, but internalized these stories as part of their own 'meaning structure.'

the foolish old man moving the mountain became the tenacity of the potatoes taking root; the building of the Great Wall became the order of the potatoes arranged in rows; the calmness of the astronauts became the composure of the potatoes facing the 'digestive enzymes'; the persistence of Great Strength became the focus of the potatoes when producing starch.

Humans and potatoes, two completely different life forms, for the first time achieved a true 'fusion of meaning' on the battlefield against nothingness.

Hive Core.

The massive vortex composed of countless 'voids' was accelerating its pulsation, attempting to drown this abnormally stubborn 'food' with more concentrated 'digestive enzymes.'

But at the very moment Zhou Zhe finished 'weaving,' the pulsation of the vortex experienced its first true 'disorder.'

It 'tasted' a 'flavor' that it could not understand at all.

That 'food' that should have gradually fallen silent suddenly became 'noisy.'

It was not the youthful, weak 'chorus of life' from before, but a more complex, heavier 'symphony' that seemed to fuse countless different levels of 'meaning.'

In it was the stubbornness of young life, the tenacity of ancient civilization, and even... a trace of 'affirmation of existence' belonging to the cosmic order itself that made it inexplicably 'uneasy.'

What 'confused' it even more was that the 'digestive enzymes' it secreted saw a sharp drop in decomposition efficiency when they came into contact with this 'symphony.'

Those 'meaning molecules' seemed to be protected by some more powerful 'structure,' making them difficult to dismantle or absorb.

At this moment, deep in the Hive core, in the chaos composed of countless 'voids,' something suddenly 'moved.'

It was not a pulsation, not growth, but a more active action with a sense of 'consciousness'—as if a long-sleeping giant beast, awakened for the first time by the noise from the outside world, lazily, with a hint of displeasure at being disturbed, opened an 'eye.'

That 'eye' had no form, no light, but all the equipment monitoring the Hive recorded a bizarre signal at the same moment: A 'scrutiny' wave, extremely weak but with an extremely wide coverage, swept across the entire inner Solar System, lingering briefly for about 0.3 seconds above the Mars potato field.

The voice of Ashes sounded, hoarse with unprecedented gravity: 'It... has noticed us. Not as 'food,' but as... an 'anomaly.' For an existence whose essence is 'void,' an 'anomaly' means... it needs to be 'understood' or 'eliminated.'

Zhao Yan's breathing stopped: 'What will it do?'

'I don't know. There has never been a precedent.' Ashes was silent for a moment, 'But one thing is certain—it no longer regards human civilization as ordinary, digestible 'prey.' We have earned its 'respect.' But this 'respect' may be more dangerous than hostility.'

Above the Mars potato field, the projection of the Potato Chief slowly turned, facing the direction of the invisible threat deep in the starry sky.

On its 'face,' the dark brown faded, replaced by a calm, almost solemn glow.

“The resolution of the ninth plenary meeting of the Potato Guild,” its voice spread across all channels, “'firefly one' experimental field, from this moment on, is named 'Troops 1st Company.' The list of the fallen will be engraved on the memorial wall of the 'Eternal Photosynthesis Medal' in the Potato Culture Museum. The survivors...”

It paused, looking at the plants that had straightened their stems and leaves again in the 'symphony,' those 'Troops' that had integrated human stories and were responding to the cosmic nothingness with a brand new 'song.'

“The survivors will continue to take root. Until the last potato, the last photosynthesis, the last 'I exist.'”

In the distance, the 'the foolish old man' robots continued to work silently. In Mars orbit, the 'Golden Crow' reflector continued to faithfully project enhanced sunlight. On Earth, Great Strength was in the cafeteria, using the simplest flavors to prepare a batch of nutrient paste called 'Troops,' ready to be sent to Mars.

And in Zhou Zhe's meditation room, he slowly opened his eyes. The Poem Markings had completely calmed down, but the silver-white light spots had permanently merged into his 'rhythm.'

He looked down at his palm; the 'green Ashes' had completely dissipated, becoming part of his 'loom.'

“The Gardener's debt... is paid off,” he said softly, then shook his head, “No, it's the Gardener's 'gift,' finally opened.”

The light cluster of Stardust fluctuated slightly, conveying a thought that no one heard:

“The first 'Rhythm Weaver' is born in this remote spiral arm. The Gardeners... will be interested.”

The starry sky remained deep, the Hive remained pulsating, but on the wasteland of Mars, there was now a potato field that would never be silent again.

They used their own way, in the nothingness of the universe, to carve a line of tiny and stubborn handwriting:

“Here there is life. Here there is meaning. Here, we refuse to be digested.”