Chapter 295
Chapter 295
"Isabella," Julian turned to another holographic image. "You need to design a reverse tracking system for this project. Any attempt to probe the project's origins from outside will be redirected to a server at an AI startup in Silicon Hills we acquired last month."
Isabella's movements paused, a pleased expression crossing her face. "Interesting. I can leave them a few honeypots while I'm at it, see what fish we catch."
Oscar looked despairingly at these increasingly invested colleagues. "I have one more question."
He raised his hand. "What's this project's KPI? Surely not still [Rupert Russell's Selection: Ten Samples of Sincerity]?"
"Mr. Russell hasn't set a KPI this time." Julian's answer surprised him.
"Then how do we measure project progress?"
"Mr. Russell said," Julian's tone showed a slight pause, "Ms. York's mood is the KPI."
In Rupert's study.
He looked at the [Pure Project Implementation Plan] Julian had submitted. The hundred-plus page proposal—he only flipped to the final page's appendix.
Appendix A: Diana York's Estimated Time Investment.
"Twice weekly, one hour each session, remote online guidance."
"Remaining time, independently advanced by the three members."
Rupert closed the file.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. From here, he could just see a corner of that garden swing.
Diana wasn't on the swing.
She sat on the grass beside it, an easel before her.
She wasn't painting, only holding a charcoal pencil, occasionally marking the paper.
Sunlight filtered through gaps in the ginkgo leaves, casting dappled shadows across her.
He knew she was thinking.
That project, codenamed "Pure"—for her, it wasn't a task but more like a game.
A game of building with thoughts.
He picked up his private terminal and connected with Julian.
"Increase project budget by fifty percent."
Julian, on the other end, fell silent briefly. "Mr. Russell, the current budget is already sufficient to purchase their universities."
"Then let them have peace of mind." Rupert's voice was flat. "I don't want her to hear any discussion about funding, resources, or deadlines. This project has no deadline."
"Understood."
"Additionally," Rupert added, "install the highest-precision environmental monitoring and vital signs detection equipment in the safe houses."
"Is this to monitor the three members' conditions?"
"No," Rupert's gaze remained on that distant, quiet figure. "It's to ensure that when she connects with them, the virtual environment she's in possesses the most comfortable temperature, humidity, lighting, and background sound."
"Athena's database has her preferred parameters."
He'd built her a real garden. Now he would build her a virtual "studio."
After hanging up, he left the office.
Minutes later, he appeared in the garden carrying a tray.
On it sat a glass of perfectly tempered lemon water and a small plate of chiffon cake.
Diana heard footsteps, emerging from her thoughts and looking up.
Rupert placed the tray on the grass beside her.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"A paradox." Diana picked up the lemon water. "A sufficiently intelligent system, after learning how to define 'sincerity,' will certainly also learn how to perfectly fake 'sincerity.'"
A philosophical dilemma capable of trapping the project in endless recursion.
Rupert didn't explore this question. He asked another. "Is it interesting?"
Diana took a sip. Lemon's crisp acidity spread across her taste buds.
Looking at the distant skyline gilded gold by sunset, she nodded.
"Yes."
That was enough.
Rupert sat beside her.
He did nothing, simply accompanying her, watching together that flowing golden twilight.
He didn't need to understand that paradox about "sincerity."
Because for him, the answer had always been simple.
As long as she found it interesting, the world had meaning.
---
Six months later.
In the safe house in Lapastra, Cindralia Nation.
Carlos stood before a ceiling-high interactive screen displaying a system diagram he'd personally drawn and iterated over a hundred times.
It was exponentially more complex than that initial sketch on letter paper.
"...The baseline isn't static, nor dynamic—it's 'emergent.'"
Carlos's voice transmitted clearly through quantum-encrypted channels to two other time zones.
"It's a temporary order spontaneously formed by countless 'Pure' micro-intentions during the system's interaction with external information."
On the screen's other side, Highcourt Haven, Suncrest Dominion.
Aiko knelt on simple tatami, before her a low table holding not tea but only a bowl of clear water.
"Ripples aren't truth, Carlos."
Her voice was tranquil as clear water. "Ripples are traces left by 'truth.' We cannot capture truth itself, only infinitely approach it by interpreting traces."
"Ben, your algorithm should abandon directly capturing 'targets' and instead construct a 'trace interpretation model.'"
Deep into Telvane's night, in Ben's underground workshop, dozens of screens surrounded him, code cascading like waterfalls.
He downed a large gulp of strong coffee, eyes burning with fervor.
"I understand! We're not building a lie detector—we're simulating an 'archaeologist'! Reconstructing a vanished 'scene' from remaining fragments! My God, this is so beautiful..."
Three young minds, across three different time zones, achieved perfect resonance in a way transcending language and professional barriers.
Diana ended her observation.
She closed the terminal before her without offering any evaluation.
Over these six months, she'd rarely provided direct guidance anymore.
From initially drawing out paths step by step, to later only placing stones at crossroads, to now simply being an observer.
These seeds she'd found in the world's corners had grown into independent trees capable of photosynthesizing on their own.
They'd even begun sprouting branches she'd never anticipated—uniquely their own.
Carlos had integrated chaos theory into signal engineering foundations.
Aiko had quantified the "negative space" concept from Eastern aesthetics into algorithmic "error tolerance weighting";
And Ben had found logical inspiration for establishing "meta-rules" from the complex hermeneutics of Talmudic texts.
They were using their respective civilizations and knowledge to add flesh to the skeleton she'd initially constructed.
This was a wondrous feeling.
Like a programmer who'd written creation code, watching their created world birth entirely autonomous new civilizations.
She stood and walked into the garden.
Autumn deepened. That enormous ginkgo tree's leaves had turned half golden-yellow.
For the first time, she felt that thoughts, too, could be transmitted.
Not unidirectional knowledge infusion, but igniting a thinking paradigm.
Once ignited, it would spread like wildfire across different soils, burning different flames.
And she was merely the person who'd first struck the match.
Oscar's Cross-Border Disruptive Thought Incubator Project Director's career had entered its fourth stage of numbness and life-weariness: learned helplessness.
In the meeting, his holographic image wore striped pajamas and a sleep mask, as though he might fall asleep on the spot.
"Julian, last week's logistics report. Mr. Rodriguez requested zero-point-zero-one seconds of usage time on the Large Hadron Collider to simulate 'information entropy at the instant of the Big Bang.'"
"I've rejected it, citing budget overrun and the fact that it sounds like he wants to destroy the world."
"Mr. Cohen requested we provide an original second-century manuscript of the Talmud. He says he needs to feel the 'logical temperature' on parchment. I've already contacted Havencourt Auctioneers."
"Ms. Asano's request is simplest—she only wants dewdrops that fall on the third stone on the west side of Everdawn Temple's stone garden in Halberton at sunrise. She says the 'sabi' there is purest."
Oscar pushed his sleep mask up, revealing vacant eyes. "Julian, I'm requesting a transfer from the Pure Project. I'd rather mine in Antarctica. At least mineral ore won't discuss philosophy with me."