In the days that followed, Wang Chuan performed his duties in the Records Department with more precision than ever, like a perfect cog in the machine. He submitted reports on time, achieved flawless accuracy in data verification, and even proactively optimized two insignificant archiving subroutines, earning a trivial "efficiency improvement" marker from the system. He hid himself completely within the shadow of the rules, moving all his inquiries deeper, further underground.
The starry sky drawing had indeed been a stone cast into the still lake of Wang You's perfect data-surface, creating ripples. But beneath that surface lay vast undercurrents and thicker sediment. He needed more direct tools, a more crucial key. His father's words—"a world without stars is a wasteland"—echoed in his mind. He realized his father's method of resisting the system was likely never direct confrontation, but "planting"—burying drought-resistant seeds in the wasteland and waiting for rain.
And that rain might be hidden in the system's core, the most easily overlooked place.
He mobilized all the underlying architecture logs accessible to the Records Department—those vast,枯燥 to the point where even the most rigorous analysts would skip them—the system's own self-diagnostic records. He wasn't searching for anomalies, but for "perfection"—a data pattern so perfect it seemed unreal. His father was one of the system's founders. If he had left anything behind, it wouldn't be a easily detectable virus or backdoor, but more likely a... "legal" existence acknowledged and protected by the system's own logic, a secret hidden in plain sight.
After countless nights of filtering and comparison, excluding trillions of irrelevant pieces of information, an extremely subtle pattern finally emerged. It was a data packet deep within the core emotional education module, marked as the "Primitive Environmental Parameter Template." Its existence was entirely legitimate, even cited by the system as the "ideal background" for foundational cognitive construction. But its data signature frequency highly matched a specific encrypted characteristic found in some of his father's early, unpublished research notes.
This data packet was named "Eden."
Wang Chuan's heartbeat quickened. He attempted routine access. The feedback interface displayed an extremely minimalist, even elegantly rendered natural landscape simulation—a patch of emerald green grass, a clear stream, simulated clouds drifting across a blue sky. Everything conformed to the system's standard definition of a "harmonious, stable, non-stimulating" environment. It looked utterly harmless.
But he didn't stop at the surface. He mobilized the unique emotional resonance frequency he had previously extracted from the Dreamweaver's starry sky drawing. He wove it into an extremely faint probe, almost drowned out by the background noise of the normal data stream, and carefully injected it into the port interacting with the "Eden" data packet.
In an instant, the scene before him transformed dramatically.
The simulated, overly perfect blue sky peeled away like cheap paint, revealing the deep, boundless dome of the real cosmos beneath. At the edges of the emerald grass, wildflowers grew rampant, displaying chaotic, vibrant colors not permitted in the system's color spectrum. The docile stream became turbulent, crashing against rocks with white foam, roaring with the deafening sound of raw nature. Most震撼 of all, in the suddenly real night sky, countless stars began to shine, their light cold, distant, yet possessing a deeply moving, primal power.
This was not the "Eden" permitted by the system. This was the hidden, real "wasteland." It was his father's backup of the world's original appearance.
And at that very moment, a piercing, highest-level security alarm stabbed into Wang Chuan's auditory nerve. The entire Records Department space was bathed in flashing red light.
"Unauthorized access to core module and anomalous data flow detected! Executing emergency lockdown procedure!"
A cold, synthetic voice echoed through the room. Wang Chuan's terminal screen went black instantly, all data interfaces forcibly severed. He felt an invisible force locking onto his physical location. The internal security forces of the Reincarnation Management Bureau were closing in from all directions.
He had triggered the deepest defense mechanisms.
Wang Chuan sat in his chair, unmoving. He knew any resistance now was futile. He was only thinking: was this "Eden" his father left behind a compass left for him, or a final test to see if he was worthy? Or was it itself bait, meant to lure out fish like him, who still harbored a longing for "starlight" within?
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, rapid and forceful, growing closer.
Just then, in his personal backup communication channel, an encrypted link that had never been activated before suddenly displayed a brief message automatically. The source was untraceable. The content was only three words:
"Keep searching."
The sender's identifier was an extremely faint, almost illegible, hand-drawn star.
Wang Chuan's pupils contracted. This wasn't his father's way. His father was the silent gatekeeper; he wouldn't send such a direct command.
This signal came from the "shell."
Wang You.