Chapter 17: Reality Forces Me to Lay Down My Pen and Take Up Arms [A Grand Chapter of Five Thousand Words in Gratitude to Lord Orange!]

The Basic Information Database contained little of real use; it was nothing more than a corporate profile and recruitment ad for Deep Communication Group. The whole thing was devoted to extolling the might and long history of DeepComm, proclaiming what an honor it was to be an employee there, how excellent the benefits were, and so on.

Though the advertisement was hollow, Ren Zhong still managed to extract a fair amount of information by parsing every word. This planet was indeed not called Earth but Source Star. The current calendar was named the New Source Calendar, which had been in effect for over six hundred years; it was now the 682nd year of the New Source Era. A year in the New Source Calendar was essentially the same length as a year on Earth.

By that reckoning, the auxiliary-brain wristwatch had existed for 264 years. DeepComm, the inventor, wasn't exaggerating about its three-century foundation; their heritage was indeed formidable.

After browsing the Basic Information Database, Ren Zhong opened the Career Training System, which detailed the five major personal professions and their basic introductory requirements.

These five professions—Armored Warrior, Implant Warrior, Firearms Specialist, Demolitionist, and Dismantler—were, by coincidence, exactly the ones represented in Zheng Tian's squad. Ren Zhong wondered whether this was just happenstance or if Zheng Tian was ambitious and had been deliberate in assembling a balanced team from the start.

He scanned over the entry requirements for each profession. Armored Warriors needed relatively robust physiques, exceptional bodily coordination, good dynamic vision, a well-developed cerebellum, and, most critically, a high degree of psychological resilience. The most important criterion was the neural network’s capacity to bear external bioelectric signals—known as brain-machine synchronization rate—which needed to reach at least 10% at the age of sixteen to meet the minimum requirements.

Implant Warriors had no physical or mental requirements; the selection was purely genetic. Firearms Specialists needed excellent vision, particularly dynamic vision and sense of direction, as well as decent physical fitness. Demolitionists required higher intelligence, the ability to memorize the properties of numerous explosives, and the capacity to perform fluid mechanics-style calculations during detonations, determining how to achieve the best result at the lowest cost. Dismantlers needed dexterous and precise hands, a thorough familiarity with the many species and anatomies of Ruin Beasts—a combination of surgeon and zoologist.

Ren Zhong found it odd that every profession placed such heavy emphasis on brainpower. He did not believe there were no auxiliary AIs to assist with calculations—many tasks that wasted brainpower could be done faster and better by computer.

Since this was not the case, he could only presume that when dealing with high-level Ruin Beasts, computers were not reliable enough, which was why these professions demanded that people train their own abilities from the start.

He had another question. These five professions seemed distinct, but they were all essentially combat roles, no different than welders, plasterers, appliance repairmen, or cooks—just different specializations. In his mind, these professions ought to be just the tip of the iceberg in a complex social division of labor, not revered as foundational knowledge and enshrined in the wristwatch’s database.

The only explanation was that if an ordinary person could become one of these five, they would gain the ability to hunt Ruin Beasts and would no longer be complete wastes.

The societal system here demanded only that the common people find ways to hunt Ruin Beasts.

Ren Zhong closed the Career Training materials. He had little interest in these professions—by nature. He was born in New China, raised under the Red Flag, and had lived the kind of life where education changed one's fate.

He'd never enjoyed competing or fighting with his peers. He preferred to outscore his classmates by dozens of points in every exam and then watch their frustrated, helpless faces. His talent was to sail the sea of knowledge—a born scholar.

His parents, by example and instruction, had always hoped he would study well and become a cultured, ambitious young man. His yearning for knowledge was even stronger than his desire for romance.

His world was not one of violence or intrigue, but the diligent pursuit of knowledge. He had always believed that with his intelligence and continuous learning, he didn’t need to risk his life, as Zheng Tian and the others did, to earn a decent living.

With these thoughts and a pilgrim’s excitement, Ren Zhong finally opened the Science Knowledge Teaching System.

The ocean of knowledge of the future!

My sanctuary!

Here I come!

...

At 6:06 the next morning, Ren Zhong opened his eyes a few minutes after Zheng Tian.

He immediately sat upright, eyes clear yet bewildered.

His faith had been shattered.

He recalled what he’d seen the previous night—not an ocean, but a swamp. Every line was an insult to his intelligence.

He had indeed seen hundreds of basic textbooks covering a vast array of fields, encompassing the foundational knowledge for most roles in a modern society. The teaching materials were well-crafted and detailed, with thorough explanations, abundant illustrations, and video tutorials that appeared at a thought.

Yet, to Ren Zhong, these textbooks were utterly worthless.

He did not deny that there were technologies he had never encountered, like the coveted anti-gravity systems. But the anti-gravity engineering tutorials, while listing eighty-three categories and hundreds of component types, only taught which parts could be combined for which effects. There was nothing about the underlying principles.

He opened the Modern Chemical Engineering Principles course, his own specialty. It contained countless chemical equations and details about catalysts and reaction conditions—but never explained why these reactions occurred.

Unconvinced, Ren Zhong skimmed through dozens of textbooks, from introductory to advanced. Ultimately, he concluded that all these materials taught only rote procedures, like an appliance user manual, not true understanding.

It wasn’t that he scorned the basics; he simply recognized that no matter how much one studied these books, one could at best become a high-level technician.

With his memory and comprehension, he could memorize all these hundreds of guides given enough time; they required only rote memorization, not logic or creativity.

This was training people to be machines—thoroughly utilitarian tools.

These textbooks were nothing more than massive vocational training primers.

Ren Zhong could not accept this. He would rather have just a handful of textbooks—math, science, literature, history, and the like—from a twenty-first-century high school curriculum. He’d have been willing to start from scratch, study for years, and take university entrance exams.

High school textbooks might be simple, but at least they taught principles. Even if the planet was different, basic physical laws of the universe would overlap. Mathematics, above all, should be universal.

What was the point of reading these manuals? How could such books serve as core educational material? Were the educators of this world utterly daft?

Had technological innovation already vanished from this world? Did humanity no longer need to progress?

That made no sense. They hadn’t even eradicated the Ruin Beasts, their immediate existential threat, let alone ventured beyond the planet. Even in Spark Town, many struggled to survive; stepping outside meant risking one’s life. Every day, scavengers and wilderness dwellers died senseless deaths.

Humanity was nowhere near being able to rest on its laurels!

And if the academic atmosphere was so stunted, who invented anti-gravity and the auxiliary-brain wristwatch? There must be scientists and researchers. How could everyone be reading manuals?

Given the advanced state of AI, the tasks described in these books should have been fully automated. Why train people as tools?

With mounting confusion, Ren Zhong turned to Zheng Tian, who was approaching for a chat, and asked directly, “Don’t you think something is wrong here?”

Losing his composure, he forgot to disguise his thoughts.

Zheng Tian scratched her head, puzzled. “Wrong? What do you mean?”

“This whole society is wrong!”

“Huh?”

Ren Zhong thought carefully. Since his resurrection, all the oddities—those things everyone took for granted—had woven themselves into a vast net, binding him tightly and making his scalp prickle, his breath grow short.

He raised his voice.

“First, the 10% tax rate on personal transfers between wilderness dwellers is outrageous. Even under advanced technology and corporate monopoly, personal transactions should be an inalienable part of society. To eliminate them and place the entire economy within the corporate framework is to strangle creativity and productivity.”

Zheng Tian was bewildered. “But... we can still trade, can’t we?”

“There’s a 10% tax! That’s not reasonable!” Ren Zhong muttered to himself, “And we’re taxed 90% on sleep income. Personal transactions are taxed. When you sell your hunt to the recycling company, you pay a cut to the team you’re registered with. I bet those in the slum’s service sector pay heavy taxes too. Even eating in the canteen is taxed. When wilderness dwellers build a shelter and hire labor, there’s tax everywhere. I’ve hardly seen any independent vendors in town—this must be why!”

“Fine, take taxes. But where’s the money going? Is it building public works? If so, why is education so crude, public safety so minimal, Ruin Beasts still rampant, and people living in such squalor despite advanced technology?”

“And the food in the canteen is clearly synthetic. As far as I know, once you scale up production, it’s cheap. So why is it so expensive? Ordinary people spend 0.1 contribution points just to eat each day, precisely the amount they earn from sleeping! They can’t save a thing!”

“Also, ordinary people can’t find any value-creating jobs. All they do is sleep. That suggests sectors related to basic necessities are already overproducing and don’t need labor. So why are prices so tightly controlled, leaving people with no hope?”

“And what’s with these wristwatch textbooks? If low-end jobs don’t need people, at least let folks study real knowledge—do the work AI can’t!”

“And except for the recycling company and the canteen, there are no other industries in Spark Town—just vast slums. What’s the point of learning from these wristwatch manuals?”

“Spark Town is a big town, tens of thousands of people. Surely there should be more industries than just Ruin Beast hunting?”

Zheng Tian hesitantly replied, “Actually, there’s a grain base and some other minor industries. But wilderness dwellers without citizenship can’t work there.”

Ren Zhong snapped, “Exactly. People are divided into rigid castes, and wilderness dwellers are given no chance. Even if they wanted to work hard, there’s no opportunity. If you want to change your fate, you must register with a company and endure their heavy exploitation. Even as a scavenger risking your life, you still pay at least 10% or more. Is that fair?”

“And why, when the town can support more people, are sixteen-year-olds driven out?”

“This system utterly stifles ordinary creativity and productivity—worse than feudalism. It’s strip-mining for profit.”

“With this scientific base, couldn’t ordinary people live better lives, create more wealth, and even reach the stars? Isn’t that more lucrative than these taxes? I just don’t get it... Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’ve seen only the tip of the iceberg, maybe I’m just too young and naïve. But it’s not right! It’s not supposed to be this way!”

His anger grew as he spoke, finally boiling over.

He was no longer calm, and what poured from his mouth was a torrent of jumbled, fevered words.

When he finally stopped, Zheng Tian, Chen Hanyu, Wen Lei, and the others had gathered around, staring at him with unfamiliar, incomprehensible, and fearful eyes.

They had no idea what had happened.

Why was this census officer suddenly so furious?

What was he even angry about?

What was he talking about—wasn’t this just the way life had always been?

Ren Zhong looked around at the group.

He almost imagined that Zheng Tian’s usually lively eyes had become the glassy, empty orbs of a doll.

Suddenly, a strong wind blew past the sleeping pod’s door.

Ren Zhong turned.

At some point, a Hunter Drone was hovering outside.

Its black gun barrel was aimed at his chest.

Ren Zhong did not panic or try to run.

He knew it would do no good.

Even as he began to speak, he’d had a premonition.

But since he’d started, it was better to let it all out.

A man can’t always play the coward. Sometimes, he has to show some backbone—especially when resurrection is possible.

A beam of orange light flashed.

It pierced his chest.

Ren Zhong felt no pain.

He merely glanced down, indifferent, at the black hole in his chest.

White mist rose.

The perspective shifted to one of a god surveying the underworld.

Ren Zhong watched himself being dissected, his brain removed.

It was a scene that should have been numbingly familiar, but this time, anger swelled in his heart.

He understood much more now.

The surveillance here was thorough.

He’d asked too many questions, revealed too much, and had been flagged as a danger and eliminated immediately—even in town, even with a temporary wristwatch.

In that instant, he made his career choice.

Though he disliked it, he would become a warrior.

Since there was no other path for now, he needed strength first.

Even if he could not resist yet, he would change his fate by hunting Ruin Beasts—Spark Town’s largest industry—climbing step by step to see more of the world.

Given another chance at life, he would not allow himself to live and die unnoticed, a nameless cog in a suffocating society.

He chose Armored Warrior.

According to the training materials, among all combat roles, the Armored Warrior was the most versatile, had the greatest solo potential, and required the least support from other professions.

Wen Lei was only a first-level rookie, nothing to speak of. But it was said that a top-level ninth-tier Armored Warrior could move mountains and fill seas, standing alone against armies.

Moreover, compared to Implant Warriors, Firearms Specialists, and Demolitionists, Armored Warriors had the broadest knowledge base to master, since they often had to maintain their own armor when operating in the field.

Even if most of it was rote memorization, the unpredictable nature of the battlefield and the scarcity of resources required some creativity and adaptability.

Before his illness, Ren Zhong had been in good physical condition; mental acuity depended on robust health.

He needed only a moment’s logical thought to know what suited him best.

Still, if he had the chance, he would seek true knowledge.

One day, whether as a warrior or a scholar, he would reach the great cities and ask those in power:

Why is it like this?

Since awakening, he had died again and again. Every conversation required constant vigilance, his mind always racing, piecing together the world from fragments. He was tired, pent up for too long, and though he had finally vented, it felt good to have spoken his mind.

Next time, he would learn to disguise himself.

And then, he would act boldly.

With immortality, he would fear nothing.

As consciousness faded, Ren Zhong thought thus.