Chapter Seventy-Three: The Once Brilliant Genius

Since Zhu Lan dared to send out the model fighter jets, he naturally wasn’t afraid of future repercussions. Whether it was the business with the Japanese base before or the attempt to have him rig the bidding for the gene optimization serum, Zhu Lan had already offended quite a few people in higher places. Yet, with the military backing him, and especially after the quantum communication breakthrough, even the higher-ups couldn’t move against him too brazenly.

Quantum communication itself wasn’t so crucial, but Zhu Lan had provided the military with partial technology for building quantum satellites, as well as several unique instruments. That changed everything.

The so-called model fighter jets were officially created as a game, but in truth, they were just a few playthings Zhu Lan had built out of boredom. Back then, he'd always wanted a model fighter, but a single one was prohibitively expensive—easily tens of thousands—so Zhu Lan simply couldn’t afford it.

Since Kong Yan had taken over Zhu Lan’s responsibilities, aside from materializing the supplies needed for the Azure Base, Zhu Lan had little to occupy himself with and could only find ways to pass the time.

“Zhu Lan, this is a very serious matter!”

“Yes, sir!” Zhu Lan drawled, making little effort to appear serious.

Luo Guoqiang looked at Zhu Lan helplessly, then turned to Qin Min for support.

Qin Min opened his mouth: “Zhu Lan, although the higher-ups made mistakes, you’re not blameless either. As your teacher, I don’t want to see you go down the wrong path. You have a long future ahead!”

Zhu Lan regained his composure and nodded. “Teacher, I know what I’m doing. Honestly, this is just something I tinker with for fun. My real focus is on virtual technology; I’m hoping to stun the world once it’s developed!”

“I believe in you!” Seeing that machine and the already impressive prototype, Qin Min was convinced Zhu Lan could make it happen. He just didn’t know how many years it would take.

Virtual technology had been proposed just a few years after the advent of computer computation, and soon after, organizations and countries began researching it. In theory, virtual technology wasn’t so difficult; with current tech, devices for introducing brainwaves could be made. The real challenge lay in the input process.

The human brain is one of the three great mysteries of the world; humanity may spend its entire existence and never unravel all its secrets. Brainwave technology can capture and introduce brainwaves into a fictional world, but the problem—brainwave input and current control—must be mastered at the molecular level. There are enormous obstacles in both input and retrieval, which is one reason virtual technology has yet to be realized.

Just this input problem alone has stymied humanity for over twenty years. From the earliest computers to today’s pseudo-intelligent era, there’s been no effective solution.

With the fantasy system at his disposal, virtual technology was nothing to Zhu Lan. In “The Matrix,” there was the most sophisticated virtual tech—advanced at that. If virtual technology is to achieve the time dilation, physical enhancement, or even cultivation described in future network novels, then it’s no longer virtual technology, but rather spatial technology—what’s known as world-building technology. That would mean forcibly constructing a vast space in the unknown using spatial means, then simulating a complete world with intelligence or the equivalent of the Dao, creating unique laws, and treating human souls as players. Only then could such formidable effects be achieved.

At its pinnacle, virtual technology can only simulate reality—real is real, simulation is simulation; it could never truly become one or the other.

“I understand. I’ll handle it.”

“Forget it! If I let you handle it, I’ll just have more trouble. I’ll take care of it myself!”

“No, no, Commander Luo, I still have use for that batch of models!”

“Use? Don’t tell me you’re up to something again?”

“Rest assured, I’m planning to use those models for recruitment.”

“Recruitment? Zhu Lan, if you’re going to make excuses, at least make them plausible. You think I’ll believe that? Anyone can buy a model jet!”

Zhu Lan shook his head. “Commander Luo, you don’t know the whole story. That batch of models was built strictly to the specifications of third-generation fighter jets, just scaled down.”

“Strictly?” Luo Guoqiang frowned. Built entirely to third-gen fighter standards? In other words, these were miniature third-generation fighters?

“Exactly. The materials can’t compare to a real jet, but they can fly ten kilometers or so without issue. Equip them with some simulated missiles, and they’re more than enough for some people to play with.”

“And operating them is extremely simple. They’re fully equipped with intelligent operating systems—it’s just like playing a game.”

Hearing this, Luo Guoqiang gave Zhu Lan a long, searching look. Now he fully understood Zhu Lan’s intentions.

Ordinary models were nothing, but what if you could pilot a model exactly like a real fighter jet? That would be the ultimate toy, far surpassing luxury cars.

How many people in the world actually get to fly real fighter jets? Not only that, but the G-forces are beyond what most can endure; rigorous training is a must. Computer flight games are more and more realistic, but still just fiction. If you had a scaled-down fighter you could control yourself without ever leaving the ground, it would be far more entertaining than live-action gun battles. Some of the second generation rich would absolutely love it.

A single session of a live-action gun match in some clubs costs thousands or tens of thousands, and some clubs even have real guns. But in recent years, China had cracked down hard on such activities.

Zhu Lan had always been a solitary figure, but he knew he needed allies. So when Luo Guoqiang wanted to destroy the models, Zhu Lan immediately thought of another use for them—and a way to make some money.

“You really do think big!”

“Of course. For the sake of funding, I’ve burned through billions of brain cells—just so I can have enough research money to develop virtual technology in my lifetime.”

Luo Guoqiang could only smile wryly. “You...!”

There wasn’t much else he could say. Zhu Lan was already important to the military. The military had evaluated the prototype robots he’d developed: though still far from military-grade, they were more advanced in many ways than existing robots, and the military had determined they could be used as replacements, pending further development. They’d even considered taking over the project, but ultimately decided against it—there were already similar projects in the pipeline, and shutting them down would affect tens of thousands of jobs.

This so-called accountability was really just a warning to Zhu Lan.

Are missiles so terrifying? Even if you built and detonated a nuclear bomb, as long as there was enough profit, it would all be negotiable.

If Zhu Lan really took out a nuke and set it off, when it came time to hold him accountable, he’d only need to offer something the higher-ups desired—like, say, a planet.

There’s no such thing as a true bottom line; it’s only a question of whether the bottom line matches the interests at stake.

Luo Guoqiang left, but before he did, he specifically ordered that the models not be used anymore, and said he’d assign people to supervise them.

Luo Guoqiang and Qin Min departed, but Zhu Lan stayed behind.

“How far has the research progressed?” Zhu Lan looked up at the silent man before him.

The person in charge here was not Wei Juanwen, but this man.

Ever since Kong Yan took over the management of Fantasy Technologies for Zhu Lan, the company had gradually brought in a number of new recruits. These newcomers were immediately placed in middle management, replacing the heads of many departments.

Kong Yan, hacking into global networks, had especially sought out these individuals—her trust and their abilities were both first-rate.

Song Tingsan, head of virtual research, was anything but ordinary.

Eight years ago, he was the top scorer in the national college entrance exams and entered Fudan University. The following year, he became an exchange student at MIT—a far greater achievement than attending Harvard or Cambridge, given MIT’s immense value to the United States.

But his good fortune didn’t last. When Song Tingsan was an exchange student, a second-generation rich kid tried to take him down, but Song Tingsan escalated the matter to the Ministry of Education and managed to get to America.

Barely half a year after arriving at MIT, Song Tingsan was arrested and convicted for raping a British student. The evidence was clear, and he was detained. Only seven months ago was he finally released from an American prison, but by then he had fallen behind.

That was the official record, but Kong Yan discovered more: Song Tingsan had behaved well in prison, and several classmates frequently visited him, bringing books to help him pass the time. Academically, he was already fit to graduate. Unfortunately, with a criminal record, no one would hire him. With no other options, Song Tingsan returned home, but China had changed so much in recent years that he struggled to adapt. In desperation, he found work as a copywriter at a regular company. If nothing unexpected happened, this would have been the rest of his life.

Song Tingsan was a true talent. Kong Yan tracked him down online, gave him several tests, and, with a high salary on offer, Song Tingsan joined Fantasy Technologies.

After a two-month probation, both Zhu Lan and Kong Yan were impressed. With the virtual technology project about to launch, Zhu Lan put him in charge.

“Boss, we need new equipment. This machine has reached its limit. Also, shouldn’t we begin human trials?”

Zhu Lan fell silent. “Let’s hold off on that for now.”

“But boss, without that, we can’t continue the experiments. Using only animal brainwaves no longer serves our research—we’re just spinning in circles.”

Zhu Lan waved for Song Tingsan to stop. “I know. The matter of vegetative patients is too sensitive; I need to coordinate with the military.”

Song Tingsan nodded reluctantly. “Understood.”

“Just focus on organizing the data. I’ll handle the vegetative patients. This place isn’t big enough for the next phase of experiments. Get ready—soon, I’ll move you somewhere better. The brand new equipment is already at sea, and should arrive soon.”

“A new place?” Song Tingsan frowned. This place was indeed too cramped. For standard experiments, it was large enough, but the next stage of brainwave testing in virtual tech needed much more space. He’d been about to request the two floors above, but Zhu Lan had already decided to move them.

“Virtual technology is too important. Building Six is secretive, but already too many eyes are on it. I’ll get you somewhere even more secure.” Song Tingsan didn’t fully understand, but nodded anyway.

Zhu Lan shook his head, waving him away. “Go on. Just get the data in order before worrying about anything else.”

After Song Tingsan left, Zhu Lan rubbed his temples in frustration.

He had given Song Tingsan only a partial framework of the virtual technology, just enough to provide a research direction. The full data for virtual technology had long ago been materialized under Kong Yan’s guidance and stored in a room at Azure Base. But Zhu Lan knew the time wasn’t yet right to release it. For now, he could only nurture talent in this field, waiting for the right moment for the technology to be born.

(To be continued.)