227: Chapter 226 The Fusion of Thirteen Days, One's Own Flavor and the Light in the Abyss

Day Thirteen: The Start of the Fusion

Zhou Zhe's consciousness sank into the Hive Core once more, but this time, it wasn't to "watch" the testimonies, but to "become" a part of them.

The Hive's "Resonance Light" enveloped him, and the imprints of thirty-three civilizations slowly circulated within his pure white Poem Markings. Those lights, seas, forests, stars, pottery shards, and final words that once existed independently... at this moment, they all merged into one with him.

It wasn't devouring, nor was it possession; it was "symbiosis."

"You are the first," came the imagery from the Hive, carrying a tranquility that transcended time, "the first latecomer willing to 'become one' with us. Other civilizations either fled in fear or chose to entrust their legacy and leave. Only you chose to 'stay behind'."

Zhou Zhe's consciousness traveled through the light of the thirty-three civilizations, feeling their joy, sorrow, fear, and peace. He wasn't "remembering" them; he was "becoming" them—at this moment, he was the first tree to break through the soil, the gently interlacing magnetic storm, and the child who drew "Our Family."

"I'm not 'staying behind'," his consciousness responded. "I'm 'taking you all with me'."

The Hive fell silent for a moment, and then, that Resonance Light grew a bit brighter.

"Then, let us walk together toward the 'activation' after thirteen days."

Day Twelve: The Inheritors "Seeing Themselves"

Cradle, Inheritors Headquarters.

203 Inheritors sat in a large circle. In the center was the "consciousness landscape" of Zhou Zhe, projected by Beta-2, as he merged with the Hive—a swirling mass of pure white light containing thirty-three types of light and shadow.

A young programmer suddenly spoke: "I 'see' it. Not just those civilizations, but... ourselves."

He described the imagery he saw: human civilization, on the cosmic timescale, was but a fleeting moment. But in that moment, countless people were born, grew up, fell in love, grew old, and died. There was the surprise of a child seeing snow for the first time, the peace of an old man basking in the sun for the last time, the tears of lovers parting, and the hugs of friends reuniting. There were countless breakfasts, lunches, and dinners; countless "good mornings," "good nights," "I love yous," and "I'm sorrys."

"The testimonies left by those civilizations are proof that they 'existed'," he said. "And we ourselves, every ordinary day, every small matter, are also proof that we 'existed'. We have been searching for meaning, yet we forgot that living itself is the meaning."

A female doctor added: "So, what we need to 'translate' for the Reapers isn't just the testimonies of those ancient civilizations, but our own—the proof of existence for every ordinary person, every ordinary moment, those tiny but real pieces of evidence."

The girl who had written "The Land is Still Here" suddenly stood up, walked to the window, and pointed at the crowd queuing for the cafeteria outside: "Look at those people. They don't know about Reapers or testimonies. They only know that there's a new dish at the cafeteria today and they need to line up early. This is our 'testimony'."

All 203 people looked out the window at the people in line and suddenly, they all smiled.

Day Eleven: "One's Own Taste" in the Cafeteria

Great Strength had barely left the kitchen during these eleven days.

It wasn't because he was busy, but because he was trying to do something he had never done before—not cooking for those ancient civilizations, but cooking a dish for "humanity itself."

He asked the Inheritors for help and collected 203 descriptions of "an ordinary person's most unforgettable taste." Someone said "Mom's braised pork," someone said "that popsicle my first love shared with me," someone said "the instant noodles a colleague handed me after working until dawn," and someone said "the plain congee Grandma made when I had a fever as a child."

Then, he attempted to fuse these tastes into a single dish.

Beta-2 helped him analyze the commonalities of all the descriptions and found an interesting pattern: these "most unforgettable tastes" weren't delicacies or exotic foods, but the most ordinary, home-cooked things most closely related to "someone."

"So, this dish can't be too complex," Great Strength muttered to himself. "It has to be simple; it has to have the taste of 'humanity'."

He tried thirty-seven times, and finally, on the 38th attempt, he brought out a bowl of seemingly ordinary clear broth noodles.

The noodles were ordinary hand-pulled noodles, the base was chicken broth, topped with a poached egg and a sprinkle of scallions. It looked no different from the ordinary noodles made in countless ordinary homes.

But the first batch of Inheritors to try it all fell silent after the first bite.

The young programmer was the first to speak, his voice choked with emotion: "I tasted... the noodles my mom used to make. She's been gone for three years. I always thought I'd forgotten that taste. It turns out, I hadn't."

The female doctor wiped her tears and said: "I tasted the first breakfast my daughter ever made for me. She was only seven then and burnt the egg, but I thought it was the best egg in the world."

The girl who wrote "The Land is Still Here" laughed as she ate: "I tasted the dates from the date tree my grandfather planted. Every autumn when I was a kid, he would pick them for me. Later the tree got old and stopped bearing fruit. But in these noodles, I tasted that flavor."

Great Strength stood to the side, watching these reactions, his own eyes turning red.

He gave the noodles a name: "Self."

The next day, a notice was posted at the cafeteria entrance:

"Today's Special: 'Self'—a bowl of noodles that will make you remember 'someone'. Limited to 203 portions, Inheritors prioritized. Ordinary people are also welcome, but must queue."

The line stretched from the cafeteria entrance all the way to the command center.

Day Ten: A Dialogue Between Martian Potatoes and Earth's little cabbages

Mars, Utopia Planitia, Potato Field.

The Potato Chief's projection hovered over the field, "listening" to a message from Earth. The message was from Old Zhang, and it read:

"The little cabbages have grown well. We made dumplings, and they're delicious. Can you grow them over there?"

The Potato Chief was silent for a long time, then translated the message into a rhythm the potatoes could "understand," spreading it throughout the entire potato field.

The "firefly ones" that were singing suddenly stopped. Then, an unprecedented "discussion" broke out in the field—countless potatoes were using their own way to communicate unfamiliar concepts like "Earth," "little cabbage," "dumplings," and "seeds."

Finally, the Potato Chief replied to Earth on behalf of all the potatoes:

"The soil on Mars isn't as fertile as Earth's. The sunlight is a bit harsher. The temperature difference between day and night is greater. But we want to try. Please send some seeds. We will grow Martian little cabbages on Mars. — All members of the Mars Potato Guild."

Earth, a small town in the south.

When Old Zhang received this reply, he was watering the chives in his yard. He stared at the line of text on his phone for a good while, then grinned.

He turned and went inside, found a packet of unopened little cabbage seeds, weighed it in his hand, put it back, and replaced it with a packet of the best, most plump seeds he had saved himself.

"If we're going to plant them, we have to plant the best ones," he muttered as he began packing them, preparing to send them to the Cradle tomorrow, to be forwarded to Mars.

His wife was cleaning vegetables nearby and didn't look up: "Will they survive on Mars?"

Old Zhang shook his head: "I don't know. But if we don't try, how will we know?"

Day Nine: Light in the Abyss

Hive Peripheral Monitoring Outpost.

Ashes stared at the latest data, a light never seen before flashing in her pitch-black eyes—it was fear.

Because, in the direction of approximately 40 light-years from the Solar System, in that dark region long marked as the "Abyss," an extremely faint, almost imperceptible "light" had appeared.

It wasn't the light of a star, nor the light of a galaxy, but a more abstract "existential light"—as if something was slowly emerging from that "Conceptual Abyss."

"Reapers," Ashes' voice was so raspy it was almost inaudible. "They've 'perceived' the anomaly. The changes in the Hive, the resonance of the testimonies, humanity's 'third path'... they've 'seen' it."

Zhao Yan stood beside her, clenching his fists: "9 days left. In 9 days, the Hive 'activates'. What will they do before then?"

"I don't know," Ashes shook her head. "But one thing is certain—they won't be 'silent' anymore."

Day Eight: Zhou Zhe's Return

Zhou Zhe's consciousness slowly withdrew from the Hive Core.

The thirteen days of fusion had completely changed him. His Poem Markings was still pure white, but within that white flowed thirty-three different lights and shadows—the "imprints" of thirty-three civilizations, and the proof of his "symbiosis" with them.

The Hive's imagery came one last time, carrying a sense of "fatigue" and "gratification" that transcended time, as if it had just completed its mission:

"Now, you are us. We are you. In thirteen days, no matter what happens, we will face it together."

Zhou Zhe nodded, turned, and walked toward the shuttle.

He took one last look back at the massive Hive composed of countless testimonies. At this moment, it was no longer the cold, terrifying "predator" it once was. It was a monument, a library, a "Witness-Keeper" that had seen the final moments of countless civilizations.

And it had just been given a name.

"Witness-Keeper," Zhou Zhe said softly. "Wait for me to return."

The shuttle started up and sped toward the Cradle.

Night: Eight-Day Countdown

Cradle Node, Command Center.

Lin Shen stood before the large screen, watching the constantly ticking numbers: Hive "activation" countdown, 8 days remaining.

But at this moment, his gaze was on another set of data:

Number of Inheritors: 203 (first batch); number of applicants for the second batch: 1,147.

Total "Self" noodles sold: 203 bowls (daily limit); number of people queuing: over 500 every day.

Survival rate of "firefly one" in the Mars potato field: 91%; "Life Chorus" intensity: record high.

Old Zhang's little cabbage seeds have been sent, expected to arrive on Mars in 3 days.

And one more piece of the latest intelligence from Ashes: The "light" in the Abyss is growing brighter. The Reapers' "perception" is approaching.

Lin Shen was silent for a long time, then turned to look out the window.

Deep in the starry sky, the Hive's "Resonance Light" was still warm. Further away, that increasingly bright light was closing in.

But he was no longer afraid.

Because he knew that no matter what happened in 8 days, there were 203 Inheritors, countless bowls of "Self" noodles, a potato field singing on Mars, a little cabbage seed on its way to Mars, and the testimonies of thirty-three civilizations with him.

He said softly: "Come then, Reapers. Let us show you what 'existence' means.""}],