In the redwood office of the Norvis, the light was soft.
Outside the window, the streak of starlight moved slowly along the outer ring of the space station.
Heinrich stood before the observation screen.
On the screen was the experimental area where Alea had disappeared—still a blank.
No remnants, no debris, not even an energy disturbance.
It was as if that section of space had been completely erased.
Heinrich hadn't been in this state in a long time.
Not panic, but a profound anxiety.
But his rationality still held everything in check.
"She's still alive,"
he said.
His tone was very certain.
Silas didn't speak.
He knew Heinrich wasn't one to judge based on feelings.
Heinrich turned.
"I need to explain something to you."
After a brief pause, he continued:
"The person who died in the assassination attempt on the Nexus—Adrian—was one of my men."
Silas frowned slightly.
“He’s my informant planted inside the hub. I need to know the true progress of their quantum immortality project.” Heinrich’s voice deepened.
“Eight years ago, I almost died in the quantum immortality experiment.” The air fell silent.
“A split in consciousness, a collapse of structure. If you hadn’t repaired my neural stability, I wouldn’t exist.” Heinrich looked at Silas.
“Since then, I’ve completely given up on quantum immortality.”
“It’s not about prolonging life.”
“It’s just replication.” He exhaled softly.
“True immortality must be attached to a physical body.” Silas looked at his face.
Fifty years old.
But his eyes seemed to have traversed several eras.
“So you’ve become younger because—”
“Microscopic reconstruction.” Heinrich said.
Heinrich opened a new data interface.
Countless structural models unfolded—cellular, molecular, atomic structures, and even more complex spatial coordinate grids.
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“This space station, from its inception, wasn’t for quantum consciousness research.”
He said.
“Our research focuses on only two directions.”
He held up two fingers:
Microstructure
Higher-dimensional spacetime
Silas looked at the screen.
A large amount of experimental data began to scroll.
“Our team has been researching these two directions for many years,” Heinrich continued.
“Microscopic techniques allow us to directly observe changes in the human body at the molecular level.”
“Higher-dimensional spacetime is used to understand the spatial structure itself.”
He paused.
“Until Alea disappeared, these two directions intersected for the first time.”
Heinrich brought up a human body simulation structure.
The cell division model ran slowly.
“Aging, in essence, is not a disease,” he said.
“It is a gradual decline in structural order, a stable process of entropy increase.”
Silas nodded.
Heinrich continued:
“If we can fully observe changes in the human body at the molecular level and build a complete model, then aging can be reversed.”
“Not repair, but refresh.”
The model began to change.
Old structures were gradually replaced, but the overall structure remained stable.
“We're using microscopic equipment to reconstruct the structure at the atomic level.” Heinrich looked at Silas.
“I just put myself back in my fifties.” Silas remained silent.
He realized this was no longer medicine.
It was—materials engineering.
Six weeks after Alea's disappearance.
The space station finally detected an unusual signal.
An unknown particle.
Extremely unstable.
Almost impossible to observe continuously.
It wasn't dark matter.
But its mystery was comparable to dark matter.
Even more peculiar.
This particle appeared only at the instant Alea disappeared.
And—
It changed synchronously with the space structure data.
Heinrich's research team analyzed for weeks but still couldn't confirm the source.
The only thing they could be certain of was:
This wasn't an attack.
It was more like a trace of some kind of space structure transformation.
The entire space station entered a higher level of research.
The microscopic group and the high-dimensional group began joint analysis.
This was the first truly meaningful fusion of core experimental directions since the space station's establishment.
A few days later. Heinrich approached Silas again.
“I want you to stay here,” he said.
His tone was calm.
“To be your bodyguard?”
Silas asked.
Heinrich smiled.
“Strictly speaking, no.”
He walked to the window.
“I have many more specialized security teams.”
“But you are different.”
Heinrich looked at Silas.
“You survived the anomaly.” A brief pause.
“I admire you.”
Silas didn’t speak.
Heinrich continued:
“The Norvis is completely open to you. You are free to move around.”
“In the future, our research will become increasingly dangerous.”
“I want you to stay.”
This time, Silas didn’t hesitate.
“Okay.” Time marched on.
These researches continued for many years.
Microscopic technologies continued to break through.
High-dimensional models were gradually perfected.
Data on Alea was also slowly increasing.
But there was still no real answer.
Time quietly slipped away amidst the research.
Fifty years passed.
Fifty years later. New Kyoto.
By biological age calculations, Silas is 89 years old.
But if you met him on the street, you would only see a 25-year-old.
His body is continuously maintained by a microscopic system.
His cells are always in a stable state.
Aging no longer accumulates.
Heinrich's technology is already very mature. Now, Heinrich refreshes himself every 20 years. He becomes 20 years old again.
But this is still not made public.
Fifteen kilometers from New Kyoto.
A natural ecological park with a radius of three kilometers.
There is no climate control system here, no artificial sky.
Only real nature.
Forests, the sound of wind, moist soil.
The ecological park belongs to Heinrich.
This is an area he privately established.
It is also one of the ground bases for some research on the space station.
In the center of the ecological park, an unassuming man-made building is built on a small hill.
The exterior of the building shows almost no signs of technology.
But security is extremely tight.
A young man enters the entrance.
Identity verification passed.
He walks up the stone steps. He walked toward the building.
He was Silas.
The wind whistled through the trees.
Like some kind of signal yet to be understood.
