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Gao Wen had always been one step ahead—unpredictable and endlessly inventive.

Back in the fifth dream, Lin Xian had cracked open Gao Wen’s notebook, expecting to find research about improving the hibernation pod’s liquid, something practical. But Gao Wen had aimed far higher, diving into the principles of the “Time-Space Machine.”

Now, in this sixth dream, Lin Xian braced himself for another leap into the future. Yet, Gao Wen had surprised him again. This time, he had turned his focus back to hibernation, addressing a problem that had stumped scientists for decades—amnesia.

Was this not the true mark of a genius?

History had shown that any groundbreaking change could be traced back to the Gao Wen’s pioneering work.

And Lin Xian? He was simply the worker bee, buzzing away behind the scenes, putting in the hard labor without complaint.

“But didn’t they say amnesia from long-term hibernation was inevitable? How could it be…” Lin Xian trailed off, realizing he might have misunderstood something.

Yes, it was true. The amnesia that came with extended hibernation was widely accepted as an unavoidable side effect.

Whether it was a brilliant mind like Zheng Xiang Yue, a prodigy like Gao Wen, or even the blue-eyed time traveler girl, no one could escape the clutches of memory loss.

No matter who you were, where you came from, or how great your status, spending over a decade in a hibernation pod meant risking memory loss. More than twenty years? The chances of your mind being completely wiped were almost guaranteed.

Amnesia had become an accepted truth—one that the scientific community had resigned itself to.

But…

Who said lost memories couldn’t be recovered?

Emperor Gao Wen never failed to astonish. While everyone else focused on preserving memories through external methods like notebooks or recording tapes, Gao Wen had gone further, diving into the audacious realm of memory restoration.

Lin Xian could only marvel at the brilliance before him as he gripped the notebook. His eyes landed on a phrase that leapt off the page: “Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet.”

The words painted a vivid picture in his mind—a device that jolted the brain with electricity, designed to recover memories, something akin to treatments for addiction.

Lin Xian wasn’t entirely sure how it worked.

But the name alone seemed to match the ideas that had been swirling in his thoughts.

He glanced at Gao Wen, an eyebrow raised.

“Brother Gao Wen, if you’ve created something this groundbreaking, why haven’t you shared it with the world? Even if you didn’t want to make it public, you should have saved one for yourself. That way, when you woke up from hibernation, we could just pop the helmet on, and—bam!—your memories would come back!”

“This invention—it’s beyond amazing! If we solve the amnesia problem, hibernation could be risk-free. Heck, we could even make time travel a regular thing! The fear people have of hibernation would disappear… it might even become a part of normal life.”

“But… how does this helmet actually recover memories? Does it have any limitations?”

Lin Xian’s excitement filled the air, but Gao Wen simply stared back at him, perplexed. He shook his head, a frown pulling at his lips.

“I’ve got no idea! This is the first time I’ve ever heard of a ‘Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet.’ You probably know more about it than I do. You’re asking me things I can’t answer.”

“I’m just as lost as you are,” Gao Wen admitted. “If I had really invented something this revolutionary before going into hibernation, why didn’t I announce it?”

Curiosity piqued, the two men flipped open the notebook’s cover.

To their surprise, inside the pages lay a sealed letter, written in the same familiar handwriting as the notes. The letter was unmistakably from Gao Wen, written to his future self before entering hibernation.

Lin Xian hesitated, glancing at Gao Wen. “Do you mind if I read it?”

“Go ahead,” Gao Wen replied with a shrug. “We’ll read it together.”

Carefully, Lin Xian broke the seal and unfolded the letter, laying it flat so they both could see the words written inside.

“Dear Future Me,

It’s been a long time:

By the time you read this, you will have just woken from hibernation. Your mind is likely blank, unsure of who you are or where you are.

To answer the question of who you are, look through the other notebooks and watch the videos. They’ll provide you with a detailed account—explaining who Gao Wen is—or, rather, who you are now. You’ll learn about the version of yourself that is writing this letter.

Since we were children, we’ve been captivated by the idea of hibernation—the possibility of defying time, defying fate. The technology to transcend the limits of human life was irresistible.

From that moment onward, we dedicated ourselves to the study of hibernation, determined to unlock its full potential.

But as we grew older, reality hit us hard. The technology had advanced so much over the last two centuries that hibernation pods were almost perfect—no negative side effects, except for one: amnesia. It felt like there was no more room for discovery, no further advancements to be made in this field…

At that point, we were drifting, unsure of where our future lay. We dabbled in mathematics, explored the Universal Constants, and even toyed with time travel. Yet, no matter how far our curiosity led us, we couldn’t shake our obsession with hibernation.

It’s hard to explain, but it always felt as though we were destined to dedicate our lives, our every ounce of brilliance, to this one field.

Professor Xu Yun—the father of hibernation technology—was a man we idolized. His sudden death, so untimely and tragic, hit us like a blow to the heart. If only we had seen the twenty-third century through his eyes! Who knows what breakthroughs he might have achieved?

But since we couldn’t stand by his side, we chose the next best thing. We would follow in his footsteps, standing on the shoulders of his achievements, so we could see even further.

We were born in the late twenty-second century, the year 2182. By then, the academic world had come to accept one brutal truth: amnesia, after long-term hibernation, was inevitable. Brilliant minds—far greater than ours—had spent lifetimes wrestling with this issue, but no one had succeeded in preserving memories during extended periods of suspended animation.

It seemed a hopeless cause, a road where no one could go further. And yet… something stirred within us. Could we be the ones to change that?

You see, the amnesia caused by long-term hibernation wasn’t just some fluke of technology. It was hardwired into the very nature of the brain. Unalterable, they said. But did that mean there was no other way? Was it possible to recover what had been lost, rather than preserve it in the first place?

I’ve always believed that nothing is ever truly erased—not from a computer hard drive, not from a blank sheet of paper, and certainly not from the human mind. Everything leaves a trace.

So the real question was: were those lost memories truly gone? Or were they simply buried deep inside, dormant, waiting for someone to bring them back to life?

I threw myself into the study of brain science, specifically neuroscience, determined to answer that question. After years of research, I became convinced—absolutely certain—that it was possible to use electric currents to reactivate dormant memories. It was logical. It was scientifically sound.

But…

The problem was that, by the twenty-third century, neuroscience had stalled. For nearly two hundred years, there hadn’t been a single significant breakthrough in the field.

I managed to build a prototype of what I called the Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet, but I lacked the support—the brilliant minds in neuroscience who could help me refine and push the technology further. It was a dead end. So, I made a bold decision.

With nothing more than my research to guide me, I chose to enter hibernation myself. My plan was simple. I would sleep, wait for the day neuroscience caught up to my work, and when the time was right, I’d wake up. I’d complete the helmet and recover the memories that seemed lost forever.

If I’ve timed everything correctly, you’re reading this letter in the twenty-third century—hopefully not the twenty-fourth. Surely, it hasn’t taken that long for progress to be made, right?

It’s a chilling thought, really. The idea that human knowledge could stagnate for so long. I often think of Ms. Du Yao, the brilliant scientist who died in a peacekeeping mission in Africa, back in the mid-twenty-first century. If it hadn’t been for her early death, we might not have had to wait this long.

Du Yao was a genius—one of those rare minds that could move humanity forward. If she’d lived, we wouldn’t be here, still searching for answers. I wouldn’t be in hibernation, and you wouldn’t be sitting here reading this letter, wondering what the future holds.

It’s true, as they say, one Einstein can do more for humanity than hundreds of lesser scientists combined. Heroes make history, but it’s the geniuses who shape it. And if, in the two centuries after Du Yao’s death, no one has risen to take her place… well, that would be humanity’s greatest loss.

But I have to hope—hope that by the time you’re reading this, neuroscience has made the strides it needs. If so, you don’t have to worry. Just follow the instructions I’ve left in the notebooks, build the first fully operational Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet, and when you’re ready… put it on. Activate it. And bring back the memories we thought were lost.

When that moment comes, you’ll finally understand everything we’ve been through—and the future we’ve been striving for.

Wishing you all the best, Gao Wen.

November 2219, written in Donghai.”

…

Lin Xian stared at the final words on the page, his mind buzzing.

“So, that’s how it is,” he murmured, shaking his head as admiration for Gao Wen welled up inside him.

Born in 2182, Gao Wen had spent his entire life obsessed with hibernation technology, dedicating himself fully to the research. Unlike the younger Gao Wen, who had been distracted by the allure of Universal Constants and dreams of time travel, this version of him had stayed focused—determined to solve the one problem that had stumped scientists for centuries: hibernation-induced amnesia.

His mission was clear. He wanted to conquer the memory loss that came with long-term hibernation.

But just as he was nearing the breakthrough, the research hit a wall.

Since the untimely death of Ms. Du Yao, progress in neuroscience had come to a standstill. The field had been stagnant for centuries.

That’s when Gao Wen made his daring decision—to exchange time for space. He chose to hibernate, betting on the future, believing that someday, a genius like Du Yao would rise again and fill the gaps in the field of neuroscience.

And when that day came, Gao Wen would awaken. He would follow his detailed notes, build the Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet, and with a simple flick of the switch, he’d restore every lost memory.

It was a perfect plan, Lin Xian thought—a masterstroke.

The past and future versions of Gao Wen would unite, creating an elegant loop in time, an unbroken circle.

Lin Xian couldn’t help but admire the audacity of it all. Gao Wen had bet everything on the future, on progress, on humanity’s ability to rise once more.

But fate, it seemed, had not been kind.

Before the year 2400, no second genius like Du Yao appeared, and neuroscience saw no major breakthroughs. This meant that Gao Wen had no reason to wake up from hibernation.

And then, in 2400, catastrophe struck. Earth teetered on the edge of oblivion, nearly wiping out human civilization.

Gao Wen’s underground hibernation base was thrown into turmoil, and his survival became a matter of sheer luck.

It wasn’t until 2621, more than two centuries later, that he was discovered by the Lynx Tribe. For reasons no one could quite explain, they had spent three years digging in that desolate area, unearthing his base and ultimately, Gao Wen himself.

As Lin Xian pieced together Gao Wen’s story, the clever scientist himself was also beginning to understand the situation—thanks to his own letter. Though he felt a strange disconnect from his past self, the facts were starting to click into place.

“So, I really am a scientist,” Gao Wen said aloud, his voice filled with a mix of realization and something that sounded like irony. “A scientist who was working on recovering memories lost in hibernation.”

He chuckled softly, but the laughter was tinged with bitterness. “Isn’t it funny? The very scientist who dedicated himself to solving memory loss from hibernation ends up losing his own memories. Spent three years digging in the dirt, completely forgetting who he was or what he was supposed to do.”

“It’s not too late,” Lin Xian said, his tone full of encouragement as he handed the notebook back to Gao Wen. “Take a look at your old notes. Maybe something in them will jog your memory—or spark an idea.”

Gao Wen took the notebook, flipping through the pages slowly. His eyes scanned the sketches, the diagrams, and the meticulous instructions. The later sections were filled with detailed drawings, mechanical schematics, and step-by-step guidelines—a comprehensive blueprint for constructing the Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet.

It was clear that Gao Wen, before hibernation, had foreseen his future amnesia and had painstakingly designed the helmet’s construction process so that his future self could follow along easily.

Once the helmet was built and activated, the old Gao Wen would return.

“Do you understand any of it?” Lin Xian asked, watching as Gao Wen carefully studied the notes.

Gao Wen shook his head without hesitation. “Not a clue.”

Lin Xian wasn’t surprised. Without his memories or any recent education to fall back on, it was entirely normal that Gao Wen would struggle to make sense of it all.

After a moment, Gao Wen looked up and handed the notebook back to him. “You might have better luck than me. Why don’t you give it a go?”

Lin Xian nodded, taking the notebook from him. “I’ll give it a shot.”

As he began to read through the notes, he found that while some parts were complex, most of it made sense to him. The overall logic, the processes, and the instructions were clear enough, even if some sections were far too advanced for him.

Still, as the excitement of discovery began to bubble inside him, a troubling thought crossed his mind.

What good would it do to build the helmet?

Without someone like Ms. Du Yao—without the breakthroughs in neuroscience needed to make the helmet functional—hibernators wouldn’t be able to recover their lost memories, even if the device were completed.

“So…” Lin Xian rested his chin in his hand, deep in thought. “To really make this work, we need someone like Du Yao.”

“Du Yao…” Gao Wen echoed, his brow furrowing slightly as though the name was trying to pull something out of his hazy memories. “Yes… She’s the missing piece.”

Something about the name sent a faint spark through Lin Xian’s mind. The name felt strangely familiar to him. But why? Where had he heard it before?

He rubbed his temples, frustration building as he tried to grasp at the elusive memory. It made no sense. He had never studied neuroscience, nor had he ever met anyone who worked in the field. And yet, the name nagged at him as though it had appeared somewhere in his life before.

“Well,” he muttered, “I’ll figure it out. Once I wake up from this dream, I’ll look up her name online. If she was such a brilliant scientist, there’s bound to be something—papers, journals, records. I’ll find it.”

But for now, there was one thing Lin Xian knew for certain: he had to make a copy of the blueprints for the Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet.

In a way, it could be more revolutionary than the miniature nuclear battery. If it worked, it could reshape the world—just like the time-space shuttle.

Lin Xian found a quiet corner, sat down, and began to carefully commit the contents of the notebook to memory. There was a lot to absorb, and his time was running short.

According to his original plan, once he woke from the dream, he would focus on completing the second task set by the Genius Club. That task involved a major historical correction—eliminating Turing in 2024. Once that was done, he could move on to the third task.

Everything needed to be finished by July 7. Time was ticking.

He flipped through the thick pages, his mind racing. It would take him at least fifteen to twenty days to transcribe the entire manuscript for the Cerebral Electric Shock Helmet into the real world, he estimated after a quick mental calculation.

“Time’s tight,” he muttered to himself, a frown creasing his forehead.

Only after transcribing the entire manuscript would he be able to see the third task from the Genius Club. But that would leave him mere days before July 7—his deadline.

Would he have enough time to finish the third task and still make it into the Genius Club? Could history repeat itself, with him falling short?

“I’ll have to speed things up,” Lin Xian decided, his determination kicking in.

For the next several days, he resolved to do nothing but memorize and transcribe the manuscript, aiming to finish the task in ten days rather than twenty. With that, he’d still have over twenty days left to tackle the third task, which, he hoped, would be enough time.

“Let’s not waste any more time—let’s get to work.”

…

For the next few days, Lin Xian buried himself in his work. Like a honeybee gathering pollen, he diligently transcribed Gao Wen’s manuscript, his mind buzzing with every tiny detail of the helmet’s design. Each page demanded his full concentration, and he devoted himself entirely to the task, letting the intricate technicalities consume his thoughts.

One quiet afternoon, just after he had finished preparing lunch and was about to settle in for his usual nap, his phone suddenly erupted with a series of sharp, urgent beeps.

Beep beep beep! Beep beep beep!

The shrill alarm tore Lin Xian from his thoughts. Startled, he frowned, snatching up his phone, wondering what could possibly be causing such a ruckus. His heart skipped a beat as a notification flashed across the screen.

It was from the Genius Child smartwatch parent app.

The message read:

“Yan Qiao Qiao has left the electronic fence!”

The same alert repeated itself:

“Yan Qiao Qiao has left the electronic fence!”

The relentless blaring made Lin Xian feel as if his phone might burst from the intensity of it all. Hastily, he silenced the alarms and opened the app, his fingers trembling slightly as he tried to track Yan Qiao Qiao’s current location.

He expected to see her somewhere nearby, maybe wandering just beyond the boundary. But what he saw made his heart skip a beat. She had indeed crossed the electronic fence—and was speeding away from the city.

“Leaving the city? Where is she going?” Lin Xian muttered under his breath, his brow furrowed in deep concern.

He zoomed out on the map, watching the blinking dot representing Yan Qiao Qiao moving farther and farther away. As the map expanded, the destination became clearer. She was headed toward a familiar area.

“The university town… Donghai University?”

Lin Xian squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of what was happening. What business could Yan Qiao Qiao possibly have at Donghai University? And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit him.

“The lab?” he whispered, his eyes widening in sudden realization. “The Rhine Lab! The little refrigerator! The entangled state time-space particles!”

A cold shiver crept down his spine.

Could she be heading toward the entangled state time-space particles?

Lin Xian had already suspected that Yan Qiao Qiao’s strange behavior might be linked to those very particles, the ones locked away in the Rhine Lab. It had been a wild theory, born more from intuition than hard evidence. But if those particles triggered something within her—if they helped restore her lost memories—then there was a very real risk that she could revert back to Lin Yu Xi.

And that would be a disaster.

The last thing Lin Xian needed was for everything to unravel right in front of him, especially when the July 7 deadline loomed so near. If Yan Qiao Qiao transformed back into Lin Yu Xi, the delicate balance he had so carefully maintained would collapse, and all his efforts would become nothing more than a laughingstock.

“Honestly, this is such a headache,” Lin Xian sighed, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. But there was no time to dwell on his worries. He had to act, and fast.

Without wasting a second, he grabbed his jacket, threw it over his shoulders, and rushed downstairs, hailing the first cab he could find. There was no doubt in his mind where he needed to go: the Rhine Joint Laboratory at Donghai University.

…

Meanwhile, across town at Donghai University, a sleek Alfa luxury car rolled smoothly to a stop in front of the Rhine Joint Laboratory. The electric door slid open with a soft hum, and Yan Qiao Qiao leapt out eagerly, her movements quick and full of energy. Behind her, Zhao Ying Jun stepped out more leisurely, adjusting her sunglasses as she gazed up at the imposing lab building.

“Of all the places you could pick to spend your free time, and you choose here?” Zhao Ying Jun muttered, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

She glanced up at the large sign that read Donghai University Rhine Joint Laboratory, then back at Yan Qiao Qiao, who was practically bouncing on her toes with excitement.

“What’s so fascinating about this place?” Zhao Ying Jun asked, sliding her sunglasses down just a fraction. “Are you turning into some kind of science geek now? Getting all worked up over machines and test tubes?”

Yan Qiao Qiao shook her head, her expression suddenly serious. She pointed to a window on the second floor of the lab. “Brother Liu Feng is in there. He can help you with your love life.”

“What?” Zhao Ying Jun’s jaw dropped, her voice full of surprise.

“You brought me here to see Liu Feng for that reason?” she asked, still incredulous.

Yan Qiao Qiao nodded sincerely, her eyes filled with determination. “I want you and Brother Lin Xian to date.”

Zhao Ying Jun let out a long sigh, rubbing her temples as if trying to push away an oncoming headache. “Qiao Qiao, mind your own business,” she said, exasperated. “Don’t you think you’re meddling just a bit too much? If you’re so bored, maybe I should sign you up for a hobby class to keep you busy.”

She paused, then added with a playful smile, “And why are you so focused on Lin Xian, huh? Am I neglecting you or something? Is that why you’re thinking about him all the time?”

Yan Qiao Qiao didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she carefully pulled a small picture frame from her pocket. Inside the frame was a photo of the three of them—Lin Xian, Zhao Ying Jun, and Yan Qiao Qiao—smiling together at Disneyland.

Zhao Ying Jun squinted at the picture, her expression softening. She sighed again, but this time more gently. “You still carry that thing around?”

Yan Qiao Qiao nodded solemnly. “I didn’t want to lose it.”

Zhao Ying Jun rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in her voice as she said, “Carrying it with you all the time probably makes it more likely you’ll lose it, don’t you think?” She waved a hand dismissively. “But whatever.”

Sometimes, despite their undeniable resemblance, Zhao Ying Jun couldn’t help but wonder if Yan Qiao Qiao was really her biological daughter. The girl’s thoughts seemed to dart in the most unpredictable directions, with little rhyme or reason.

“Alright,” Zhao Ying Jun relented, giving in at last. “Since we’re already here, we might as well check it out. I’ve heard Lin Xian mention Liu Feng before, but I’ve never actually met him.”

As they climbed the stairs, Zhao Ying Jun asked, “So, what’s Liu Feng like?”

Yan Qiao Qiao tilted her head, thinking. “He’s a bit strange.”

Zhao Ying Jun raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. “Qiao Qiao, that’s not a very polite way to describe someone, especially an elder. You should be respectful.”

She continued, “Liu Feng is a scientist. What you think is strange might just be his calmness or intelligence—sometimes smart people come off as a little different. But you still need to show respect, okay?”

“Okay,” Yan Qiao Qiao nodded obediently.

A moment later, Yan Qiao Qiao pointed toward an open door down the hall. “That’s the room.”

Zhao Ying Jun knocked politely on the door before stepping inside, Yan Qiao Qiao close behind. Inside the room, Liu Feng was busy scribbling something on the blackboard, but he stopped when he saw them, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

“You are…?” Liu Feng began, blinking behind his glasses.

Zhao Ying Jun flashed her usual bright smile, her confidence returning. “Hello, Liu Feng! I’m Zhao Ying Jun, a friend of Lin Xian. Has he mentioned me?”

Liu Feng’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Zhao Ying Jun… Ying Jun?”

“Yes!” Zhao Ying Jun replied, though there was a note of uncertainty in her voice, unsure where this was leading.

Liu Feng suddenly beamed. “Ah! Zhao Ying Jun! You’ve really come!”

Before she could say anything, Liu Feng turned toward the blackboard, where a sequence of names and numbers was written:

Yan Qiao Qiao (fourteen years old), Chu An Qing (twenty), Su Su (twenty-three), Nangong Meng Jie (twenty-six), Yellow Finch (thirty).

Liu Feng grabbed the eraser and, to Zhao Ying Jun’s astonishment, wiped away Nangong Meng Jie’s name and replaced it with Zhao Ying Jun.

He stepped back, tapping the board with the eraser as if to emphasize the point. “Now that makes sense,” he muttered to himself.

Zhao Ying Jun stared at him, completely baffled. “What makes sense?” she asked, utterly confused.

Liu Feng turned to her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Congratulations, Zhao Ying Jun,” he said, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “You’ve made it into the arithmetic sequence!”