2333: “What does this mean? He just received a soothing, why did he overload on information so quickly?”
Wen Qianshu: “Good question.”
“Too bad I don’t know either.”
2333: “…”
The shuttle was still moving forward. Wen Qianshu tapped her fingers on the windowsill, “Look up the current research for me. How many days does it usually take for a Sentinel to experience information overload—”
2333 agreed, but just as it pulled up the search engine, Wen Qianshu stared at the window, suddenly narrowed her eyes, and said, “Never mind, no need to look it up.”
2333: “?”
It asked blankly, “Why? Isn’t this important?”
Of course, it was important.
That’s why Wen Qianshu asked this question after handing the bag with the clothes and umbrella to Mu Lian.
Wen Qianshu: “See? Isn’t this killing two birds with one stone? Not only can I get the answer, but I can also talk to her along the way.”
2333: “?”
You’ve got it backward, haven’t you? You actually wanted to talk to her and just asked the question along the way, right?
2333 knew it. Three worlds had passed, and Wen Qianshu was still the same Wen Qianshu. Beauty was always the primary productive force.
Mu Lian took the bag, pondered for a moment, and said, “That depends on the situation.”
Wen Qianshu: “Then—when are you free to explain it to me in detail?”
It was lunchtime. They were standing outside the hospital where Mu Lian worked, surrounded by passing traffic and people. A hawk’s cry was heard, and a gyrfalcon swooped down from the sky, folding its wings to land on Mu Lian’s shoulder.
The airflow ruffled Mu Lian’s long hair, and loose strands fell by her ear. She held the bag in one hand and took off her glasses with the other. The silver-rimmed glasses were attached to a thin cord and hung on her chest.
Mu Lian: “I’ll tell you now.”
She glanced down at her watch. “Have you had lunch?”
Wen Qianshu had, of course, eaten, but she smiled and said, “No.”
Mu Lian: “What would you like to eat?”
Wen Qianshu thought for a moment and, as if possessed, said, “Ice cream?”
2333: “…”
A few minutes later, Wen Qianshu was sitting in a fast-food restaurant with a carton of ice cream in her hand. She didn’t order much, just a bowl of sweet fermented rice balls. Mu Lian set down her tray, sat across from her, unwrapped her chopsticks, and explained, “The time it takes to cause information overload varies from person to person. Generally, young Sentinels and Sentinels without partners are more prone to overload.”
Wen Qianshu: “Sentinels without partners?”
“Why? Is there a big difference between a partner’s soothing and a doctor’s soothing?”
2333: “…”
2333 had a headache. “This is a common knowledge question in this world. Maybe you shouldn’t ask?”
But Mu Lian wasn’t impatient—no matter how many worlds had passed, she was always very patient with Wen Qianshu. “Mental soothing is a—”
She paused, then continued, “very private act.”
“After a Sentinel and a Guide confirm their partnership, they will establish a mental connection, forming a kind of spiritual lock, which we commonly call a Sentinel-Guide Lock.”
“With the help of the Sentinel-Guide Lock, a partner can easily touch the Sentinel’s subconscious thoughts and perform a comprehensive mental soothing. Doctors, on the other hand, generally can’t conveniently enter such a deep mental domain and can only guide the Sentinel as much as possible on a superficial level, so the effect is greatly diminished.”
“Many people have conducted research in this area and concluded that if an adolescent Sentinel is exposed to complex information over a long period and on a large scale without the help of a Guide, they can last for a month and a half at most before suffering from information overload and a mental power riot.”
“Later, taking into account the economic situation and the ratio of Sentinels to Guides, the time for undergoing mental soothing was set at one month.”
Wen Qianshu nodded. She scooped some ice cream with her spoon, let it melt in her mouth, thought for a moment, and asked again, “Then what if a Sentinel receives a soothing from their partner and experiences information overload the very next day? What could be the reason for that?”
Mu Lian raised her eyes. “Are you talking about—the Sentinel Hypersensitivity Syndrome that has appeared in recent years?”
Wen Qianshu was stunned and frowned. “Appeared in recent years? Does that mean there’s been more than one case?”
“Yes.” Mu Lian continued to explain, “This illness appeared very suddenly, and the specific cause has yet to be identified. What’s even stranger is that the Sentinels who fall ill are often older, and recorders show that before the incidents, they all frequently received mental soothing from their partners. Logically, they should be the type of people least likely to experience mental overload.”
Wen Qianshu smiled and said to 2333, “Great, we’ve found the villain. This illness was probably created by them.”
2333: “…”
How can you be so optimistic about something with no clues at all?
Wen Qianshu bit her spoon and watched Mu Lian eat lunch—she was the same as always, chewing slowly and thoroughly, never a picky eater.
Her long hair was neatly tied up, but it had been messed up by the gyrfalcon earlier, with some loose strands falling by her ear. Dark hair, snowy skin, long lashes half-lowered, concealing her shimmering, light-colored pupils. Her right hand held the chopsticks, and her left hand also rested on the table. Her nails were neatly trimmed with a perfect curve, and on her ring finger, as always, was that faint, crescent-moon birthmark.
She made little noise while chewing, and her chopsticks didn’t clink against the bowl. She ate quietly, a pleasant sight to behold.
The lunch rush wasn’t over yet, and the fast-food restaurant was still noisy, with people coming and going behind them, their conversations and laughter incessant. But she seemed to have a natural ability to create a barrier, isolating all the noise and making everything quiet.
Wen Qianshu’s gaze was initially on Mu Lian’s ring finger, then it followed the bowl to the chopsticks, and then followed the chopsticks to her lips.
Wen Qianshu: “…”
Her gaze paused for a moment before she looked away, forcing herself to think about the “Sentinel Hypersensitivity Syndrome”—if it was really done by one person, or one organization, how did they achieve it? In this world, once a Sentinel and a Guide become partners, their relationship is extremely close, practically two people as one. How could they persuade so many different Guides to act against their Sentinels?
Or perhaps, it wasn’t the Guides who did it at all?
But a Sentinel with a partner is protected by a Sentinel-Guide Lock, making it very difficult for another Guide to invade their deep mental domain.
Wen Qianshu finished the ice cream, taking one bite after another. After scooping up the last spoonful, she stared at the sweet fermented rice balls—she was actually a bit too full to eat them, but if she didn’t, it would make her earlier words seem too fake.
Wen Qianshu, who felt she had never been caught in a lie, couldn’t let her “prestigious reputation” be ruined by a bowl of food. So, she poked the rice balls with her spoon, ready to face her doom.
Who would have thought? In the first world, she was afraid of not having enough to eat and ate until she gained weight. Yet in the fourth world, she dared to be picky about food.
The small, silver-white cat stretched, slid off Wen Qianshu’s lap, landed on the floor, circled twice under the table, then stopped and looked curiously at the gyrfalcon.
The gyrfalcon, in turn, flapped its wings, perched on the back of the chair, and also looked down at it.
Mu Lian: “If you can’t eat it, just leave it. Don’t force yourself.”
Wen Qianshu: “…”
2333: “…”
Wen Qianshu readily complied, “I’ll get it to go.”
Mu Lian lowered her eyes and chuckled softly.
So beautiful.
So beautiful, Wen Qianshu thought.
That smile, like every other time before, was so beautiful it made Wen Qianshu surrender completely.
Wen Qianshu sighed. Just as she was thinking about how to explain herself, she saw Mu Lian raise her arm and look at her watch. “I have to work this afternoon. Should I take you to the station first?”
The gyrfalcon flew up and landed skillfully on her shoulder.
Wen Qianshu picked up the cat. “Okay.”
She asked the cashier for a takeaway box, packed the bowl of sweet fermented rice balls, and sealed it.
They left the fast-food restaurant and walked all the way to the shuttle stop.
After buying her ticket, Wen Qianshu was about to ask if she could come find Mu Lian to ask more questions later when she saw her lower her eyes, pull a fountain pen from her pocket, and hold it out. “Your contact information?”
Wen Qianshu froze and looked at her.
In this world of towering skyscrapers and countless crisscrossing shuttle tubes, sunlight still managed to break through, falling and illuminating Mu Lian’s face.
People came and went, the wind rose and fell.
A few mental bodies sped past, some running, some jumping, following in their masters’ footsteps.
The gyrfalcon beat its wings and took flight.
The young doctor extended her hand, in the same gesture as Wen Qianshu, presenting her palm to her.
Mu Lian: “Write down your contact information—”
“I’ll make up for this lunch next time.”
Wen Qianshu took the pen.
She remembered a distant time and space, where someone had held her and whispered in her ear—
“You just have to walk up to me and tell me you like me.”
“As for the rest—”
“Wait for me to love you.”
Author’s Notes:
OOC Skit:
Never been caught in a lie?
Have you forgotten how your bold claim of “memorizing the dictionary” came about?
