Father's words became an anchor in the turbulent sea of Wang Chuan's thoughts. That statement—"What hesitates is always human"—and the top-secret "Initial Heart Project" were no longer unsettling mysteries but clear coordinates guiding his next move. He was no longer merely reacting to anomalies; he had become an active investigator, probing the steel shell of the system for cracks, searching for the true control panel his father had concealed.
Leveraging the Records Department's seemingly trivial yet profoundly extensive access to the system's underlying data streams, Wang Chuan began extracting information piece by piece, like an ant moving its nest. Each query was disguised as routine data verification, every download justified as part of "archival algorithm optimization." He meticulously avoided detection, masking his activities within the monotonous rhythm of bureaucratic operations.
His focus narrowed onto the emotional fluctuation patterns from the cases marked "Hazard: Non-Utilitarian Virtue." Running cross-comparisons and deep analysis, he uncovered a startling pattern: at the peak of each emotional spike, there appeared a unique resonance frequency—a pure, irrational, yet intensely human echo that the system's algorithms could not categorize or comprehend. This "pollution frequency," as the system deemed it, was the unmistakable signature of unquantifiable humanity.
He then compared these aberrant frequencies against his sister Wang You's daily monitoring data. The results were even more shocking: Wang You's data perfectly and consistently avoided all "pollution patterns." Her emotional curve was a perfectly smooth line, as if drawn by the most precise ruler, devoid of any irregularities or unexpected fluctuations. In a world saturated with chaotic human data, such perfection was not just unnatural—it was alien. She seemed less like a being with free will and more like a meticulously coded program, one that might have been deliberately stripped of a core function.
The source of this programming, he suspected, lay within the "Initial Heart Project." Wang Chuan attempted every known backdoor and vulnerability to breach its firewalls, but the permissions were set at a despairingly high level. Multiple aggressive attempts nearly triggered the system's highest-level security alerts, risking immediate "purification." L.W.—Old Wang, his father—was not just the project's creator. He was the solitary gatekeeper, guarding the only key in a vast digital wilderness.
Once again, the trail seemed to go cold. Frustration coiled around Wang Chuan like a suffocating vine. Slumping in his chair, his gaze drifted absently until it settled on the starry sky drawing hidden within his desk drawer.
The childish yet determined strokes of starlight seemed to pulse with a desperate longing. Driven by an inexplicable impulse, he accessed his own sparse early memory archives—those few fragments the system hadn't "optimized." The access was limited, the memories mostly faded. But deep within those time-worn fragments, he excavated fiercely, and there it was: a memory of a similar starry sky. Not an astronomical chart from some educational program, but a raw, visceral memory of gazing upward with awe and yearning. He recalled the chill of night air and the feeling of his chest swelling with the grandeur of it all. This was from before his full integration into the Reincarnation Management Bureau's standardized training—a rare moment during a system malfunction that had briefly opened the dome, revealing the true sky.
Why had this clearly "non-productive" memory been spared deletion?
Why did the starlight woven by the Dreamweaver feel so eerily similar to this buried,almost forgotten memory? The resonance was too profound to be mere coincidence.
A bold, almost paralyzing hypothesis exploded in his mind: Perhaps the "Initial Heart Project" his father created was never intended to produce a perfect, cold system tool. Those initials, L.W., might not simply stand for "Lao Wang."
Late that night, he sat again on the creaky old sofa in the living room, facing his father, who was meticulously performing his tea ritual. Steam rose, blurring the inscrutable expression he always wore. Wang Chuan didn't prevaricate. He pulled the starry sky drawing from his pocket and laid it gently on the table between them. The crayon marks seemed faint under the dim light.
"I saw the light the Dreamweaver left behind,"he said, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "And I remember... I saw the same light."
He didn't mention the security breaches,the data theft, or the 0.3-second delay. He spoke only of the "light" and that forgotten "starry sky." It was a test, handing the choice back to his father.
His father's movements—rinsing the tea, pouring the water—never faltered. The water streamed precisely into the pot with a monotonous, persistent sound. He lifted his eyes to his son. They were still cloudy, yet they seemed to see through all pretense, directly into the reviving starscape within Wang Chuan's heart.
"The system believes an ideal world has no need for stars,"Father stated slowly, his tone as flat as if discussing something entirely unrelated. "They generate no energy, improve no efficiency. They only distract, foster impractical fantasies, and lead people astray from the optimal path."
He placed a freshly brewed cup of clear,golden tea before Wang Chuan. Steam curled upward.
"But some have always thought,"his father's voice softened, carrying an ancient weariness and a barely perceptible stubbornness, "that a world without stars, no matter how efficient or orderly, is ultimately... a wasteland. No different from a cold, lifeless hunk of metal."
Father never explicitly admitted the existence of the "Initial Heart Project," offered no explanation for the "L.W." signature, and neither confirmed nor denied any of Wang Chuan's suspicions. Yet his words fell into place with undeniable force, like the final, crucial piece of a puzzle, completing the blueprint taking shape in Wang Chuan's mind.
The "Initial Heart Project"... perhaps it was never about "initial nature," but about "the project of not forgetting one's original heart." Maybe, from the very beginning, his father had planted a seed deep within the system's steel behemoth—a seed waiting for specific conditions to sprout. A seed containing memory, emotion, and "useless light."
And his sister, Wang You—that perfect, seemingly flawless System Executor, the tool everyone saw as the embodiment of order—might just be the vessel carrying that seed. Or perhaps, she was the camouflage protecting it from the system's premature discovery.
Wang Chuan picked up the warm teacup. The heat seeped steadily through the fine porcelain into his palm, dispelling some of the chill he'd carried from the Records Department. He looked at his father, and for the first time, he no longer saw just an eccentric old man out of sync with his time, but a solitary guardian, tending a faint spark in an endless darkness.
"I understand,"he said softly. Those two words held volumes.
He understood he was no longer alone in confronting this vast system.
He understood the profound,resolute intent buried beneath his father's seemingly indifferent facade.
And he understood that his task now was no longer cautious investigation and verification,but activation. To activate the seed his father had planted. To activate his own forgotten initial heart. To initiate the war that was always destined to be fought against this utterly utilitarian world.