The next day was the weekend, but Wang Miao got up unusually early. He grabbed his camera, hopped on his bike, and headed out. As a photography enthusiast, his favorite subjects were remote, uninhabited wilderness areas—but now middle-aged, he no longer had the energy for such indulgences. Most days, he had to make do with shooting urban landscapes instead. He deliberately sought out corners of the city that exuded a raw, untamed vibe: the dry bed of a park lake, fresh earth turned up at a construction site, weeds pushing through cracks in the concrete. To strip away the garish colors of the city from his backgrounds, he only used black-and-white film. Unexpectedly, this style became his signature; he gradually gained a small reputation, had his work selected for two major exhibitions, and even joined the Photographers' Association. Every time he went out shooting, he would cycle aimlessly around the city like this, capturing inspiration and the compositions he needed—sometimes wandering for an entire day.
Today, though, Wang Miao felt something was off. His photography was known for its classical composure and gravity, but today, he struggled to find the sense of stability required for such shots. In his perception, the city, waking up in the dawn, seemed to be built on quicksand; its stability was an illusion. All through the previous night, those two billiard balls had haunted his long dreams—flying erratically in a black void. Against the dark background, the black ball was invisible; it only revealed its presence when it occasionally blocked the white ball.
Could the fundamental nature of matter really be lawless? Could the stability and order of the world be nothing but a fleeting state of dynamic equilibrium in some corner of the universe? Just a short-lived eddy in a chaotic current?
Before he knew it, he had cycled to the foot of the newly completed CCTV Headquarters. He stopped his bike, sat down by the roadside, and looked up at the towering A-shaped building, trying to regain a sense of stability. Following the direction pointed by the building's spire, glinting in the morning sun, he gazed into the bottomless blue sky—and two words suddenly popped into his mind: Shooter, Farmer.
During discussions among scholars at "Science Boundary," they often used the abbreviation "SF." It did not stand for "science fiction," but for the two words above. They came from two hypotheses, both related to the essence of the universe's laws.
The "Shooter Hypothesis": A sharpshooter fires a shot at a target every ten centimeters. Suppose there is a species of two-dimensional intelligent beings living on the surface of this target. After observing their own universe, the scientists among them discover a great law: "In the universe, there must be a hole every ten centimeters." They mistake the sharpshooter's random, impulsive act for an unbreakable law of their universe.
The "Farmer Hypothesis" carries a more disturbing, eerie undertone: A farmer raises a flock of turkeys. Every day at 11 a.m., the farmer comes to feed them. A scientist among the turkeys observes this phenomenon; after nearly a year of consistent observations with no exceptions, it also discovers a great law of its universe: "Every day at 11 a.m., food arrives." On Thanksgiving morning, it announces this law to the other turkeys—but at 11 a.m. that day, no food comes. Instead, the farmer walks in and catches them all to kill.
Wang Miao felt the road beneath his feet slide like quicksand, and the A-shaped building seemed to sway. He quickly tore his eyes away.
Just to shake off his unease, Wang Miao forced himself to finish an entire roll of film, then headed home before lunch. His wife had taken their child out for the day and wouldn't be back for lunch. Normally, Wang Miao would have rushed to develop the film immediately, but today he had no enthusiasm for it at all. After a simple lunch, he lay down and fell asleep. Having slept poorly the night before, he didn't wake up until nearly 5 p.m. Only then did he remember the film he'd shot that morning, so he went into the narrow darkroom he'd converted from a closet to develop it.
The film was developed quickly. As he began checking which shots were worth enlarging into prints, he noticed something bizarre in the first one. The photo was of a small patch of grass outside a large shopping mall—and right in the center of the negative, there was a row of white marks. Upon closer inspection, they were numbers: 1200:00:00.
The second negative also had numbers: 1199:49:33.
Every negative in the entire roll had a tiny row of numbers!
Third: 1199:40:18; Fourth: 1199:32:07; Fifth: 1199:28:51; Sixth: 1199:15:44; Seventh: 1199:07:38; Eighth: 1198:53:09… Thirty-fourth: 1194:50:49; Thirty-sixth, the last one: 1194:16:37.
Wang Miao immediately thought there was a problem with the film. He used a 1988 Leica M2—a fully mechanical, manual camera with no automated functions whatsoever, let alone the ability to superimpose date-like numbers on film. Thanks to its outstanding lens quality and mechanical design, it remained a "noble" among professional cameras even in the digital age.
As he re-examined each negative, Wang Miao soon noticed the first eerie thing about the numbers: they automatically adapted to the background. If the background was black, the numbers were white; on a white background, the numbers turned black—seemingly to create maximum contrast for the observer to see clearly. When Wang Miao looked at the sixteenth negative, his heart raced. A chill crept up his spine in the darkroom.
Wang Miao began to analyze the mathematical pattern of the numbers. At first, he thought they might be some kind of serial number, but the intervals between each set of numbers were inconsistent. He soon realized they were a timestamp in hours, minutes, and seconds. He took out his shooting notes, which recorded the exact time—down to the minute—each photo was taken. He found that the difference between the timestamps on two photos matched the actual time interval between when they were shot. It was clear: the film was reversely recording a time that passed at the same speed as reality. Wang Miao immediately understood what it was.
A countdown.
The countdown started at 1200 hours, and 1194 hours remained.
Remained when? No—when the last photo of that roll was taken. Was the countdown still ongoing?
Wang Miao walked out of the darkroom, loaded a new roll of black-and-white film into his Leica, and snapped random shots around the room in quick succession. Finally, he took a few photos of the outdoors from the balcony. Once the roll was finished, he removed it from the camera and hurried back into the darkroom to develop it. When the film was ready, the ghostly numbers appeared on every negative: the first one showed 1187:27:39—the exact time elapsed between the last shot of the previous roll and the first shot of this one. The intervals between the timestamps on subsequent photos were three to four seconds apart: 1187:27:35, 1187:27:31, 1187:27:27, 1187:27:24… matching the speed at which he had taken the photos.
The countdown was still going.
Wang Miao loaded another new roll into the camera and snapped more random shots—several of them with the lens cap on. Just as he was about to remove the finished roll, his wife and child returned home. Before developing it, he loaded a third roll into the Leica, handed the camera to his wife, and said, "Come on, finish this roll."
"Take photos of what?" His wife looked at him in surprise. In the past, he had never let anyone else touch his camera—and neither she nor their son had ever been interested in it, anyway. To them, it was just a boring old antique that had cost over twenty thousand yuan.
"Anything. Just snap whatever," Wang Miao pushed the camera into her hands and ducked back into the darkroom.
"Then, Doudou, I'll take your photo," his wife pointed the lens at their son.
A vision suddenly flashed in Wang Miao's mind: the ghostly numbers like an opening noose hanging over his child's face. He couldn't help but shiver slightly. "No, don't take photos of Doudou. Snap something else instead."
The shutter clicked—his wife took the first photo, then exclaimed, "Why won't it press again?" Wang Miao taught her to flip a lever. "Like this. You have to wind it after each shot." Then he went back into the darkroom.
"So troublesome," his wife, a doctor, muttered. She couldn't understand why anyone would use such an outdated, expensive thing now that digital cameras with tens of millions of pixels were everywhere—especially one that only took black-and-white photos.
When the film was developed, Wang Miao held it up to the dim red light. The ghostly countdown was still there, clearly visible on the messy, random shots—even the ones taken with the lens cap on: 1187:19:06, 1187:19:03, 1187:18:59, 1187:18:56…
His wife knocked twice on the darkroom door to tell him she had finished the third roll. Wang Miao rushed out, grabbed the camera, and his hands trembled noticeably as he removed the film. Ignoring his wife's strange look, he took the film back into the darkroom and shut the door tightly. He worked in a fluster, spilling developer and fixer all over the floor. The film was developed quickly. He closed his eyes and prayed silently: Don't appear. Whatever you are, don't appear now. Don't come for me…
He ran a magnifying glass along the wet film. The countdown was gone. The negatives only showed the indoor scenes his wife had shot—blurry, thanks to her unprofessional handling with a slow aperture—but Wang Miao thought they were the most comforting photos he had ever seen.
Wang Miao walked out of the darkroom and let out a long breath, realizing his clothes were soaked with sweat. His wife had gone to the kitchen to cook, and his son had gone to play in his room. He sat alone on the sofa and tried to think calmly.
First, these numbers— which accurately recorded the passage of time at different shooting intervals and showed signs of intelligence—could not have been pre-printed on the film. They must have been exposed onto it by some force. What could that force be? Was there a problem with the camera? Had some device been intentionally or accidentally placed inside it? He removed the lens, took the camera apart, and examined its interior with a magnifying glass, checking every spotless, smooth component. He found nothing unusual. Then, thinking back to the photos taken with the lens cap on, the most likely light source would be some kind of highly penetrating external radiation—but that was technically impossible too: Where would the radiation source be? How could it be targeted so precisely?
At least with current technology, this force was supernatural.
To confirm that the ghostly countdown had really disappeared, Wang Miao loaded another roll into the Leica and started taking random shots one by one. When he developed this roll, the brief calm he had found was shattered, and he was pushed to the edge of madness again: the ghostly countdown had reappeared. From the timestamps on the frames, it was clear—it had never
186:34:13, 1186:34:02, 1186:33:46, 1186:33:35…
Wang Miao rushed out of the darkroom, out of his apartment, and banged on his neighbor's door. It was opened by Professor Zhang, a retired academic.
"Lao Zhang, do you have a camera? Not a digital one—one that uses film!"
"You, a top photographer, are borrowing a camera from me? Did that twenty-thousand-yuan one break? I only have a digital one… Are you okay? You look terrible."
"Just let me use it."
Professor Zhang quickly fetched an ordinary Kodak digital camera. "Here. Just delete the few photos on it…"
"Thanks!" Wang Miao grabbed the camera and its memory card, then hurried back home. In fact, he already had three film cameras and one digital camera at home, but borrowing one from someone else felt more reliable. He looked at the two cameras and several rolls of black-and-white film spread out on the sofa, thought for a moment, then loaded another roll into his Leica. He handed the digital camera to his wife, who was bringing over dinner plates:
"Hurry, take some photos—just like you did earlier!"
"What's this about? Look at your face… What's wrong with you?!" His wife stared at him in alarm.
"Never mind that, just shoot!"
His wife put down the plates, walked over, and looked at her husband—alarm mixed with worry in her eyes.
Wang Miao pushed the Kodak camera into the hands of their six-year-old son, who had come over for dinner. "Doudou, help Dad take photos. Press this button—yes, that's one. Press it again, right, another one. Keep doing that, point it anywhere."
The boy quickly got the hang of it. He was fascinated and snapped photos rapidly. Wang Miao turned to pick up his Leica from the sofa and started shooting too. Father and son clicked away frantically, leaving the wife不知所措 amid the frequent flashes—tears welled up in her eyes.
"Wang Miao, I know you've been stressed at work lately, but please don't…"
Wang Miao finished the roll in his Leica, then snatched the digital camera back from his son. He thought for a second, then, to avoid his wife and son's distraction, walked into the bedroom and took a few more photos with the digital camera himself. He used the viewfinder instead of the LCD screen—afraid to see the results, even though he knew he'd have to eventually.
Wang Miao took the film out of the Leica and ducked into the darkroom, closing the door tightly behind him. When development was done, he examined the negatives. His hands were shaking so much he had to hold the magnifying glass with both hands—the ghostly countdown was still there.
Wang Miao rushed out of the darkroom and began checking the photos on the digital camera. On the LCD screen, he saw that none of the photos his son had taken showed the countdown; but in the ones he'd taken himself, the countdown was clearly visible—and its time matched the one on the film negatives.
Wang Miao had used different cameras to rule out the possibility that the problem was with his camera or the film. But by accidentally having his son shoot, plus having his wife shoot earlier, he'd stumbled on an even more bizarre result: no matter which camera or film was used, photos taken by others were normal—the ghostly countdown only appeared in photos he took himself!
Wang Miao grabbed the stack of film rolls in despair, as if clutching a tangled mass of snakes—or an inescapable noose.
He knew he couldn't solve this alone. Who could he turn to? Colleagues at the university or research institute were out of the question—they thought like he did, in technical terms; his intuition told him this was beyond technology. He thought of Ding Yi, but that man was already trapped in his own mental crisis. Finally, he thought of "Science Boundary"—a group of people with profound, active minds. So he dialed Shen Yufei's number.
"Dr. Shen, something's happened. I need to come see you right away," Wang Miao said urgently.
"Come." Shen Yufei said only those two words before hanging up.
Wang Miao was shocked. Shen Yufei was always concise—some in "Science Boundary" even nicknamed her the "female Hemingway." But this time, she hadn't even asked what the matter was. Wang Miao didn't know if he should feel relieved or even more uneasy.
He stuffed the film rolls into a bag, grabbed the digital camera, and rushed out the door under his wife's anxious gaze. He could have driven, but even in this brightly lit city, he wanted someone with him on the way—so he called a taxi.
Shen Yufei lived in a high-end villa community near the new light rail line. The lights here were much sparser; the villas surrounded several small man-made lakes for fishing, giving it a rural feel at night. Shen Yufei was clearly wealthy, but Wang Miao had never figured out where her money came from—her past research positions and her current job at the company couldn't have earned her this much. Yet there were no signs of luxury in her villa; it was a meeting place for "Science Boundary," its decor more like a small library with a conference room.
In the living room, Wang Miao met Shen Yufei's husband, Wei Cheng. This man, around forty, had the gentle look of an intellectual. Wang Miao knew nothing about him except his name—that was all Shen Yufei had mentioned when introducing him. He seemed to have no job, staying at home all day. He had no interest in "Science Boundary" discussions and was used to the frequent stream of scholars coming and going.
But Wei Cheng was not idle. He was clearly researching something at home, immersed in thought all day. When he saw anyone, he would greet them distractedly before returning to his upstairs room—where he spent most of his day. Once, Wang Miao had accidentally glanced through the half-open door of that room while upstairs, and saw something surprising: an HP minicomputer. He couldn't have misidentified it, because it was the same model as the one at the superconducting research center where he worked—a dark gray chassis, the RX8620, produced four years earlier. It seemed strange to keep this piece of equipment, worth over a million yuan, at home. What on earth was Wei Cheng doing, staying alone with it every day?
"Yufei has something to take care of upstairs. Please wait a moment," Wei Cheng said, then went upstairs. Wang Miao had planned to wait, but he couldn't sit still, so he followed. He saw Wei Cheng about to enter the room with the minicomputer. Wei Cheng didn't seem annoyed by Wang Miao's following; he pointed to a room across the hall and said, "Oh, she's in that room. Go find her there."
Wang Miao knocked on the door—it wasn't locked, just ajar. Through the crack, he saw Shen Yufei sitting in front of a computer, playing a game. To Wang Miao's surprise, she was wearing a "V-Suit." This was a popular gadget among gamers at the time, consisting of a full-view display helmet and a sensory suit. The suit allowed players to physically feel blows, knife stabs, and burns in the game, as well as extreme heat and cold—even simulating the realistic sensation of being exposed to wind and snow. Wang Miao walked behind her; since the game was displayed in full view inside the helmet, nothing was visible on the monitor. At that moment, Wang Miao remembered Da Shi telling him to note down website addresses and email accounts. He glanced at the monitor casually, and the unusual English name on the game's login screen stuck in his memory.
Shen Yufei took off the display helmet, then removed the sensory suit. She put on her large glasses—too big for her thin face—and nodded at Wang Miao with a blank expression, saying not a word, waiting for him to speak. Wang Miao took out the stack of film rolls and began to recount the bizarre events that had happened to him. Shen Yufei listened attentively, but when it came to the film, she only picked them up and gave them a quick glance, without examining them closely. This shocked Wang Miao—now he was even more certain that Shen Yufei wasn't completely unaware of this matter. It almost made him stop talking, but Shen Yufei nodded several times to signal him to continue, so he finished the story. Only then did Shen Yufei say her first words since they'd met:
"How's the nanomaterial project you're leading?"
This irrelevant question took Wang Miao by surprise. "The nanomaterial project? What does that have to do with this?" He gestured at the stack of film.
Shen Yufei said nothing; she just looked at him quietly, waiting for his answer. This was her style of conversation—never saying a word more than necessary.
"Stop the research," Shen Yufei said.
"What?" Wang Miao thought he'd misheard. "What did you say?"
Shen Yufei remained silent, not repeating her words.
"Stop it?! That's a key national project!"
Shen Yufei still said nothing, just looking at him with calm eyes.
"You have to tell me why!"
"Just try stopping it."
"What exactly do you know? Tell me!"
"That's all I can tell you."
"The project can't stop— and it won't stop!"
"Just try stopping it."
As for the ghostly countdown…
"I understand now—'Science Boundary' isn't an academic exchange organization for basic theory like you claim. Its connection to reality is far more complicated than I thought," Wang Miao said.
"On the contrary, you get this impression because what 'Science Boundary' deals with is far more fundamental than you imagine."
Overwhelmed by despair, Wang Miao stood up to leave without saying goodbye. Shen Yufei silently walked him all the way to the courtyard gate and watched him get into the taxi. Just then, another car raced over and skidded to a stop in front of the gate. A man got out, and by the light coming from the villa, Wang Miao recognized him at a glance.
It was Pan Han—one of the most prominent figures in "Science Boundary." As a biologist, he had successfully predicted the genetic deformities in offspring caused by long-term consumption of genetically modified (GM) agricultural products, as well as the potential ecological disasters from GM crops. Unlike those scholars who made empty doomsday claims, his predictions were filled with specific details—and every one of them had come true with shocking accuracy. There were even rumors that he was from the future.
Another feat that had made him famous was the creation of China's first experimental community. Unlike Western utopian groups that sought to return to nature, his "Chinese Pastoral" was not located in the wilderness, but right in the heart of a major city. The community owned no property whatsoever; all daily necessities, including food, came from urban waste. Contrary to initial expectations, "Chinese Pastoral" not only survived but also grew rapidly, with over 3,000 permanent members—and countless others who visited regularly to experience its way of life.
Building on these two successes, Pan Han's social ideas had grown increasingly influential. He argued that the technological revolution was a disease of human society: the explosive development of technology was comparable to the rapid spread of cancer cells, and both would eventually deplete the organism's nutrients, damage its organs, and lead to the death of its host. He advocated for abolishing "crude" technologies such as fossil energy and nuclear power, while preserving "gentle" ones like solar energy and small hydropower. He proposed dismantling large cities gradually, distributing the population evenly across self-sufficient small towns and villages, and building a "new agricultural society" based on "gentle technologies."
"Is he here?" Pan Han asked, pointing to the second floor of the villa.
Shen Yufei didn't answer; she just stood silently in front of him, blocking his way.
"I'm here to warn him—and you too. Don't push us!" Pan Han said coldly.
Shen Yufei still didn't reply. Instead, she turned to Wang Miao in the taxi and said, "Go. It's fine." Then she signaled the driver to leave. Once the car started, Wang Miao couldn't hear their conversation anymore. Glancing back, he saw that under the light, Shen Yufei never let Pan Han enter the villa.
It was late at night when he got home. Wang Miao got out of the taxi at the entrance of his residential complex, and a black Santana skidded to a stop right beside him. The window rolled down, and a cloud of smoke puffed out—it was Da Shi, his burly frame filling the driver's seat.
"Whoa, Professor Wang—'Academician' Wang! How've you been these past two days?"
"Are you following me? This is ridiculous!"
"Don't get me wrong. If I'd just driven past, that would've been it. I was being polite to say hi, and you're taking it the wrong way," Da Shi broke into his signature silly grin, looking like a rogue. "So, did you see anything useful over there?"
"I told you—I have nothing to do with you anymore. Please don't follow me from now on!"
"Fine then—" Da Shi started the car. "As if I enjoy earning this lousy night shift money. I even missed the ball game."
Wang Miao entered his apartment. His wife and child were already asleep. He heard his wife toss restlessly in bed, murmuring incoherently. He wondered what kind of nightmares his bizarre behavior that day would bring her. Wang Miao took two sleeping pills, lay down, and after a long time, finally drifted into a fitful sleep.
His dreams were chaotic, but one thing remained constant: the ghostly countdown. In fact, Wang Miao had long expected the countdown to appear in his dreams. In the dream, he frantically hit the countdown hovering in mid-air, tore at it, bit it—but all his blows passed through it uselessly. It hung steadily in the center of his dream, relentlessly ticking down. It made him so frantic that he finally woke up.
He opened his eyes and saw the blurry ceiling. The city's lights filtered through the curtains, casting faint halos on it. But one thing had followed him from his dream into reality: the ghostly countdown. It still appeared before his open eyes—thin numbers, but bright, emitting a searing white glow.
1185:11:34, 1185:11:33, 1185:11:32, 1185:11:31…
Wang Miao turned his head, glimpsed the blurred shapes in the bedroom, and confirmed he was awake—but the countdown didn't disappear. He closed his eyes, and the countdown still showed in his pitch-black field of vision, like shining mercury on black velvet. He opened his eyes again and rubbed them, but the countdown remained. No matter where he moved his gaze, the string of numbers clung firmly to the center of his sight.
A nameless fear jolted Wang Miao upright. The countdown was glued to him. He jumped out of bed, rushed to the window, tore open the curtains, and pushed the window wide. The sleeping city outside was still bathed in light, and the countdown appeared against this vast backdrop, like subtitles on a movie screen.
For a moment, Wang Miao felt himself choking. He let out a low gasp. When his awakened wife asked in panic, he forced himself to calm down, told her it was nothing, then lay back down. He spent the rest of the night struggling under the glow of the ghostly countdown.
The next morning, Wang Miao tried to act normal in front of his family, but his wife still noticed something was wrong. She asked if his eyes were okay—if he couldn't see clearly.
After breakfast, Wang Miao asked for leave from the Nanomaterial Center and drove to the hospital. Along the way, the ghostly countdown lay relentlessly across the real world in his eyes. It automatically adjusted its brightness, remaining clear against any background. Wang Miao even stared at the rising sun, hoping the intense light would temporarily hide the countdown—but it was useless. The devilish numbers even appeared on the sun's disk. This time, instead of increasing brightness, they turned black, making them even more terrifying.
It was hard to get an appointment at Tongren Hospital, so Wang Miao went straight to a classmate of his wife's—a renowned ophthalmologist. He didn't explain his symptoms first; he just asked the doctor to examine his eyes. After a thorough check, the doctor told him no abnormalities were found—his eyes were perfectly healthy.
"There's always something I see in my eyes, no matter where I look," Wang Miao said. At that moment, the string of numbers was hanging right in front of the doctor's face.
175:11:34, 1175:11:33, 1175:11:32, 1175:11:31…
"Floaters," the doctor said, pulling out a prescription pad and starting to write. "A common eye condition for people our age—clouding of the lens. It's not easy to treat, but it's nothing serious. I'll prescribe some iodine eye drops and vitamin D. Maybe they'll help absorb the floaters, but don't get your hopes up. Still, it really isn't a big deal. Once you get used to ignoring those little things in your field of vision, it won't affect your eyesight at all."
"What do these… floaters look like, the ones you're talking about?"
"Irregular—varies from person to person. Sometimes they're tiny black dots, sometimes they look like tadpoles."
"What if what I'm seeing is a string of numbers?"
The doctor's pen paused mid-prescription. "You're seeing a string of numbers?"
"Yes. Hanging right in the center of my field of vision."
The doctor pushed aside the paper and pen, looking at him with concern. "I could tell the moment you walked in—you're overworked. At our last class reunion, Li Yao mentioned you, said you've been under a lot of work pressure. At our age, we need to be careful. We can't afford to burn out our health."
"So you're saying this is caused by mental stress?"
The doctor nodded. "If you were an ordinary patient, I'd suggest seeing a psychiatrist. But it's not necessary—really, it's nothing serious, just exhaustion. Take a few days off. Go on vacation—with Li Yao.
Such a process consumed enormous resources, and the resulting products were arguably the most valuable treasures in the world—mass production was utterly impossible.
What the laboratory was now attempting was to replace molecular construction with a catalytic reaction, allowing a vast number of molecules to complete the "brick-laying" process simultaneously during the reaction. The experiments were conducted in the reaction black box: this piece of equipment could run reaction tests across an enormous number of component combinations—combinations that would take a hundred years to test manually with traditional methods, but could be completed quickly and automatically in the black box. Moreover, it was an integrated device that combined physical reactions with digital simulation. When the synthesis reached a certain stage, the computer would build a digital model of the reaction based on the阶段性 (phased) results, and replace the remaining reaction process with digital simulation—greatly improving experimental efficiency.
When the lab director saw Wang Miao, he hurried over to report a series of recent malfunctions in the reaction black box. This had become a daily occurrence for Wang Miao when he came to work lately. The reaction black box had been running continuously for over a year; many sensors had declined in sensitivity and increased in error, and urgent maintenance was needed. But as the project's chief scientist, Wang Miao had insisted on completing the third batch of synthesis combinations before shutting it down. The engineers had no choice but to add more and more compensation devices to the black box—devices that now themselves required compensation adjustments, leaving the entire team exhausted. However, the director carefully avoided mentioning shutting down or pausing the experiment, fearing Wang Miao would fly into a rage like he had in previous instances. He only laid out all the difficulties, making his intention clear.
Wang Miao looked up at the reaction black box; it seemed like a womb, with engineers bustling around it, struggling to keep it running normally. Overlaid on this scene was the ghostly countdown.
1174:21:11, 1174:21:10, 1174:21:09, 1174:21:08…
Just try stopping it. Shen Yufei's words suddenly echoed in Wang Miao's mind.
"How long will it take to fully update the external sensor system?" he asked.
"Four or five days," the lab director suddenly saw hope, and quickly added, "If we work faster, three days tops, Director Wang—I promise!"
I'm not giving in. The equipment really needs maintenance, so the experiment has to pause. It has nothing to do with anything else. Wang Miao said this to himself, then turned to the director, looking at him through the countdown numbers. "Shut down the experiment. Stop the machine for maintenance, follow the timeline you mentioned."
"Understood, Director Wang! I'll have an update plan for you soon—we can shut down by this afternoon!" the director said excitedly.
"Shut it down now."
The director stared at Wang Miao as if seeing him for the first time, but quickly regained his excitement—afraid of losing this chance. He picked up the phone and issued the shutdown order. The exhausted researchers and engineers in the project team perked up instantly, and began flipping hundreds of complex switches according to procedure. One monitoring screen after another went dark, and finally, the main monitoring screen showed the shutdown status.
Almost at the same moment, the countdown in front of Wang Miao's eyes stopped. The numbers froze at 1174:20:35. A few seconds later, the numbers flickered several times and disappeared.
When reality—no longer covered by the ghostly countdown—reappeared before him, Wang Miao let out a long sigh of relief, as if he had just struggled out of deep water. He sat down weakly, and soon realized someone was watching him nearby.
He said to the lab director, "System updates are the equipment department's responsibility. Let your experimental team take a few days off—everyone's been working too hard lately."
"Director Wang, you're exhausted too. Here's a…"
"Yes, I'm exhausted," Wang Miao said weakly. After the director left, he picked up the phone and dialed Shen Yufei's number. She answered on the first ring.
"What's behind all this?" Wang Miao asked, trying to keep his voice calm—but failing.
Silence.
"What's at the end of the countdown?"
Silence.
"Are you listening?"
"Yes."
"What's the problem with high-strength nanomaterials? This isn't a high-energy accelerator—it's just an applied research project. Is it really worth this kind of attention?"
"We aren't the ones to judge what's worth attention."
"That's enough!" Wang Miao roared. The fear and despair in his heart suddenly turned into frantic anger. "Do you think you can fool me with these cheap tricks? Stop technological progress? I admit I can't explain it technically for now, but that's only because I haven't gotten behind that despicable magician yet!"
"You mean… you want to see the countdown on a larger scale?"
Shen Yufei's words made Wang Miao pause. He hadn't prepared for this question, so he forced himself to calm down to avoid falling into a trap. "Drop your tricks. So what if it's on a larger scale? You can still play your magic! You could project holograms into the sky, like NATO did in the last war. Powerful lasers could even project images across the entire surface of the moon! The Shooter and the Farmer should be capable of manipulating scales beyond human reach—for example, could the countdown appear on the surface of the sun?" As soon as he spoke, Wang Miao's mouth dropped open in surprise. He had unconsciously uttered those two terms that should have been taboo by now. Fortunately, he hadn't mentioned the even more forbidden one. He wanted to seize more initiative, so he continued, "Considering possibilities I haven't thought of yet, even on the scale of the sun, your despicable magician might still pull off a trick. For that power to be truly convincing, the scale of the display needs to be even larger."
"The question is, can you handle it? We're friends. I want to help you—don't follow Yang Dong's path."
Hearing that name, Wang Miao couldn't help but shiver. But the anger that followed made him reckless: "Do you accept this challenge?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?" Wang Miao's voice turned feeble.
"Do you have a computer with internet access nearby? Good. Go to this URL: Got it open? Print out the webpage and keep it with you."
Wang Miao saw that the webpage only displayed a Morse code conversion table.
"I don't understand. What is this…"
"Within the next two days, find a place where you can observe cosmic microwave background radiation. Check the email I'll send you shortly for details."
"What is this… for?"
"I know the nanomaterial research project has been halted. Do you plan to restart it?"
"Of course. In three days."
"Then the countdown will continue."
"On what scale will I see it?"
After a long silence, this woman—speaking for a force beyond human comprehension—coldly cut off all escape routes for Wang Miao.
"In three days, that is, on the 14th, between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m., the entire universe will flicker for you."