Chapter 232: Breeding Factory?

Chapter 232: The Breeding Factory?

We have taken everything.

We must kindle the spark.

For Chen Jian, those two sentences were hardly surprising.

He had long been aware of the Spark Plan, and the phrasing “took everything” did not catch him off guard.

But

“This world is being filtered”?

The horror of that sentence far eclipsed everything Chen Jian had witnessed since arriving in this world.

The word “filter” involuntarily summoned the infamous “Great Filter” hypothesis in his mind.

A sudden vanishing of populations, the collapse of faiths, endless cascading calamities, a civilization that failed to rise again for three whole centuries.

It indeed resembled a Great Filter.

Chen Jian’s face grew grave, while beside him, Ji Xing asked with a hint of bewilderment:

“Commander, what does ‘filter’ mean?”

“The Fermi paradox.”

Lei Jie exhaled, then answered:

“It is a macroscopic conjecture about cosmic civilizations; you need not grasp its full nuance, but I can illustrate with a simple example.”

“Consider how human towns, scattered across the globe, inevitably become linked by merchants and travelers, no matter how distant.”

“Even a city utterly isolated—unreachable by traders—can, once its inhabitants master radio, hear the chaotic static of worldwide transmissions from afar.”

“Now the question arises.”

“If a city, from its inception to the present, never receives any signal nor any clue of other kindred beings, what do you think the cause might be?”

“—Perhaps because there are no humans around it at all? Perhaps humanity has vanished from this world?”

Ji Xing ventured the question; Lei Jie nodded and replied:

“That is a highly plausible answer.”

“But now a new question emerges.”

“The people of that city did nothing extraordinary, possessed no special traits, yet survived—why did those elsewhere not?”

“Viewed on a cosmic scale, the dilemma becomes: why does humanity exist while the vast, observable heavens harbor no other intelligent life?”

Lei Jie’s words left Ji Xing slightly bewildered; to her, topics of cosmos, starlight, and civilizational progress felt overwhelmingly grand.

Nevertheless, she grasped the gist of Lei Jie’s illustration.

“So, the Great Filter means—”

“Either all other humans have been annihilated, or every human capable of wielding radio and announcing their presence in this world has been wiped out?”

“Clever.”

Lei Jie nodded, while the few present, Ji Xing among them, wore expressions of disquiet.

From the beginning, the greatest catastrophe they knew was the so‑called “Great Cataclysm,” and the fiercest foe was the monster.

Yet now, a so‑called Great Filter materialized out of thin air??

Or perhaps the Great Cataclysm and the monsters were always part of the Great Filter?

Ji Xing stared blankly at Chen Jian, who shook his head and said:

“Mulling over this is futile.”

“Open the door.”

“They claim they took everything, yet I doubt they emptied the place entirely.”

“We must see what lies within; perhaps they left us other vital clues.”

“Fuxi, attempt to breach the 001 installation network and open the door directly!”

“No installation network signal detected.”

Fuxi’s voice resonated through the headset.

“Commander, to the right of the installation’s main gate lies a sealed low‑voltage box, a direct entry point to the internal network.”

“You may try to connect using the portable micro‑base station interface.”

“Understood.”

Chen Jian gave Lei Jie a glance; Lei immediately advanced, using the exoskeleton’s strength to violently strip the low‑voltage box’s outer shielding, then began linking the cables.

Throughout, the 001 installation’s AI remained utterly unresponsive.

Its “machine soul” had already departed.

What remained was merely a soulless husk.

Moments later, the cables were linked.

Immediately, Fuxi’s voice rang out again.

“I have seized control of the 001 installation; power supply is stable.”

“The installation’s AI has fully collapsed; we estimate the structure is partially ruined.”

“Preparing to open the door.”

“Acknowledged, opening.”

As Chen Jian’s words faded, the heavy isolation door creaked open slowly.

The “Holy Father” behind the group stared in stunned silence, trembling forward as if eager to probe the secrets beyond the doorway.

Yet when the door fully opened, he instinctively bowed his head, as if driven by some primal command.

He dared not look.

For decades he had led the Holy Bloods under the banner of “Holy Father,” chased the same secret for years, and been trapped in an unsolvable riddle; his mind had become inseparably fused with that very secret.

All his actions no longer seemed driven by the pursuit of answers.

On the contrary, the act of “seeking” itself had become his purpose.

Thus, as the truth neared revelation, his fear and unease only deepened.

Chen Jian and his companions stepped into the installation.

Fuxi, commandeering the barely functioning communications network, ignited every light within the installation.

A blinding glare poured from the doorway, painting a searing white before the man’s eyes.

Instinctively he reached out to grasp that whiteness, but when the light truly struck his hand, he recoiled as if shocked, retreating wholly into the darkness.

Chaotic thoughts flooded his mind.

He did not know where to go from here.

Until the sounds of those Huaxia soldiers drifted from within the gate.

“By God, this isn’t even a half‑ruined structure!”

“This is a facility that’s already been used!”

The man snapped his head up in an instant.

In that moment, he finally made his decision.

He lifted his foot and stepped through the yawning doorway, and when the fleeting glare faded, the sight before his eyes left him rooted to the spot.

“This is—”

He could not find words to describe what lay before him.

Everything was something he had never seen before.

Strange devices, one translucent chamber after another, a labyrinth of pipes.

He turned his gaze toward Chen Jian, as if seeking an answer from him.

But Chen Jian wore an equally bewildered expression.

“These things… they aren’t hibernation pods, are they?”

“No.”

As Chen Jian’s voice fell, Fuxi’s tone resonated through the earpiece.

“This is an artificial womb.”

“More precisely, it is a life‑support system for extreme pre‑term infants.” “It was conceived in 2036, with the technology maturing by 2040.”

“In ideal conditions, this system can advance the viable gestational age of a pre‑term infant to sixteen weeks—that is, four months.”

“The fetus need only spend four months inside the mother’s body, after which it can be extracted via a non‑invasive procedure and transferred to the artificial womb.”

“It began as a purely medical device, yet its unique function has forever entangled it in profound ethical dilemmas.”

“Thus, the apparatus never achieved full distribution before 2045, nor before the Great Cataclysm struck.”

“But there are so many of them here.”

“It is evident that they were fabricated only after the Cataclysm.”

“This place may be a birthing factory.”

A birthing factory.

When Fuxi uttered those four words, Chen Jian’s skin prickled with a sudden layer of gooseflesh.

He had only ever heard the term in dystopian cyber‑punk tales, and the cruel, inhuman connotation it carried sent a shiver down his spine.

Could this truly be something only our own kind could devise?

Instinctively, Chen Jian reached out to touch the glass panel covering the artificial womb before him, and at that very moment he sensed something amiss.

The living quarters claimed by the so‑called “artificial womb” were not cold.

Every piece of equipment bore hanging ornaments of singular symbolic weight.

Decayed wooden carvings, plush toys that crumbled to dust at a touch, a faded cartoon rabbit in a glass corner, and names—clear tokens of hope—inscribed to denote infant identities.

Such features are not what one expects of a “factory.”

Those who once dwelt here still harbored warm, optimistic expectations toward the act of procreation.

“This is not a factory.”

Chen Jian declared with conviction:

“It is a hospital.”

“A hospital with a research component!”

“This must once have been a thriving settlement. Press onward!”

At Chen Jian’s command, everyone bypassed the chaotic apparatus and, guided by Fuxi, descended to the next level.

Within the 001 complex, the intelligent systems and network communications lay in ruins, many devices were beyond repair, and their progress was far from smooth.

Yet after two successive descents, they finally beheld the object they most longed to see.

An intelligent workshop.

And the instant his eyes fell through the glass upon those antiquated machines, a flash of electricity seemed to spark within Chen Jian’s mind.

It was clear that this workshop had long been activated.

Moreover, it had been pushed to the brink of its operational lifespan.

Indeed, this was a “half‑ruined” installation.

But to label it “ruined” felt inaccurate.

The term “worn” seemed more fitting.

“This installation’s potential has been completely exhausted.”

“Yet that makes no sense—if the facility had truly been developed before, why does Fuxi’s database contain no record?”

“No, that’s not the point.”

“This is the 001 complex; if the entire site had been fully exploited, how could they have left so few traces?”

“We only opened 011, and now we’re planning coking plants, steel mills, and more industrial sites.”

“Did they not leave additional industrial structures? Did they—”

“No, you’re mistaken.”

Lei Jie abruptly cut off Chen Jian’s question, inhaled deeply, and began:

“If——I mean, if the time this complex was activated was after the Great Cataclysm, what then?”

“If, within a brief span, the northern survivors organized themselves, seized the 001 complex, and prepared to rebuild civilization?”

“At that moment, most surrounding industrial facilities would still be functional; they would have no need to squander precious resources rebuilding them.”

“That implies they would not alter the surrounding ‘industrial environment.’”

“They left no new footprints because they repurposed the heritage above ground, not the one buried beneath.”

“In that light, many things become logical.”

“Their greatest shortage was people, so they erected a massive hospital here.”

“Consider this: in humanity’s reproductive cycle, what is the most crucial element?”

“It is the mother.”

“If the maternal gestation period could be trimmed from ten months to four, and the shorter recovery after early‑term birth added, how high could their reproductive efficiency soar?”

“Honestly, I loathe uttering the phrase ‘reproductive efficiency.’”

“But perhaps that is precisely the stark, pragmatic dilemma they face.”

When Lei Jie’s words faded, Chen Jian fell into a brief silence.

A moment later, he nodded slowly.

“​In that light, the fertility worship of Huadu seems far more reasonable.”

“​Lin Jing’s records repeatedly stress the importance of reproduction, a point that even eclipses what she calls the ‘Seed Project.’”

“​Could it be that the information she obtained was inherently one‑sided?”

“​She knows she must pursue fertility, yet she does not know why she must.”

“​It is quite possible.”

Lei Jie let out a heavy sigh.

In that instant, everyone seemed to glimpse the struggle of those indomitable individuals who survived the great cataclysm.

Under the shadow of an unknown disaster, these people had banded together.

They endeavored, in the simplest of ways, to perpetuate civilization, even daring to adopt methods that certain factions would never comprehend, in order to hasten the march of procreation.

They acted without reservation.

Yet that very lack of restraint commanded a reluctant reverence.

Chen Jian led his squad deeper, and along the way he uncovered ever more traces of those who had once lived here.

Rough‑hewn yet functional tools, decayed fabrics, and assorted household items evidently abandoned during the evacuation.

These objects, weathered and corroded, seemed to Chen Jian like a living fragment of history.

At last, the team reached the computational tier of the facility.

As he had anticipated, the quantum computers here had already been dismantled and removed.

That was the most vital component of the installation; clearly, anyone who still had the strength would never abandon it.

But why, then, had they left?

The fog of doubt in Chen Jian’s mind swirled dense, and just then, Fuxi’s voice rang out once more.

“​Commander, I have successfully accessed the facility’s storage system.”

“​They removed all computing and storage devices from Installation 001, but they overlooked the nuclear facility’s storage unit.”

“​I have retrieved the log records backed up in the underground nuclear command chamber.”

“​The logs have been transmitted to your PDA; please review them.”

Chen Jian’s heart leapt.

Then a block of text materialized before his eyes.

“​December 31, 2046, 10:36 AM: I have entered the nuclear command chamber; the installation is operating smoothly.”

“​December 31, 2046, 10:36 AM: 001 understood—henceforth, you and your team are responsible for its watch.”

(End of Chapter)