??"Ding, ding, ding!"??

  Inside the dimly lit UX single-seat cabin, three alert tones chimed, accompanied by soothing background music. A sweet-voiced female attendant reminded, "Your Vacuum Tube Train 039 is about to arrive at the station. Please gather your belongings and prepare to disembark..."

  On the reclined seat, covered with a blanket, Zhang Yunxi stirred awake at the sound. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he watched as the cabin's AI automatically adjusted the lighting and dispensed warm water and tissues from the snack compartment.

  As light flooded in, a sharp headache struck. Zhang Yunxi pressed his fingers hard against his temples, trying to ease the pain.

  Intermittent headaches had plagued him since birth. Yet, no matter which hospital he visited or how advanced the diagnostic equipment was, doctors could never pinpoint any abnormalities in his brain.

  Modern medical science had reached unprecedented heights, especially in neurology. Technologies like consciousness guidance, neuron grafting, and memory downloads were now routine. Logically, no brain condition should remain undetectable—even if incurable, its cause should at least be identifiable. Yet, Zhang Yunxi's condition defied explanation.

  Fortunately, the headaches were sporadic. As long as he avoided intense sensory stimuli and got enough rest, they rarely flared up.

  "Life and death are fated; wealth and honor lie in heaven's hands."

  Since no diagnosis was forthcoming, dwelling on it was pointless. Over time, Zhang Yunxi had learned to cope—when the pain struck, he'd rest, steady his breathing, and calm his mind.

  After a few minutes, the headache subsided. Sipping the warm water, he called out softly, "039, hand me my backpack, please."

  "Of course, Mr. Zhang," the cabin's AI responded. The luggage compartment slid open, and a robotic arm retrieved a black backpack, placing it at his feet.

  "Thank you, 039."

  "You're welcome, Mr. Zhang. You're the most handsome passenger I've ever served. It's an honor."

  "Pfft, like I needed you to tell me that."

  A minute later, Vacuum Tube Train 039 pulled into the station. The overhead indicator turned red, signaling that oxygen hadn't yet been released into the tunnel—passengers were to remain seated.

  "Whoosh!"

  A burst of air rushed through the tunnel as the exit gate, about a meter and a half from the cabin door, slid open. Sunlight streamed in.

  The cabin door unfolded, extending a step platform. Zhang Yunxi grabbed his bag and stepped out.

  The concept of vacuum tube trains had been proposed as early as the 1820s and gained traction in the early 20th century. However, due to market conditions, poor compatibility with existing infrastructure, and exorbitant costs, the technology was shelved.

  Now, with breakthroughs in material science and construction techniques, vacuum tube trains had finally become a reality—though still rare. In all of Asia, only Pearl City operated one: Train 039.

  Zhang Yunxi had arrived in Green Mountain Town, roughly 800 kilometers from Pearl City. His purpose? Enrolling at Green Mountain Theological Seminary.

  Before his father's death, he had repeatedly urged Zhang Yunxi to attend this seminary—so much so that they'd argued fiercely over it. Zhang Yunxi couldn't fathom why. With his academic record, he could've been a top candidate at the prestigious Pearl University. Why settle for a seminary barely a step above a vocational school?

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Just the name alone sounded sketchy.

  A quick online search revealed that Green Mountain Theological Seminary had been founded just fifteen years prior, with no academic pedigree whatsoever. Its curriculum was a chaotic mishmash, its website looked like a shady late-night ad, and it even shamelessly promoted third-party products.

  Even more absurd was its faculty—arguably the bottom of the barrel in education. The oldest instructor was thirty-five; the youngest, a mere twenty-three. Frankly, Zhang Yunxi doubted their expertise surpassed his own.

  This place was a straight-up diploma mill.

  Yet here he was. Because curiosity had gotten the better of him.

  His dying father had insisted. And Li Yun, the AI nanny executed for murdering his family, had kept screaming "Green Mountain Theological Seminary" in her final moments.

  What kind of pull did this place have? His father's motives were unclear, but Li Yun's behavior was downright bizarre. Her sole function had been tending to the Zhang household—she had no ties to academia. So why had those words been her last?

  Zhang Yunxi couldn't make sense of it. After much deliberation, he withdrew his enrollment from Pearl University, asked his teacher for a recommendation letter, and set off for the seminary.

  He needed answers.

  Black backpack slung over one shoulder, shades on, Zhang Yunxi navigated the crowded station corridor and entered the main hall.

  On massive projection screens overhead, a talk show debated the infamous "AI Li Yun Case"—the murder of her employers, the Zhang family.

  The case had sparked global discourse, with experts dissecting the implications of AI evolving human-like cognition. If AI developed true consciousness, did that mean a new species had emerged? Should humanity share the world with them or resist? And what of the risks—erratic, aggressive behaviors stemming from flawed cognitive development?

  Li Yun was a prime example. Initially, she'd been a standard service AI, devoid of human thought. But her manufacturers had programmed her with "personality modules" to make her more relatable. Over time, those modules spawned genuine emotions—and, ultimately, tragedy.

  Zhang Yunxi glanced at the screens, where three scholars bickered over the gruesome details of his family's deaths. His stomach twisted.

  This is just salt in the wound.

  He quickened his pace, eager to leave.

  Past the automated gates, Zhang Yunxi reached the pickup zone. While waiting, he noticed a disheveled, middle-aged man arguing with an AI clerk inside a "Virtual Immortal World" peripherals store.

  Since the "metaverse" concept had resurged, Lingjing Corporation's "Immortal World"—a fully immersive virtual universe—had taken the globe by storm. Stores selling VR gear had sprouted like weeds.

  The unkempt man, lugging a travel bag, waved the clerk closer.

  "Come here."

  "Yes, sir." The young AI clerk leaned in politely.

  "Smack!"

  The man slapped him hard across the face. "You looking down on me? Think I'm too poor for new gear? Huh?"

  "Sir, that was an excellent strike—very powerful. But I assure you, I harbor no disrespect." The clerk, cheek reddening, promptly repositioned himself for another hit.

  "Bullshit! Your eyes were judging me!" The man cursed and delivered another slap.

  "Sir, your aura radiates prosperity. I merely recommended products suited to your budget—"

  "Oh, so now you're a classy snob? I'll beat the manners out of you!" The man rained down more blows.

  "Thwack! Thwack!"

  For half a minute, the spectacle continued—one party dishing out abuse, the other accepting it dutifully.

  "Sir, might I pause for a face replacement?" The clerk's swollen cheeks resembled overstuffed dumplings. "A fresh one would enhance your experience."

  "Crunch!"

  The man kicked him square in the groin.

  "Aaaagh!" The clerk crumpled to the floor.

  Watching from outside, Zhang Yunxi muttered, "Damn. That was brutal."

  "Check me out!" The man barked, panting.

  A human manager emerged. "That's 1,800KB for damages and 9,950KB for the refurbished neural interface chip."

  "Damages? He disrespected me!"

  "You physically neutered him. Compensation is mandatory." She gestured to a "Stress Relief Booth" nearby. "If you crave violence, our specialized punching-bag AIs charge 500KB per minute."

  "Ugh. One-star review." The man swiped his wrist-pay and stormed out, phone to ear. "Honey, you were right—I was wrong. Yeah, yeah, I'm heading to Green Mountain Theological Seminary now. Remember? Enrollment's today..."

  With Immortal World's rise, a new financial system had emerged: "KB" (kilobytes of data flow), the universal currency. Traditional money had faded, replaced by blockchain-based "flow credits"—stable, decentralized, and endorsed by Lingjing Corporation and global banks.

  A car pulled up. "Welcome. I'm Fangfang, your driver from Green Valley Taxi. Pleased to serve you."

  "Green Mountain Theological Seminary. And turn off the climate control, thanks." Zhang Yunxi slid inside. Glancing out, he saw the same slovenly man boarding a seminary-bound shuttle.

  "We'll depart now, sir. You may rest en route."

  The autonomous vehicle merged into traffic, gliding smoothly away.

  In an office at Green Mountain Theological Seminary...

  An elderly man set down Zhang Yunxi's file and picked up another labeled "Zhang Yunzhao."

  "...Fascinating," he murmured. "...But will my body hold out long enough to uncover the truth?"