Genius Club

Lin Xian turned and fixed his gaze on the darkness of Zhao Ying Jun’s personal exhibition hall, situated at the pinnacle of the Rhine Museum in a separate building. This reflected her eminent status in Rhine Sky City.

Yes, this was precisely why Lin Xian had ventured into the dream world tonight.

Yellow Finch had hinted that Lin Xian should pay more attention to mirrors, suggesting that something he sought might be reflected back at him. He was convinced that the answer lay hidden within the confines of Zhao Ying Jun’s exhibition hall, perhaps within one of its mirrors.

Lin Xian was not here to trace his own imprints in Zhao Ying Jun’s life story; those were trivial. He was more enveloped by the passage of time, the fading of old friends, and a certain weightiness that came with those losses.

He approached the entrance of Zhao Ying Jun’s exhibition hall.

“Why is it so dark here? Where are the lights?” Lin Xian muttered to himself as he stepped into the exhibition hall. The doors were ajar, revealing only a faint beam of light illuminating a red carpet in the center, while the rest remained shrouded in darkness.

“What kind of exhibition keeps the lights off?” he wondered aloud.

Then, a robotic voice answered from the trash can robot rolled up to him. “Zhao Ying Jun’s exhibition hall uses projections to narrate her life, much like a movie, because she loved the cinematic experience,” VV explained.

Lin Xian laughed softly, “She didn’t love movies; she barely had time for them.” He knew Zhao Ying Jun better than anyone; she was a workaholic, and sitting through a movie was almost a form of torture for her. It was he who cherished films, not her.

This realization stopped him dead in his tracks, a lump forming in his throat as he stood speechless.

VV’s green eyes blinked up at him. “Aren’t you coming? I can start the projection for you. This hall is rarely open to the public, and viewing it usually requires a reservation, but I can make an exception for you.”

“Turn it on,” Lin Xian responded, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to see it.”

Following the lead of the robot VV, they walked along a dimly lit corridor. Suddenly, there was a soft click, and the right wall transformed into a bright display.

A projected image appeared, showing a young couple smiling broadly, each holding one side of a baby, portraying a picturesque family scene. As they observed, a voice echoed from nowhere in particular, narrating a background story.

“On January 15, 1999, Ms. Zhao Ying Jun was born into a joyful family in China’s capital. Her father was a man of notable reputation during that era, and her mother, a highly esteemed teacher.”

As they continued along the corridor, a series of photos from Zhao Ying Jun’s childhood through her early education flickered into view. From elementary to middle school and then images of her time studying abroad were displayed.

It was evident from the middle school pictures that Zhao Ying Jun had always been a figure of authority. Even as a teenager, she carried herself with the confidence and poise of someone destined for significant leadership roles.

Lin Xian, observing these images he had never encountered before, couldn’t help but smile to himself, intrigued by this visual journey into Zhao Ying Jun’s past.

The narration resumed, adding layers to the unfolding story:

“Ms. Zhao Ying Jun was not only academically gifted but also showed an early knack for business, excelling in both spheres from a young age. Following middle school, she pursued higher education abroad, eventually graduating from IESE Business School in Spain with outstanding grades across all subjects.”

The display transitioned from static images to dynamic videos.

Lin Xian recognized scenes from the early days of MX Company in the footage. Familiar faces popped up, like the deputy general manager and Brother Wang, people he interacted with on a regular basis.

The voice continued, “After her graduation, Ms. Zhao Ying Jun returned to Donghai City and founded MX Company, specializing in innovative cosmetics. Within just two years, her company gained national recognition. But what truly catapulted MX Company to the status of a global cosmetics leader was the launch of the Rhine Moisturizing Cream.”

As Lin Xian walked further, the left wall lit up, showcasing an image of the famed Rhine Moisturizing Cream alongside the cartoon mascot, Rhine Cat.

“Thanks to the popularity of the mascot Rhine Cat, the Rhine brand quickly captured the global market. Although the Rhine Company has since faced bankruptcy and the Rhine Moisturizing Cream is no longer a necessity, Rhine Cat continues to be a cherished toy, enduring through over six centuries.”

Lin Xian realized something crucial at that moment. The trash can robot’s earlier words rang true; his entire history had been erased. Memories of the celebrations at MX Company, group photos, interviews – he remembered being there, yet in these projections, there was no sign of him. Even the creation of Rhine Cat was falsely credited to Zhao Ying Jun alone.

Disheartened but resolved, Lin Xian continued his journey through the corridor.

“…MX Company later rebranded as Rhine Group, marking the beginning of a legendary era,” the voice declared as a new projection showed the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Rhine Group, with Zhao Ying Jun, Brother Wang, and Chu Shan He in the center. Lin Xian was notably absent.

With every step, Lin Xian felt the weight of the altered history around him. The realization that even reliable records could be manipulated made him question the validity of any documented history.

They soon reached the next significant part of the exhibition.

“In 2026, the world saw the introduction of the first generation of hibernation pods. Despite causing irreversible memory loss, these pods were sought after globally, with countless people, including Zhao Ying Jun, opting to hibernate in hopes of waking up to a brighter future.”

“Zhao Ying Jun, valuing her memories deeply, crafted a unique hibernation plan for herself—waking up every ten years to stabilize her memories for six months before re-entering hibernation.”

Lin Xian slowed his steps as he watched an old video showing Zhao Ying Jun, looking youthful and full of energy, entering a hibernation pod for the first time. She was dressed in a sleek black coat and wore elegant black gemstone earrings, her demeanor vibrant as she walked towards the hibernation center.

Before she entered the changing room, Zhao Ying Jun paused to embrace her white Pomeranian, VV. The dog, resembling a fluffy dandelion, wagged its tail energetically.

“This was VV, Zhao Ying Jun’s beloved Pomeranian. At this time, VV was already 10 years old, quite old for a dog. There was no way VV could survive to see Zhao Ying Jun wake up ten years later. This was their final farewell.”

Lin Xian paused under a photo capturing this poignant moment—Zhao Ying Jun hugging VV. He was surprised; he hadn’t known she had a pet. Not that it would have come up in their professional interactions, but still, it added a layer of personal history to the woman he only knew through work.

A doubt suddenly nagged at him. He knew many historical photos were often altered or fabricated—how could he be sure this one was genuine? That the dog, VV, really existed?

Shaking his head, Lin Xian felt a chill. The ease with which history could be rewritten was deeply unsettling. If even the truth could be doubted, what did that say about the foundation of human civilization?

He continued along the exhibit path.

The next video showed Zhao Ying Jun inside the hibernation pod, her expression a mix of reluctance and determination. Just as she closed her eyes, the video cut off abruptly.

Lin Xian walked along a red carpet, each step marking a decade of Zhao Ying Jun’s journey through time. He watched as the technology of hibernation evolved, becoming sleeker, more refined.

Zhao Ying Jun herself appeared in these historical snippets—thawing, waking, re-entering hibernation, aging. The last clear image of her was on a mountaintop, clad in an engineer’s hard hat, surveying a barren landscape.

The narrative voice filled the air: “In the 24th century, the Rhine Group commenced construction of Rhine Sky City. After over a hundred years, with its 6712 cold fusion engines and the first-generation intelligent central brain, named VV after her dog, the city ascended, becoming humanity’s first floating metropolis.”

Lin Xian absorbed the words, walking a long distance as the narration continued. Later images and videos became less direct—only showing Zhao Ying Jun from behind or from a distance.

Despite the scarcity of recent images, Lin Xian was certain Zhao Ying Jun was still alive—the ongoing nature of the exhibit implied as much.

Further along, a video played showing a robot resembling a trash can, chirping merrily, “Trash! Trash! Found trash!” as it scooped up an apple core and whizzed off toward another piece of litter.

Lin Xian chuckled at the sight. He glanced at the similar robot leading the way—clearly the same model but aged and weathered.

“The micro trash disposal robot, VV, was Zhao Ying Jun’s creation, intended as a household cleaner. Despite its outdated design and limited functionality, it never gained popularity and was soon replaced. However, historians believe Zhao Ying Jun designed this robot in memory of her cherished Pomeranian, VV, whom she adored deeply.

“She not only named the intelligent central brain of Rhine Sky City after VV but also called the trash can robot she designed VV, showing her deep affection and attachment to the dog. Therefore… even though the micro trash disposal robot VV was long obsolete, Zhao Ying Jun kept it at home, accompanying her through her later years until she passed away.”

“According to Zhao Ying Jun’s last wish, her ashes were scattered to the winds, drifting across the seas. And the micro trash disposal robot VV, powered by a small nuclear battery that never runs out of energy, was placed on the high platform of Zhao Ying Jun’s memorial square, forever accompanying her, forever guarding her, forever cleaning up the surrounding trash, forever revolving around her. This time, Zhao Ying Jun and VV will never be separated.”

As the soothing voice of the narrator faded, Lin Xian found himself at the end of a long corridor, standing before a photograph positioned under the majestic white jade statue of Zhao Ying Jun.

A small, round trash can robot, known as VV, stood beneath the towering statue, its gaze fixed on the likeness of the visionary who had conceived Sky City. The statue itself exuded an aura of grandeur and authority, casting a protective shadow over the little robot at its base.

This particular section of the square, marked by its prohibition against flying, felt like a sanctuary. A high steel electronic gate isolated the platform from the bustling life of the city outside, leaving only the statue and VV in quiet companionship.

It was a scene reminiscent of Zhao Ying Jun’s later years, spent in the solitude of Sky City’s serene heights.

Inside a spotless room, Zhao Ying Jun, with a gentle smile, casually tossed a crumpled tissue onto the floor.

“Trash! Trash! Found trash!” VV exclaimed in a mechanical tone. Its green eyes blinked as it extended a claw to snatch up the tissue, popping open its lid to deposit the discarded item.

Zhao Ying Jun, perhaps amused or simply in a routine, threw another tissue.

This simple exchange marked their days, spent in the tranquility of each other’s company, undisturbed for centuries.

Time seemed to stand still on that elevated platform, with the white jade statue and VV locked in an eternal gaze, waiting for a reunion that spanned 600 years.

The narrative of the exhibition concluded with this poignant image.

At the corridor’s end, Lin Xian noticed a sign that offered a warm reminder: in her final days, Zhao Ying Jun chose not to leave behind any photographs or videos. Her profound statement lingered in the air:

“I don’t want the world to see me growing old.”

Historians and cultural commentators had long debated this choice, seeing it as an expression of her longing for the past and a bittersweet acceptance of time’s inevitable march. It was believed she wished to preserve the image of her most radiant years, inspiring the youth to embrace and enrich their present.

With a soft tap of his shoe, Lin Xian stepped off the red carpet and entered a dimly lit exhibition hall.

The moment he crossed the threshold, VV turned to him and said, “See, I wasn’t lying! There’s no trace of you in Zhao Ying Jun’s life trajectory; I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“No, no,” Lin Xian responded with a shake of his head, “You’re overthinking it.”

With a gesture resembling a human snapping their fingers, VV activated the lights, and the hall was suddenly flooded with bright white light, causing Lin Xian to squint as his eyes adjusted.

He moved forward, his gaze sweeping across the room. The exhibition displayed various items from the projection corridor, such as the prototype of the first-generation hibernation pod—massive as a truck. Despite technological advancements reducing them to the size of a standard bed, the side effects of memory loss remained unresolved even 600 years later.

Other exhibits included Zhao Ying Jun’s personal collections and everyday objects, none of which seemed particularly significant to Lin Xian, who was notably looking for mirrors but found none.

Then, his attention was caught by a central display—a blue convertible Bentley Continental GT, precisely like the one he had once driven recklessly over an elevated bridge, rendering it beyond repair.

“This was Zhao Ying Jun’s favorite collectible,” VV informed as it approached, its treads rolling softly on the floor. “It’s a 600-year-old antique car, no longer functional, its components thoroughly worn out. It holds value only as a keepsake now.”

“Although it appears new, every part has been replaced over the decades. It undergoes refurbishment whenever it rusts and deteriorates, so in truth, it’s more of a replica than an antique. None of its original parts remain,” VV continued, circling the platform where Lin Xian now stood.

Ignoring VV’s detailed explanation, Lin Xian climbed onto the platform, drawn to an electronic signboard that read: This was Ms. Zhao Ying Jun’s favorite car, preserved for 600 years. Though it was undrivable, she often sat in the passenger seat, sometimes even falling asleep there, finding it more comforting and secure than any bed.

“She also liked putting the trash can robot in the driver’s seat,” VV added from below. Lin Xian looked down to see VV gazing up at him, and it continued, “You probably missed the photo in the projection corridor; you were looking to the right… The left projection showed a photo of Zhao Ying Jun positioning this trash can robot in the driver’s seat, with herself relaxing in the passenger seat. Sadly, the photo was taken from behind the car, so her aged face was still not visible.”

Lin Xian circled the familiar blue convertible, his eyes drawn to the neat handwriting on the windshield. It was a message from Zhao Ying Jun: “This is the first car in human history to fly in the sky. I hope it flies through time too.”

The claim wasn’t far-fetched. The technology behind this car was vastly different from the typical flying cars that dotted the city’s skyline.

“Funny,” Lin Xian mused, though the humor failed to lighten his mood.

With a contemplative expression, he ran his fingers along the sleek frame of the car, making his way to the rear. Something unusual caught his eye—a bunch of fake flowers tucked into the narrow back seat.

He paused, eyes widening in surprise as he inhaled sharply. The flowers were red roses, wrapped in tinfoil.

Despite their artificial nature, the flowers maintained a vibrant, undying luster, contrasting starkly with the worn and tattered tinfoil that enveloped them—a glaring inconsistency in the otherwise immaculate vehicle.

“VV, you’re wrong,” Lin Xian murmured, bowing his head slightly. “There is a trace of me here.”

The nearby trash can robot tilted its head, its eyes flashing curiously. “What did you say?”

Lin Xian smiled faintly, choosing not to directly answer. “Those historians and commentators, they talk about nostalgia, about a melancholic longing for the past. They don’t understand.”

He reached out, his hands carefully cradling the crumpled bouquet of roses. As he lifted them, a wave of emotion swept over him, bridging the expanse of centuries in a single moment.

His vision blurred, and the dim light of the present seemed to merge with a memory, a cool night breeze caressing his face.

It was a moonlit night in Donghai City. The breeze fluttered across an elevated bridge, gently lifting Zhao Ying Jun’s evening gown and her flowing hair as she stood regally against the backdrop.

“I don’t want the world to see me growing old,” she had declared, her voice filled with a mix of defiance and dignity.

Her fingers deftly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she turned, her gaze reflecting off the shimmering surface of the river by the Oriental Pearl Tower.

Her eyes, catching the moonlight, seemed to sparkle with the colors of a rainbow. Across the span of 600 years, she smiled, her voice echoing in Lin Xian’s memory: “And my world is your dream.”