As he signed the electronic agreement, a slight, bio-electric-like sting traveled through Lin Che’s fingertips before vanishing. It wasn’t an illusion; it was the nano-level biometric confirmation embedded within the contract. From this moment, he was officially part of the Weihuan Technology behemoth, but it also meant he had voluntarily stepped into a more precise surveillance network, bound by that astronomical penalty clause.
The onboarding process was efficient, automated, and devoid of any superfluous emotion. His biometric data was deeply scanned and recorded, his access permissions meticulously delineated down to specific data interfaces. A lengthy and draconian code of conduct was loaded directly onto his personal terminal; any deviation could trigger a system alert.
His assigned personal workspace was on a higher floor of Weihuan Tower, with a broad view and top-tier equipment. But everything here—from the constant light temperature to the circulating AIr—was regulated by the central system, lacking the warmth of human presence. Chen Yuan made an appearance on his first day to welcome him and informed him that he would be participating in an important new project kickoff meeting in a few days, where specific tasks would be assigned.
This seemingly relaxed arrangement didn’t put Lin Che at ease; instead, it made him feel uneasy, as if he were placed in an observation zone. He knew he had to use this relatively “free” time to find clues quickly.
He recalled the Data Ghost’s final fragment: “…in… the Place of Origin…“
What was the “Place of Origin”? A specific coordinate within the “Mirrorworld“? A piece of forgotten initial code? Or was it a physically existing, original laboratory of Weihuan Tech?
Searches of public data and the internal database’s常规 channels yielded nothing. The term seemed not to exist or had been completely erased by the highest clearance levels.
He had to take the risk again, to dive into deeper layers of the data realm. This time, he couldn’t use his crude modified setup from home. He needed to utilize Weihuan’s internal resources but had to avoid the core monitoring.
He thought of the “Deep Experience Center” used during the tests. The equipment there was more advanced, the connection more stable, and as a new employee, he had a certain usage quota. The key was how to perform an “unconventional” deep dive there without it being logged in detail by the system.
He booked a “Personal Adaptation Training” session through the internal system, located precisely at the Deep Experience Center. He chose an off-peak time slot and entered a standard link pod alone.
“Initiate standard connection protocol. Load personal training environment ‘Tranquil Valley’,” he gave the voice command. It was an official, low-stimulus environment for meditation and relaxation.
The system confirmed. The familiar sensation of connection arrived. He found himself in a virtual valley with warm sunlight and a babbling brook.
But he didn’t immerse himself in it. Holding his breath and concentrating, like a swimmer diving underwater, he began mobilizing his consciousness, attempting to bypass the official interface restrictions and touch the underlying data stream. It was extremely difficult, like drilling through solid ice. Weihuan’s system protection was far more robust than his personal equipment.
Sweat beaded on his temples. He recalled the Data Ghost’s unique “frequency,” that organic and chaotic fluctuation pattern, and used it as a “compass” to guide his own consciousness.
Suddenly, he felt a slight “give.” His consciousness successfully pierced a weak point in the protocol barrier. He was no longer experiencing the official virtual environment but was once again plummeting into that vast, raw, information-pure Code Abyss.
The feeling here was similar to his previous dangerous connection, but the scenery was more “monumental” and yet more chaotic. Instead of a narrow code path, it was an endless, turbulent ocean of data. Massive information flows raced like galaxies in the darkness, filled with countless broken commands, residual memory fragments, and indecipherable noise. The background whispers and weeping-like static had transformed here into a perpetual, unsettling symphony.
He struggled to stabilize his consciousness-form, searching for direction within this chaos. He tried amplifying his perception, seeking any data signatures or structural patterns related to “initial,” “origin.”
He witnessed strange phenomena: enormous, skeletal structures of abandoned code floating slowly in the data currents; occasionally, condensed fragments of consciousness, glowing with dim light, swam past like deep-sea fish, carrying confusion and pain; further away, shadows of unimaginable scale seemed to writhe in the data mist—perhaps a core process of Hongmeng, or… something else.
This was the foundation of the “Mirrorworld,” the brutal reality beneath all the glossy surfaces. A living abyss that devoured and digested countless information.
He continued his search, enduring immense neural pressure and the dizziness of information overload. Just as he felt he was reaching his limit, within a relatively calm (or rather, the eye of the storm) data region, he detected a structure that was anomalously stable, standing in stark contrast to the surrounding chaos.
It wasn’t a file or a coordinate, but more like an… anchor point. A data structure emitting an extremely ancient, simple aura. It was remarkably concise yet existed within this frantic data storm, like the eye of the storm.
The “aura” it emitted felt subtly homologous with the Data Ghost’s fluctuations and the anomaly he’d perceived during the test.
Could this be the entrance to the “Place of Origin”? Or perhaps a projection or index of it?
He tried to approach, but an无形, powerful repulsion field blocked him. It wasn’t the system’s active defense, but更像 a property inherent to the “anchor point” itself—it refused unauthorized access.
Simultaneously, he felt a cold, grand will take notice of his unauthorized dive, like a leviathan in the deep sea slowly opening its eyes and casting a glance towards this intruder.
It was Hongmeng!
Lin Che immediately severed the connection, retreating from the Code Abyss at top speed.
He sat up sharply in the link pod, gasping for breath, his heart pounding. Although he hadn’t directly entered the “Place of Origin,” he had confirmed its existence and found a potential landmark.
However, before he could calm down, his personal terminal flashed with an urgent notification cursor. A message from Chen Yuan, its tone still pleasant, but the content made his heart sink:
“Lin Che, it seems your ‘personal training’ was quite intense. Good, maintain that spirit of exploration. The ‘Nirvana Project’ kickoff meeting has been moved up to tomorrow, 9 AM, in the ‘Hall of Creation’. Please be punctual. It’s time to the true core.”
Attached was a coordinate for the “Hall of Creation”—a location he’d never heard of, with an exceptionally high clearance level.
Lin Che looked at the message, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.
His deep dive had indeed been detected. Chen Yuan (or the system behind him) not only knew but seemed to be… guiding him.
What was the connection between the “Nirvana Project” and the “Place of Origin”? And what was hidden within the “Hall of Creation,” a place that sounded like the dwelling of gods?
He realized that the Code Abyss he had just glimpsed was perhaps only the surface of the real secret. A deeper vortex was pulling him towards the unknown core.
