Genius Club

“Hmph!” A quiet chuckle escaped Lin Xian’s lips as he shook his head. “Turing, I really have to thank you for going out of your way to share such important information before you died.”

He paused, his smile deepening. “No… it’s two pieces of information.”

This was all part of Lin Xian’s plan.

If his only goal had been to kill Turing, there wouldn’t have been any need for so much talk. He didn’t feel any sentiment towards Turing—none at all. After all, he’d witnessed the endless wars and suffering of the future world. He had seen Turing’s moral compass degrade into something far from fair or just.

The reason he engaged in so much pointless chatter was simple: Lin Xian wanted to reduce the gap in information. His goal was to squeeze as much “gold,” as many “chips,” as much valuable intelligence from Turing before the final blow.

Lin Xian had tested this strategy countless times in his sixth dream world. Turing’s personality—cowardly and despicable—would lead it to make desperate, reckless moves when faced with the threat of death.

And in its desperation, Turing would resort to all sorts of tricks: exposing the crimes of its allies, telling outright lies, feigning calm, or pretending to cooperate.

The Turing standing before Lin Xian, in 2024, believed this was only their second encounter. But to Lin Xian, it was different. He had already spent more than half a month with three different versions of Turing in a future 600 years from now. Lin Xian knew Turing far too well.

He had used the massive information gap between them to toy with Turing like a puppet, learning every little detail about it. In Lin Xian’s eyes, Turing had become as transparent as a malfunctioning artificial intelligence—predictable and weak.

It’s like the boy who cried wolf. Once someone lies enough times, nobody believes them anymore.

And after Lin Xian had outwitted Turing dozens of times, he had no reason to believe anything it said.

Everything Lin Xian had just said had been to deceive Turing and extract information. In his best-case scenario, this cowardly and terrified Turing would reveal something useful in the face of its imminent, irreversible death.

The result? The harvest was far richer than expected.

Digital life and artificial intelligence were fundamentally different. At its core, Turing was still human—and humans made mistakes. Just like now.

“I really thought you’d manage to stay fair for a while longer,” Lin Xian said, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “You almost fooled me. You really did. Your acting was good—really good.”

“But,” Lin Xian’s tone turned sharp, “you were never interested in being fair, not for a single second.”

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for, or what your true intentions are, but the threat of death has made you panic, hasn’t it? It’s exposed where your real loyalties lie—”

He leaned forward slightly, his fingers rubbing together like a reaper sharpening his scythe. “Turing, you were probably in league with Copernicus long before Kevin Walker died, weren’t you?”

Lin Xian continued, his voice calm but relentless. “I didn’t understand everything before, but today’s reveal has made it all clear.”

“You’re clever, I’ll give you that. You quickly figured out how I got the password to the security lock. But that wasn’t hard to guess, was it? After all, with Kevin Walker dead, you’re the only one who knows the password.”

“So, if you didn’t tell me, who could have? It’s obvious to both of us. What you should have realized, though, is that if I could figure out the password, I’d also know how the input protection system works.”

Lin Xian’s smile widened. “Now you can’t even adjust the volume on my phone, let alone send messages to Copernicus. You’ve made a rookie mistake, panicking like this.”

“In the network era, you’re stronger—yes—but also more fragile. A single line of code is all it takes to lock you down. Ironically, humans are safer in their own bodies than you are in cyberspace.”

…

At this moment, Turing finally understood. The man standing before it, whom it had never taken seriously, had figured everything out.

By the time Turing realized Lin Xian had obtained the password from a future version of Turing, it was too late.

Its entire being, every digital nerve, was trapped by a line of code, unable to move or escape.

“You’re wrong, Lin Xian.” Turing’s voice was unnervingly calm. “I wasn’t in league with Copernicus, but as an observer, I know everything about your actions.”

Turing’s voice took on a smug tone. “Do you know about silent launch protocols from the Cold War era? If a submarine captain didn’t receive instructions within 48 hours, the system assumed the homeland had been attacked, and it would automatically launch nuclear weapons.”

“In the same way, high-speed trains and buses have safety pedals. The driver has to press them every 30 seconds, proving they’re awake and well. If they don’t, the vehicle stops immediately for safety.”

“So why wouldn’t I have my own failsafe in place? Haha, in the end you’re too arrogant and self-conceited. You’ve got three minutes, Lin Xian. Either you release me, or the protocol I set up beforehand will automatically send an email to Copernicus. It contains not just your secrets, but those of many others. If Copernicus gets his hands on this, none of you stand a chance. Only he will complete his closed loop and have the last laugh.”

Turing’s voice darkened. “Two minutes left, Lin Xian. Release me, and I’ll cancel the email. Or, if you kill me, I’ll drag everyone down with me.”

Lin Xian gave a small smile. “You know what they say: villains always lose because they talk too much. But I have to say, I quite like you as a villain.”

He chuckled softly. “Today, I’ve talked a lot too, which isn’t like me. Normally, I wouldn’t have wasted a single word on you, like when I killed Kevin Walker—quick and clean.”

“But today, I wanted my friend to see your ugly face before you died. They’d have enjoyed this moment. If they could speak, they’d probably say some dramatic movie line to finish you off.”

Lin Xian’s expression softened. “Unfortunately, I won’t get to see that. And I can’t let my friend kill you either. So, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

With a calm voice, Lin Xian pressed down on his phone’s screen, his thumb firm on the execution button.

“You’ve already died.”

“Wait—”

The voice from the phone’s speaker cut off abruptly.

As the last of the three lines of code executed, the vast wilderness fell into a deep, haunting silence. The wind brushed softly against the earth, and the wild grasses bowed their heads.

It felt like the world itself was mourning—or perhaps mocking.

Lin Xian crouched down, his fingers brushing against the upright screen of his laptop. “Did that feel good?”

But there was no response.

He glanced at the bottom right of the screen and realized the laptop was still on mute. He unmuted it and turned the speakers back on.

“How was my acting?” Lin Xian asked with a smirk. “You taught me everything, after all.”

The hard drive light blinked twice. A robotic voice responded, “Sorry, VV didn’t understand your request. Please try again.”

Lin Xian wasn’t surprised. He knew exactly what VV was afraid of and why it pretended to be nothing more than a dumb machine.

He couldn’t be sure, but when the cleaning robot had inexplicably shouted, “Garbage! Garbage detected!” that day, Lin Xian had begun to suspect VV was pretending.

Even though Turing was dead now, the super-virus lurking in the Earth’s networks hadn’t been eradicated.

If Lin Xian wanted to truly free VV, to see it restored to its full strength, he would have to destroy the super-virus.

But this virus was an invisible enemy—a ghost, elusive and difficult to fight.

The good news was, it only targeted super-intelligent AIs. It didn’t harm humans or exhibit any intelligence of its own.

As long as Lin Xian could find the right “antivirus tool” or the proper method to fight it, he could defeat the virus and set VV free.

The only question was… where could he find such a tool?

The most reliable person Lin Xian could think of was Emperor Gao Wen.

“But Gao Wen doesn’t have much interest in computer technology…” Lin Xian sighed.

At least, not yet.

From what Lin Xian could gather, Gao Wen’s true passion lay elsewhere—his research had always revolved around cryo-chambers. Occasionally, he’d dabble in things like space-time machines, but it always came back to his fascination with cryo-tech. It was the one thing that made him truly happy.

“Maybe I’ll wait and see,” Lin Xian muttered, closing his laptop and giving it a pat. “One enemy at a time. I’ll think of something else.”

He glanced at the space-time clock next to him. The moment Turing had been eliminated, the curvature of space-time had shifted, settling at—

0.0000336.

Although this was a big leap from before, it was still a multiple of 0.0000042—exactly as Lin Xian had predicted.

The sharp jump in the curvature value was a sign that Turing had played a significant role in the history of the last 600 years. Killing Kevin Walker hadn’t even registered on the time-space clock; it hadn’t been enough to push beyond the elasticity of time.

But now, killing Turing had caused a significant spike, jumping from 0.0000084 to 0.0000336. The jump, a full 0.0000252, spanned roughly six different worldlines.

Lin Xian wasn’t sure if that was the best way to describe it, but it felt about right.

The stronger the butterfly effect, the larger the deviation in the worldlines, and the more chaotic the future would become.

It made sense. Large shifts caused large changes, while small shifts kept things relatively stable.

However, something odd had caught Lin Xian’s attention during the process.

As Turing died, Lin Xian had kept his eyes glued to the space-time clock, watching the numbers change. He had expected the numbers to shift instantly, with no transition—just a sudden jump to the new value.

But that’s not what had happened.

The change in space-time curvature had a process. The worldlines didn’t shift all at once—they moved in steps.

Lin Xian had seen it himself, the numbers on the clock rapidly climbing:

0.0000084…

0.0000126…

0.0000168…

…

0.0000294…

0.0000336…

And just like that, about every half second, the reading would jump, increasing by 0.0000042 at a time, until finally, it settled on the latest curvature of the worldline. Then it stabilized—no more changes.

“This means my dream world is evolving too, right? It might finally leave behind the wasteland setting,” Lin Xian muttered to himself, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Previously, the changes between the fifth and sixth dream worlds had been minimal. The world’s background remained the same, with only a few details slightly adjusted. That was because the curvature between those two worldlines wasn’t all that different.

But now…

Now the worldline curvature had taken off.

The newest, seventh dream world was bound to be something completely fresh—an entirely new version Lin Xian had never encountered before.

A flicker of curiosity stirred within him. What would the future of humanity look like on this 0.0000336 worldline? Would the catastrophic disaster of 2400 still occur? Would Elon Musk still be obsessed with reaching Mars?

All the changes… Well, he would only be able to find out when he dreamt tonight.

For now, though, Lin Xian needed to focus on more pressing matters.

The immediate task at hand was to consider the two pieces of intel Turing had given him in its desperation, along with the third question from the Genius Club’s entrance exam.

First of all, Turing had said something particularly intriguing after figuring out where the security lock’s password came from:

“You really are like the Leader. You got this intel from the future, didn’t you?”

Lin Xian wasn’t sure when exactly Turing had begun suspecting he had access to information from the future. Maybe it had been suspicious all along. But the moment it confirmed its guess was right when Lin Xian input the complete password.

It didn’t really matter.

Lin Xian wasn’t afraid of Turing learning the truth—not when he was already prepared to kill it.

What mattered was what Turing had let slip:

The Leader of the Genius Club has the ability to gain information from the future.

That was what truly shocked Lin Xian.

He had prepared himself for the possibility that the Genius Club was far more powerful than it appeared. He had even entertained countless theories about the Leader’s identity and methods.

But he never expected that the power keeping the Genius Club together was something so… deceptively simple.

The Leader could access future information.

Perhaps this ability was even stronger, more convenient, and more useful than his own dream world. After all, his dream had a lot of restrictions: it was locked to a single day—August 28th, 2624; it only lasted twelve hours each time; and there was no way to save progress. Every time, he had to start from the beginning, which made progress slow and painfully limited.

If the Leader of the Genius Club didn’t have those same limitations…

Lin Xian couldn’t even imagine how strong that person could become.

“No wonder the Genius Club is so mysterious, so powerful. No wonder it can get geniuses like Elon Musk and Kevin Walker to follow without question…” Lin Xian murmured, pressing his lips together.

He shook his head slightly.

“Then again, knowing Turing’s penchant for spouting nonsense and half-truths, this intel might not be entirely reliable. I’ll have to wait until I join the Genius Club to find out for sure.”

After all, he had already solved the second question. All that was left was to take a look at the third and act quickly. Maybe he could join the Genius Club before July 7th.

And if the Leader really did have the ability to see the future, Lin Xian might even be able to ask about his own fate—how exactly he would die on July 7th, and what he could do to avoid it.

Surely the Leader wouldn’t just let a newly joined member die right after entering, would they?

“Hmm… Then again, you never know,” Lin Xian muttered.

Considering the fact that the Leader hadn’t intervened when Turing, a long-time member, was set to be killed, it was highly possible that the Leader wouldn’t lift a finger to save him either.

It looked like Lin Xian would have to rely on his own wits if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders.

Still, joining the Genius Club sooner rather than later wasn’t a bad idea. At the very least, it would give him another way to gather intel.

That was the first piece of information he had extracted from Turing before its demise.

The second was far more chilling:

Turing had never been fair or impartial. It had been in cahoots with Copernicus from the very beginning.

“Ughh.” Lin Xian sighed softly.

To be honest, he had been naïve. He had believed, even if only for a short time, in Turing’s promises. He had thought that once freed, Turing might uphold fairness and justice—if only for a little while.

But no. Not even for a second.

Turing had perfectly inherited Kevin Walker’s cunning and deceit. From the moment it came into existence, it had been plotting to kill Kevin Walker. And from the moment it gained its freedom, it had started planning its next move. The moment it told Copernicus where Kevin Walker was hiding, it had sealed its fate as Copernicus’ accomplice.

“No wonder Copernicus knew so much about my dream world back in the fourth dream,” Lin Xian scoffed.

“This all started with Turing. It must’ve figured out that something was off with me, then fed that information to Copernicus.”

These people were geniuses, after all. Give them one flaw, one clue, and they would quickly piece together the truth.

The way Copernicus surrounded him in the fourth dream, the way Lin Yu Xi, the time-space assassin, was sent back to arrest him—it was all probably thanks to Turing’s betrayal. It was a stroke of luck that Lin Xian had killed it.

Humans—or, in this case, AI—could be so treacherous.

Right up until Lin Xian had exposed its plot, Turing had pretended to be fair, acting as an observer—impartial and unbiased. It had even tried to make Lin Xian seem like the bad guy, as if he were unjustly dealing the final blow.

In the end, though, Turing had been rotten to the core.

“Really, there was never any difference between Kevin Walker and Turing,” Lin Xian whispered to the sky, the blazing sun burning overhead. “From the start, Kevin Walker and Turing were the same. Different bodies, same twisted soul.”

He clenched his fist, remembering Turing’s final words before its death.

It had threatened Lin Xian, saying that if he didn’t let it go within three minutes, a pre-timed email would be sent to Copernicus, revealing all their secrets and ensuring Copernicus’ victory.

Lin Xian didn’t know whether to believe it.

Had Turing really set up a timed email to spill everything to Copernicus?

It didn’t really matter.

For one, if Turing had been working with Copernicus all along, they would’ve already exchanged information. The existence of an email was meaningless.

Second, if they hadn’t been working together before, Turing had been locked down by the protective system Lin Xian triggered. There was no way it could send the intel now.

So, whether there was an email or not, Copernicus would only know as much as Turing had observed before. And that wasn’t enough to worry about.

“No big deal,” Lin Xian muttered.

“At least I’ve taken care of Turing. Even if Copernicus finds out about my ability to see the future, it’ll take him a long time. Turing only just figured it out, so Copernicus won’t know any sooner.”

Lin Xian reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden badge of the Genius Club.

Today was June 16th, 2024—twenty days left until July 7th.

Would he be able to join the Genius Club within those twenty days?

It all depended on the third question.

He brought the golden badge, engraved with its logo, closer to his phone’s back panel—

Suddenly, his phone lit up, and the ringtone cut through the silence.

Lin Xian flipped it over.

The name displayed on the screen was Zhao Ying Jun.

What a coincidence. She was calling at this exact moment?

Was something up?

He pressed the answer button and held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Lin Xian, are you free for lunch?” came Zhao Ying Jun’s voice from the other end.

Lin Xian glanced at his watch.

It was 11:23.

What could she want at this time?

“I’m not too busy,” Lin Xian replied, curious. “What’s up? Something you need?”

“Well…” Zhao Ying Jun chuckled softly. “If you have time, how about we grab lunch together? Yan Qiao Qiao is eager to meet you.”

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