Genius Club

Earlier, Lin Xian and Gao Yang had made a special trip to Qufu in Shandong to dig up the grave of Zhang Yu Qian. As they suspected, there was no body in the coffin, but they did find some intriguing items.

They retrieved three things from the coffin—an old photo album, a diary with a combination lock, and an old videotape.

Lin Xian looked through the entire photo album. It showed Zhang Yu Qian’s life from childhood to adulthood. Strangely enough, apart from the different backgrounds and parents in the pictures, Lin Xian felt an eerie sense of déjà vu—as if he were looking through Chu An Qing’s photo album. The two girls looked identical, down to the smallest detail.

Since the photos were static, Lin Xian couldn’t see any differences between Zhang Yu Qian and Chu An Qing. Not like with CC.

CC was alive—she had her own personality, quirks, and expressions. Even though CC looked exactly like Chu An Qing, Lin Xian could easily tell them apart. But Zhang Yu Qian only existed in these old photos, which made it harder to see the differences.

In the end, after going through the entire album, they hadn’t found anything useful.

Then there was the diary with the combination lock. The content inside held no real value, but the password for the lock was intriguing: 1952.

Based on Lin Xian and Gao Yang’s calculations, 1952 was the year the previous millennium stake vanished. Each millennium stake girl would turn into blue stardust on her twentieth birthday. After a four-year gap, the next anchoring stake would be born, and the cycle would continue.

In 1952, the previous anchoring stake disappeared. Four years later, in 1956, Zhang Yu Qian was born. In 1976, she vanished. In 1980, Chu An Qing was born. And in 2000, she vanished. In 2004, Chu An Qing was born again, and in 2024, she turned into blue stardust.

The timeline was precise, but one question remained: why did Zhang Yu Qian, who supposedly knew nothing about the millennium stake, have such an attachment to the year 1952?

Lin Xian wanted to dig deeper into this clue, but their trail regarding the millennium stake ended there, with no way to go further. He had hoped that joining the Genius Club would give him more opportunities to gather information, but the club was full of schemers.

Even asking a question had restrictions, with the answers broadcast for every club member to hear. This forced Lin Xian to proceed cautiously, avoiding mistakes that could lead to disastrous consequences.

The only remaining way to learn more about Zhang Yu Qian and the millennium stake was through that mysterious videotape.

Back then, Gao Yang had volunteered to handle it, but who would’ve thought it would take so long?

“Oh well, at least it’s finally sorted,” Lin Xian muttered, gazing at the passing scenery outside the car window. Though it had taken a while, he would finally watch the contents of the videotape tonight.

Thinking back over the past few months, he realized he hadn’t had a single idle day. Every moment had been packed, and he had even survived two cross-temporal assassination attempts. It was exhausting.

Lin Xian sighed. He truly understood the saying now: “When Heaven is about to place a great responsibility on someone, it first tests their resolve and patience.”

“Xiao Li, don’t take me home. Let’s go to the office,” Lin Xian said, turning to the driver.

Since he had to go to Gao Yang’s place around seven or eight tonight to watch the videotape, there was no need to dive into the dream world today. A few short hours wouldn’t be enough to go through the usual routine anyway. So, the Rhine Company it was.

Once in his office, he could finally have some peace and think things through—specifically, how to cleverly use the rules of questioning during the Genius Club’s upcoming meeting on September 1st to confirm if Copernicus was really dead.

“Understood, Mr. Lin Xian,” the driver, Xiao Li, replied, flicking the left indicator and merging onto the elevated expressway.

Rhine Company, Lin Xian’s office.

He sat with his eyes closed, spinning a pen between his fingers, his mind racing. To put it simply, if you stripped away all the complications, the real question about whether Copernicus was dead boiled down to his own safety and the safety of the time-space particles.

“No.”

Lin Xian shook his head.

“Actually, it’s even simpler—it’s just my safety. After all, the reason I worry about Copernicus stealing the time-space particles is that I fear he’d send assassins from the future back to 2024 to kill me.”

The more he thought about it, the clearer his thinking became. He stopped spinning the pen, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer, and scribbled down three questions:

Ask again: What is the exact date of my death?

Will the time-space particles in my possession be stolen by someone else?

Who is the next mathematician to be maliciously murdered at 00:42?

These were the three questions Lin Xian had come up with.

On the surface, they had nothing to do with Copernicus, but in truth, they were all aimed at him. Depending on Einstein’s answers, Lin Xian could determine if Copernicus was truly gone or still lurking around.

But…

Lin Xian tapped his pen on the first question, frowning.

“It seems like this question isn’t very useful. Even if Einstein gives me an exact date, it doesn’t provide any crucial information. No matter whether the date is far off or near, it won’t prove if Copernicus is the killer. It could be an accident, an illness, or natural causes… In short, Einstein’s answer won’t determine whether it’s Copernicus who kills me, so let’s scrap that question.”

With that, Lin Xian crossed out the first question with his pen.

Next, he looked at the second question. This one was more pointed. If Einstein answered that the time-space particles would be stolen, it would strongly indicate that Copernicus had some plan in place to steal them from Lin Xian, continuing to cause him trouble.

If Einstein said the particles wouldn’t be stolen, it would offer some reassurance. But the price of that reassurance was that every member of the Genius Club would know that Lin Xian had a time-space particle, effectively painting a big target on his back.

Newton and Galileo didn’t seem like simple characters. If they got involved, they might be even trickier to deal with than Copernicus.

“This question is good, but the risk is too high,” Lin Xian muttered, shaking his head. Copernicus wasn’t worth the risk of exposing his identity and attracting more enemies just to confirm whether he was truly dead.

Then, Lin Xian looked at the third question. This one seemed almost perfect. Neither the question itself nor the answer would directly involve Copernicus or the Genius Club, and Einstein wouldn’t refuse to answer.

Moreover, the question was worded with very strict conditions: the time had to be 00:42, the cause of death had to be malicious murder, and the person had to be a mathematician. It practically pointed to Copernicus as the mastermind.

If Einstein provided any name, it would mean Copernicus was still alive, or that there was someone else involved—a partner.

If Einstein refused to answer, it would suggest that the question involved a Genius Club member, meaning Copernicus wasn’t actually dead—perhaps he had faked his death or used a stand-in.

If Einstein said that no mathematician would die at that time in the future, then they could celebrate with champagne with Elon Musk.

“Yes, this question is almost perfect,” Lin Xian mused. “Whether Einstein answers or not, says yes or no, I’ll still get the answer I need.”

“Alright, it’s decided then.”

Lin Xian marked the third question with a tick, confirming it as the one he would ask at the Genius Club meeting in a few days.

At the same time, he also realized that he had many other questions for Einstein. So, he listed them in order of priority:

Ask about clearing the future virus from the network and reviving VV.

“The last time the cleaning robot VV bumped into my ankle twice, it seemed to be complaining about why I hadn’t started tackling the future virus yet. If I can confirm that Copernicus is dead at the next meeting, it will be time to deal with VV.”

VV was Lin Xian’s greatest weapon, especially since Kevin Walker and Turing had both been killed. If VV could come back online, Lin Xian’s combat power would increase a hundredfold. And if given enough time to develop, VV might even uncover the Genius Club’s secrets.

“Of course, I can’t be too direct when asking Einstein. I need to hide VV’s existence and not mention the future virus. I’ll have to be a bit indirect when I ask.”

Ask about the truth of the millennium stake and a way to save Chu An Qing.

“This was my primary reason for joining the Genius Club. It’s only second on the list because I don’t know how to phrase it yet.”

“Gao Yang thinks the same as I do—saving Chu An Qing comes first, but her safety must be ensured. We have to prevent the millennium stake from being exploited or harmed by other ambitious club members.”

“So, until the right moment comes, I can’t ask Einstein this question easily. Ideally, it would be a situation where only I am present, or at least as few people as possible are there.”

Ask about the truth of the world-destroying white light at 00:42 on August 29, 2624.

“I’ve always wanted to know what the world-destroying white light is, but I’ve never had the chance, nor the right words, to ask.”

“After all, asking this question would expose my ability to see the future, which would inevitably put me in danger.”

“But then again… if I don’t ask Einstein, I really have no other way to find out what that white light is. When I saw it, everything was destroyed. If it truly moves at the speed of light, then there’s no way to predict, stop, or analyze it—no way to know in advance.”

“This is a question only Einstein can answer. Just like the previous one, it’s best to ask when I’m the only one at the meeting.”

“Ah, I really envy Copernicus. He had so many opportunities to ask questions alone. And since he was the only member back then, whatever he asked wouldn’t involve anyone else… He could practically get any answer from Einstein.”

Ask about precise information regarding Du Yao.

“I honestly can’t remember when, where, or how I saw that name. If I want to make the neural electroshock helmet, Du Yao is an essential key. So, I’ll have to ask Einstein about this one.”

“But there’s no rush to ask this question. I’ll wait until I’ve copied all the blueprints for the time machine. Otherwise, if the answer changes the world line and Gao Wen and the time machine disappear, that would be a huge loss.”

“The dream collaboration between Emperor Gao Wen and Emperor Chen Heping won’t always happen in every future. So, this chance to copy the complete and accurate blueprints for the time machine is a miracle, and I have to cherish it.”

“Plus, I promised Xu Yi Yi and Li Ning Ning that I’d give them a better future world. I hope that after I find Ms. Du Yao and make the neural electroshock helmet, the new world line—the new Ninth Dream—will allow them, and every human, to live a happier life.”

Click.

Lin Xian capped his pen, looking at the four questions he had listed.

“This will do.”

For now, the plan for the next few months was set. Hopefully, everything would go smoothly.

He stood up, walking over to the large floor-to-ceiling window, looking across at the 22nd floor of the MX building. Zhao Ying Jun was working there. Of course, along with the baby growing inside her.

Lin Xian couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “Once I finish dealing with those questions and set everything in motion, the baby should be here, right?”

He imagined the warmth of a family of three, the cozy moments. Lin Xian couldn’t help but smile. He’d spent time with Zhao Ying Jun and Lin Yu Xi before—they’d even visited Disneyland and taken family photos together. But none of them had said aloud what they truly were to each other back then. There had always been that bit of regret. But not this time. This time, there would be no regrets.

Nighttime at Gao Yang’s place was… a mess. No, to call it a pigsty would be generous.

“Honestly, no way,” Lin Xian pinched his nose. “You’re a 4S dealership manager now! Your income’s not bad. Why not move into a cleaner place?”

“I’ve only been a manager for a few months,” Gao Yang said, sweeping junk off the couch with his foot. “I’m barely home. Work’s hectic, and I’ve got meetings every night—when am I supposed to have time to find a new place, let alone move? And honestly, it’s not just the house. I’m the real mess here.”

“You say that so proudly,” Lin Xian shook his head, puzzled. “What is there to be proud of?”

“Alright, enough nagging,” Gao Yang said, waving Lin Xian off. “You’ve got a girlfriend now. Of course, you don’t understand. When I have one, I’ll tidy up too. But I don’t have any reason to right now!”

He continued, “By the way, Zhao Ying Jun works with all those gorgeous women at MX Company. Couldn’t she introduce me to one of them? Someone single, of course.”

Lin Xian shrugged, “How about we start the tape instead?” He sat down on the couch, facing the TV.

“Wait, what? How did you change topics so quickly?!” Gao Yang almost growled. “I’m being serious about needing an introduction, and you just jump to watching tapes? You promised not to forget your friends if you made it big, but here you are, secretly starting a family and not even helping me find someone!”

Lin Xian glanced over, unimpressed. “Well, it’s not like anyone’s a good match for you. Your standards are too high.”

“How are they high?!” Gao Yang protested, counting on his fingers. “All I asked Zhao Ying Jun was a simple thing—’someone cute, smart, wears glasses, and—'” he trailed off.

Lin Xian sighed. “Just watch the tape. Dream on if you want. You can have anything in your dreams.”

“Hey, don’t underestimate me,” Gao Yang said, heading to the TV while throwing a glance over his shoulder. “If you can snag yourself a rich CEO, why can’t I find a cute genius?”

Lin Xian rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure, head to the National Scientific Academy while you’re at it. Now just play the tape.”

Next to the TV sat an old, yellowed video player, branded with Panasonic’s logo.

“So I got this tape checked out by an enthusiast,” Gao Yang said. “He recognized it instantly. It’s from a Panasonic NV-S250EN camera—super high-end in the nineties. You can only play it on a special player like this one.”

He turned the machine on, inserted the tape they’d found in Zhang Yu Qian’s coffin, pressed play, then rushed back to the couch, sitting beside Lin Xian, rubbing his hands together. “Honestly, I’m kinda excited! It feels like we’re peeking into someone’s private teenage life.”

Lin Xian shot him a look. “Can you be serious for once?” Gao Yang could really be exasperating—sometimes Lin Xian wondered if Gao Yang’s entire existence was just a plot to ruin the human gene pool.

The tape made the sound of rewinding, slow and mechanical.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the static cleared, and an image appeared on screen. The footage was grainy, with colors faded from age, but for a tape from over twenty years ago, it was surprisingly watchable.

“Hehe, I’ve got a camera!” A girl’s laughter rang out, and Lin Xian and Gao Yang immediately straightened in their seats.

Chu An Qing—it was Chu An Qing’s voice.

It felt uncanny, almost as if she were sitting there in the living room with them. On screen, they could see the furnishings of a wealthy home from the nineties—redwood furniture, a spiral staircase—the kind of luxury that spoke of money.

“Qian Qian, don’t just film the house,” a young middle-aged man said, smiling from the couch. Lin Xian and Gao Yang exchanged glances—they’d seen this man before. He looked much younger, but there was no mistaking him—it was Zhang Yu Qian’s father.

The man waved at the camera, his expression soft and doting. “Qian Qian, I got you this so you could capture all the beautiful parts of your life. One day when you’re older, you’ll have these memories. So don’t just film the house—go out! Record something meaningful with your friends in the park.”

The recording cut off abruptly, jumping to another scene.

“These old tapes do that sometimes,” Gao Yang explained. “It’s all recorded on one tape, unlike digital cameras.”

Lin Xian hushed him. “Just watch.”

More scenes flashed by—shots of sunlight, gardens, friends, pets—all capturing the carefree life of a girl who loved life. The camera operator improved with each scene, even managing some elegant selfies—her bright eyes crinkling into crescents, her dimples soft at her cheeks, that energetic smile.

It was—in every sense—Chu An Qing.

Gao Yang sat there, stunned. “I knew the photos looked like her, but seeing it in video… It’s like Chu An Qing has a twin! Or she’s traveled back in time!”

Suddenly, the screen flickered, fading to black before a new scene emerged. It was Zhang Yu Qian’s bedroom. She was in her pajamas, alongside a friend who had also appeared in previous footage—her best friend, also in pajamas.

Lin Xian and Gao Yang stared wide-eyed. Was this about to become too private?

“Hehe, I’m about to try something super challenging!” Zhang Yu Qian grinned at the camera set up on her desk. “I want to record my dreams!”

“Huh?” her friend looked baffled. “Qian Qian, didn’t you say you always have nightmares but forget them the moment you wake up? How are you gonna record them?”

“That’s why I asked you here!” Zhang Yu Qian giggled, pulling her friend into frame. “It’s true—I forget every nightmare the second I wake up. Not a trace of them left. Sometimes, I don’t even remember dreaming at all.”

She paused, thoughtful. “Sometimes I wonder—what if I have nightmares every night, but I forget them so completely, it’s like I never dream?”

Her friend wrinkled her nose. “That’s normal, isn’t it? I forget my dreams all the time too.”

“But not every time, right?” Zhang Yu Qian insisted. “I forget all of mine. It’s like I’ve never really dreamed before.”

She smiled at the camera, leaning in closer. “But I know they’re nightmares. I can feel it—they’re terrible, even if I can’t remember why. So tonight, I want to capture them. That’s where you come in!”

Zhang Yu Qian explained her plan, her excitement barely contained. “You’ll stay up, holding the camera. If you think I’m dreaming, you wake me up, then point the camera at me and ask me what I dreamed—right away! The quicker, the better. Otherwise, I’ll forget everything, even that I was dreaming.”

The footage cut to black.

Gao Yang scratched his head, puzzled. “That was… random.”

But Lin Xian’s expression had changed. He remembered something.

At the Donghai Commerce New Year Banquet back in early 2023, while dancing with Chu An Qing, they had chatted about dreams. Chu An Qing had said, “I’m really jealous, senior. All your dreams are happy. I’m scared of dreaming—it’s always nightmares for me.”

She’d added, “I forget the details when I wake up, but it’s terrifying. I wish I could dream happily like you.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time—nightmares were normal, after all. What wasn’t normal was Lin Xian’s own dreaming—something rare and unique.

But now it seemed uncanny. The nightmare thing—even that was the same as Zhang Yu Qian. There was definitely more to this.

The screen flickered back to life.

Zhang Yu Qian lay sleeping, her brows furrowed as if caught in a bad dream.

Her friend crept closer, camera in hand, then suddenly began shaking Zhang Yu Qian, frantically calling, “Qian Qian! Wake up! Tell me! What were you dreaming?!”

Zhang Yu Qian’s eyes blinked open, dazed, as if struggling to focus. Her friend kept shaking her. “Come on! What was the dream?!”

“Explosion… bright light… mushroom cloud…” Zhang Yu Qian’s voice was distant. “A newspaper… 1952… something burning… Einstein.”