Chapter 288: Wherever I Am Needed

Chapter 288: Where Do You Need Me

Lingxi

Chen Jian could no longer recall how long it had been since he last heard that name.

In truth, his only encounter with the AI Lingxi had been a fleeting one within the 095 installation.

After departing 095 and activating the 011 complex, the incomplete AI slipped away like a passing stranger, disappearing entirely behind the scenes.

Of course, that did not mean Lingxi had been utterly abandoned.

In fact, throughout the infrastructure projects and the maintenance of a slew of newly erected factories, Lingxi remained the primary management module.

It had simply retreated from the spotlight to the shadows, becoming a component of Fuxi.

Such a mode of existence, in Chen Jian’s mind, was the ideal form for a “dedicated‑grade AI.”

It need not converse with humans; it merely received the superior directives of Fuxi and translated them into concrete orders to be carried out.

Yet now Fuxi asserted that the AI in Mountain City might be Lingxi?

“Explain the basis of that judgment.”

Chen Jian’s tone remained calm.

A moment later, Fuxi’s voice crackled through his headset.

“The premise of the judgment is that the Beast Tide is linked to Mountain City, and Mountain City is linked to an AI; that is the foundation of all our conjecture.”

“If that premise holds, then based on my understanding of the Beast Tide’s command structure, I deem the commander’s intelligence to exhibit unstable fluctuations.”

“Fluctuations in intelligence are not uncommon among humans, yet the Beast Tide commander’s oscillations display a distinctly anomalous signature.”

“For instance, the commander can swiftly adjust strategy and tactics in response to our revealed traits, yet cannot infer how to combine the weapons we have already exposed.”

“I believe this trait aligns with the ‘functional limitation’ characteristic of a professional‑grade AI.”

When Fuxi finished speaking, Chen Jian’s brow furrowed slightly.

It was reasonable, essentially matching Shen Yue’s assessment, yet far more detailed.

Still, that seemed insufficient to prove that the foe we faced was a “not‑quite‑intelligent” AI, was it not?

“Anything else?”

Chen Jian pressed on.

“Yes.”

Fuxi replied:

“We once uncovered the disappearance of a quantum computer within the Spring City ruins.”

“Ordinarily, the quantum computing power stored in a single disaster‑recovery facility would suffice to sustain the vast majority of operations in a mid‑size city.”

“Even if hardware aging caused a decay in capacity, it would be unlikely to replenish it by such means.”

“Provided the installations remain intact, the optimal solution is to restore quantum communications between bases, leveraging cloud‑based compute to amplify capacity.”

“That is the course I would inevitably take, for re‑establishing quantum links is far easier than transporting a massive quantum computer.”

“Moreover, if it were Lingxi, it could not make such a choice.”

“Because it possesses only the right to use quantum communication hardware, not the authority to edit.”

“Understood.”

Chen Jian exhaled a long breath.

In fact, ever since the moment the quantum computer was discovered to have been moved, he had sensed an inexplicable logical paradox.

As Fuxi had said, computing power is not a fixed commodity; why not simply run it in the more stable original facilities? Why the compulsion to relocate?

At first he presumed it was a misguided decision by survivors ignorant of quantum‑communication technology.

Yet now it seemed it might have been a forced choice.

“If that is so, might we pierce their network directly and seize control at the supervisory layer?”

Chen Jian’s voice carried a hint of anticipation.

“I will attempt it.”

“Should I detect a penetrable signal, I shall endeavor to commandeer it.”

“But at present we lack sufficient gear to monitor enemy transmissions; that may take some time.”

“Understood.”

In other words, during the Beast Tide, crushing the enemy’s onslaught through AI compute alone was impossible.

This war must be fought, and we must win it.

There was no time to waste.

After the brief exchange, Chen Jian swiftly marshaled manpower for post‑battle recovery.

Their first task was to clear away the countless corpses of the small monsters they had slain.

Over a thousand bodies lay scattered around the perimeter of the 011 base, nearly filling the entire buffer zone.

If left unchecked, the rising March heat would cause them to rot swiftly; beyond the toxins many creatures bear, even the bacteria they spawn would pose a grave threat to the 011 base.

The cleanup raced against the clock, and Chen Jian himself joined the effort.

After several hours, as dawn’s gray light broke, a massive pit far from the base was completely filled.

Lacking sterilization tools, Chen Jian resorted to the most primitive method.

He had pre‑loaded the pit with heaps of firewood, stacking it layer upon layer with the monster carcasses.

When the final corpse was tossed in, flames roared to life.

Acrid black smoke billowed upward like a towering column of war‑signal.

Even from dozens of kilometres away the plume was unmistakable, heralding the opening of the most ferocious clash between humanity and monsters in centuries.

Standing upwind, Chen Jian marveled at the spectacle and said to Lei Jie, who had just dried his hands:

“Honestly, if we ever find the time, we should behead every one of these beasts.”

“The blood‑skeleton rites are still useful—blood offerings to the blood god, skulls presented upon the throne of skulls.”

“It may serve no practical purpose, but as psychological terror it is unparalleled.”

“Otherwise, how could the feeble blood‑skeleton brood trouble humanity so profoundly?”

“It’s simply because their image has become iconic; everyone fears them.”

“If we were to erect a grand observatory here, perhaps the monsters would quake at its sight as well?”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier? It’s already been burned down.”

Lei Jie shrugged and said:

“Next time, for sure—though first we must finish this war.”

“The Beast Tide is far from over. There is simply too much we still have to do.”

“This battle, the rate at which we’re consuming ammunition has already crossed the warning line.”

“According to Fuxi’s calculations, if we keep burning ammo at this pace, for a war of this magnitude we can manage at most four more engagements.”

“And the number of monsters is far beyond what four battles could eradicate; perhaps we truly must press the Mechanical Cult.”

“Indeed.”

Chen Jian nodded in agreement.

“They must still have a sizable stockpile of ammunition.”

“Since they can’t use it, why not hand it over to us?”

“But He Shuo is no longer in Jinling; you should go find Wang Lizi about this matter.”

“The ostriches of the Ring Chamber are about to hibernate; consider this the last thing they do for us before they disappear.”

Meanwhile, at the camp.

Yu Qian jolted awake from his dream, his hand instinctively reaching for the rifle at his side.

The cold metal soothed him instantly; as his blurry vision cleared, the realization struck— the fighting had already ended.

Before his eyes stood his children’s worried faces, their expressions flickering for a heartbeat when he rose abruptly, then breaking into smiles as they saw him regain consciousness.

“Dad!”

“Daddy!”

The daughter, mimicking her brother’s tone, cooed “Dad,” and Yu Qian exhaled a long breath, first wiping his own clothes before patting his son’s head. “Dad! You’re awake!”

“Are you alright? No injuries?”

Yu Qian shook his head, instinctively checking his body.

In truth, he could not tell whether he was hurt; after slaying that beast in the steel mill, he seemed to have entered an entirely new state.

He had forgotten himself, forgotten everything, even fear itself.

A fierce purpose drove him onward, leaving his mind with only a handful of stark, one‑dimensional tasks.

Kill the monsters—kill the monsters; clear the airfield—clear the airfield; haul the ammunition—haul the ammunition.

At times, Yu Qian felt his soul had been siphoned away, leaving him a cold, emotionless automaton.

Yet paradoxically, he could still see with crystal clarity why he was doing it.

That condition was an indescribable subtlety.

Only when the battle ceased and the commander ordered a rest did he finally allow himself to unwind.

He returned to his quarters, fell asleep immediately, and awoke hours later.

Dawn had already broken.

Sunlight streamed through the window; Yu Qian sat up, turned to his son and asked:

“Have you and your sister eaten yet?”

“We have!”

The boy answered quickly:

“Dad, we saved you some food!”

“It was sent by the officers of the Huaxia army!”

“There are cans—meat cans and fruit cans!”

“And plenty of fresh meat, rice, and a lot of candy! Special candy!”

“Dad, I gave some to my sister, and I ate some too!”

“But there’s still plenty left; I kept it all for you.”

While babbling, the boy rummaged in the corner cabinet and produced the stash of candy he had hidden.

He handed Yu Qian a heaping handful, leaving the older man momentarily at a loss.

“These… all candy?”

“All candy, but different kinds of candy!”

“The Huaxia officers said you can eat them straight or dissolve them in water.”

“They told me to give you extra candy because you’re exhausted and your blood sugar is low.”

“When you fell asleep they poured sugar water into you, but you never woke up.”

Yu Qian licked his lips and realized a faint sweetness lingered in his mouth.

When had that happened?

He could not recall at all.

It felt as if a blink of an eye had stolen countless moments from him.

He took the candy the boy had unwrapped, placed it in his mouth; the tart‑sweet flavor was unlike any candy he’d known, more akin to fruit jam.

Yu Qian spat the candy into his palm, examined it, then popped it back into his mouth.

He licked the sugary residue from his hand, and a smile finally blossomed on his face.

“Delicious!”

“Tasty, isn’t it? Not everyone gets this!”

“Not everyone gets…?”

Yu Qian was taken aback.

“Nobody else?”

Pride swelled on the boy’s face; he nodded emphatically and replied:

“The officers said only those who fought as reserves get cans, and only brave combatants earn candy.”

“But they only get a handful——we have a whole sack!”

As he spoke, the boy mischievously opened the cabinet again.

“Everything is right here!”

“The officers said this is a reward for heroes!”

“From what they told us, our family has not only candy but other things as well.”

“It’s just that the war is still raging, so they haven’t been handed out yet!”

Hero.

For a moment Yu Qian could not grasp the meaning of that title.

Was it referring to him?

In the past twenty‑plus years, no one had ever called him a “hero.”

In many moments, perhaps “coward” would have suited him better.

He still remembered the moment his wife died, how many people mocked him for not daring to take up arms to avenge those monsters, ridiculing his own weakness and cowardice.

Yet only he knew that, had he truly sought revenge, his own two children would inevitably perish in this apocalypse as well.

He could not imagine it, and he had no choice.

From that moment onward, he bore a heavy burden, a weight that gradually began to crush him.

But now.

He had, astonishingly, become a hero.

Yu Qian rose bewildered, gazing at his empty palm, then at the rifle the commander had personally handed him.

He did not know what had changed him.

It seemed that not long ago, he was still doubting whether the decision to migrate to Jinling New City was right.

Not long ago, he was dragging his wounded son across a road that seemed endless, trudging with a heart full of dread, fearing that a sudden monster might tear him apart.

Not long ago, he was meticulously tallying the work points he earned, pondering how to quickly save enough money to become a modest merchant who could truly live in Jinling New City.

Yet in just a few days, or perhaps in a single instant, his identity had shifted.

He did not know what transformed him—whether it was the life‑or‑death crucible in the steel mill, that volley of bullets, or countless things he neither saw nor cared to notice.

Perhaps that question would never find an answer.

Yu Qian crushed the candy in his mouth; the sudden sourness made him furrow his brow.

Yet the next second, a smile broke across his face.

He rose from the bed, stretched his limbs a little, then picked up the Type‑191 rifle lying at his bedside.

Two magazines were still full of rounds, and the one clamped onto the gun still held a dozen‑plus bullets.

That should be enough, right?

Those dozens of rounds were already sufficient to fell several of those monsters.

An unprecedented confidence swelled within him; Yu Qian pinched his daughter's cheek and said:

“Stay at home and wait for me; Dad is going out to take a look, I’ll be right back.”

“Aren’t you going to eat first?”

His son clutched his sleeve; Yu Qian gently brushed the boy’s hand away and replied:

“No hurry, I’m not hungry yet.”

“Dad has slept too long; now I must go see where I’m still needed.”

(End of Chapter)