Chapter 14: Virtual Reality · Ginkgo

"Hiss…" Chen Xu sucked in a breath, wincing as if he had a toothache. Virtual reality?

As a fan of web novels, the term wasn't foreign to him. Flip through the gaming section on Qidian, and nine out of ten stories kicked off with the protagonist buying a virtual reality helmet to dive into a game. But was Xiao Min's "Virtual Reality System" the same thing he pictured? So he asked, "This virtual reality system you're talking about—is it the kind where you enter a virtual world to play games?"

"Yes," Xiao Min replied.

"And once you're in, it feels like the real world? All first-person, fully immersive?"

"Exactly," Xiao Min said. "But let me clarify: the Virtual Reality System—BC for short—is limited by hardware. With current tech, it can immerse you in a strikingly real virtual experience, but it's still far from reality. Subtle details—like the texture of grass or tiny facial expressions—need robust hardware and software synergy to nail. Still, its birth was a milestone in human tech civilization, no question."

Chen Xu took a few deep breaths. "Can I try it out now?"

"Nope." Xiao Min dumped cold water on him. "We've only recovered the core program. Without supporting software, it's unusable."

"Huh? What's that mean?"

"The Virtual Reality System, or BC—Brain-Computer—works like this: think of the core program as a PC's operating system. The Magic Box One computer fuses PC and BC hardware, so theoretically, with the core restored, it could run the BC platform. But right now, all we've got is the core—no software."

Chen Xu got it. Picture a PC with Windows installed, but nothing else—no browser, no media player, not even Minesweeper. The BC system in the Magic Box was like that: an empty shell, useless for now.

He was thrilled—the BC platform's potential was mind-blowing, and Xiao Min said a third of the hard drive's data was BC-related. But he was also bummed—it was like eyeing a gorgeous woman on TV: look but don't touch, let alone get close.

Frustrated, he quizzed Xiao Min about the system, clinging to some hope.

Developed in 2064 by Chinese and American experts, the Virtual Reality System was a game-changer. It enabled safe brain-machine interaction, swiftly dominating—and even displacing—markets, especially gaming and entertainment, where it nearly wiped out PC platforms.

Its impact was colossal. For the disabled, it offered sight and sound, letting them experience the world like anyone else. By 2086, after decades of refinement, it was near-perfect. That year's top 100 first-person games? All BC exclusives.

Beyond gaming and movies, its real value was education. Chen Xu envied kids 80 years from now—BC made learning a blast.

Want to see dinosaurs? Step into a real Jurassic Park. Need hands-on skills? Assemble a 99% realistic plane from parts, fly it, crash it—no harm done, mess around all you want! Militaries even built BC training programs—soldiers could taste war's blood and iron, master weapons, and adapt to any terrain, becoming elite tri-service commandos without risking death.

BC training was basically a hyper-realistic war game. Aside from initial development and upkeep costs, it was free to run. Future armies loved "live-fire" drills—missiles flying, billion-dollar planes and tanks exploding without hesitation. They might even toss in a nuke to test soldiers' survival skills in a radiated hellscape.

But for Chen Xu, these first-person BC wonders were just daydream fodder. It felt like when his dad bought him a Little Tyrant gaming console as a kid—plugged it into the TV, buzzing with excitement, only to realize the idiot hadn't bought a single cartridge.

He begged Xiao Min to alert him the instant any BC game became playable—he'd dive in ASAP.

Back at the dorm, he found it locked tight, empty. Then he remembered: aside from him and Qin Xiao'an, who were semi-normal, the other two were ghosts—vanishing every night.

Wu Yuan was predictable, at least. He'd been a shut-in type, but lately, he'd grab his laptop after dinner and bolt. Word from the well-connected Qin Xiao'an was that Wu Yuan had flexed his hacking skills on the school BBS before arriving, catching the eye of upperclassmen. Now he was in the student council's computer club, tinkering with some project.

Hexie University's student council was legendary—stronger and more active than any nearby school's, a model for others to chase. Listing council involvement on a resume scored major points with employers. The computer club was its hottest branch. Unlike other groups' open recruitment, it hid behind an encrypted BBS forum—crack it to join. They tackled real projects from the school or outside, raking in hefty rewards. Some of their work had won national awards. For a freshman like Wu Yuan to join such an elite crew right off the bat? He was a mini-celeb.

Dong Qingjie, though, was the dorm's enigma. Gone after class, back late, claiming "work-study" but never saying where. After his meltdown over the lost stuff, they'd pieced it together—his family was broke, tuition on loans. That missing money, small to others, was a gut punch to him. Worse, everyone else's stuff turned up—his cash didn't.

No one brought it up, but they knew. When they ate together and saw Dong Qingjie with a tiny portion and a mountain of rice, they'd sneak him food under flimsy excuses. Qin Xiao'an's monthly budget was just over 400 yuan, but Chen Xu and Wu Yuan had cash to spare, so they'd order extra dishes and divvy them up "by accident."

Qin Xiao'an was probably still upstairs with Wang Dong, plotting soccer stuff, but he could barge in anytime. Chen Xu didn't dare whip out the supercomputer, so he fired up his laptop, surfed aimlessly, then prepped for bed.

Smart move—minutes later, a knock. Not Qin Xiao'an, but Liu Rui from next door.

After a few days, the hall's guys were familiar faces. Chen Xu knew the neighbors decently and asked politely, "What's up?"

"Mind if I borrow your computer? Need to look something up," Liu Rui said.

No biggie—Chen Xu was bored anyway. "Go ahead. What're you researching?"

"Poetry!" Liu Rui gaped at him. "Don't tell me you forgot—or didn't hear? Old Chen assigned it after class. Mid-Autumn Festival's a month away—make a greeting card with a blessing. We'll collect them, then hand them out randomly on the day."

"I know that," Chen Xu said. "But what's poetry got to do with it?"

"You don't get it," Liu Rui smirked. "Old Chen said the cards get swapped—guys' to girls, girls' to guys. Our department's all wolves, short on meat, so the girls will snag ours. I'm thinking—a killer love poem could land in some girl's hands. If I'm lucky, maybe Guan Yi, Zhan Jing, or Gao Xiaojie—one of the big three beauties! She might swoon over my talent, and then, heh heh heh…"

Chen Xu shivered at his owl-like cackle. "What if it lands with a dude?"

"Then it's a bust!" Liu Rui shot him a scornful look. "If I try, there's a chance. If I don't, there's none. Duh!" Chen Xu had to admit—the guy sounded like a philosopher.

He had a point. Watching Liu Rui scour the web for poems, Chen Xu scoffed—poetry? Who needs to search for that?

With nothing else to do and his computer occupied, he ran downstairs, grabbed a fancy card, and started scribbling.

Back in high school, Chen Xu had been a wannabe literary hipster, penning cheesy poems to impress girls. He'd ditched it when he realized it didn't win cool points, but the memories felt like a dream now. Recycling his old stuff was easy—surely no worse than the online drivel from other poser poets.

His high school had a thousand-year-old ginkgo tree, dubbed the campus treasure, supposedly planted by Zhou Tai, a Wu Kingdom general from the Three Kingdoms era. Chen Xu never got why a warrior like Zhou Tai bothered with trees—did they have "plant more, prosper" slogans back then?

Plenty of amateur poets had waxed lyrical about that ginkgo, Chen Xu included. When a friend transferred to Shanghai in high school, he'd written her a quatrain:

Recall young Zhou's ancient sowing,

Winter sheds leaves, branches growing bare.

Pluck late spring's past foliage glowing,

Geese bear my longing through the air.

Now, on the card, he wrote a modern poem, still ginkgo-themed. It was three parts show-off, four parts smug, and three parts wistful nostalgia:

Meeting you,

Borne by autumn's rustling breeze.

Beneath the ancient ginkgo tree,

My first spark of awe took ease.

Your radiant smile,

Etched deep in my mind's keep.

You under the ginkgo,

An angel stirring my heart's leap.

Perhaps you never saw,

The boy's quiet dream beside.

Perhaps I've fallen far,

Into longing's bottomless tide.

I pick a ginkgo leaf,

Wishing on a gentle gust,

To place it in your grasp,

For a faint smile—just.

Enough to melt the world's ice,

Thaw every frozen crust.

Yet you pass heedless by,

Leaving that leaf to the wind's hum.

For me, just a fleeting sigh,

A misty rain, empty and numb.

Finished, he slipped the card into an envelope and sealed it. In that moment, it felt like he'd sealed away a precious memory.

The urge to flaunt faded. Listless, he tossed the envelope into a drawer. Whoever gets it, gets it!