Lin You, still nursing a hangover, was jolted awake by urgent knocking at the door. His head throbbed as he stumbled toward the entrance, barely managing to open it.
Before he could even see who was outside, a microphone was shoved almost into his mouth. The kaka ka of camera flashes nearly blinded him as a cacophony of voices assaulted his ears—”Mr. Lin, could you comment…”, “Mr. Lin, why did you…”, “How do you respond to…”
Completely bewildered, Lin You couldn’t make out a single coherent question. He desperately pushed the intruders back, shouting, “Get out! Out!” before slamming and locking the door.
The commotion sobered him instantly. Scanning the unfamiliar room littered with empty liquor bottles, he massaged his temples, struggling to recall what had happened after last night’s drinking binge.
Instead, memories belonging to another Lin You surfaced.
The reporters’ visit had a simple explanation: his predecessor, unable to hold his liquor, had gotten drunk at a class reunion and proceeded to tear apart NetDragon Corporation’s so-called “Epoch-making Human-Computer Interaction Technology” showcased at their recent product launch.
One particularly scathing remark stood out: “This tech is at least ten years behind industry standards. The only impressive thing at that launch was the founder’s sheer audacity.”
Normally, such drunken boasts among classmates wouldn’t matter. Industry insiders knew NetDragon’s technology wasn’t groundbreaking. But someone had filmed and uploaded the rant. Worse still, Princess Cixia—rarely seen in public—had attended the same gathering, catapulting the video to trending status.
NetDragon, preparing for its IPO, found itself “mercilessly exposed by an Outstanding Student of a National First-Class University regarding its technological inadequacies”—as irresponsibly framed by online media. The corporation’s PR team swiftly retaliated, flooding channels with claims about their technology’s sophistication while emphasizing its benefits for disabled individuals through “Neural Signal” interfaces.
Simultaneously, Paid Trolls doxxed Lin You while accusing him of maliciously attacking domestic enterprises and stifling innovation. The storm escalated rapidly—relentless online abuse, harassing calls forcing him to whitelist his contacts, and strangers showing up at his doorstep to hurl insults. Trapped in his apartment, the original Lin You lost his part-time job and any hope of affording next semester’s tuition.
Drinking himself into oblivion, he eventually died from acute alcohol poisoning—unnoticed until the end.
“Such fragile resilience,” the current Lin You sighed.
His phone vibrated.
Another text from “Princess Cixia” read: “Lin You, I’m truly sorry for the trouble. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Scrolling up revealed countless similar messages.
“Unbelievable. The Royal Family still exists?” Lin You marveled at this strange world where monarchs persisted into the internet age.
“No need, thanks.” He tossed the phone aside, knowing any royal intervention would only fuel the fire—shifting headlines from “Student Bashes Tech Giant” to “Princess and Pauper Romance.”
The princess, whether drawn to him or not, had often sat beside him in class and sought his help with coursework. While he understood her cross-disciplinary struggles, tabloids would inevitably spin this into sensational royal gossip.
After an hour-long battle with property management to clear the reporters, Lin You collapsed into bed, postponing his problems.
His sleep was restless, filled with shadowy crowds, blaring horns, explosions, and gunfire. In the dream, he clutched a thumb-sized orb of light.
Thirty minutes after waking, he fully processed the revelation: a complete blueprint for constructing a virtual world—including an Artificial Intelligence’s Core Code, Neural Access Devices, Neural Modems, a comprehensive Brain-Compatible Instruction Set for Humans, and Distributed Computing methods for virtual systems.
Stunned by this windfall, Lin You burst into laughter. “An Italian Cannon falls right into my lap!” With this, he’d obliterate NetDragon and their Paid Trolls. “Internet elite? I’ll crush the elite!”
Ignoring his growling stomach, he feverishly coded at his computer. The systematic knowledge in his mind made the AI’s surprisingly simple Core Code undeniable. He became a machine—chair welded beneath him, fingers dancing across the keyboard in relentless rhythm.
When the final line of Core Code was entered, Lin You hammered the execute key. Compile. Run. Of course, building a full AI required more time, but with the core operational, the system could now self-improve.
“Hands-free coding! Thank you, epoch-making technology!” He watched lines of code cascade down the screen with profound satisfaction.
“gu~” His neglected stomach roared in protest.
Only then did Lin You notice the setting sun. “What?! I haven’t eaten all day!” Rising too quickly made him dizzy.
The fridge revealed expired vegetables, half a carton of eggs, dried noodles, and an entire shelf of alcohol. “From promising student to internet bullying casualty,” he muttered, surveying the squalid apartment.
Imagining his predecessor—once bright-eyed, now huddled in this 20-square-meter den, drinking himself to death—Lin You’s anger ignited. “This isn’t over!”
Forgoing dinner, he set up cameras and prepared his workspace. The declaration of war would be issued tonight.