Reality Programming Association

Chapter 24: Chapter 11: ”I’m Sorry to All of Humanity

Yu Xian stared at the shimmering lights of cars beyond the curtain of rain.

”Old Shi, let me ask you something.”

”Go ahead.”

”Do you think it’s possible... that the person who went to vote wasn’t Professor Gao at all?”

”You mean the Science and Technology Commission faked the voting results?”

Knowing Shi Zuozhou hadn’t understood his meaning, Yu Xian considered whether he should tell him about the ”doppelgängers.”

His main concern was whether telling him would cause trouble for his cousin or Dr. Wen Yu.

Although Shi Zuozhou was always digging for gossip, the trail of information usually ended with him. He had also never shared any of Yu Xian’s personal matters with anyone else.

As for whether Shi Zuozhou himself might be a ”replaced imposter,” or worries about ”tipping them off” if he told him, Yu Xian hadn’t really considered it.

After all, the ’imposters’ and ’doppelgängers’ were just his own speculation, and aside from now eating cilantro, Shi Zuozhou was no different from before.

But the current situation was bizarre and might even be related to the change in Shi Zuozhou. After some thought, he decided to tell him about it.

”Lately... there have been some suicides,” Yu Xian said, not mentioning the smiling. That would violate his cousin’s rules.

”The families of those who committed suicide all share a strange idea—they think the person was replaced by an identical ’doppelgänger’ before they died.”

The other end of the line went silent, leaving only the sound of breathing. After a long moment, Shi Zuozhou asked:

”So what you’re saying is... Professor Gao was also replaced by a ’doppelgänger’?”

Yu Xian hummed in agreement. ”What do you think?”

”Could modern biomedicine, or genetic engineering like cloning, even do that?” Shi Zuozhou dropped his usual flippant attitude and continued:

”I think it’s more likely a psychological factor. Besides... with Professor Gao’s case, there’s no objective evidence.”

”Old Shi, I’m going to tell you something, and I’m not kidding.”

Yu Xian felt his own heartbeat quicken.

”I’ve recently encountered some things that are very... hard to explain. For example, in my memory, you used to hate cilantro. I swear, you used to pick it out every single time we ate.”

The other end of the line fell completely silent.

”I remember you mentioned that last time. I just thought you were mixing me up with someone else.”

Five or six seconds passed before Shi Zuozhou spoke again, as if he were trying to process this information.

”Let me wrap my head around this. Let me think. Let’s meet up tomorrow and talk about it...”

Not wanting to make Shi Zuozhou too anxious or panicked, Yu Xian didn’t press the issue. They exchanged a few more words before hanging up.

He checked the time. It was already one in the morning. His insomnia was getting worse.

Yu Xian even considered trying a little alcohol to help him sleep, but he gave up on the idea when he remembered how groggy and heavy-headed he felt the day after drinking.

He found a sleep hypnosis radio station and, by forcing his thoughts down, finally managed to drift off.

...

On Friday, Yu Xian was already awake before his alarm went off.

He looked out the window. It was still the same gray, misty rain.

By the time he arrived at school, it was not yet eight o’clock, but the lecture hall in the Second Main Building was already full.

Perhaps because of the continuous rain, or perhaps because of what had happened with Professor Gao, the classroom was much quieter than usual. The only sounds were the creaks and snaps of the rows of folding chairs as they were pulled down or sprang back up.

Shi Zuozhou was sitting in a corner by the wall, his head bowed low, looking at something.

Remembering he needed to talk to him about the ”doppelgänger” matter today, Yu Xian walked over, sat down beside him, folded up his umbrella, and gave a quiet greeting.

Shi Zuozhou didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the phone resting on his lap.

Yu Xian’s heart tightened. ’What is it now?’

Shi Zuozhou didn’t speak, simply passing his phone toward Yu Xian under the desk.

The phone’s screen was very dim, making it hard to see. It was a photograph.

It was a little blurry, as if taken with an unsteady hand or snapped secretly in a hurry.

The background was a study. The light was dim, flanked by tall, overflowing bookshelves. Several stacks of books were also piled on the floor, their titles illegible.

In the very center of the photo was a large, movable blackboard.

The blackboard was covered in dense white chalk markings. Upon closer inspection, they were all physics derivations and equations.

Though the photo was blurry, it was still clear that the derivation process was complex. Some chalk marks were pressed hard, and some characters were written on top of each other.

In the very center of the board, a large blank space had been messily cleared with an eraser, surrounded by the faint white smudges of incomplete erasing.

In this blank space, a line of text was scrawled in a messy hand:

”I have sinned. I have failed all of humanity.”

Yu Xian stared at the line of text, his mouth agape. He zoomed in on the photo.

”This can’t be... Professor Gao’s house, can it?”

Shi Zuozhou nodded, stuffed the phone into his pocket, glanced around the classroom, and whispered, ”Let’s talk outside.”

...

Yu Xian followed him out of the classroom. The wind was strong on the balcony, and a layer of water had pooled on the concrete floor.

Shi Zuozhou glanced toward both ends of the covered walkway, made sure no one was there, then unlocked his phone and brought up the photo again.

”It started circulating late last night, after we got off the phone. The scene was sealed off by the police; no one knows who took it. You can’t even send this picture on domestic apps anymore—the receiver won’t get it. The department is tracking it down and deleting it everywhere. Anyone caught spreading it gets a demerit.”

”’I have sinned’...” Yu Xian stared at a puddle beneath the railing, its surface reflecting the gray, overcast sky.

”What sin could Professor Gao have possibly committed?”

Even if it were academic fraud, embezzlement of funds, or something worse, like sexually harassing a female student, his last words shouldn’t have been like this.

To have failed ”all of humanity.”