Chapter 289
Chapter 289
Julian's delivery remained even, devoid of emotion. "Load-bearing walls can be modified. Floor-to-ceiling windows will be replaced with smart glass that adjusts light transmission, capable of simulating natural light from any time period between sunrise and dusk."
"The new bookshelves will use black walnut. I've already contacted timber suppliers—they'll airlift an entire three-hundred-year-old tree from the forest."
"What about me?" Oscar asked bitterly. "What am I supposed to do? Contact the Nobel Literature Prize committee for Ms. York's future masterpiece?"
"No." Julian transmitted a document to him expressionlessly. "You're responsible for converting the outdoor terrace. Mr. Russell requires a garden there that offers scenery to view year-round."
Oscar looked at the dense garden design proposal—as complex as military base construction blueprints—and closed his eyes.
He could already envision himself shouldering a hoe, weeping in the wind atop the Russell Group Building.
Within one week, Rupert's office was completely emptied.
The massive conference table was removed, the cold metal fixtures dismantled.
In their place came warm wooden flooring and enormous bookshelves extending from floor to ceiling.
They remained empty for now.
When Rupert brought Diana here, the renovation had just finished.
The air still held mingled scents of fresh wood and earth.
The first thing she saw—that once-cold, cavernous rooftop terrace had now transformed into a true garden.
Work wasn't completely finished. Several top-tier horticulturists were carefully laying turf.
Farther away, Rupert stood beside an arrangement of ornamental rocks at varying heights, wearing simple casual clothes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arguing with a landscape designer from the Suncrest Dominion.
He pointed at a moss-covered stone, brows tightly furrowed, expression serious.
Under the sunlight, fine beads of sweat formed at his temples, dirt smudging his hands.
He seemed to sense her gaze, looking up toward her.
Through the glass layer, their eyes met in midair.
He looked at her with quiet eyes, as though silently asking—
Is this acceptable?
Diana turned, walking to the massive desk.
The surface held nothing except, at its very center, a laptop and an antique-styled fountain pen.
She pulled out the chair and sat.
The chair's curve perfectly fit her spine, the height just right.
She extended her hand, fingertips lightly tracing the cool laptop casing before finally settling on the fountain pen.
She lifted the pen into her hand. The metal body felt unexpectedly substantial.
She raised her head, looking outside again.
In one corner of the garden, several early cherry trees held buds—that was spring.
Beside them, a lush patch of irises awaited summer.
In the distance, several maple branches stretched, heralding autumn.
And in the most inconspicuous corner, a gnarled black pine silently kept watch over winter.
Rupert was no longer there.
He'd moved to the garden's far end, clumsily wielding an oversized hose, watering a patch of newly planted roses.
The flow ran a bit strong, splashing him thoroughly, but he paid no mind, only focusing on those seedlings.
Diana withdrew her gaze and uncapped the fountain pen.
She didn't touch the laptop. Instead, she pulled from her pocket a small notebook she always carried, flipping to a blank page.
The nib descended. Ink bloomed into a tiny point on paper.
She wrote the first character.
Outside the window, Rupert finally shut off the water.
He stood before that patch of moist earth, watching those small lives that had just acquired a new home, as though viewing a brand-new, vibrant empire he'd built with his own hands.
And this empire existed for only one person.
That fountain pen's ink was custom-made—a graphite-based composite that flowed smoothly, its writing permanent for centuries.
But the first character Diana wrote lingered long on the paper.
She wanted to record—record the storm in that ocean of consciousness.
Record every subtle collapse and reconstruction at nerve endings, record the light, shadow, and warmth that logic couldn't explain.
But her brain was accustomed to analyzing through rigorous formulas. Now she couldn't find the right words.
Her vocabulary contained "neurotransmitters," "axonal conduction," "cortical discharge," yet lacked a single word to precisely describe that temperature transmitted through a palm—the one that pulled her back from the abyss.
She began searching Athena's database, trying to find a reference frame for her feelings.
But she quickly discovered that those fields she'd once dismissed—their knowledge systems were far more chaotic and complex than any natural science discipline.
She needed her own papers—those texts recording the evolution of her thinking.
From her first publication at sixteen in a Cell subsidiary journal, to later articles hidden under various pseudonyms across different fields, even including unfinished theoretical concepts that existed only as drafts.
They were the fossils of her thoughts, the foundation stones upon which she'd constructed her world.
On the third day, Rupert found her staring blankly at a 404 error page.
She'd attempted to access an internal database at a European nuclear research organization where she'd anonymously submitted an algorithmic draft on high-dimensional data models years ago.
But her old access privileges had long expired.
He asked nothing, simply noted the database name and her search keywords, then turned and closed the door.
Half an hour later, the Russell Group's supreme command system convened a three-person meeting shrouded in gloom.
Oscar's holographic image had abandoned maintaining his elite appearance. He sported disheveled hair, dark circles so deep he looked punched.
"Alright, what is it this time?"
Isabella didn't even look up. "I'm betting on the latter. More challenging."
Julian adjusted his glasses and projected a document into their midst.
The title read: [Feasibility Report on Systematically Acquiring All Intellectual Property Outputs of Ms. Diana York].
The report's content was exhaustively detailed to an outrageous degree.
"Mission Objective: Establish a private library completely housing all of Ms. Diana York's academic papers, research notes, manuscripts, code, patents, and even classroom assignments—both published and unpublished—from her earliest education to present."
"Challenge One: Twenty-seven patents under 'DY's' name are currently held in trust by Celestria's Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, classified at the highest level. Isabella, you need to infiltrate their servers. Don't trigger the Echelon system."
Isabella's face finally showed interest. "DARPA's firewall? Just last week I snuck in through it to download some movies. Was getting a bit bored with it anyway."
"Challenge Two: Ms. York's doctoral dissertation at Vanguard University involves Athena's underlying architecture and has been jointly sealed by the university and the Hexarch Complex. Julian, contact the board of trustees. The Group will donate a new physics school to Vanguard University in exchange, the sole requirement being the original copy of that dissertation."
Julian's fingertips danced across the keyboard. "Already contacted. Board chairman is coming to Greyharbor City next week to 'incidentally' tour our renewable energy lab."
Oscar watched the two's casual demeanor, feeling like a mortal who'd stumbled into a battle between gods. He pointed at the report's final item, voice trembling. "Then... what about me?"
"Challenge Three: According to recovered data from Athena's early logs, Ms. York's initial inspiration for 'neuronal regeneration induction' was recorded in a college-era notebook."
"During a move, this notebook was mistakenly classified as waste. According to Greyharbor City's sanitation system data backtracking, its final destination was Landfill Site No. 3 on the city outskirts, specific coordinates..."
Oscar's vision went black.
He—Oscar Howard, Sterling Row elite, the Russell Group's Miracle Logistics Officer, the man who could make a nation's stock market tremble with one phone call.
Was he now supposed to go dig through a landfill for his boss's wife's aged notebook?
He felt the world—no, the entire universe—had gone insane.
Diana paid no more attention to that office, taking initial shape.
She threw herself back into observing those peculiar plants, as though the person previously helpless before a blank document wasn't her at all.