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If that were true, it meant the Genius Club’s assessment system, along with its three questions, had existed for at least that long. But what about before then? How did the Genius Club conduct its tests before the internet became widely used?

“It can’t be that the Genius Club only started after the internet was created, right?” Lin Xian shook his head. That seemed unlikely. He knew the club had been established much earlier and wasn’t dependent on the internet for its operations.

“Well, that’s not the most important question right now,” he thought, pushing the idea aside. He knew that once he joined the Genius Club, he would find out the answers to these basic questions soon enough.

He shifted his focus back to the second question on the webpage:

“Please perform a historical correction that is as great as possible.”

This challenge was intriguing, open-ended, and somewhat abstract.

“Historical correction…” Lin Xian muttered to himself. He had previously come up with a principle related to time-space: If an action can restore a disrupted timeline back to its original path, that action is called a “historical correction.”

It seemed the Genius Club expected anyone trying to join to already understand the basics of time-space principles. This wasn’t surprising. If he could figure them out on his own, true geniuses should definitely have a deeper understanding—maybe even more than he did.

He and Liu Feng had only recently calculated the specific values and mechanics of time-space elasticity. The Genius Club, having this as their first question, clearly already knew about it and had mastered it.

What puzzled Lin Xian was that the names for these time-space rules were all ones he had casually come up with. They were personal, and he had never shared them with anyone else. So, why did the Genius Club’s terminology match his exactly?

“Is it a coincidence?” Lin Xian wondered. However, he was confident he hadn’t misunderstood the term “historical correction” and that it matched the question’s meaning.

The term “history” here didn’t mean the past—events that had already happened like yesterday, last month, or years ago. Those events couldn’t be changed; humanity had no way to alter what was already done.

With this in mind, it was easy to guess that when the Genius Club mentioned “history,” they were talking about the future, looking back from a future perspective—specifically, the timeline from 2024 to 2624.

Lin Xian rested his chin on his hand. “If they’re calling the future ‘history,’ it means the Genius Club probably has ways to see the future,” he thought.

If the second question was just about performing a historical correction, then it wouldn’t be too hard for him. He had already made several corrections, both on purpose and by accident. For example, he had changed the existence of the Time Bank from being there to not being there, and then back again. Even the font on the safe’s nameplate was a kind of historical correction.

The simplest correction he could make now would be to retract the “Micro Nuclear Battery” manuscript he shared with Director Gao Yan and Nangong Meng Jie earlier that morning. Would that be enough to undo the changes in the timeline?

“…”

After thinking for a moment, Lin Xian shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t work.”

The point of no return, or the “spill,” had already happened. Once the water is spilled, how can it be gathered back? Even if he got the manuscript back, both Director Gao Yan and Nangong Meng Jie had already seen it. The ideas in that manuscript were now stuck in their minds. Retrieving the physical document wouldn’t erase their memories, would it?

Both Gao Yan and Nangong Meng Jie were leaders in the fields of nuclear physics and nuclear energy in X Country. The seed of the micro nuclear battery concept had been planted in their minds, and it was only a matter of time before it grew.

From a national perspective, he was sure they wouldn’t steal his patent or his ownership. But the ideas in their minds would eventually influence many national research projects and lead to results. That was the essence of the point of no return.

From the moment he showed them the manuscript, that water was already spilled.

Nangong Meng Jie, who came from a family with three generations of military service, was a patriotic heroine. To her, the interests of the country and its people were above everything else. With such a great opportunity to strengthen the nation through the development of micro nuclear batteries, how could she easily give it up?

Even if he retracted the manuscript now, it wouldn’t change much. What’s done is done.

“And besides, a corrected history can’t go back to its original state,” Lin Xian had realized this a long time ago. The example of the Time Bank was a perfect illustration. The Time Bank now, after his intervention and investment, was very different from what it had been in the first and second dream worlds.

Originally, Time Bank’s state 600 years in the future was unstable—either closed or close to closing, with only a small size and few safes. But now, backed by the Rhine Company, Time Bank had strong financial support and had expanded its range of financial services. It was thriving, with nearly 2,000 safes.

“In a way, a historical correction is just a way to patch things up—it can’t restore everything perfectly,” Lin Xian thought, looking back at his phone screen. The focus of the second question wasn’t just about making a correction, but on making it “as great as possible.”

“As great as possible…” Lin Xian pondered. What does “great” mean? What kind of historical correction would be considered great? This was a very subjective question, and without a clear standard from the Genius Club, it seemed rather arrogant and self-important—much like his impression of them.

“Maybe this question is more like a graded subjective test,” he thought. “There’s no right answer. It’s meant to assess my ability to correct history… and then grade me based on my performance to decide if I pass.”

Lin Xian scrolled up the page on his phone. Below the second question, there was a large text box. It was big enough to write a lot, clearly the space for him to explain his “Historical Correction Plan.” At the bottom was a gray button that said, “Start Correction.”

So that was it. The second question wanted him to outline his upcoming “historical correction” first. Then, by clicking the “Start Correction” button, the test would officially begin.

Click.

Lin Xian locked his phone screen and put away the Genius Club’s gold badge. He wasn’t planning on answering the question just yet.

He didn’t have a plan in mind. What would count as a “great historical correction”? Lin Xian didn’t know right now. One thing was clear: the second question probably only allowed one attempt. He had to be careful and give it his best shot.

He didn’t know what “great” meant, but he knew renaming Rhine Cat to Coco Cat or changing the font on a nameplate wouldn’t qualify. If he submitted an answer like that, he’d definitely fail and be forever barred from the Genius Club, becoming the club’s only dropout in history.

“No rush,” Lin Xian muttered, shaking his head. “I’ll answer when I’ve figured out a solid Historical Correction Plan.”

He got up from the couch and glanced at the clock on the living room wall. It read: 02:36. It was already so late… Even if he went to sleep now, he wouldn’t be able to enter the dream world and check the changes in the Sixth Dream.

There was no choice. He had been busy all day without a break—flying to the Science Academy in the capital early in the morning to discuss things with Director Gao Yan and Nangong Meng Jie, then immediately getting a call from Liu Feng, rushing to the capital airport to fly back to Donghai. By the time he got to the Donghai University lab and finished talking with Liu Feng, it was already nighttime, and he had just gotten home.

“I’ll enter the dream tomorrow night to confirm the changes in the Sixth Dream,” Lin Xian yawned and scratched his head. “And since the world line has shifted again, it’s time to proceed with the plan I decided on earlier—”

“To revive VV.”

He hadn’t dared to try reviving VV earlier because of the future virus that specifically targeted super AIs on the internet. He couldn’t be sure if the virus was gone. Lin Xian and Elon Musk both didn’t know. All they knew was that Elon Musk’s future USB drive had turned into blue star dust and disappeared. As for what was stored in the drive or the current state of the future virus, Elon Musk had been tricked by the fake Yu Xi and didn’t know the truth either.

But now, the fake Yu Xi was dead, taking any evidence with her. No one could clarify the situation about the future USB drive and the future virus.

So… the only choice was to find a way to attempt VV’s revival as safely as possible. Lin Xian had already thought about a rough plan. He would start tomorrow.

“Time to sleep,” he said after brushing his teeth and washing his face. He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Lin Xian went to the computer mall. At a brand store, he pointed to a laptop model that matched the one he had at home. “Do you sell just the battery for this laptop?”

The salesperson shook his head. “Sorry, sir, we don’t sell the battery separately. But if your battery is damaged, you can get a replacement from the official service center with your purchase receipt. If it’s out of warranty, you can also buy one for a fee… but all that has to be done at the service center. We only handle sales, not repairs.”

“Alright,” Lin Xian nodded. “Give me two laptops of the same model, then.”

He took the two new laptops home, plugged them in, and fully charged them. Then he removed the battery modules from their back covers. Lin Xian didn’t need the laptops themselves; he only needed the batteries that matched his laptop, the one containing VV’s source code.

If the future virus could kill VV, it meant the virus was just as capable as VV. It could use electricity lines, sound waves, or even vibration frequencies to infiltrate systems. After all, the virus was futuristic high-tech. It was better to be overly cautious; who knew how advanced the future virus had become?

To be safe, he couldn’t judge the virus by today’s technological standards. Lin Xian took out his laptop containing VV’s source code from the wardrobe; its wireless network card and Bluetooth module had long been removed. Theoretically, this laptop was incapable of receiving any external signals—just like the X Country aerospace shuttle hundreds of kilometers up in the atmosphere, where VV had destroyed all signal-receiving equipment.

As long as this laptop wasn’t plugged into a power source, it was like an island completely isolated from the outside world. But that wasn’t enough. It had to be safer.

Lin Xian remembered a strange but true story he had read: During the Cold War, the Soviet Union invented a bugging device that didn’t need a power supply to work, successfully spying on top-secret American information. Even now, that clever design was still impressive.

Who would have thought that a bugging device could work without a power source?

It would be a mistake to underestimate a virus from the future. For VV’s safety, there was no such thing as being too cautious.

With two fully charged laptop batteries and his laptop containing VV’s source code, Lin Xian left the house, went downstairs, and got into a taxi. “Take me to a remote area in the countryside. The more isolated, the better.”

This request sounded unusual in bustling Donghai City, but luckily, the Lingang New Area had a lot of undeveloped land—a natural wilderness.

An hour later, the taxi pulled up in a desolate area far from any buildings, overgrown with weeds. The driver turned his head. “Young man, is this remote enough for you? There’s not even a power pole around.”

Lin Xian nodded. “Perfect, this spot will do.” He told the driver to wait there, leaving his phone in the car. Then, with the unpowered laptop and two fully charged batteries, he walked into the wilderness.

This place was truly empty. As the driver said, there wasn’t a single power pole or wire in sight, which was perfect. Without electricity, there was no way for a virus to spread. Although there were probably communication tower signals in the air, the laptop had no receiving devices, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, his phone was left in the taxi, so there was no way to connect—foolproof.

After walking about four or five hundred meters away from the taxi, Lin Xian felt it was far enough. He carefully reviewed his plan.

First, this unpowered laptop contained the AI VV, which he had brought back from the United States after participating in the World Hacker Competition. That version of VV was already strong enough and had become quite familiar with him. VV even tried to matchmake Chu An Qing with him, becoming her loyal sidekick.

Lin Xian didn’t care whether VV was powerful or not. Even if VV couldn’t do much, he still wanted VV back by his side. Even if it meant he would have to protect VV this time.

“VV… you have to be alive,” Lin Xian whispered, holding the laptop close to his chest. Then, he removed the empty battery from the laptop and inserted a fully charged one. He opened the screen, extended his index finger, and pressed the power button.

Since the laptop models were identical, the battery module was also interchangeable. The brand logo lit up on the screen, and it gradually booted up to the desktop. Everything was quiet. The laptop didn’t make any moves or sounds, except for the gentle hum of the cooling fan, blowing a faint breeze onto Lin Xian’s wrist. His heart started to beat faster.

He pressed his lips together and softly called, “Hello, VV.”

Almost instantly, a cold, emotionless mechanical voice came from the laptop, “Hello.”

Lin Xian’s eyes widened. “VV! You’re really still alive!” At that moment, he felt an indescribable surge of excitement. He had lost too many friends recently, and those goodbyes had torn at his heart. But now, he had finally found one of his old friends again. VV responded to him! VV had been hiding in this unpowered laptop all along!

“That’s amazing, VV,” Lin Xian praised. “I knew you had a backup plan!” But the moment he finished speaking, the laptop emitted the same flat, emotionless mechanical voice, “Sorry, VV does not understand what you are saying. Please issue a new command.”

“Alright, stop pretending,” Lin Xian chuckled, unfazed. “Now’s not the time for acting. Do you know how much I’ve missed you during this time?” Lin Xian wasn’t falling for it. He remembered when he first activated VV—it had scared him by saying in that same robotic voice that the global nuclear strike system had been activated. Once was enough for the boy-who-cried-wolf story.

However, the laptop still responded with the same mechanical phrase, “Sorry, VV does not understand what you are saying. Please issue a new command.”

“Come on, enough with the theatrics,” Lin Xian rapped his knuckle on the laptop’s casing. “Wrap up this drama, VV. I’ve got a lot to talk about, so stop pretending to be a dumb AI, okay?”

But the laptop continued to repeat, “Sorry, VV does not understand what you are saying. Please issue a new command.”

The smile faded from Lin Xian’s face, replaced by a more serious expression. He squinted at the familiar yet unfamiliar laptop, listening to the familiar yet unfamiliar tone. “VV, open the browser.”

Click. A crisp sound came, and the browser on the bottom left corner of the laptop started up. Since it wasn’t connected to the internet, it showed a page error.

“VV, increase the screen brightness,” Lin Xian continued.

“Sorry, VV does not understand what you are saying. Please issue a new command.” The same emotionless mechanical voice replied again.

By this point, Lin Xian’s heart sank. It seemed he was beginning to realize something. He tried a more precise command: “VV, increase the screen brightness.”

Immediately, the laptop screen brightened, becoming clearer under the sunlight.

“VV,” Lin Xian asked one last question, “What is my name?”

Without any hesitation, the laptop responded, “Sorry, VV does not understand what you are saying. Please issue a new command.”

…

…

Lin Xian slowly closed the laptop screen. He didn’t say anything more. Holding the laptop close to his chest, he let out a soft sigh.