When Zhao Pengcheng woke up, he found himself still in the prison's visiting room. His body had reverted to its youthful form, with heavy, cold shackles on his feet. He and Qingmu faced each other across the table, neither of them speaking, while the prison guard beside them looked at them with a strange expression.
This must be... something that happened more than thirty years ago?!
He was utterly baffled; had the long lifetime he had just experienced been a dream?
No, this is completely different from his past dreams. Many things in this dream did not exist in his memory, and many of the deductions in the dream were beyond the capabilities of a conscious individual. The subconscious could not possibly create such a dream.
Either this was a real experience, with spacetime shifting the moment Qingmu escaped the Zero-Dimensional Corridor, pulling him back to the past. But if time were reversed, the brain's physical structure would also revert to the past, so what happened afterward shouldn't be stored in his memory. Or he was in someone else's dream, but this dream is so vast—whose Mental Power could support such an immense dream?
Zhao Pengcheng glanced at Qingmu across from him.
Impossible! No matter how powerful Qingmu is, he couldn't possibly create such a dream. In his long past life, there were many secrets unknown to others. Qingmu shouldn't know Ronald Cohen, let alone have met any other comrades in the organization. And the future evolution of the organization, Ronald's reincarnation, and the appearance of the hospital and the library morgue—all of these are so real.
Zhao Pengcheng felt a deep fear. This fear did not stem from any human emotion or instinct, but rather from his own consciousness.
He didn't know why this was happening. Before being parasitized, he was carefree. Like his companions (now called comrades), he had no memories, no feelings, like a blank sheet of paper, nothing at all. They only obeyed the call of their race to find a host so that their race could continue to thrive.
They consider themselves the highest form of life in the universe—existing solely in spirit. They believe that lower life forms merely provide them with material shelter so that they can better evolve and continue their lineage. Like ants and wasps, they are willing to sacrifice themselves without hesitation for the sake of the entire species, and individuals separated from the group lose their reason for existence.
However, after he parasitized the human body on this planet, he experienced so many complex emotions. He experienced the conflict between the group and the individual, the joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, and even, in the long lifetime he had just experienced, which was neither dream nor reality, he experienced life and death. The taste of life and death was unimaginable in the past for his race.
"I've been poisoned!" Zhao Pengcheng said.
The poisoning he was referring to certainly didn't mean drinking Bi Shenghua's chicken soup more than twenty years ago (or rather, more than ten years later), but rather that he was now infected by everything that humanity had previously considered negative.
"No, I should say—you're awake!" said Qingmu across from him.
"Awake?" Zhao Pengcheng looked at Qingmu. "Perhaps. You—who exactly are you?"
"I am Qingmu."
"No, you're not human! Oh no, I mean, I don't believe you're a normal human being."
"To be honest, I don't know who I am either, but I don't consider myself less than human," Qingmu said. "In some ways, we're similar, but I'm a little stronger than you. I know I'm Qingmu, but who are you?"
"Me?" Zhao Pengcheng seemed thoughtful. "I..."
He wanted to say, "I am Zhao Pengcheng," but suddenly realized that this wasn't entirely equivalent to "I am Qingmu." Qingmu was Qingmu, without a doubt. But what about him? Was he Zhao Pengcheng? It seemed not. He represented the interests of a non-human race, and he couldn't quite explain what those interests were. Wasn't that right? Yet he occupied Zhao Pengcheng's body, and all the humans who knew him believed he was Zhao Pengcheng.
"Who I am?"
Zhao Pengcheng shifted his body, which was a little numb from sitting for so long, and the shackles on his feet rattled. The prison guard next to him seemed a little nervous, his eyes fixed on his every move.
He had never thought about this question before. Who am I? When he did think about it, like many ancient philosophers, he raised a series of related questions.
Where did I come from?
Where are we going?
Why do I exist?
What am I doing?
Why should I do these things?
Throughout human history, individuals have existed for the sake of their race. In fact, even now, most of the mission of an individual still seems to be to serve the group, for the continuation of the race and civilization.
Every philosophical thought liberates human individuality and makes the existence of the individual increasingly meaningful.
Is this an inevitable process in the evolution of all life?
Zhao Pengcheng suddenly began to doubt whether his race was as advanced as they had previously believed. When survival was no longer the sole purpose of life, the liberation and evolution of individuality might become the eternal theme, just as the universe is constantly expanding and all galaxies are moving away from each other rather than clustering together.
"What do you want me to do?" Zhao Pengcheng asked.
Qingmu smiled. He knew that today's meeting was already more than half successful, so he relaxed and leaned back in his chair, saying, "Cooperation."
"To completely become a traitor and work for you humans?"
"No, it's not us, it's me," Qingmu denied. "You don't need to be a traitor. I won't ask you to help humanity destroy your race. You just need to cooperate with me. In some ways, we share the same goal—to unravel the mysteries of this world."
"Solve the mystery?"
"Yes. To me, this world is a mystery. To this world, I am a mystery. I believe I came into this world with some kind of mission, just as you came here with a mission. I've made countless guesses, but I could never convince myself until I met you. I thought I had found the meaning of my existence, which was to stop your invasion, to stop you from destroying all of human civilization. However, from the changes you've undergone in the past few decades, I've seen many things that are different from what I imagined. I have a new understanding of this world, and of course, more confusion, so I'm going to unravel the mystery. I believe you are just as confused as I am now, perhaps even more so."
Zhao Pengcheng admitted that Qingmu was right. He could no longer do what he used to do without thinking, simply following the organization's orders.
"What's in it for me?" he asked.
"Your scalpel is quite good." Qingmu had somehow produced a scalpel in his hand; the blade was gleaming and seemed to have a faint red glow.
"This..." Zhao Pengcheng was startled. Wasn't this the scalpel he had gathered his Mental Power with in his dream?
You can't bring things from a dream into reality, so that can only mean one thing: you're still dreaming!
Zhao Pengcheng looked around. The room was square, with cold walls, bright red slogans, and prison guards with serious and slightly tense expressions. Everything was no different from the visiting room he had entered.