Chapter 293
Chapter 293
Rupert saw Diana standing there, looking at that rain-soaked swing.
She didn't approach it.
She simply watched.
That absolutely safe sanctuary was built for her.
Now, finally, a small window—one she herself controlled—had opened to the outside world.
Two months later, that South American technical institute sophomore received a second letter from "DY."
The letter contained no words, only a corrected system diagram.
The three errors he'd made were circled in red pen.
Beside them, concise formulas devoid of emotional coloring provided correct derivations.
At the final error regarding feedback loop gain calculation, only a question mark appeared, along with another paper's reference number.
He stared at that diagram, standing in his dorm room all afternoon.
He finally understood what that question mark meant.
It wasn't asking "why did you calculate wrong," but rather "have you considered what if the gain isn't a constant, but a function?"
An entirely new world thunderously opened in his mind.
Meanwhile, Oscar's career plunged completely into metaphysical depths.
His new title was "Diana York, Dedicated Mailbox Chief Content Officer and Chief Sincerity Officer."
His daily work consisted of reading correspondence from around the world that had undergone Athena's preliminary screening.
Then, using the KPI his boss had personally created—titled [Rupert Russell's Selection: Ten Samples of Sincerity]—measuring each letter's "sincerity level."
"Julian, I need psychological counseling."
Oscar's eyes were vacant. "Yesterday I rejected a letter from Halberd Crown Medical Academy in Swedren because Athena's emotional modeling analysis showed that when this professor expressed curiosity about 'consciousness storms,' the weight of 'opportunism' exceeded 'intellectual curiosity' by zero-point-three percent. I feel like a priest hearing confessions."
Julian's image appeared expressionless across from him. "Mr. Russell just updated your KPI. He believes the 'sincerity assessment' model should include a new variable—' purity of thought.'"
"What does 'purity of thought' mean?" Oscar felt his temples throbbing.
"Mr. Russell didn't explain," Julian projected a new document. "But he provided a counterexample."
The file opened—a feasibility report Oscar had submitted last week regarding the acquisition of a biotech company in the Marivelle Republic.
On the report's final page, Rupert had drawn a massive X in red pen.
The only notation beside it: "Not pure."
Oscar felt tired again.
Diana knew nothing of this spiritual attrition occurring within the command system.
That silver tablet became her new organ connecting to the world.
She spent one hour daily reading the thirty letters Oscar's team presented.
Her replies remained minimal, only placing a signpost at the most critical crossroads.
A girl studying ikebana in Halberton explored in her letter the contradiction between "wabi-sabi" aesthetics and physics's "law of entropy increase."
Diana's reply contained only one sentence: "Extremes reverse. Order arises from chaos. Suggest reading Prigogine's From Chaos to Order."
An independent programmer in Telvane described his repeated failures trying to write an algorithm identifying "lies."
Diana sent back a small section of pseudocode, adding: "You're trying to identify 'lies,' but the system can only identify 'emotional fluctuations deviating from baseline.' You need to first define what 'truth'"
Like an anonymous gardener, she quietly loosened soil and watered those unknown yet highly potential thought-seeds scattered worldwide.
This process continued for three months.
Until one day, looking at those thirty names in her inbox, she suddenly felt that communication through letters and electromagnetic waves was too slow.
The collision of thoughts required sound wave vibrations, needed to see the spark in another's eyes.
Needed to simultaneously draw each other's logical diagrams on a whiteboard in different colored markers.
She closed the tablet and went to the garden.
Rupert was in the tool shed, maintaining the woodworking tools he'd used to build the swing.
He wore a dark gray cotton t-shirt, exposing clearly defined forearms.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up.
"I want to meet them," Diana said.
No subject, no object, but Rupert understood.
He set down the file in his hand, wiped his hands with a clean cloth, and approached her.
His gaze swept across her face. He didn't ask "meet who" or "why."
"Alright," he said. "When?"
"Next Saturday."
"How many people?"
"Three." Diana gave three names.
The South American student, the Halberton girl, and the Telvane programmer.
"I'll arrange it."
Oscar's peaceful retirement life was utterly shattered that morning.
Email subject: [DY Academic Salon First Session Implementation Plan].
Oscar looked at this title, feeling his cognitive system suffer unprecedented impact.
"Academic salon? Are we moonlighting as a university now?"
Isabella snorted. "Stop complaining, Oscar. At least this time you don't have to go to a landfill. You should be grateful Ms. York doesn't like rock music, or you'd be coordinating global top bands' schedules right now for an unplugged rooftop concert."
Julian's voice carried its usual calm. "Mission objective: Invite three 'pen pals' to arrive in Greyharbor City this Saturday for a private academic exchange."
"Mission requirements: Absolute safety, complete comfort, and they cannot know the host's true identity."
"Under what pretext?" Oscar's headache had already begun.
"I've registered an offshore company for the Diana York Foundation and established a 'Young Thinkers' sponsorship program under this company's name."
Julian pulled up three beautifully designed virtual invitations. "They'll receive notification that they've won full sponsorship from this program, and be invited to Greyharbor City for a two-day top-tier academic symposium."
"Detail One: Isabella, you need to plan three completely different flight routes for them, using private airlines we control throughout. Ensure they have no contact with commercial media information from departure to landing."
"Detail Two: Oscar, here are background profiles on the three guests, including dietary preferences, allergy history, religious beliefs, even their preferred room temperature and mattress firmness." A document thick as an encyclopedia projected before Oscar.
Oscar randomly opened a page. It read: "Target One: Carlos Rodriguez. Male, 20, Cindralian. Majoring in signals and systems. Lactose intolerant, mild peanut allergy. Enjoys drinking mate tea, thinks best in quiet environments, but requires minimal decibel white noise. According to social media analysis, his favorite white noise is 'summer night insect sounds.'"
Oscar's expression was completely numb.
---
Saturday afternoon.
A black sedan smoothly stopped in the Russell Group Building's underground parking garage.
Carlos Rodriguez, that South American sophomore, stepped from the car with confusion and nervousness written across his face.
He'd expected to be taken to some resplendent conference hall to meet a group of suited, successful people.
However, his escort simply led him into an elevator, ascending directly to the top floor.
The elevator doors opened. He smelled a mixture of earth, grass, and countless floral fragrances.
What he saw wasn't an office, but an aerial garden bathed in soft skylight, miraculous in appearance.
His escort gestured "please," then silently withdrew.
Carlos stepped onto warm grass, feeling like he was dreaming.
He followed a stone path forward, rounded a patch of blooming irises, and saw a figure beneath that enormous ginkgo tree.
A woman in a white dress sat on a swing, holding a silver tablet.
Hearing footsteps, she looked up, gaze falling on him.
That gaze was calm yet somehow penetrating, making him feel all those unformed, chaotic thoughts in his mind were being seen clearly.
"Carlos Rodriguez?" Her voice matched her gaze—calm and clear.
"Y-yes." Carlos nervously clenched his fists.
"I'm Diana York," she said.
Carlos froze.
He'd imagined "Diana York" countless times—perhaps a white-haired old professor, perhaps a rigorous middle-aged scholar.
He'd never imagined she'd be this young woman who looked even younger than him.