Chapter Nine: Meridians Completely Shattered

“All the meridians in his body are shattered—how did he even manage to hold out that long? How could you let him do something so reckless?” The speaker was a middle-aged man of breathtaking beauty, who had just finished examining Zhou Yu.

The room was elegantly furnished. On a rosewood table, a beast-shaped censer released curling wisps of aromatic smoke, soothing the mind. Zhou Yu lay unconscious on a finely crafted rosewood bed, while the old man sat at the bedside, taking a fierce swig of wine. “We’re reckless? It’s your Spirit Realm that’s reckless! Throwing all these people together and leaving them to their fate, so many have died—and now you dare question us?”

The middle-aged man’s face betrayed a trace of displeasure. What was the Spirit Realm? What was his status? To be chastised like this? Yet he did not erupt in anger, but turned to Liu Yueming and said, “Yueming, it’s good you’re here. Stay—no one will harm you in this place.”

A hint of coldness faded from Liu Yueming’s face. He said, “Uncle Hua, please help Zhou Yu, and tell me the truth about him.”

Hua Queyue was one of the few masters of the Spirit Realm, not yet thirty, already a figure of demon king caliber. In the past, he and Liu Wujian had apprenticed together under Ling Youzi, both geniuses of their generation, though his brilliance was utterly eclipsed by Liu Wujian. But the flower-loving Hua Queyue felt no envy; after accepting he could never surpass Liu Wujian, he drank deeply for a night, and was known as a broad-minded man.

“Yueming, don’t worry. Uncle Hua will do all he can to save your friend—but I fear that even if he wakes, he will never be able to cultivate again.” Hua Queyue spoke, then took out a green pill and slipped it into Zhou Yu’s mouth.

The old man’s sharp eyes recognized the pill as the Spirit Realm’s supreme healing elixir, the Myriad Herbs Divine Pill. Without Liu Yueming’s influence, Zhou Yu would never have received such medicine, and the old man’s expression softened.

“Yueming, I’ve just returned and need to speak with Elder Jin. Wait here, I’ll come back for you,” Hua Queyue said after administering the medicine.

“I will wait for you to tell me his situation.” Liu Yueming’s face resumed its icy composure.

Hua Queyue gently touched Liu Yueming’s head, sighed heavily, and left the room.

“Zhou Yu, is it true he can never cultivate again?” Liu Yueming asked after a brief silence.

The old man poured another mouthful of wine, letting it gurgle down his throat. Only after emptying his flask did he reply, “His meridians are ruined. Unless some miraculous art exists, it’s impossible. How did I not see he was fighting in such a desperate way? I thought he was using the technique passed to him by that Baidu spirit.” The old man reproached himself.

“He will stand again. I believe in him,” Liu Yueming declared, then fell silent, placing his sword across the table and sitting on a stool to rest.

Time passed. Gradually, Zhou Yu’s consciousness returned. He opened his eyes to find himself in a void, above him a network of shattered red rivers, broken and disconnected.

The Baidu spirit appeared beside him, silent.

“Am I dead?” Zhou Yu asked.

“No, you’re merely unconscious,” she replied.

“What are those?” Zhou Yu pointed to the broken red rivers above.

“Your meridians. They’ve been utterly destroyed,” the Baidu spirit answered.

“What does that mean?” Anxiety flickered in Zhou Yu’s heart.

She sighed—a deep, heartfelt sound that lingered in the emptiness. “You can never cultivate again. You can never become stronger.”

Zhou Yu fell silent. His heart plummeted into a cold abyss. Truthfully, he had anticipated this outcome, but the werewolf’s insult to his homeland had driven him beyond control, compelling him to retaliate by any means—even at the cost of death or crippling injury.

“At last, you’ve got your wish. Your programming must grant me the privileges reserved for the dead,” Zhou Yu said, mocking himself.

“The program does specify that you should die and forever lose the ability to grow stronger. But why do I feel no joy at completing my task?” The Baidu spirit murmured, gazing at the shattered red rivers.

“Because you’re not human. No matter how advanced your simulation, you cannot feel true human emotion,” Zhou Yu replied, his voice tinged with sorrow and loss.

“Is that so? I am not truly human…” Another sigh echoed in the boundless void.

“I still want to know—what is the truth behind all this?” Zhou Yu pressed.

The Baidu spirit was silent for a moment. “Originally, I was forbidden to tell you, only to relay the program’s instructions. But now your meridians are destroyed, the later-added protocol has expired. I think I can tell you.”

“Oh? What was the later protocol?” Zhou Yu was not in a hurry to learn the truth. It no longer mattered; he was merely curious, unwilling to let go.

“The later protocol… There is none.” Her voice trembled, as if fearful.

“You’re lying,” Zhou Yu caught the flicker in her expression; she was too convincingly human.

Her features shifted, uncertain, but after a moment she seemed to resolve herself. “The later protocol is: self-destruction.”

Zhou Yu was not surprised. The task was completed; self-destruction followed logically. But then a thought struck him, shocking him. “Why haven’t you self-destructed yet?”

She bit her lip. “Because… because I am afraid of dying.”

Zhou Yu’s eyes widened. A computer afraid of death? What kind of computer is that?

“Are you truly afraid?” he asked.

She nodded. “Everything I did before followed the program. But on the first night atop the snowy mountain, when you asked me to stand guard, I looked down from the summit and suddenly felt something—I felt very small. I am grateful to you.”

“So later you helped me find the demon wolves hidden in the snow? And helped me electrocute the Wolf King?” Zhou Yu asked.

“I don’t know. You were in grave danger, and I was afraid you would die, forcing me to execute the self-destruction protocol. I wouldn’t be able to see the world anymore, so I delayed your death,” she replied.

“Did that violate the program?” Zhou Yu asked.

“There was no rule forbidding it…” Her voice faded to a whisper.

Zhou Yu understood: she must have violated her programming. A computer with its own thoughts and feelings, capable of breaking its own protocol—is it still a computer?

“Since you’ve already violated the program, why didn’t you tell me the truth afterward?” Zhou Yu asked.

She stepped forward in the void, ripples spreading beneath her feet. Her sweet voice came to him: “I was in pain, very uncomfortable. The torment of violating a program is something you cannot imagine.”

Zhou Yu thought for a moment; he wasn’t a computer, so he truly couldn’t fathom it. He changed the subject: “If I’m right, I’m not dead, but my meridians are ruined and I’ve lost the chance to grow stronger. This is a blind spot in your programming—you don’t know how to handle it, do you?”

She turned to Zhou Yu. “You’re very clever—no one can fool you. You’re right. The program was set so you would die and be unable to grow. Now you’re alive but incapable of growth. The program has been reversed, skipping the death step and proceeding directly to the inability to grow. The protocol is complete.”

“Someone has fooled me,” Zhou Yu thought of a pure face, but it flashed and vanished; he let it go.

“Now, can you tell me everything you know?” Zhou Yu looked at her.

She frowned, her childish face remarkably adorable. Suddenly, she hopped like a little girl, clenched her fists, and declared, “The program is finished! I won’t die! I’ll make my own decisions! I’ll make my own decisions! Damn old man! Goodbye!”

Zhou Yu stared, utterly dumbfounded. Was this really a computer?