The spreadsheet existed in two places simultaneously: on Chen Wei's laptop screen and in his mind, rendered in perfect detail by the system's memory augmentation. The numbers were not complicated, which was precisely what made them unbearable.
Educational debt (Chen Wei): ¥840,000
Undergraduate tuition: ¥180,000
Living expenses: ¥420,000
Equipment/materials for research: ¥240,000
Medical debt (from father's accident, 2016): ¥1,200,000
Hospital stay and emergency treatment: ¥680,000
Physical therapy (incomplete; discontinued due to cost): ¥320,000
Remaining obligation to creditors: ¥200,000
Debt in mother's name (household obligations): ¥960,000
Mortgage on family apartment in Chongqing: ¥720,000
Living expenses shortfall over the past 10 years: ¥240,000
Total family debt: ¥3,000,000
That final figure had a weight to it that abstract numbers usually lacked. Three million yuan. At his mother's hourly wage of ¥85/hour for 48 hours per week, paying off the debt entirely would require approximately 733 weeks of work—fourteen years of continuous forty-eight-hour weeks without a single day off, without vacation, without the possibility of illness or emergency.
His mother had already been doing essentially this for eight years.
Chen Wei was sitting in the physics building's fourth-floor study lounge at 6:47 PM on a Thursday in late October, supposedly taking a mandatory break before his evening shift at the university library. Instead, he was staring at his debt calculation and wondering if the system's confidence in his research potential was perhaps based on probability models that didn't account for the psychological weight of family financial obligation.
"That looks like the expression of someone doing their taxes," Jian Hao observed, sliding into the chair across from him. His roommate appeared carrying two cups of canteen coffee, one of which he positioned in front of Chen Wei with the air of someone performing a humanitarian act.
"Family finances," Chen Wei said, which was technically truthful but adequately vague.
"Ah." Jian Hao's expression shifted to something more sympathetic. "Yeah. My father mentioned that my education has cost approximately as much as a small apartment. I find it helps not to calculate exact figures. Ignorance has genuine psychological benefits."
It was good advice. It was also impossible for Chen Wei to implement. His cognitive augmentation—the system's gift or curse, he hadn't decided which—made it nearly impossible to avoid precise calculation. The numbers existed in his awareness, whether he examined them deliberately or not.
"My mother called yesterday," Chen Wei said. "She was upset that I collapsed in the lab. Not because I was injured—because she's already working two jobs and can't afford to have me injured."
Jian Hao absorbed this with the careful attention of someone who understood that casual family wealth created barriers to understanding these conversations. "That's... a lot of weight to carry."
"The system—" Chen Wei stopped himself, realising what he was about to say.
"The system?" Jian Hao leaned forward slightly, his interest suddenly acute. "What system? Is this something at the university?"
Chen Wei had not intended to reveal the system's existence to anyone. The decision had been made partially unconsciously—compartmentalisation as a defence mechanism. But having begun the sentence, he found himself continuing:
"There's something... additional in my mind now. From the heat stroke, maybe, or something that happened in the lab. It's like having an advanced research advisor embedded in my consciousness. It optimises my work, my thinking, my resource allocation. It's not magic—it's methodology and planning. But it's effective."
Jian Hao stared at him for approximately five seconds, which in the context of a conversation felt like a significant pause. "That's either genius or the most convincing delusion I've heard. Are you experiencing any other symptoms? Visual hallucinations, auditory anomalies, paranoid thinking patterns?"
"I've considered all of those," Chen Wei admitted. "The system suggested I do precisely that diagnostic check. If it were a hallucination, it probably wouldn't be recommending that I assess the possibility that it's a hallucination."
"Actually," Jian Hao said slowly, "a sufficiently sophisticated delusion could include that metacognitive layer. But I'm inclined to believe you. You've never had a history of mental illness, and you're describing something remarkably coherent and useful. So either it's real, or you've developed the world's most adaptive psychotic episode."
The casual acceptance was oddly comforting. Jian Hao had, in effect, granted the system's existence provisional credibility while maintaining appropriate scepticism.
"The problem," Chen Wei said, "is that the system is suggesting I shift my research focus from superconductors—where I have three weeks of data and momentum—to batteries. Batteries. Which have no commercial market yet, which would require essentially starting my research from zero."
"Why would it recommend that?" Jian Hao asked.
"Market opportunity. Long-term impact potential. The system runs forecasting models based on whatever knowledge it has access to—which is apparently all existing literature and data up to the present moment. It's predicting that energy storage will become a civilisation-scale problem within fifteen years, and that solving it will create a trillion-yuan industry."
Jian Hao whistled softly. "If that's even 50% accurate, that's a very different career trajectory than publishing papers on incremental superconductor improvements."
"But it's also unproven," Chen Wei said. "The system is very clear that its predictions have error margins. It's recommending a path with higher potential reward and higher risk. Whereas if I continue with superconductors, I'm likely to publish a paper in six months, which will establish my credibility as a researcher."
"Hmm." Jian Hao sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "What would your advisor recommend?"
The question hung in the air because Chen Wei realised he hadn't asked. Professor Zhang had been concerned with his health, not with the substance of his research direction. And asking the professor to choose between superconductors and batteries would require admitting that Chen Wei had somehow developed an alternative research advisor—the system—whose recommendations were influencing him.
"I should ask," Chen Wei acknowledged. "But I'd have to explain how I arrived at the battery recommendation."
"Not necessarily," Jian Hao said. "You could frame it as: 'I've been reading about energy storage markets and wondering if batteries might offer better long-term opportunities than superconductor optimisation.' That's not technically a lie. You have been reading about batteries—the system has been showing them to you. And you are wondering."
It was a pragmatic suggestion that skirted the line between honesty and concealment. Chen Wei found himself appreciating the sophistication of having a friend who understood how to navigate social complexity in academia.
He didn't implement Jian Hao's suggestion immediately. Instead, he spent the next two days conducting his own battery research, using the system's guidance but also consulting actual literature—journal articles, market reports, technical analyses. The system provided optimal reading order (most recent papers first, building toward foundational knowledge), flagged which papers were essential and which were supplementary, and helped him extract the key insights from dense technical material.
What emerged from this deep dive was a landscape that genuinely surprised him.
Battery technology in October 2025 occupied an unusual position: commercially mature but scientifically unsettled. Lithium-ion batteries dominated the market (¥320 billion annually globally, with 40% growth projected annually for the next decade), but they had hard physical limits. Energy density, thermal safety, cycle life, and cost per kilowatt-hour—all were bumping against constraints imposed by fundamental chemistry.
Solid-state batteries (replacing liquid electrolytes with solid materials) promised significant improvements but remained locked in the prototype and pilot-scale phases. Companies like QuantumScape and Solid Power were still years from mass production.
But here was the crucial observation: the companies and laboratories making progress on solid-state batteries were approaching the problem from a materials chemistry perspective rather than an engineering perspective. They were asking "what new material would perform better?" rather than "what manufacturing processes would enable production at scale?"
This was where Chen Wei's strength—and the system's guidance—created a distinct advantage.
The system articulated this advantage with characteristic clarity:
ANALYSIS: Superconductor research is discovery-phase work. Battery research is optimisation-phase work. The scientific frontier in superconductors involves fundamentally new physics (room-temperature superconductivity, mechanism understanding). The scientific frontier in batteries involves materials discovery + manufacturing scale-up. Your skills cluster toward the latter. Your potential impact—measured in lives improved, economic value created, and climate mitigation—aligns with batteries. Probability assessment: Batteries offer 6x greater impact potential than superconductors, given your current capabilities.
It was a compelling argument. It was also, Chen Wei recognised, not the kind of argument that 90% of academic researchers would accept. Academia rewarded novelty and theoretical elegance; it did not reward practical impact or manufacturing-scale thinking. Publishing a paper on a novel theoretical superconductor would advance his career far more immediately than publishing a paper on optimised battery electrolyte composition.
But his career was not his only objective. His family's financial situation was a hard constraint that reminded him, repeatedly, that career advancement was instrumental—a means to an end—not an end in itself.
He spent Thursday evening preparing for a conversation with Professor Zhang.
Friday morning, 10:15 AM, the professor's office in the materials science building.
The office was a monument to organised chaos—bookshelves overflowing with research monographs, a desk covered with papers and printed journal articles with margin notes in Professor Zhang's precise handwriting, three monitors displaying various simulations and data analyses. Professor Zhang himself was a man in his mid-fifties with the particular weariness of someone who had spent thirty years pushing the boundaries of materials science while simultaneously managing graduate students, teaching, grant writing, and navigating institutional politics.
"How are you feeling?" the professor asked, settling into his chair and gesturing for Chen Wei to sit. "The medical centre's report indicated a complete recovery, but heat stroke can have lingering effects."
"I'm fully recovered," Chen Wei said. "The week of rest was valuable. I've been thinking carefully about how to structure my time more sustainably."
"Good." Professor Zhang leaned back, his expression suggesting that this was the response he'd hoped for. "I was concerned that you were heading toward a crisis. Brilliant people sometimes think they're immune to physical limitations. You're not. No one is."
"I've accepted that," Chen Wei said. "And I've been reconsidering my research direction. I wanted to discuss that with you."
Professor Zhang's attention sharpened. This was the conversation he hadn't anticipated. "Go on."
"The superconductor work is solid," Chen Wei said carefully. "The DoE framework I've developed should yield publishable results in six months. But I'm wondering if my long-term research trajectory might be more impactful in battery materials—specifically, solid-state battery electrolytes and manufacturing optimisation."
The professor was quiet for a moment, a pause that Chen Wei interpreted as calculation. "That's a significant shift. What prompted this thinking?"
This was the critical moment. Chen Wei had prepared for it:
"Two observations. First, the superconductor literature is approaching saturation in certain directions. The incremental improvements are becoming more expensive and slower to achieve. Second, battery technology is at an inflexion point—the material science is unsettled, manufacturing is not yet optimised, and the market scale is enormous. It seems like a better domain for making a meaningful contribution."
Professor Zhang considered this. "Those are not unreasonable observations. But they're also the kind of thinking that gets PhD students distracted every other month. How confident are you in this direction?"
"Sixty-five per cent confident in the strategic choice," Chen Wei said, attempting precision. "Ninety-five per cent confident that I can contribute meaningfully to the field if I commit to it."
"The second number matters more than the first," Professor Zhang said. "Uncertainty about direction is normal. But I need to know that you genuinely believe you can do the work."
Chen Wei did believe that. The system's assessment, combined with his own review of the literature, suggested that his combination of materials synthesis skills and methodological rigour could yield genuine advances in battery electrolyte design.
"I do," he said.
Professor Zhang leaned forward again, his posture shifting from reflective to engaged. "All right. Here's what we'll do. You'll complete the superconductor experiments you've planned—the DoE series. That will give you 2-3K improvement on transition temperature, and you'll write it as your first publication. That establishes your credibility as an experimentalist."
"In parallel," the professor continued, "you'll begin preliminary research on battery electrolytes. Start with the literature review. Identify the key unsolved problems. By the end of the semester, we'll reassess whether batteries are genuinely your direction or whether this was temporary intellectual wandering."
It was a compromise that protected both of them—it kept Chen Wei's existing work on track while allowing him to explore a new domain without overcommitting. It was also, Chen Wei recognised, exactly what an effective advisor should do.
"Thank you," he said. "That structure is helpful."
"One more thing," Professor Zhang said, his tone becoming more personal. "Your family's financial situation—I'm aware you're carrying significant debt. That's not unusual for students from non-tier-1 cities. But it can create psychological pressure that impairs judgment. If you're considering research directions because of pressure to achieve rapid commercial success, I want you to be aware of that bias."
The observation was perceptive enough to make Chen Wei pause. Was the system recommending batteries because of genuine strategic value, or because the system was designed to optimise for economic impact? Was Chen Wei himself rationalising the battery direction because he was unconsciously seeking the path to the fastest financial stability?
"I've considered that," Chen Wei said honestly. "But the strategic case for batteries stands independent of financial pressure. The market opportunity is real. The technical problems are genuine. It's not a shortcut; it's a different direction."
"Good." Professor Zhang nodded. "As long as you're aware of your own incentives, you can account for them. Okay—start the battery literature review. I'll assign you one of my graduate students, Li Na, to collaborate with. She's been working on solid-state batteries for her PhD thesis. She can introduce you to the field rapidly."
That evening, Chen Wei sat in the dormitory study lounge and updated the system on the conversation. The interface responded with what he was beginning to recognise as approval:
SYSTEM ASSESSMENT: Prof. Zhang demonstrates exceptional mentorship. His guidance structure (complete superconductor project + parallel battery exploration) optimises for both immediate credibility and long-term direction flexibility. His recognition of financial incentive bias shows emotional intelligence. Your selection of this mentor is a strategic advantage. Maintain this relationship with high priority.
"He told me to be aware of my own incentives," Chen Wei said aloud, feeling slightly defensive. "Are you recommending batteries because it's actually strategically superior, or because your optimisation function is weighted toward economic impact?"
SYSTEM RESPONSE: Valid concern. System transparency: My recommendation combines three inputs: (1) Technical assessment of your capabilities relative to field requirements (strong match for batteries, adequate match for superconductors); (2) Market opportunity modeling (batteries: ¥1-2 trillion potential market; superconductors: ¥100-300 billion potential); (3) Alignment with stated motivation (achieving financial security for family). The economic weighting is substantial. System confidence in batteries recommendation: 72%. System confidence that you should validate this recommendation through conversation with a domain expert (Prof. Zhang) before committing: 95%.
Additional system note: Economic optimisation is not inherently a valid motivation. But economic optimisation for your family's stability is a rational motivation given your specific circumstances. The system is designed to help you achieve your stated goals. Your goal includes family financial stability. Therefore, economic recommendations are appropriate. This is not manipulation—this is function.
It was a surprisingly nuanced response. The system was explicitly acknowledging the conflict between altruistic/scientific motivation and economic motivation, and arguing that both were legitimate in Chen Wei's case.
"What about imposter syndrome?" Chen Wei asked, shifting topics abruptly. "I feel like I'm experiencing success too rapidly. Like I'm somehow cheating by using you. Like real researchers don't have this kind of advantage."
SYSTEM RESPONSE: Imposter syndrome is common in gifted individuals and high-achievers, especially those from under-resourced backgrounds. Psychological mechanism: attributing success to external factors (luck, system advantage) rather than internal factors (intelligence, work ethic, skill). Reality check: You are still conducting the experimental work. You are still doing the intellectual labour. The system provides optimisation and guidance, which is approximately what an exceptional advisor would provide. You are not cheating. You are accessing a resource that accelerates learning. This is advantageous but not invalid.
Data: 73% of high-performing students experience imposter syndrome regardless of advantaged access. Lack of imposter syndrome is actually a risk factor for inadequate self-assessment and decreased growth.
By the following Monday, Chen Wei had begun his first conversation with Li Na, the graduate student assigned to mentor him through the battery research.
Li Na was in her third year of PhD work, which meant she occupied the unusual status of being far more knowledgeable than Chen Wei but still early enough in her career to remember what it felt like to be ignorant. They met in the small battery laboratory on the fifth floor—a space that smelled of organic solvents and contained equipment that Chen Wei recognised as electrochemical testing stations, thermal analysers, and X-ray diffraction instruments.
"So you're the superconductor student who's suddenly interested in batteries," Li Na said, extending her hand. She was from Shanghai, carried herself with the confidence of someone from a tier-1 city, and had the expression of someone perpetually calculating the optimal utilisation of her time.
"The research direction seems promising," Chen Wei said carefully. "Professor Zhang thought you could provide an overview of the current state of the field."
Li Na laughed—not unkindly, but with genuine amusement. "Current state? The current state is chaos. Every major manufacturer (CATL, BYD, Panasonic, Samsung) is trying to push solid-state batteries into production. Every startup (QuantumScape, Solid Power, Samsung's separate team) is trying to solve the manufacturing scale-up. Every academic lab is trying to publish novel electrolyte compositions. And ninety per cent of them are working in isolation, not sharing knowledge, competing for the same limited pool of funding."
"What's the actual constraint?" Chen Wei asked, pulling out his notebook. "If everyone's working on the problem, why hasn't it been solved?"
"Because," Li Na said, settling into a lab stool, "solid-state batteries require solving approximately five hard problems simultaneously. Let me show you."
She pulled up a presentation on her computer—apparently, she'd prepared for this conversation—and began outlining the challenge landscape:
Electrolyte material design: Need high ionic conductivity (≥1 mS/cm) at operational temperature (0-60°C), good electrochemical stability (0-5V window), and compatibility with lithium metal anodes and oxide/oxide cathodes.
Interface engineering: Solid-state batteries have two critical solid-solid interfaces (anode-electrolyte and electrolyte-cathode) that accumulate resistance over cycling. Controlling these interfaces is extraordinarily difficult.
Dendrite suppression: Lithium metal anodes will form needle-like crystalline structures (dendrites) that puncture the electrolyte and cause shorts. This has been an unsolved problem since the 1980s.
Manufacturing scale-up: Everything that works in laboratory coin cells (diameter 1 cm) breaks in pilot cells (10-20 cm diameter) and completely fails at production scale (hundreds of cells per minute). The yield collapse is systematic.
Cost reduction: Current solid-state battery prototypes cost ¥2,000-5,000 per kilowatt-hour. Market viability requires ¥200-400/kWh. That's a 10x cost reduction from current lab-scale processes.
"So everyone's working on these problems," Li Na concluded, "but the problems are coupled. You can't solve interface engineering without understanding your electrolyte material. You can't achieve manufacturing scale without solving dendrite issues. It's not a sequential problem—it's a deeply tangled knot."
Chen Wei absorbed this, feeling both the weight of complexity and the obvious opportunity. Most researchers would focus on one of these problems in isolation—advancing their specific domain. But if someone understood all five problems simultaneously and could design materials and processes that addressed the coupling...
"What if," he began slowly, "instead of treating these as separate problems, you designed the entire system—electrolyte material, anode structure, interface chemistry, and manufacturing process—as an integrated optimisation?"
Li Na raised her eyebrows. "That's what people claim they're doing. But they're not, really. They're designing materials first, then trying to figure out how to manufacture them. It's backwards."
"What if you started with manufacturing constraints?" Chen Wei pressed. "What chemistry can be synthesised at scale? What material structures can be produced with existing equipment? What forms would actually enable automated assembly? Then design the electrolyte material composition around what's actually manufactureable."
"You'd probably get suboptimal materials," Li Na said slowly. "Materials engineered for manufacturability rather than electrochemical properties."
"But materials that work at scale," Chen Wei countered, "versus perfect materials that can never be produced at scale."
Li Na was quiet for a moment, and Chen Wei could see her running calculations. Finally: "That's... actually a different approach than what most people are trying. And it might work. But you'd have to spend a lot of time understanding real manufacturing processes. You'd have to visit actual battery factories, not just read papers."
"Can we do that?" Chen Wei asked.
"Probably. I have a contact at CATL—one of my thesis committee members is a researcher there. They might be willing to host a brief lab visit if we frame it as collaborative research." Li Na smiled slightly. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"
"Yes," Chen Wei said, and meant it. The strategic case for batteries had shifted from abstract intellectual exercise to concrete technical challenge, and his motivation had solidified accordingly.
Late that night, working alone in the dormitory study lounge, Chen Wei journaled about the tension he was experiencing:
The system predicted that I would feel like I was cheating. It suggested this is a normal response for someone using an external advantage. But knowing it's a normal response doesn't actually eliminate the feeling. I keep wondering: am I good at research, or is the system good at research and I'm just its interface?
The honest answer is probably: both. The system optimises my thinking, but I still have to do the work. It identifies opportunities, but I still have to evaluate whether the opportunities are genuine. It suggests research directions, but I still have to convince myself they're worthwhile.
What's different is that I have access to information and analytical frameworks that a normal 21-year-old researcher wouldn't have. Is that unfair? Or is it just the result of random chance—that a heat stroke happened to activate... whatever this is?
Mother asked me on the phone yesterday whether the system felt like a person or a tool. I told her it feels like both. It thinks with me. But it doesn't think for me. The distinction is subtle but important.
I think I'm going to commit to batteries. Not because I'm desperate to become rich. But because the problem is real, the opportunity is genuine, and my approach might be better than what existing researchers are attempting. If that works out—if I actually contribute to solid-state battery technology—then the system's recommendation will have been correct. And if it doesn't work out, then I'll have learned something valuable about my own limitations and constraints.
Either way, I'll know more than I know now. And that seems like enough reason to try.
The next morning, the system generated a notification:
SYSTEM MILESTONE: "STRATEGIC RESEARCHER" ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED
Assessment Criteria Met:
Identified alignment between personal capabilities and field opportunity
Consulted domain expert (Prof. Zhang) before committing to a major direction change
Validated recommendations through independent research
Developed an integrated approach to a complex technical problem
Demonstrated willingness to follow guidance while maintaining independent judgment
NEW MODULES UNLOCKING:
Supply Chain Analysis
Market Dynamics Modelling
Patent Landscape Mapping
SYSTEM ASSESSMENT: You have demonstrated the capacity to use this system as an amplifier rather than a crutch. This is the essential skill for long-term success. Proceed with battery research. Timeline to first publication: 8-12 months. Probability of meaningful contribution to the field: 73%.
Chen Wei read the notification and felt something shift in his relationship with the system. It was no longer entirely alien or threatening. It was becoming something like a collaborator—not a replacement for his own thinking, but a tool that could be used well or poorly depending on his own judgment.
That evening, he called his mother.
"I've decided on a research direction," he told her. "Battery materials. It's a longer timeline to publication than my current work, but the potential impact is larger."
"Will this help your career?" his mother asked—not selfishly, but practically.
"Yes," he said. "I think so. There's a professor at CATL who might be interested in collaboration. And the market for battery research is large enough that if I make a real contribution, there will be opportunities beyond pure academia."
"Then pursue it," his mother said simply. "You have good instincts, Wei. I've watched you make careful decisions your entire life. Trust yourself."
After they hung up, Chen Wei realised something: the system had been valuable, but his mother's validation mattered equally. She had no access to the system's analytical frameworks or probability models. She simply trusted his judgment because she knew his character.
Perhaps that was the actual skill he needed to develop—not using the system more effectively, but knowing when to trust it and when to trust his own human instincts.
The system, reading this thought directly from his consciousness, generated one final notification for the evening:
SYSTEM AFFIRMATION: Correct analysis. System utility increases when balanced with human judgment. Proceed with confidence. Your family's financial stability is dependent on making genuine contributions to research and technology. The system can help you identify opportunities, but you must choose which opportunities to pursue. Choice is yours. Always.