Chapter 472: Breaking Through the Fog
This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation
Lin Xian was pulled up by Zhao Ying Jun, now standing face-to-face with her. He reached out and touched her smooth cheek, feeling a surge of emotions rising within him. He thought back to the small, withered bouquet he had once given her. Who could have guessed that it would bring him a wife who was nothing short of a treasure? Brave, loyal, wise, and determined.
Lin Xian realized that much of what he had achieved was because of the people by his side. Yellow Finch and Zhao Ying Jun had been his pillars of strength, supporting and guiding him all along. It made perfect sense now that Yellow Finch and Zhao Ying Jun were the same person. Over time, he had noticed similarities between them—their boldness, decisiveness, and courage. In these qualities, Zhao Ying Jun far surpassed him.
He had always been a thinker, and recently, especially while trying to figure out how to overcome their current dilemma, his caution had only grown. He knew there was a solution—the hibernation pod could solve their immediate problems—but each time he considered it, he remembered Yellow Finch’s words on the shore in Copenhagen: “Never leave Yu Xi.” Those words had weighed on him like chains, preventing him from even thinking of leaving his wife and daughter.
It wasn’t just those words. Deep down, Lin Xian himself didn’t want to leave Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi. What father could willingly leave his little girl? This was also why he had promised Chu Shan He that he would rescue Chu An Qing. As a father, he understood Chu Shan He’s devotion, and he respected it deeply.
Lin Xian had made a promise—
“No matter where she is, no matter what she’s become, no matter how far or how long it takes, even if I have to search every corner of time and space—”
“I will find Chu An Qing for you.”
A gentleman’s word is like an arrow once released—it cannot be taken back. A true man keeps his promises.
All the evidence pointed towards 1952 as the key to understanding the Millennial Stake. Zhang Yu Qian’s dream, Einstein’s deceit, the Universal Constant 42, the coded painting, and the pattern of disappearances—all of it seemed to lead to that year.
To uncover the mystery of the Millennial Stake, to save Chu An Qing, Lin Xian knew he would have to go back to 1952.
But with so much uncertainty pressing on him, Lin Xian found himself in conflict. The reality was clear—he needed to hibernate to travel through time, but the thought of leaving Zhao Ying Jun and Yu Xi kept holding him back. It had been the source of his anxiety for the last three months.
And Zhao Ying Jun, the person closest to him, had seen through it all without him needing to say a word.
That was why she had brought him to Jing’an Temple today—to say what needed to be said, to ease his worries, to untangle the knot in his heart, and to let him know that she would be by his side until the end of the world.
Lin Xian nodded, looking into her eyes.
“I still have many promises left unfulfilled,” he began.
“We,” Zhao Ying Jun interrupted, placing her hand over his. “I am your wife. We are one. Your promises are my promises. Your vows are my vows.”
She smiled. “An Qing’s matter is not just yours—it’s ours. If the only way to learn the truth about the Millennial Stake, to save An Qing, is to go back to 1952, then we must go.” She paused, her eyes firm. “We owe it to An Qing. Yellow Finch owes it to her too. If it wasn’t for the spacetime particle An Qing found for you, we’d still be in the dark, unable to join the Genius Club or figure out that something was wrong with Einstein.”
“Don’t worry.” Lin Xian clasped Zhao Ying Jun’s hand tightly. “I won’t let An Qing’s efforts go to waste. I won’t let Yellow Finch’s sacrifice be in vain. I won’t fail you, Yu Xi, or anyone else.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “Besides, we still have hope. If Du Yao can successfully invent the Brain Neural Electric Helmet, and if it can cause the spacetime curvature to change as we expect, then we could leap across world-lines, and everything will become clear.”
Zhao Ying Jun nodded. “Exactly. Everything is stuck now because we can’t access useful information from the Ninth Dream. Without it, we can’t alter the world-line, and reality remains stagnant.”
She smiled again. “And if the world-line does shift thanks to Du Yao, it’ll prove Einstein was lying. Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally believe that your dreams are real, won’t you?” she teased.
Lin Xian couldn’t help but smile. “You know me too well. Without solid proof that Einstein’s vision of the future is false, I can’t fully convince myself.” He squeezed her hand. “But thanks to you, and your perspective as Yellow Finch, I’ve figured out a way to prove, beyond doubt, whether Einstein was lying.”
Zhao Ying Jun’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is that really possible?” she asked. “I’ve thought about it for days, but I couldn’t find a way.”
Lin Xian nodded confidently. “Einstein might seem all-knowing, but the future he saw doesn’t include the dreams I’ve been having. That’s the information gap between us. It’s exactly that gap that will let me expose his lie.”
Zhao Ying Jun poked his side playfully. “Alright, enough suspense. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Lin Xian took her hand, and they began walking back together. “It’s getting late. Let’s talk while we walk.”
They walked beneath the trees at Jing’an Temple as Lin Xian explained. “Einstein told me that in 1952, no girl turned into blue stardust and disappeared. But if we follow the timeline of the Millennial Stake, there should’ve been a twenty-year-old girl—someone like Chu An Qing—who vanished in 1952. And four years later, another Millennial Stake would be born, keeping the cycle going.”
Zhao Ying Jun listened quietly. “But how can you verify that?” she asked. “You have no idea what really happened in 1952. Unless you use the time-travel machine, how will you find out if a Millennial Stake disappeared that year? And even if you did go back, there’s no guarantee you’d witness it. The world is vast—how would you know where to look?”
Lin Xian nodded. “True. If things are as you say, then maybe Einstein wasn’t lying. But Zhang Yu Qian’s strange dreams, her diary password being ‘1952’… I’ve always believed there’s a connection between the Millennial Stake and 1952.”
He took a deep breath. “The key is simple—if we can prove that a Millennial Stake disappeared in 1952, we can prove that Einstein’s vision of the future is false.”
Zhao Ying Jun spread her hands. “Your logic makes sense. But how do we prove it?”
Lin Xian looked up at the sky. “For that, we have to thank Emperor Gao Wen. In the ‘Time Travel Machine Manuscript,’ Gao Wen said that time travel requires not just spacetime particles, but also a ‘spacetime rift.’ You can’t just pick any moment to travel to—you need a rift in spacetime.”
He continued, “Gao Wen’s research on spacetime rifts was ahead of his time. He found that there are two ways rifts form—first, whenever the world-line leaps or shifts, causing a wrinkle in spacetime. Second, rifts appear en masse every 24 years. Gao Wen didn’t know why, but we do—it’s when a Millennial Stake disappears, turning into blue stardust.”
Zhao Ying Jun’s eyes lit up with understanding. “So if we find that in 1952 there were a lot of spacetime rifts, that would mean a Millennial Stake vanished that year.”
Lin Xian smiled. “Exactly. We can use the rifts to prove whether Einstein was telling the truth. If we find those rifts, then we know—in 1952, a Millennial Stake girl turned to stardust and disappeared.”
…
Zhao Ying Jun blinked.
“It’s a breakthrough, isn’t it?” She gave Lin Xian a reproachful look. “Why did you only think of something this important now?”
Lin Xian sighed, shrugging helplessly. “My mind’s been all over the place,” he admitted. “Since joining the Genius Club, I’ve been juggling so much—real-life responsibilities, exploring in dreams—it’s hard to connect all these little threads sometimes.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “But when we talked about Yellow Finch today, everything just clicked. Plus, I think I’ve figured out when ‘Number 17,’ that spacetime assassin, came from.”
Lin Xian paused, trying to organize his thoughts. “It was July 1st, 2024. That night, Elon Musk had his double—the fake Musk—in his office playing VR games. Then Copernicus’s undercover secretary rushed in and killed the double.”
Zhao Ying Jun’s eyes widened. Lin Xian continued, “That swap, killing the wrong person and saving the real one, changed the world-line. It shifted everything, pulling it to the -0.0000042 line. And it was in that exact moment of change that the spacetime rift opened up. That’s when Number 17 traveled here, trying to kill me.”
He looked over at Zhao Ying Jun. “If you think about it, Number 17 was really aggressive. If she had crossed over before that shift, she would’ve come after me immediately. It only makes sense if she arrived when that rift appeared.”
Zhao Ying Jun nodded. “And what about Yellow Finch?” she asked.
Lin Xian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The world-line leaped from the First Dream to the Second in January 2023, right after Professor Xu Yun died and the government announced his successful research. By all logic, the spacetime rift should’ve appeared in January 2023. But here’s the weird part—in December 2022, Yellow Finch had already put a fake Genius Club invitation at the front desk of MX Corp.”
Zhao Ying Jun’s eyes narrowed. “So how did Yellow Finch travel back before the rift even formed? Unless…” She trailed off, sensing a deep truth.
Lin Xian watched her silently. Zhao Ying Jun took a deep breath. “You said you’ve been having the same dream since you were born. So from March 20th, 1999, until January 2023, that’s over two decades of stability in the world-line—no extra rifts. Except…” She frowned slightly, her voice dropping.
“Except for January 21st, 2000. That’s the day Zhang Yu Qian—the Millennial Stake—turned into blue stardust. That staking created massive spacetime rifts. If Yellow Finch wanted you to notice the Genius Club sooner, that would have been her only chance.”
Lin Xian’s eyes widened. “My goodness… Yellow Finch must have come here so early. She waited for over twenty years.”
The two of them clasped hands, walking a long way in silence. Eventually, Lin Xian spoke, his voice low. “That’s why… I could never let Yellow Finch down. Or you. Or Yu Xi.”
Zhao Ying Jun smiled gently. “She must’ve come to see you,” she said quietly. “I’m sure she watched over you so many times—watching you grow, going to school, graduating, starting work… You just never noticed.” She looked at him with a wistful smile. “If it were me, I would’ve come to see you in secret too.”
She chuckled softly, her eyes misting. “Maybe Yellow Finch even held you when you were small. It must’ve been a different kind of companionship—backwards, in a way, growing old together.” She paused, glancing at Lin Xian. “What do you think? Would she really come all the way to Hang City to find you as a little kid?”
Lin Xian scratched his head, looking thoughtful. “If she did, it must’ve been when I was very young. I would’ve remembered otherwise, I think.” He rubbed his chin, thinking of the blue earrings swaying in the sunlight. “But honestly, who knows? You meet so many strangers every day, most of them just pass by. Unless you really pay attention, you wouldn’t remember them. It’s possible Yellow Finch saw me—I just don’t remember.”
Zhao Ying Jun smiled softly at his profile. “Maybe it’s better this way,” she said. “When you were young, you were impulsive. If you’d learned too soon about your mission, it might’ve backfired. Yellow Finch must’ve carefully thought it through before deciding when to step in.”
She looked up suddenly. “You know, the Genius Club gatherings and their plans have been going on for ages. So why did the First Dream last over two decades without any changes?”
Lin Xian nodded. “I’ve thought about that too. There are two possibilities.” He held up a finger. “First, before the invention of the hibernation pods, those geniuses were limited by their lifespans and the technology available to them. They couldn’t make big changes to spacetime.”
He paused. “Take Miss Da Vinci. Without things like nuclear batteries and humanoid robots, she couldn’t have achieved her vision. At best, she could teach, inspire. But without advanced tech, her impact was limited.” He looked at Zhao Ying Jun. “Or Elon Musk—without the hibernation pods, he admitted he couldn’t have colonized Mars in his lifetime. He’d be just a rich guy launching rockets and satellites—not enough to change spacetime.”
“So the key is the hibernation pods,” Lin Xian continued. “Once those were invented, the geniuses could fully unleash their potential. They could hibernate until technology caught up to their plans. They used the pods to skip ahead in time, giving them the chance to influence destiny.”
Zhao Ying Jun nodded, understanding. “That makes a lot of sense. If you hadn’t brought the hibernation pod fluid back, those geniuses would’ve aged and died.”
Lin Xian smiled slightly. “Exactly. And, honestly, it’s not all bad. The pods brought enormous benefits to humanity—we can’t disregard that just because some members of the Genius Club abused them. And even without the pods, the First Dream wasn’t a utopia. The apocalypse was still coming, and Big Cat’s father still died in a car crash at 00:42. Copernicus’s plan was always in motion.”
Lin Xian paused, then held up a second finger. “The second possibility is that one particular genius was just too powerful. His plan overrode all others. No matter what the other geniuses did, they couldn’t change the world-line. And I think that person was Copernicus.”
Zhao Ying Jun looked at him curiously. “Copernicus?”
Lin Xian nodded. “I still don’t know his ultimate goal, but his methods were clear. His whole plan revolved around killing scientists at 00:42—showing his ‘respect.’ And as the first member of the Genius Club, he had the longest time to gather information. He had more tools than anyone else, making him the most likely to succeed in the end.”
“Only when the hibernation pods came into play could the other geniuses challenge him. Without them, Copernicus might’ve ruled forever.” Lin Xian paused. “And honestly, I don’t regret bringing back the pod fluid.”
He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “If I had to name another contender, it would be Turing. Kevin Walker wouldn’t have lived centuries without the pods. That’s why he created the digital entity Turing. Without a body, Turing was basically immortal. It’s possible the First Dream ended because Copernicus and Turing worked together.”
Zhao Ying Jun nodded slowly. “That would make sense—their partnership has always been suspicious.”
Lin Xian smiled faintly. “But now they’re both gone—Copernicus and Turing have been taken down. Kevin Walker and Turing are certainly dead. As for Copernicus… we know that the Copernicus who killed Professor Xu Yun, Tang Xin, Ji Lin’s parents, and started the Time Bureau is dead too.”
He hesitated. “The problem is, it feels like Copernicus has a successor—someone’s still carrying out his plan. When he was young, Copernicus did everything himself. Later, he created the Seven Deadly Sins to act for him. So it’s possible that even after his death, someone else continues his mission.”
Lin Xian raised his head, looking at Zhao Ying Jun. “Remember that Genius Club meeting where Newton asked if any scientist in the future would die at 00:42, and Einstein said ‘no’? Well, in the First Dream, after Copernicus died, someone still killed at 00:42.”
He sighed. “And in the current Ninth Dream, technology is being held back. There’s no way humanity would still be using land motorcycles in 2599 if things were normal. Six hundred years of development, no disaster of 2400, and we’re stuck with that? Someone is pulling strings behind the scenes.”
“But for now, we can’t dwell on it too much. We have other priorities.” They had reached the parking lot by Jing’an Temple. Lin Xian looked at Zhao Ying Jun, summing things up. “Aside from waiting for Du Yao to complete the Brain Neural Electric Helmet and see if the world-line shifts… we need to verify if a Millennial Stake disappeared in 1952 and if massive rifts appeared back then.”
He smiled at her. “We can’t put all our hopes on Du Yao. If we prove the rifts in 1952, it’ll be undeniable that Einstein lied.”
A gust of wind blew past, and Zhao Ying Jun tightened her coat as she hurried along, following Lin Xian. The chill in the air was biting, but she ignored it, focused on what Lin Xian was saying.
“So, we’re going to rely on Gao Wen’s manuscript to check on the rifts in 1952?” Zhao Ying Jun asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and determination.
Lin Xian turned to her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yes,” he replied, clearly impressed by how quickly she grasped the plan. “But this time, it’s not really his manuscript we’re using. It’s the ‘Time Travel Machine Blueprints’ that I copied earlier.”
He continued, his excitement barely contained. “These blueprints have the full details for building all the core parts. In our current time, everything can be made according to the diagrams—except the calibration module. The positioning module described in the blueprints can locate spacetime rift points using spacetime particles. Gao Wen couldn’t verify it because he didn’t have any powered spacetime particles. But we do.”
He paused and gave Zhao Ying Jun an encouraging smile. “I’ll drop you home, then I’ll head over to Donghai University to meet Liu Feng. We’re putting everything else on hold to focus on getting the positioning module operational first.”
Zhao Ying Jun nodded, catching the gleam of hope in Lin Xian’s eyes. “If we find multiple rifts in 1952, that will confirm that a Millennial Stake disappeared that year, proving Einstein’s lie—and confirming that your dreams are real.”
Lin Xian let out a long breath, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. “At last,” he murmured, “we have a way out.”
He walked around to open the car door for Zhao Ying Jun, helped her inside, and then slipped into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and they sped away, the car cutting through the cold night.
…
At Donghai University, Lin Xian and Liu Feng sat in the Rhine Joint Lab, staring at the blueprints spread out on the computer screen. They scanned them, their eyes locked onto a specific section.
“This is it, right?” Lin Xian asked, pointing to a set of complicated diagrams.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Liu Feng confirmed with a nod.
Liu Feng leaned back, sighing. “I’ve gone through all the blueprints. For the calibration module, we need Astatine-339, and that’s just not something we can make right now. But the positioning module—we can fabricate that, no problem. If we want it to work independently, we’ll have to hook it up to the power and display modules, but it’s doable. We could finish it within a month.”
Lin Xian’s face lit up with determination. “Then let’s get started. From today onward, forget everything else. Put all your energy into building the positioning module. It’s our top priority.”
Liu Feng nodded in agreement. “Got it. We’ll be able to use the entangled spacetime particle to locate the rifts once it’s operational.”
Lin Xian leaned over, watching Liu Feng work. He tapped the screen. “The big advantage we have is that we already know there were disappearances of Millennial Stakes in January 2000 and March 2024. Those should have left behind plenty of spacetime rifts. If we compare the rifts in 1952, 1976, 2000, and 2024, and they’re all similar… then we’ll know for sure there was a Millennial Stake in 1952.”
Liu Feng looked thoughtful. “Not only that,” he said slowly, “but we might also figure out when the very first Millennial Stake appeared.” He turned to Lin Xian, eyes bright with possibility. “If we can find the first big batch of rifts, that year must’ve been important. Maybe the name ‘Millennial Stake’ is literal—the first one could’ve lasted for a thousand years.”
Lin Xian rubbed his chin, nodding as he thought it over. “Gao Yang had a similar idea,” he mused. “He calculated that with a new stake every 24 years, you’d need 42 stakes to make 1008 years. It was a bit of a stretch, trying to reach the number 42… but who knows. Sometimes the truth is stranger than it seems.”
Lin Xian’s voice softened. “Once you finish the positioning module, we’ll finally have an answer to this mystery that’s been haunting us for so long.”
He couldn’t help but feel emotional. A year had passed since Chu An Qing had turned to blue stardust and vanished. The research on the Millennial Stake had led to nothing but dead ends. But now… finally, they were making progress.
Lin Xian’s heart swelled with hope. The closer they got to the truth, the closer they were to saving Chu An Qing.
Later, Lin Xian told Liu Feng about Zhao Ying Jun’s “Hibernate and Go to the Future” plan. Liu Feng listened, then nodded in agreement.
“It’s a last resort,” Liu Feng said. “But I’m okay with it. Lin Xian, I don’t have anything tying me to this time—no parents, no family. If you decide to go into hibernation, I’ll go with you. You pulled me out of my darkest moments, and I’ll follow you wherever you go.”
He smiled sadly. “And hibernating could be even better for my research on the Universal Constant 42. My only wish now is to finish Qi Qi’s dream—to solve the mystery of the Universal Constant and bring peace to her spirit.”
Liu Feng paused, his gaze on Lin Xian’s face. “But for you… you have a family, parents, a child. Giving that all up—it’s a huge sacrifice.”
Lin Xian’s expression hardened with resolve. “Some sacrifices have to be made,” he said quietly. “Throughout history, countless people gave their lives for their country, for peace, for future generations. Why should we be any different? Just because we live in a time of peace doesn’t mean we can ignore the duty that lies ahead. If we don’t step forward, then one day, our children or grandchildren will have to.”
“This is what Zhao Ying Jun believes too,” he added, his voice softening. “We’re in this together.”
Liu Feng looked at him with admiration. “She’s a remarkable woman,” he said. “No wonder Yellow Finch is so brave—it’s because she is Zhao Ying Jun. No matter how spacetime shifts, some things never change.”
Lin Xian smiled faintly. “I’m grateful for her too. She’s the one who keeps me grounded when I’m lost or hesitant.” He paused, remembering her words. “She told me once, ‘If we were ordinary people, we could live without worries, ignoring the fate of humanity. But since we have the power to make a difference, how can we pretend it’s not our responsibility?’”
“It’s our duty, as geniuses, to do what others can’t. That’s what it really means to be a genius—not just using our abilities for our own gain.”
Liu Feng nodded, standing up. He gave Lin Xian a firm look. “That’s why I followed you here. I’ll support you all the way. Don’t worry—I’ll get that positioning module built as soon as possible.”
…
The days passed slowly—and yet in a blur. Lin Xian kept up his routine, riding his motorcycle through the Ninth Dreamscape, covering every direction from Donghai. Each day, he searched further and further.
Nothing.
No signs.
The weeks turned into months. Lin Xian flipped the calendar on his desk, the date turning to March 2025.
Tomorrow was Tang Xin’s death anniversary.
Though Du Yao still hadn’t made any breakthroughs in her research, Lin Xian had promised to accompany her to Tang Xin’s grave this year. She had a lot she wanted to say—and so did he.
The next morning, Lin Xian drove to pick up Du Yao, and they headed to Hang City together. The grave lay in the fields, the ground showing signs of offerings made earlier in the day—burnt paper ashes and scraps still clinging to the dry grass.
Du Yao knelt and placed a bouquet of lilies before the grave. She stood there for a long time, speaking to Tang Xin, her voice soft and filled with emotion. Lin Xian stood behind her, listening silently.
When she was done, Lin Xian stepped forward and spoke too, telling Tang Xin about everything that had happened. He told her how he had finally found the person responsible and how he had avenged her.
Then they stood in silence, the flowers swaying in the wind. The silence stretched, heavy and full of unspoken words.
Finally, Du Yao turned to Lin Xian, her eyes hesitant. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time,” she said.
Lin Xian looked at her calmly. “Go ahead.”
Du Yao looked down, her voice almost a whisper. “I know this might not be the right time. It won’t change anything now, but… I’ve kept it to myself for so long.”
“It’s okay,” Lin Xian said, his gaze on the flowers swaying before the grave. “If it’s about Tang Xin, you can ask.”
Du Yao blinked, then looked up at him. “Tang Xin told me that you didn’t remember the time you saved her—the day you gave her your school jacket. Now… do you remember it?”
Lin Xian closed his eyes, a sad smile on his lips. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could remember. I know it meant a lot to her. But I’ve tried… I’ve tried for so long, and I just can’t remember.”
Du Yao’s voice was gentle. “I don’t blame you. None of us do. Memories fade—it’s natural. Tang Xin knew that too.”
She hesitated, then continued. “But the last time I spoke to her, she was sure. She said that once you saw the ‘gift’ she left for you, you’d remember.” She looked at Lin Xian. “You never got that gift, did you?”
Lin Xian shook his head, frowning slightly. “No… I never saw anything like that.”
Du Yao bit her lip. “Would you like to know what Tang Xin’s gift to you was?”