Genius Playground

The middle-aged man scoffed.

”If these geniuses never made mistakes, how could they ever lose? And how could we ever win?”

The old man gave a meaningful smile, swiveled his chair around, and toyed with the King coin on his desk before flicking it into a spin once more.

”This is why geniuses always prefer to work alone. It’s also why the world always perceives them as lonely and withdrawn.”

”Often, the reason these geniuses fail is because they are dragged down by the people around them—their friends, their comrades...”

”But no one is superhuman; not everything can be done alone. This creates a paradox. Even true geniuses can’t possibly fight all their battles without relying on anyone.”

The middle-aged man also walked over, his eyes fixed on the King coin as it whirred on the desk.

As the coin gradually lost momentum, its spin slowed until it finally came to a complete stop on the desk... tails-up.

It was a strange, simple line drawing of a Ferris wheel. Eight circular passenger cabins of alternating colors were placed on the outside of the ring. In the center, where the support structure would be, a large eye stretched across the diameter—deep, mysterious, and terrifying.

Viewed flat, the design resembled a round table meeting, with each participant seated evenly around the outside, plotting together.

”If only these true geniuses could unite and work together,” the middle-aged man lamented.

The old man’s breathing was heavy. He took a deep breath.

”Indeed...”

”That was, in fact, the original intention.”

DRIP.

DRIP, DRIP.

DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP...

Tiny splashes suddenly appeared on the massive floor-to-ceiling window. They were the marks of raindrops striking the glass and bouncing off. Outside, in East Sea City, a steady, fine rain had begun to fall.

”It’s raining.”

The middle-aged man gazed at the gradually blurring window.

”There will probably be a storm tomorrow. The typhoons have been relentless lately.”

BEEP BEEP.

Just then, the digital clock on the conference table beeped to mark the hour. As several silver digits flickered, the calendar flipped to the next day—

September 16, 2025, 12:00 AM

”Perhaps this is the mercy of divine punishment.”

The middle-aged man glanced at the digital clock.

”Certain people... are about to bid this world farewell.”

...

Sunlight pierced through a gap in the curtains like a sharp sword, striking Jiang Ran’s face.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Last night, for the first time in a long while, he’d had a good night’s sleep.

He wasn’t woken by his alarm, he didn’t wake up naturally, nor was he disturbed by Fang Ze’s movements. He’d slept soundly and comfortably.

He sat up and looked to his right.

The bed was clean, the blanket neatly folded. Fang Ze wasn’t in the dorm. He had probably gone to class.

Jiang Ran picked up his phone and checked the time. It was eight-thirty.

He had no classes this morning, so he planned to make a trip to East Sea University First Affiliated Hospital.

His main purpose this time wasn’t to visit Teacher Zhang Yang, but to go to Old Tian’s daughter, Tian Xiaoli’s, hospital room.

He still wanted to help the tragic father-daughter pair in any way he could.

Before, when he didn’t know them, it was one thing. He wasn’t some saint who felt the need to save everyone in the world from their suffering.

But...

After spending so much time with Old Tian recently, Jiang Ran truly sympathized with what the father and daughter were going through.

’Since I’ve earned so much money now, I should help out where I can.’

He got out of bed.

Jiang Ran first left the campus and hailed a cab to East Sea University First Affiliated Hospital.

He went straight to the inpatient department, to the rehabilitation ward.

He looked again at the nameplate on the door...

Rehabilitation Ward: Room 42

Name: Tian Xiaoli

’I really can’t figure out what this mysterious number 42 means, or what kind of guidance it’s supposed to give me.’

’After I’m done asking questions about the Assassin in 2045, I should go back to the execution ground and try again. See if I can get more information out of Qin Feng.’

He pushed open the door to the room.

The air smelled of disinfectant and alcohol. The window was half-open, revealing an overcast sky and drizzling rain outside.

Jiang Ran walked forward, step by step.

On the hospital bed, the frail and shrunken Tian Xiaoli still lay flat on her back. Her expression hadn’t changed at all—or rather... she had no expression.

Her hospital gown was wrinkled today, and the sheets showed signs of her having been turned over. It seemed the nurse had already come this morning to turn her and do her rehabilitation exercises to prevent bedsores.

On the machine connected to her by wires, all her vitals were extremely stable. Her heart rate, in particular, showed no fluctuation, forming a lifeless, flat line.

Jiang Ran had worn a smartwatch with a heart rate monitor before. He had observed that a normal person’s heart rate is constantly changing. It would spike when the phone rang, fluctuate with a sudden gust of wind while walking, and surge after gulping down a cold drink. Even during deep sleep, it would rise and fall with the content of one’s dreams.

In short, a normal person’s heart rate could never be this stable.

This heart rate monitor was, in effect, Tian Xiaoli’s life monitor.

If the heart rate curve suddenly started jumping up and down—BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...—that would be the best possible news, a sign that she might wake up.

If the machine suddenly let out a rapid alarm—BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP—it meant her heart rate was continuously dropping. It could be a problem with her respiratory or cardiopulmonary functions, and she would need immediate medical intervention.

Afterward, he went to the nurses’ station to ask about the balance on Tian Xiaoli’s hospital account.

”9,213 yuan.”

The nurse said, looking at her computer,

”Lili’s father was just here yesterday. He deposited a lot of money. After the insurance discount, it’s enough for another month.”