Pei Ran lowered her head and tapped on her wristband. “Should I switch to full-image mode?”
“Yes. Since writing and using text aren’t allowed, using full-image mode will prevent accidental text input while still allowing you to use the wristband. Full-image mode is in the advanced settings under general settings, along with other accessibility features.”
Pei Ran navigated to “General Settings,” found “Accessibility Features,” and saw the “Full-Image Mode” listed alongside “Full-Voice Assistance,” which was specifically designed for people with poor eyesight.
Pei Ran tapped to enable it.
In an instant, all text on the virtual screen interface disappeared, and every option turned into pure icons without any text. It was so purely visual that even icons resembling letters were removed.
Pei Ran examined the new system under full-image mode.
Icons replaced the original text positions. The design was quite intuitive and actually not too difficult to use.
The time display had also changed into a circular clock face. There were no numbers, only a lonely hand ticking away.
The applications most affected were those primarily containing text, such as the memo app and reading software—now, none of the words were visible.
The keyboard interface couldn’t be brought up either. Instead, the system only allowed various built-in emojis and sticker packs to be used, making it impossible to accidentally input text.
Interestingly, stickers still retained text.
Since writing wasn’t possible, stickers became crucial. Pei Ran began erasing the text on each sticker one by one. She also deleted all saved images containing words.
While busy, she asked, “Why does something like ‘Full-Image Mode’ even exist?”
It felt strange.
W replied, “As early as forty years ago, the ‘de-textualization’ of icons became a trend. As people’s lives grew increasingly fast-paced, they preferred simplified, non-abstract ways of receiving information. Their aesthetic preferences followed suit. Even earlier, entertainment had already shifted from text-based expression to visual and audio formats. The textual content in wristband applications gradually decreased.”
“Ten years ago, during a deadlock between the major parties in the Federation’s Parliament, the vote counts were nearly tied. This led them to seek support from various obscure, neutral micro-parties. One such party was called the ‘Anti-Text Party’…”
There was actually such a party.
W continued, “…By offering their votes to the major parties, they managed to negotiate a right for themselves—passing a federal law that required all wristbands to include a small feature: Full-Image Mode. In this mode, no words could survive. It was claimed to benefit people with reading disabilities. Unexpectedly, it has now become useful for this silence.”
As they spoke, Pei Ran’s wristband vibrated.
A floating virtual window popped up in front of Pei Ran, displaying a sticker of a tightly wrapped little figure trembling under a blanket.
The image originally had words on it, but they had been carefully erased.
With text eliminated from the wristband, the sender’s name and number had also disappeared. In the message field, only a single, lonely avatar remained.
Neither Pei Ran nor the original owner had set up avatars in their contacts, so now most people’s profiles had defaulted to a gray silhouette—like a nameless crowd, making it impossible to tell who was who.
Checking the message history, the sticker had been sent by Ai Xia.
She had also received news that the silence was about to upgrade.
The timing of the upgrade was unpredictable. To be safe, they had to stop sending images with text starting now.
Pei Ran stared at the sticker, deep in thought: This is Ai Xia—she would carefully erase the text, but what about others?
Once the new silence state takes effect, imagine this scenario: The sender sends an image containing text, and unfortunately, an explosion occurs. However, the image has already been sent. If the recipient’s wristband automatically pops up with this text-containing image, what would happen?
Maybe nothing. Or maybe disaster.
Better to disable this pop-up window. Pei Ran went into settings.
The icon for “Message Settings” still looked the same, just without the text, making it easy to find. The icon for “Pop-up Window Thumbnails” was a small picture floating on a screen—also easily recognizable. Pei Ran casually turned it off.
She browsed through the stickers stored by the original owner, picked out one of a hugging figure, and sent it back to Ai Xia. Then, on a whim, she set the shivering little blanket figure as Ai Xia’s avatar.
Turning around, she aimed her camera at the metallic sphere in the passenger seat and said, “Say, ‘Cheese’.”
W: ?
The large crack on his head gaped open—it really did look like he was grinning. Pei Ran set his cracked head as his contact avatar.
The number that sent the Federal Department of Defense and Security’s warning messages now had a designated avatar too—an entire patch of red. Pei Ran carefully went through her contacts, setting avatars for the numbers she deemed important, before checking the chat history.
The text in chat history was no longer visible, but received images still contained words. Pei Ran deleted each one of these message logs.
Ai Xia sent another reply.
This time, it was a sticker of a little figure furiously pedaling a bicycle, whipping their hair around in a frenzy.
Pei Ran had this sticker too. She recognized at a glance that Ai Xia had altered the image.
Pei Ran stared at the new lines Ai Xia had added to the picture.
“W, if I draw a line on a picture like this, does it count as writing?”
If she traced a line, it might be interpreted as writing a “1.”
The silence state might not have fully upgraded yet. Even if Ai Xia could safely send an image with so many added lines, it didn’t necessarily mean the method was safe.
W replied, “In the spaceship’s surveillance footage, I once saw crew members using drawings to communicate in this upgraded silence state. It seems to be considered separate from writing.”
That unseen force lurking in some unknown corner, monitoring everyone and determining their fate—it was smarter than expected.
On the sticker, Ai Xia had thickened the outlines of the bicycle, making it look like the bike had overeaten and suddenly gained weight.
W, observing as well, commented, “It looks like an electric bike. They must have found one.”
That would be great. With the terrain in such poor condition—or rather, with no real roads at all—a two-wheeled electric bike might actually be more agile and flexible than a four-wheeled antique car.
A simple stick figure was added to the back seat of the little electric bike. Wrinkles were drawn on its forehead—most likely representing Ai Xia’s grandmother.
She was saying she was desperately rushing forward with her grandmother.
Strangely, the backpack of the cycling stick figure had several green streaks drawn on it, as if grass were growing out of it. Pei Ran couldn’t make sense of it at all.
She had no idea where they were now.
Pei Ran asked, “Can you send me a map without text? Covering the area from White Harbor to Yehai?”
W sent it over immediately.
Pei Ran opened the image editor, found White Harbor, and marked it red. Then she did the same for Yehai. Estimating her current location, she placed a black dot and sent it to Ai Xia.
Ai Xia replied immediately.
She added a white dot on the map—it looked like they had set out from a place west of White Harbor. Their route would intersect Pei Ran’s at a slight angle.
They had already traveled some distance. Hopefully, they could reach Yehai safely.
Without the ability to write, communication was becoming increasingly difficult.
Like being cut off from the world.
The sky outside gradually darkened. To avoid attracting people or other strange things, Pei Ran didn’t turn on the lights. She ate potato chips quietly in the dark.
Beyond the car window, the fields and forests were reduced to nothing but dark silhouettes, utterly silent, as if she were the last person left in the world.
Except for the artificial intelligence metal sphere that could speak in her mind.
Pei Ran finished her chips, drank some water, and tore off a fresh strip of tape to seal her mouth shut again.
The skin on her cheeks, irritated from earlier, still burned painfully.
She reclined her seat, lay down, and closed her eyes.
The car had plenty of battery. Pei Ran turned on a little heat—it wasn’t too cold. With W keeping watch, there was no need to worry too much. She soon drifted off to sleep.
Flames flickered before her eyes.
The firelight cast moving shadows on the dark brown walls. The deep rumbling outside seemed both distant and terrifyingly close. Heavy impacts pounded the walls, one after another, making the structure tremble violently.
A bunker.
“They found us?”
“Are they coming in? Are they coming in?”
Beside her stood a middle-aged man with messy hair and a face covered in grime. His eyes were wild, and he muttered incessantly, paranoid and frantic.
Pei Ran gripped the only weapon she had—a 20- to 30-centimeter-long metal spike with a finely sharpened tip—her fingers clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her left arm held her younger sister close.
Her sister’s breath came in quick, short bursts, warm against Pei Ran’s arm, but she made no sound, pressing her head into the crook of Pei Ran’s elbow. Her bright black eyes reflected the firelight, tense and silent like a small, frightened animal.
Pei Ran lowered her head and spoke urgently, voice hushed but swift: “When I say ‘run,’ we’ll sprint toward the breach in the wall. There are so many people here—they have plenty of targets. There’s no guarantee they’ll come after the two of us first…”
A deafening explosion shook the room. The wall finally collapsed.
A blinding beam of light cut through the opening, followed by several enormous silver mechanical claws, then half of a grotesque, artificial-intelligence war beast.
It opened fire.
Flames erupted. The deafening barrage of gunfire filled the small space, so relentless that it was impossible to distinguish one shot from the next. The walls shook with the force of the impact. One by one, people around them vanished—shredded into pieces.
“RUN!!” Pei Ran screamed, voice raw and desperate. “RUN!!”
Her throat tightened, dry and burning, as if something were being ripped apart inside her—pain lancing from her throat to her chest, pulling even at her heart.
Pei Ran jolted awake.
“Pei Ran? Pei Ran? Wake up!”
W was speaking softly beside her.
“Did I make a sound?” she asked in her mind immediately. Her heart was pounding, but her voice remained calm.
“No. You didn’t make a sound,” W replied. “You were frowning and moving restlessly, like you were having a nightmare. I was worried you’d make a sound, so I tried to wake you up.”
He had called out just in time.
The firelight in her dream faded away, leaving only the faint outlines of the steering wheel and the center console in the darkness.
W had moved himself to the dashboard in front of the windshield, probably for a better vantage point while keeping watch. In the dim light, his silver metallic sphere reflected a faint glow—just like the mechanical beasts in her dream.
Pei Ran lay back down, staring at the ceiling of the car, sleep completely abandoned.
The silence stretched endlessly. It was deep winter—not even insects chirped.
“Do you still want to hear me sing?” W suddenly asked.
That breathy, endlessly gasping song of his. Seemed like he hadn’t had enough.
Pei Ran: “Sure.”
W was quiet for a moment before he began singing. This time, his voice was soft, like a whispered breath in the dark.