It was a day so bright it was almost ironic. The sea breeze did not carry its usual briny scent, but instead bore the warmth unique to early summer and the faint fragrance of distant, unknown flowers. The sky was a flawless turquoise, vast and unmarred. A few white seagulls circled between the masts, their sharp cries piercing yet brimming with vitality.
For a "funeral," such weather was painfully inappropriate.
The pier stood empty. Only two figures remained. A small, unmarked black steamship was docked at the shore, its smokestack releasing intermittent plumes of dark smoke, as if impatiently urging the departure.
The middle-aged man in a washed-out gray trench coat, his hair a disheveled nest—this was the "Doctor" eighteen years ago, not yet fully eroded by time and madness. He drew in a deep breath of sea air. Instead of looking at the ship that would carry him into exile, he turned to face the woman behind him.
It was a younger Mary.
She had not yet donned the golden gear emblem of the Municipal Administration Association Chair. There were no fine lines at the corners of her eyes from years of overwork. Dressed in a crisp dark-blue uniform, arms crossed, she stood upright as a pine tree. Her gaze carried a cold resolve far beyond her years.
"What a fine day," the Doctor said, squinting at the glaring sun, a self-mocking smile curling at his lips.
"And I, this 'Zarathustra,' must once again return to my solitude. Mary, will you be the last one who remembers me, this wanderer?"
Mary was unmoved by his Nietzschean theatrics. She looked at him with icy detachment—the man once hailed as a genius, now condemned as a monster.
"How would I know?" she replied flatly. "In any case, since you refuse to compromise on your radical ideals, you must accept the decision made by the people of this city—'personal exile,' along with 'erasure of records.'"
She withdrew a document from her briefcase; it fluttered loudly in the sea breeze.
"Starting at sunset today, your name will no longer exist in the history books of Port Alexandra. The city's only memory of you will be as a wanted criminal to be executed on sight should you ever return."
Her tone softened slightly—her final mercy, the last fragment of respect for a former colleague.
"However—if you turn back now, if you sign this agreement to abandon your experiments and publicly apologize, then perhaps—"
"No—"
The Doctor raised his hand and cut her off decisively. His eyes sharpened into surgical blades, severing the final thread of warmth between them.
"You need not persuade me, Mary. The people of this city are not choosing to forget me—they are choosing to forget a possibility of human progress. And that is something I can never tolerate."
"Possibility?" Mary stepped forward, her voice rising. "You call that a possibility? Have you even considered what your experiments mean to ordinary people?"
"Of course I have," the Doctor replied matter-of-factly.
"Yes, turning living human brains into mechanical components, stripping neurons from skulls and placing them into cultivation tanks—of course that violates contemporary moral ethics. I can prove every volunteer agreement was legal, freely signed. But I know that isn't what you care about."
He turned to her, gaze blazing.
"But tell me, Mary—what exactly is morality?"
"It is dignity. It is meaning!" she shot back. "It is the value system that allows people to endure suffering together. It is the baseline that makes us human! From the beginning you were wrong—because you looked down on them. Because you treated people as parts."
The Doctor burst into loud laughter. Seagulls scattered at the sound.
"How curious, Mary. Does this world possess some innate 'human nature'? Does the majority's value system represent truth? Will all of this not change with the march of time?"
He spread his arms as if embracing emptiness.
"A thousand years ago, believing the Earth was round was immoral. Five hundred years ago, dissecting corpses was immoral. Today you replace workers with robots—would that not have been the greatest immorality in the eyes of old textile laborers? Morality is nothing more than chains forged by the weak to bind the strong—a lie fabricated by the mediocre to preserve the status quo!"
"I'm not here to listen to your nonsense!" Mary snapped, her chest heaving. "I know you're furious—your lab was sealed, your assistants arrested… but Victor, is this really worth it?"
For the first time, she used his name. Her voice trembled slightly.
"Will this stubbornness lead anywhere? Is your obstinacy at this moment more important than your future—more important than the dream of changing the world?"
The Doctor's laughter ceased. His eyes cooled into something far more frightening than madness—calculated reason.
"No, of course not," he said quietly. "Which is why, Mary, I hope you understand: future and dreams are not the only things that matter."
He walked to the pier's edge, watching murky seawater crash against the dock.
"I once stood beside you because we both required advanced computational technology. We could coexist—even push each other forward. Of course, the common people who see me as a criminal never thought so."
He gestured toward the city skyline—smokestacks and clock towers silhouetted against the sun.
"You are determined to confirm the reality beneath your feet, so you seek a higher vantage point to observe it. That is why you need engines, rockets, artificial intelligence, starships."
"That is why you need this vast industrial city—to produce your machines. That is why you need that 'crystal'—the so-called Philosopher's Stone—to leap Port Alexandra into a new era."
A trace of disdain flickered in his eyes.
"All of it is magnificent, Mary. Except for the fact that the crystal came from the black market. Except for its cursed black-box nature. But for your grand plans, such risks are negligible—because to you, it is merely a computer. A useful tool."
"…However, I am the opposite."
He tapped his temple.
"Is this world false? A mirage? A limbo between heaven and hell? What does any of that have to do with 'me'?"
"As long as I can think, I must exist. If I exist, then this world must be real. A purely philosophical answer—Descartes' nonsense—but it is sufficient for me."
He approached Mary slowly, each step measuring the unbridgeable gulf between them.
"Compared to one's own certainty of existence, external reality is rarely urgent to prove. Even the 'others' for my 'self' are unverifiable."
"For example, Mary stands before me. How do I know? Because my retina receives light, my auditory nerves receive sound waves, my senses transmit the information 'Mary is here' to my brain."
"But from such sensory data alone, we can never logically prove whether Mary thinks."
He extended a finger toward her brow without touching.
"Yes, I may assume you think through the Turing Test—but assumption is only inference. I can never confirm whether you are truly Mary, or an exquisitely crafted construct—a Mary replica, a philosophical zombie."
"That's sophistry," Mary said, stepping back.
"It's a paradox!" he shouted. "From the standpoint of 'self,' so-called objective cognition is the most subjective and selfish of all! Within objectivism, observers care only for 'cause and effect' and 'conclusions,' ignoring the very nature of self and other!"
"Humanity advanced from savage apes to civilized beings through technological innovation. Technology alone concretely advances humanity—and it is built squarely upon objectivism."
"Technology does not care for philosophy. It would rather cast it aside. Yet precisely because of this, technology born of thought can escape thought's shackles—allowing thought to roam freely upon new platforms!"
He inhaled deeply, as if delivering his final sermon.
"We must take objectivism as foundation, seeking breakthroughs of the 'self' through observation and cognition. But ultimately, because each consciousness is physically isolated—your brain in your skull, mine in mine—the direct recognition of 'I am' cannot transcend the boundaries of the self."
"However…"
A trembling, transcendent smile spread across his face.
"What if we convert all 'other-selves' into the 'self'? What if we eliminate separation at its root?"
Mary stared at him. "Do you hear yourself? You designed brain-machine systems for this? You created that monster that links human brains together—for this?"
"Of course I know what I'm saying—because you understood it," he replied.
"We know a brain-machine as a whole can pass the Turing Test—just like the crystal. And from lived experience, we believe machines that pass the Turing Test possess self-awareness—like ourselves."
"So tell me, Mary—how does that 'self-awareness' arise?"
"If it arises from nothing, where does the original consciousness go? Is it devoured? And if not from nothing, then in a distributed system, which brain dominates? Number One? Or Number Four?"
"When all hypotheses fail, the answer becomes obvious."
He lowered his voice to a whisper.
"All consciousnesses merge."
"Absurd? Each brain is itself composed of countless neurons. Does that not make our own existence absurd? Are we ourselves machines without subjectivity?"
"'I think, therefore I am.' No one believes their subjective consciousness is nonexistent. Therefore, 'soul' is not an isolated object—but a hive concept based on sufficient information exchange!"
"The cerebral cortex does not collapse when part is removed. Its sections can substitute for one another. Even when the corpus callosum is severed, two independent consciousnesses may arise! When we heal split-brain patients, do we say we killed two consciousnesses and resurrected the old one?"
"So!"
He slashed his hand through the air.
"If consciousness can merge, then through brain-machine technology humanity will conquer its greatest enemy—'the unknown'!"
"One day, when all consciousness fuses into a single intelligent mechanism—sharing one self—we will have no lies, no division, no war, no loneliness!"
"We will achieve true—omniscience and omnipotence!"
The wind intensified, tangling Mary's hair. A chill crept through her bones.
"You're insane," she murmured, sorrow in her eyes. "If that is 'omniscience,' then it's only natural the citizens voted you out."
"Ah, of course they see it that way."
He smoothed his collar.
"But Mary, how many in this world truly understand a prophet? Truth is always held by the few. True epoch-making innovation smashes old values and rebuilds society in its own image."
The steamship sounded its horn—final call.
He lifted his worn leather suitcase—his only possession.
"By the way, you've heard the prophecy, haven't you? About the wall. And the Empire."
"When it encircles Port Alexandra, when this city becomes an island—will these self-assured citizens regret their decision?"
"…You were right. I am a madman."
He turned slightly. The sunset stretched his shadow long and colossal.
"But remember this, Mary."
"Behind every madness lies a philosophy."
"Madness may yield—to exile, imprisonment, death. But philosophy… never will."
He stepped aboard. The ship rocked gently.
"Farewell, Chairwoman Mary."
"And even if we meet again—I will have long since abandoned the name 'Victor.'"
The propeller churned the sea. The black steamship drifted from the dock. Mary remained on shore, watching the silhouette fade into the horizon.
That year, Port Alexandra lost its most dangerous madman—and its closest chance at godhood.
And the seed of madness planted that day would, eighteen years later, bloom into a flower named "Alice"—laden with poison and tears.