"Fighting organized crime—I've taken down several syndicates, but within two years they'd always resurge. Cracking down on corrupt officials, every last one receiving heavy sentences, and yet the next batch carried on the same—lining their pockets or doing nothing." Director Vance drained his cup and set it down hard. "I don't know when it will ever end."
I said, "That's a systemic problem, not any individual's fault."
"The system." He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "Sounds reasonable, but it's flawed logic too. America has a different system, but social classes are still rigid, with racial discrimination, mass shootings, drug epidemics, endless wars over oil... Where in the world is there an ideal utopia?"
"I..." His argument was too macro for me. I didn't know how to respond.
"Have you noticed? Humanity, as a species, has reached a point where no matter how much technology advances, civilization can't progress any further. Do you think today's society is more civilized than the Spring and Autumn period? Not necessarily. We've hit a ceiling."
"Director, I don't quite follow..."
"I'm saying that humanity's extension in this world has reached its endpoint. It can no longer propel civilization to the next stage."
"That seems true... but what can be done about it?"
"Unless—" Vance raised his cup, but his eyes were fixed on me, "Neo-humans appear."
"What?"
"Humanity needs to evolve again—from both body and spirit—breaking free of its current shackles. Only then can the species leap to its next stage. I call them 'Neo-humans'!"
I laughed despite myself. "Director, you must be joking. Evolution is the work of nature—it takes millions of years at minimum. Humans have only been around for..."
"It's not only nature at work," Vance said, his gaze burning into me. "Headquarters has been working on it too."
I shot up from the tatami. "So you are with Headquarters! What exactly do you know?"
"Calm down." Vance waved me back to my seat. "Headquarters' power is beyond your imagination. I'm just a small fry inside—I can't even reach the core decision-making layer. I only learned about the Neo-human project after joining."
"Neo-humans..." The concept was outlandish, but I suddenly guessed the gist. "Holding round after round of Death Trips, constantly screening competitors—is it to force them to evolve again, to become 'Neo-humans'?"
Vance smiled. "How could that be? You just said evolution is a lengthy process, starting at millions of years minimum. A few rounds of Death Trips couldn't possibly produce Neo-humans. The strong selected through these trials are merely catalysts—stimuli to trigger the awakening of Neo-humans."
"What... does that mean?" I was completely lost.
"The evolutionary force that takes millions of years can actually be artificially compressed—through genetic modification to achieve a human leap. You could call it 'genetic ascension.' Headquarters began related experiments long ago, well before I joined. Around the 1980s, they recruited volunteers and inserted synthetic gene sequences into normal human DNA, hoping to awaken dormant human potential and trigger re-evolution. But these experiments all failed. Many test subjects turned into monsters, losing their minds. The most extreme cases—after death, some test subjects actually 'transformed into dragons,' though that was merely a somatic mutation."
A chill ran through me. I immediately thought of the story about Never More Than Five from my childhood—could he have had some connection to Headquarters?
I was only a child back then—why had the caretaker specifically told me that story? What did any of it have to do with me?
Vance continued: "Headquarters realized from this that forcibly editing genes was a dead end. So they hatched another plan: implant synthetic gene fragments at the embryonic stage, allowing these synthetic genes to fully integrate with normal genes. Once the test subjects reached adulthood, they'd use certain methods to awaken these genes—and thus avoid rejection."
It hit me like a thunderbolt. I stammered: "The 'certain methods' you're talking about—is it Death Trip?"
"Exactly." Vance nodded. "It's a vast and protracted plan."
"No," I shook my head frantically. "What does this have to do with me? I'm just an ordinary person, not a monster. I only entered the trip for the money..."
"Ryan, do you know why I'm telling you all this?" Vance stared at me intently. "Because you are Headquarters' gift to this world."
Dear God.
He'd said the same words as Shiva!
"No, no, no—I'm not who you're looking for. You don't understand me. My family is perfectly ordinary. My mother never told me any of this..."
"Your adoptive parents?" He picked up a piece of sashimi and placed it in his mouth. "Their existence was also arranged by Headquarters."
I was struck dumb.
After returning from the Japanese restaurant, I tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep.
What filled my mind were fragments of memories with my adoptive parents.
As a "fighting orphan," I'd spent a barren and brutal childhood at the orphanage—until I met my adoptive parents. They took me in, gave me a home, and for the first time I knew what warmth felt like. They gave me a complete life.
And now you're telling me all of that was fake? Just a real-life Truman Show?
I refused to believe it.
I had to go back to my hometown and confront them.
Only then did I realize I hadn't been home in over two years.
It was time to visit anyway.
My parents lived in a small tier-four county town on the edge of Shandong. They were both ordinary workers, now retired. I'd thought about bringing them to Jinan once I was more established, but after a few years on my own, I could barely feed myself, let alone relocate them. So that plan had stalled.
There was no direct train from Jinan to my hometown—I had to transfer to a bus. By the time I reached our doorstep, it was already dusk.
Thin sunset spilled over the mottled walls, gilding every brick. I stepped through the gate of the residential compound, and familiar scents washed over me. For a moment, my heart actually fluttered—was this that old feeling of approaching home and not daring to ask about the people?
I knocked tentatively. A voice called from inside: "Who is it?"
"Mom, I'm home."
The door creaked open, and my mother's face appeared. Two years had made her thinner, her back more stooped, her temples grayer, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deeper.
She froze, as if unable to believe what she was seeing, then suddenly clapped her hands: "Oh, Little Ryan is back! Old man, hurry, come quick, Little Ryan is back!"
My father came out of the bedroom, both surprised and delighted. "You came back without a word! Come inside, sit down, have some water—haven't eaten dinner yet, have you... Honey, go cook a few dishes, let's have a drink together tonight."
"Okay, okay, you guys chat, I'll go cook." My mother headed for the kitchen, wiping away tears.
I sat with my father in the living room and told him about my years of struggling outside. To keep them from worrying, I didn't mention Death Trip—I just said I'd been doing business with friends and made some money. I took out a bank card and handed it to him: "Dad, there's 300,000 in here. Keep it for you and Mom."
"No, no," my father pushed it away. "Your mother and I have our pensions. We don't need your money."
"Just take it." I stuffed the card into his pocket. "Go travel a bit, eat better. You've been frugal your whole lives—it's time to enjoy life."
My father held the card, his eyes reddening. "Little Ryan's grown up. Knows how to care for people now."
Before long, my mother had prepared a full table. Our family of three sat together for the first time in ages, eating and chatting like the old days. Suddenly, a wave of unreality washed over me: Was this how I used to live? Such an ordinary life?
This ordinariness was such happiness, yet I'd never appreciated it.
After dinner, my mother held my hand, chattering away as if trying to squeeze two years of unspoken words into a single night. I stayed with her until nearly midnight before asking: "Mom, I have something to ask you."
"What is it?"
"About when I was little."
"Go ahead, ask."
They'd adopted me when I was already eleven, so they didn't shy away from these topics.