Tang Dao continued tapping Morse code on the small table: I’m handing out boxed meals. The doctor came over and gestured for a while, indicating that he could help. Jin Hejun agreed and followed him.
W said, “Even an unsuccessful veterinarian is, after all, a professional doctor. Maybe he really can help treat the wound.”
He was right, but Pei Ran, deep down, couldn’t feel at ease about that Yulianka.
Pei Ran tapped on the table: Where did they go?
Tang Dao pointed toward the end of the train.
Pei Ran walked toward the end of the train, with Sheng Mingxi and Tang Dao following, probably wanting to check on their friend as well.
The carriage was filled with the aroma of food. Everyone had received their boxed meals and was eating quietly, with only the occasional soft clinking of aluminum foil containers.
Pei Ran walked all the way to the dining car.
The dining car door was tightly shut. There was glass on the door, but it was covered with a white gauze curtain, making the inside indistinct and hard to see clearly.
At one corner of the gauze curtain, there was a small gap where it wasn’t fully closed. Tang Dao pressed his eye against it.
After just one glance, he frowned.
Pei Ran was really curious about what he had seen and gently poked him.
Tang Dao stepped aside, giving Pei Ran the prime spot for spying, his brow still furrowed.
Pei Ran saw.
Inside the dining car, Kirill and Yulianka had removed the white tablecloth from the central table, and Jin Hejun was lying on his back on it.
Some of the people were holding down his arms, some were pressing his legs, and others were gripping his head.
Jin Hejun’s mouth was forced wide open, stretched into a large “O” shape by something.
Yulianka, wearing a white lab coat, was bent over, leaning in very close, with a tool in his hand, fiddling with something inside Jin Hejun’s mouth.
Suddenly, Jin Hejun’s legs started kicking wildly, making it almost impossible for the person holding them down to keep their grip.
The metal sphere hung on Pei Ran, and W, unable to see, asked, “What’s going on inside?”
“Forcing someone’s mouth open, no idea what they’re up to,” Pei Ran replied.
Sheng Mingxi, standing behind them, couldn’t see what was happening inside or their expressions, and had already boldly reached out to knock on the dining car door.
Pei Ran: “…”
Immediately, footsteps approached from inside.
The door was opened by Kirill. His thick eyebrows were furrowed so tightly they seemed to twist together, as if silently demanding: What are you all doing here?
Yulianka, seeing Pei Ran from a distance, showed a slight look of surprise. He immediately put down the tool in his hand and hurried over.
As he walked, he removed his medical gloves, which were still stained with bright red blood.
Sheng Mingxi, now seeing the scene inside the dining car, grew anxious. He shot Kirill an even fiercer look than the one he had received and pointed at Jin Hejun, who was still lying on the table. His meaning was clear: “What are you doing to him??”
Yulianka patted Kirill, signaling him to step aside, and tilted his head slightly, gesturing for Pei Ran and the others to come in.
No one was holding Jin Hejun down anymore. He had already sat up, breathing heavily, and seemed to be in better condition than before.
The white gauze on his eyes had been replaced with a fresh one, no longer haphazardly wrapped. It was now neatly and professionally bandaged, with no more blood seeping through.
However, he kept one hand pressed against his throat.
Yulianka approached, first gently patting Jin Hejun’s hand, then prying open his mouth. He picked up a long metal rod with a small light and carefully examined the inside of his mouth before turning to explain to Pei Ran and the others using gestures.
He didn’t know the finger-tapping code system or Morse code, so he resorted to acting out a pantomime, doing so with such skill that he and Sheng Mingxi might as well have come from the same drama club.
First, he mimicked someone curling up in pain, writhing in agony, then pointed to his mouth and covered it tightly.
It seemed he was saying that Jin Hejun, due to the pain in his eyes, had been desperately trying not to make a sound.
Next, he removed the light blue medical mask from his face.
He opened his mouth, pointing deep into her throat, then made a firm slashing motion across his neck with his other hand.
Suddenly, Pei Ran understood what she was trying to say.
She couldn’t believe it.
W spoke in her ear.
“Pei Ran, do you know why Yulianka’s veterinary clinic was shut down for inspections several times? It was because he performed a certain surgery for pet owners: some people wanted to keep dogs but couldn’t stand their natural barking, so they asked him to remove their vocal cords.”
W continued, “Removing a dog’s vocal cords is illegal in the Federation. Yulianka’s clinic wasn’t doing well, so he took on these illegal jobs, only to be reported. I doubt he ever imagined that one day this procedure would be used like this.”
The hairs on Pei Ran’s arms stood on end.
To prevent Jin Hejun from screaming in pain, Yulianka had cut out his vocal cords, just like he had done to dogs.
Was this really saving someone?
Yulianka, observing Pei Ran’s expression, knew she had understood.
He pursed his lips, his expression calm, then pointed to his companions around him and made the same slashing gesture across his throat.
All of their vocal cords had been cut out as well.
Yulianka pointed to his eyes, made a motion like flames bursting out, then pointed to his throat and crossed his hands in an “X” shape.
He was saying that today, his companion who had screamed because of the letters on his contact lenses had died precisely because he hadn’t undergone the vocal cord surgery.
By cutting out the vocal cords, one would no longer accidentally make sounds, no longer talk in their sleep, and no longer need to use tape. It was a permanent solution.
The method was ruthless and extreme, but in a situation where making a sound meant death, it was indeed an effective solution.
Yulianka turned his bag around to show Pei Ran.
Inside the bag was a small white box with its lid open, containing a complete set of tools. The silver metal gleamed under the light, spotless and looking highly professional.
Yulianka gently pointed at Pei Ran, then at the tools, tilting his head slightly as if asking:
“Do you want to have your vocal cords cut out too?”
Pei Ran silently looked at her and shook her head.
Yulianka then turned her questioning gaze to Sheng Mingxi.
Sheng Mingxi quickly took two steps back, her face clearly saying, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Tang Dao didn’t wait for his to ask and was already shaking his head like a rattle drum.
Being forced not to speak was one thing, but permanently losing the ability to speak was another.
The three of them were in agreement: even if it meant risking death at any moment, they would not willingly cut out their own ability to speak.
Yulianka looked at the three of them with his pale gray-blue eyes, gentle and understanding. He made the slashing gesture again, then clasped his hands together, resting them against his cheek, tilting his head and closing his eyes.
He was saying: “Cut out your vocal cords, and you can sleep peacefully.”
Pei Ran and the other two shook their heads even more firmly.
Yulianka seemed to let out a silent sigh.
His eyes were filled with worry, but he didn’t press them. Instead, he turned back to help Jin Hejun, who had just undergone the surgery, down from the dining table.
Sheng Mingxi and Tang Dao hurried over, signaling that they would take care of their classmate, and supported him as they walked back.
Yulianka followed them out of the dining car, which had served as a temporary operating room.
He wasn’t following Pei Ran and the others but went to check on the elderly couple who studied ancient texts. The old man gestured, pointing to his heart, as if discussing some discomfort with him.
He placed his hand on the old man’s wrist, tilting his head as he carefully counted his heartbeat.
On the other side of the carriage, the mother from the family of three was also waving to him, holding the little girl in her arms.
The little girl had been living in fear these past two days—most likely scared out of her wits—clutching tightly to the front of her mother’s clothes, clearly not in good shape either.
Yulianka raised his hand to them in a gesture that meant, “Got it, I’ll be right over.”
At times like this, the white coat held a special meaning for everyone. He was probably the only doctor on the train, and he fulfilled his duties with utmost responsibility.
Tang Dao, however, didn’t quite trust Yulianka, so he walked forward into the next carriage, leaving Yulianka’s line of sight, and only then patted Kim He-jun’s hand.
Pa—ta.
Ta ta.
Pa—
Pa—pa—pa—
…
W, acting as an automatic translator, spared Pei Ran the effort—he had already translated it: “Tang Dao is asking: Do you consent to the surgery?”
Because of his eye injury, Kim He-jun had lost a lot of blood. Now, after surgery on his throat, he looked weak and pale, stumbling as he walked, but he could still feel Tang Dao’s hand.
He groped for Tang Dao’s hand and slowly responded:
Ta ta ta.
Ta ta ta ta.
Ta ta.
Even without W’s translation, Pei Ran knew—he said, “Yes.”
Then he continued tapping: Before the surgery, he let me feel my own throat, guided my hand through the cutting motion, then had me feel his tools—I understood what he meant. I was willing.
Kim He-jun himself had agreed to sever his vocal cords.
It was understandable.
The pain had nearly driven him to the brink—at any moment, he might’ve accidentally let out a sound and been blown to pieces. Like a gecko under threat discards its tail to survive, he chose to give up his voice to save his life.
But unlike a gecko’s tail, which would grow back, his vocal cords would never return.
Pei Ran asked W, “If you were in Kim He-jun’s situation, would you choose to cut your vocal cords?”
W replied calmly, “I don’t know. What about you?”
Pei Ran thought for a moment. “I don’t know either.”
Her wristband vibrated—it was another batch of new images from the Department of National Defense and Security.
The images were still drawn in W’s simplistic sketch style. This time, they depicted many people all trying different methods to communicate with one another.
In addition to the communication methods Pei Ran already knew, the safe ways now also included silent gestures, including number gestures from sign language—all confirmed to be fine.
This was all information compiled and organized by Black Well. As W had said, experience was being accumulated bit by bit.
The final image served as a reminder: even communication methods that were currently safe might not remain safe forever. No one knew when problems might arise and cause people to be blown up. These methods could only be used cautiously.
Two thousand kilometers away, at the Black Well base—
It had been fifty-seven hours since entering the Silence.
The small meeting room next to the top-floor command center had already been set up.
Black Well’s best conference table was placed in the center, surrounded by a ring of chairs.
The high-ranking military officers and administrative officials who had arrived at Black Well had formed the Black Well Temporary Decision-Making Committee, and were currently holding their daily routine meeting.
The main topic was discussing the second phase of the northern shield-layer project.
Before the Silence began, the Phase II construction had not yet reached halfway completion. However, the shield-layer generator itself was already basically formed.
Chief Executive Basserway had just arrived at Black Well and hadn’t fully caught up on the situation.
“So why must we complete the second phase? Isn’t the core shield layer already covering the entire underground city?”
W’s calm voice came through:
“One of the biggest problems with the Silence is that it affects the functionality of various equipment and weapons. Any screen, gauge, even internal components of weapons—if text appears—can become a target. So among our automated weapons, the number that can still function outside is extremely limited.”
“On one hand, Black Well is rapidly setting up production and repair lines to modify existing weapons. On the other hand, if the second phase of the project can be completed successfully and the shield coverage extended, then within that expanded coverage, all weapons can operate normally. Black Well’s defensive perimeter can then expand accordingly. This is crucial for Black Well’s security.”
Basserway nodded in acknowledgment, indicating he understood.
After gradually confirming the implementation schedule for Phase II, the meeting moved on to the next agenda item—one that had been added by Agent W: re-evaluating Black Well’s decision-making process.
W’s composed and restrained voice echoed in the small meeting room.
“Facts have shown that the current approval process is completely incapable of responding to the ever-changing external situation. Every second of delay means the loss of countless lives outside the shield. I strongly recommend revising the process and granting me more emergency response authority.”
Marshal Vina leaned silently against the back of his chair.
It was the Federal Minister of Finance who finally spoke up:
“With all due respect, Agent W, you’re essentially asking to bypass the Temporary Decision-Making Committee and make all decisions yourself…”
W cut him off, voice cold:
“First of all, I am not a ‘person.’ I am an artificial intelligence—software composed of code. Secondly, I am not asking to ‘make all decisions.’ I am only requesting more authority over decisions that involve the safety of federal civilian lives.”
Lieutenant General Delsa couldn’t hold back: “I knew it. These AIs are all ambitious. We should never have activated any so-called ‘Agent’ in the first place…”
Marshal Vina remained silent for a long time before speaking.
“Agent W, I trust your judgment. The facts show that since the Silence began, all of your decisions have been correct. But handing more power over to you does not conform to the Federation’s normal decision-making processes and systems—it could even be unconstitutional.”
W replied, “If the system causes countless Federation citizens to lose their lives, then isn’t it the system itself that should be changed?”
Marshal Vina cast a glance at Song Wan, who was seated beside him.
Artificial intelligence might seem completely fair and objective, but in the end, it was still just a tool—and tools were always in the hands of those who wielded them.
Behind Agent W stood Song Wan’s family, a long-established military family from the Eastern Manya Continent.
Various factions within the Federation had long maintained a delicate balance of power. Vina had gone against widespread opposition to activate Agent W, and many factions were already deeply dissatisfied.
Before activation, Agent W had undergone rigorous scrutiny to ensure its impartiality and to prevent any hidden agendas. After taking over day-to-day national defense and security duties, it had performed almost flawlessly—only then did some of the dissenting voices begin to fade.
But now, with a sudden crisis and such complex, volatile circumstances, giving it even more decision-making authority was not good news for an already unstable Black Well.
In the neighboring conference hall, Qiao Sai sat at his usual spot beside a makeshift workstation.
He had gotten some sleep and looked much more refreshed, watching the curved virtual screen in front of him.
He asked, “That meeting of yours next door still isn’t over?”
On the screen, W was still in his virtual room. At the moment, he wasn’t feeding his pet python but was instead seated in a wooden circle chair with a brocade cushion, reading a book with his head lowered.
A floor lamp beside the chair was lit, casting a shadow across his flawless profile.
“Yeah,” W replied without lifting his head. “Trying to strip a bit of power from them is harder than prying a coin out of a miser’s hand.”
Qiao Sai looked at him curiously. “What are you doing?”
“Debating scholars.”
“I know you’re debating in that little meeting room over there,” Qiao Sai said. “I meant—what are you doing here, putting on airs in your virtual room?”
W raised the book in his hand. “Are you blind? Reading.”
Qiao Sai: “…”
Qiao Sai muttered under his breath, “What the hell was I thinking when I agreed to let you set your speech mode to Natural State Level 8? I swear I’ll cut your power and pull your memory core.”
W said coldly, “Whisper all you want—I can hear you no matter how quiet. Whether you can cut my power or pull my memory is debatable, but I can absolutely downgrade your food rations at Black Well. I happen to be in the middle of recalibrating meal allocations today.”
“Ah—” Qiao Sai quickly changed the subject. “If you’re going to read, why not just do it internally in the system? Why go through the trouble of pretending to read?”
W: “Because I want to.”
Qiao Sai couldn’t hold back his curiosity. “What are you reading?”
W floated out two characters: “A novel.”
Qiao Sai was silent for a moment. “A novel? Huh?”
“I just finished reading over forty thousand detective novels. Some were alright, others not so good.”
W closed the book in his hand and asked, with a touch of seriousness, “Do you have any detective novel recommendations? The kind with smooth logic but a murderer that’s hard to identify.”
“…Uh…” Qiao Sai tilted his head back, genuinely searching his memory. “…Back in college, I read one that was pretty good… something like The River of Sythyst…”
W: “The River of Sythyst. I’ll look it up.”
A moment of silence, and then W said, “Finished. I guessed who the killer was by Chapter 20. Got anything else?”
Qiao Sai: “…”
Even though he knew that kind of reading speed was normal for W, Qiao Sai still felt slightly unhinged.
“You’re a security agent. Why are you suddenly into detective novels?”
Then he immediately caught on.
“It’s Pei Ran again, isn’t it?”
W casually replied with a “Mm”, not denying it.
“She said they were interesting. I wanted to see how interesting.”