Chapter 297
Chapter 297
Remy Haas.
One of contemporary architecture's most renowned masters, famous for bold, avant-garde, anti-traditional deconstructivist style.
His buildings were artworks themselves, filled with futuristic beauty.
The next day.
A remote meeting spanning twelve time zones convened in Rupert's study.
The septuagenarian architectural master Remy appeared in a holographic projection.
Behind him, his elite team and several completed conceptual models.
"Mr. Russell."
Remy's voice carried scholarly rigor. "Per your requirements, we've designed three proposals. Proposal A, 'Lighthouse.' The main structure stands one thousand feet tall, using biomimetic structure modeling deep-sea bioluminescent organisms, becoming this city's new landmark."
In holographic imaging, a spiraling tower of flowing light rose from the ground, utterly science-fictional.
"Proposal B, 'Matrix.' A building complex composed of countless modular units, freely combinable and separable according to research needs."
The image switched to a massive architectural cluster spread across the peninsula.
"Proposal C..."
"Stop." Rupert interrupted.
The conference room fell silent.
Rupert stood, walking to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
He didn't look at those show-off designs but at the real sky and city outside.
"My requirement isn't a landmark, nor efficiency." He turned, gaze settling on Remy. "I want a place that doesn't feel like a research institute."
Remy and his team froze.
"Cancel seventy percent of centralized experimental zones, replace with scattered small independent laboratories. Each lab must have independent rest areas and courtyards."
"Main structure height may not exceed one hundred fifty feet. I don't want an upward gaze."
"Increase green space by three hundred percent. I need trees—trees that bloom in different seasons, deciduous trees. I need lawns you can lie on to sunbathe."
"No clear boundaries between living and research areas. I want a path from the dormitory to the oceanfront library that someone can walk in slippers."
"Don't build the library at the center—build it at the far east, facing sunrise. Use the best soundproof glass. Must see the ocean but not hear waves unless windows are open."
Rupert's pace was unhurried, but each sentence overturned modern architectural design's golden rules.
A young designer on Remy's team couldn't help muttering softly, "Is this... designing a research institute or a premium retirement community?"
Remy raised a hand, stopping the team discussion.
He looked at young Rupert in the holographic image, a long-absent gleam of meeting a worthy opponent flashing in clouded eyes.
"Interesting."
He spoke. "What you describe isn't a 'building' but a 'place.' A place about 'dwelling.'"
"That's one way to understand it."
"Final question," Remy asked. "What is this place's core? Every great building has a spiritual core. What's your research institute's core?"
Rupert fell silent briefly.
He recalled that afternoon—Diana sitting on the swing, watching the distant sunset.
"Comfort," he said.
Oscar listened from the side, feeling his cognition irreversibly collapse.
---
After the meeting ended, he sought out Isabella's virtual training room in distress.
"Isabella, I'm finished. The boss is spending hundreds of billions of dollars on what should be the city's future landmark to build a... retirement home. For twenty-year-old geniuses to retire in."
Isabella was unconcerned. "Isn't that nice? Easy work, beautiful environment, and a salary still paid. Early retirement life achieved."
"That's not the point!" Oscar clutched his head. "The point is, I feel all the boss's business decisions eventually become philosophical questions. I studied MBA, and now I contemplate life's ultimate meaning daily."
"That's because you're standing too close. Step back, and you'll discover all the boss's behaviors follow only one logic."
"What logic?"
"Ms. York," Isabella said.
Oscar felt tired again.
---
A month later, the final design was approved.
In his late-night study, Rupert reviewed that massive blueprint alone.
Remy truly deserved his master title—he'd perfectly understood and realized all seemingly contradictory requirements.
Rupert's finger slid across the virtual screen, skipping past complex laboratory layouts, energy systems, and data centers, directly zooming to the peninsula's furthest point.
The area with optimal ocean views, the most independent location, and the greatest quiet.
On the blueprint, this wasn't labeled "Director's Office" or "Administrative Center."
It was designed as a penthouse suite with a spacious living room, an independent study, and an enormous panoramic terrace.
At the terrace's center, facing the boundless ocean, the designer had sketched with impressionistic strokes—a swing.
In this area's title bar, no position, no name—only two simple letters.
DY.
The "Voyager Institute" project on Greyharbor City's eastern peninsula advanced at a pace that left outsiders stunned.
Hundreds of billions in investment, without prolonged wrangling and argumentation, dropped like a boulder into water—ripples hadn't finished spreading before the project's physical form had already broken ground.
The construction site operated day and night.
Those top engineering teams brought in at high prices looked at that unconventional design and initially thought the client had gone mad.
They weren't building a sky-piercing technological monument but a "settlement" that "wasted" seventy percent of its area on landscaping and water features.
Oscar wore a hard hat, standing on a temporarily erected observation platform, overlooking this massive construction site.
Watching steel and concrete grow according to "comfort" logic, his heart—riddled with holes from Pure Project torture—felt a strange calm.
Perhaps building retirement homes for geniuses truly was work that accumulated good fortune.
This calm was completely shattered three days later.
What shattered it was a highest-priority red alert sent directly by Athena's main system.
The alert's recipient: Rupert alone.
"Physiological indicator abnormal fluctuation warning. Target: Diana York. Continuous 72-hour low-grade fever, heart rate persistently fifteen percent below normal threshold. Mild neurogenic tremors detected, frequency 1.2Hz. Immediate comprehensive medical intervention is recommended."
Rupert was reviewing next-phase funding documents for the Cradle Project—astronomical figures.
The moment he saw the alert, his movements stopped.
He didn't verify, didn't inquire.
Athena's data didn't err.
He closed the file, picked up the internal phone, voice betraying no emotion, calm as issuing a routine order.
"Julian."
"Mr. Russell, I'm here."
"Cradle Project—effective immediately, you take full control. All decisions you make. I have only one requirement: maintain current progress."
Julian, on the other end, logic core processing at high speed, instantly understood the directive's weight.
This meant completely entrusting a project with unlimited investment that would shape the Group's strategic positioning for decades.
"Understood." Julian didn't ask why.
"Group affairs, transfer to the Vice President Committee. All documents requiring my signature—send electronic versions. I'll handle them."
"Yes."
"Cancel all my appointments for the next month."
"Already executed."
Rupert hung up, stood, grabbed his coat, and walked straight out of the study.
From receiving the alert to handling everything at hand: less than three minutes.
He didn't go to Diana's room.
He knew she must have locked herself in the laboratory at this moment, trying to combat what was happening by analyzing her own body data.
She wouldn't show weakness, much less ask for help.
He drove directly to Greyharbor City's finest private hospital.