Analyzing the data, the limits of shrinking

The morning sunlight was brighter than yesterday, shining on the screen of the old laptop in the abandoned factory area, displaying two lines of newly updated data. Ye Mo didn't move immediately, his fingers hovering above the touchpad, waiting for the system to complete its final cache read. Scott squatted beside him, still clutching the controller from last night, his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly.

"Has the data been imported?" he asked.

"I've guided you." Ye Mo nodded. "The physiological parameters from your first seven formal training sessions, after removing the influence of emotional fluctuations, have been reconstructed into an effective set. The model is now running the first phase of the ' Shadow Track Training ' plan—not to have you practice more, but to make every second count."

Scott stared at the screen, where a series of waveforms were appearing, fluctuating like an electrocardiogram taken at a disco. "This thing can actually calculate how small I can shrink?"

"No." Ye Mo tapped the keyboard twice. "It can only tell you at what step you have to stop. Going any further won't turn you into a hero, it'll turn you into dust."

He dragged the progress bar to the section from last night's third bottle-circling test. The screen switched to a 3D structural simulation: a human figure started shrinking from a normal body shape, becoming more refined layer by layer—skin, muscles, cells, DNA double helix... until it reached the subatomic level, at which point the model suddenly jerked, and cracks appeared at the edges.

"Look here." Ye Mo zoomed in on a detail. "This is the neural feedback data from the last frame before you landed, and it matches the model's prediction very well. Did you feel like your body was about to fall apart at that moment?"

Scott paused, then nodded. "At the last second, it felt like my whole body was being vacuumed, with bubbles rising from every crevice of my bones. I thought the controller had malfunctioned."

"It's not a problem." Ye Mo switched to another set of charts, "You're about to cross the finish line. The mass distribution decay curve drops sharply here, and signs of particle decoupling have appeared. If you continue to shrink, your quantum field will become unstable—simply put—you will no longer be a 'shrinking person,' but a 'hodgepodge of elementary particles.'"

The air fell silent for a moment. In the distance, a stray cat leaped across the tin roof, making a few muffled thuds.

Scott looked down at the controller, his voice lowering slightly. "So Hank wasn't just scaring me. He's really seen something like this before."

"He probably has more than one accident report piled up in his lab." Ye Mo closed the simulation interface and opened a new analysis module. "But let's not discuss whether we can break the limit right now; let's figure out where the boundary is first. Do you know what the Planck scale is?"

"I've heard of it. My physics teacher mentioned it in class, saying it's the smallest unit of space."

"Yes. Theoretically, no object can exist stably in dimensions smaller than the Planck scale. You can shrink to about five centimeters right now, which is three orders of magnitude away from the molecular level. But the problem isn't size, it's stability." Ye Mo pulled up the gradient projection diagram. "We divide the controllable region into three segments: the safe zone, the critical zone, and the unstable zone. You're currently hovering on the edge of the safe zone; a little excitement and you'll brush against the critical zone."

He pointed to a yellow line on the diagram. "Last night during the needle-threading simulation, you crossed the line by 0.6 seconds. It's not long, but enough for the system to record."

Scott took a breath. "Next time I'll control the pace and not go too fast."

"Rhythm is only one aspect." Ye Mo switched to the multi-dimensional visualization interface. "I've converted the data into a dynamic particle flow map. Take a look at this."

On the screen, a group of light dots forms a human body model, which begins to collapse layer by layer. At first, the structure is intact, but after entering the nanoscale, the outer particles begin to disperse; when it reaches the picometer scale, the core also begins to disintegrate, like a sand sculpture being gnawed away by the tide.

"This is the result of you continuing to shrink," Ye Mo said. "It's not an explosion, it's 'decoupling.' Your consciousness is still there, but the material basis supporting it is gone. At that point, no one will be able to save you, not even collect your body—you won't even be left with ashes."

Scott didn't say anything, staring at the picture for a full half minute.

A gust of wind blew in, swirling up the printed papers on the floor. One of them drifted to his feet; it was his training record sheet from the previous night, the last column reading. "Goal Achieved: Yes | Abnormal Feedback: Slight Weightlessness".

He reached out and picked it up, folded it twice, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"So what do we do now?" He looked up. "Draw a red line?"

"Finished drawing." Ye Mo opened a new window. "I just ran four rounds of calibration and confirmed that your current safety limit is 3.2 centimeters, with a duration not exceeding 47 seconds. Exceeding this value will double the nervous system load index, and the risk will be uncontrollable."

"Only three centimeters? Even an ant is bigger than that."

"Ants don't need to Wall Phasing, nor do they need to fight." Ye Mo closed the laptop's cooling vent. "You're not competing to see who's smaller now, you're competing to see who lives the longest."

Scott grimaced, but didn't actually smile.

The two were silent for a while. Ye Mo got up and stretched his shoulders, which cracked. He hadn't slept well last night; his mind was constantly running data models, and his dreams were filled with wildly jumping waveforms.

"Are you sleepy?" Scott asked.

"I'm not exactly sleepy," Ye Mo rubbed his temples. "It's just that my brain feels like it's been juiced, but I still have to keep using it."

"How about we take a break?"

"We can't rest." Ye Mo restarted the machine. "Your sensor sampling rate was too low last night, and there are blind spots in some data. We need to do a field review now, using test records from an open area to verify the model."

They carried the equipment to the open space in the center of the factory. The markings drawn during the training the night before were still on the ground, and mineral water bottles were arranged in a circle with the thin wire Scott used to simulate threading a needle in the middle.

"Here it is." Ye Mo set up the portable camera. "Recall the last time you zoomed out last night, from startup to recovery, slow down the whole process tenfold and tell me about it. I'll compare the data with it here."

Scott nodded and stood at the starting point. "I pressed the controller. First, my body temperature dropped, and I heard a buzzing sound in my ears, like a sudden change in air pressure. Then my field of vision narrowed, and the ground looked like it had been raised tenfold. The zooming was completed in the third second, and I started circling the bottle."

As he spoke, Ye Mo pulled up the physiological records for the corresponding time period on the tablet.

"At the fifth second, my left leg started to shake a little, probably because the ground was uneven. At the seventh second, when I was passing through the wire, my right hand brushed against the edge, experiencing slight resistance. At the eleventh second, after completing the first loop, I started having difficulty breathing, as if my lungs weren't enough."

"Your lungs are indeed insufficient." Ye Mo magnified the breathing rate curve. "After you shrunk, your oxygen consumption per unit volume skyrocketed. A normal person breathes twelve times per minute, but you reached thirty-nine, close to your limit."

No wonder I felt like I couldn't breathe.

"That's not the most troublesome part." Ye Mo switched to the EEG. "You experienced a brief cognitive delay starting at the thirteenth second, and your reaction speed dropped by eighteen percent. This means—if you had encountered a sudden situation at that time, such as a surprise attack by the enemy, you wouldn't have been able to dodge it at all."

Scott frowned. "But I felt perfectly lucid at the time."

"It feels like a lie." Ye Mo put away the tablet. "Your brain is working overtime, but your information processing ability is declining. It's like having too many apps running on your phone; it seems smooth on the surface, but the background processes are all lagging."

Scott stood there, looking down at the tips of his shoes. Sunlight shone on him, casting a short shadow.

"So... it's not that I'm incapable," he said softly, "It's that I simply didn't know when I started to be incapable."

"That's the most dangerous part." Ye Mo closed the equipment case. "Skills can be developed, but blind spots in cognition can be fatal. Your problem right now isn't a lack of technique, it's a lack of real-time feedback. You need to know—when to stop."

Scott looked up. "Do you have a way to add an alarm? Like, a vibration alert when it shrinks to a certain size?"

"It's possible." Ye Mo stroked his chin, "but we have to bypass Pym's monitoring system, otherwise he'll immediately receive an anomaly report. And—" He paused, "Even if there are warnings, you have to listen. Many people die because of 'try again'."

I'm not that kind of person.

"You wanted to do a few more sets last night," Ye Mo, looking at him, "But the current limiter stopped you."

Scott opened his mouth, but didn't refute.

Ye Mo patted him on the shoulder. "Let's go back to the containers. The final step, to reach a conclusion."

They returned to the data analysis room. Ye Mo integrated all the data into the final report, titled. "Ant-Man Suit Microscopic Combat Capability Limit Assessment (First Edition)".

"To summarize," he leaned against the table, "You can shrink to 3.2 centimeters and maintain that position for a maximum of 47 seconds. Beyond that, your nervous system, respiratory system, and quantum field stability will all collapse. There's currently no safe way to break through."

Scott stared at the line of numbers, remaining silent for a long time.

"I know you want to ask, 'Am I stuck here forever?'" Ye Mo closed the laptop, the screen reflecting the light. "The answer is—breaking the limit now is suicide. Pym set the limit not because he's afraid you'll be strong, but because he's afraid you'll die."

A gust of wind blew in through the broken window, ruffling the printed papers on the table. One page flipped over, revealing handwritten words on the back: "[Access control vulnerability pending confirmation]".

Scott saw it, but didn't ask.

He looked down at the controller, his fingers slowly tracing the red light on the current limiter.

"So what's next?" he asked. "Do as you said, practice self-control?"

"Right." Ye Mo picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. "Eight minutes isn't much, but we can break it down into four segments, each focusing on a specific movement detail. Wall Phasing, landing, turning, recovery—like clearing levels in a game, one stage at a time."

"It sounds like they're making a simple thing complicated."

"A hero is someone who perfects simple things to the extreme." Ye Mo walked towards the door, then paused. "Tomorrow morning at seven, don't be late. If you're late, you'll have extra practice on weighted Wall Phasing."

"You're a real devilish drill instructor."

"The system's difficulty curve." Ye Mo didn't even turn his head. "I'm just an executor."

After he finished speaking, he walked out, his figure about to disappear at the intersection of light and shadow at the factory gate.

Scott didn't move.

He sat there, clutching the controller to his chest, his gaze fixed on the last line of the report on the floor:

[Conclusion: Current technology has insurmountable safety red lines. It is recommended to suspend extreme challenges and prioritize improving real-time monitoring and emergency response mechanisms.]

Sunlight gradually climbed up the corrugated iron wall, shining on the red light on the controller.

The light was bright, but it couldn't penetrate the deep darkness in his eyes.

Ye Mo walked about ten meters before suddenly stopping.

He looked back.

Scott was still sitting there, his posture unchanged, but his back was very straight, like a taut string.

Ye Mo didn't look any longer and turned to leave.

The wind blew up the pages on the ground, turning to a certain page that showed a miniature path simulation diagram with an X marked at the end.

Next to the cross, there is a line of very small handwritten notes:

[Next training session, we'll practice control in a different way.]