Chapter Forty-Two: Ji Cheng’s Scheme

“Remorse” formation? Ji Ruyue was puzzled. Wasn’t this one of the simplest formation diagrams? Something anyone could find online at the click of a button—why would someone of her master’s stature specifically ask her to track it down and upload it? Could it be because of the unique origin of this particular formation diagram?

As far as she knew, the “Remorse” formation did indeed have an unusual history.

More than seven centuries ago, when the Stasis Tomb first opened, a general of the Galactic Empire, under the orders of the late emperor, led an expedition to purge the space revenants that had emerged from the tomb. But at the time, the empire as a whole hadn’t paid the incident due attention; the general’s mechanized legion was outdated and nearly obsolete. Only after engaging the revenants did they realize that the mechanical bodies of these entities possessed terrifying defensive capabilities, far beyond what any standard legion could contend with.

For all his tactical brilliance and mastery over mechanized troops and starships, the general could not overcome the chasm in raw power. Space revenants rampaged across the Great Yong province, leaving countless casualties in their wake. It was only with the deployment of the Empire’s elite Iron Heart Legion that order was finally restored.

Shamed by his failure, the general resigned upon returning, dedicating himself wholly to research at the Royal Academy, refusing every imperial summons thereafter. The “Remorse” formation was the fruit of his research into the disintegration weapons of the space revenants, created after he had left office.

“But even so, Master hardly needs me to provide something so trivial…” Ji Ruyue pondered deeply. Could it be that her master truly was a god sealed somewhere, unable to access the outside world? And she, Ji Ruyue—chosen follower, graced by divinity—was the bridge between her master and the outside?

Perhaps the “Remorse” formation was meant as reference for her master’s study of the space revenants’ disintegration weapons.

Her master’s enemy was the space revenants? No, it might even be the precursors to the revenants—the Thanatophobes!

Her encyclopedic mind recalled clearly that the Thanatophobes, the forerunners of the space revenants, were the most ancient race in known history, born tens of billions of years ago. Their science was unrivaled, but the omnipresent cosmic rays of that era made their lives tragically brief. When their attempts to extend life through science failed, they chose to abandon their fragile flesh, transferring their minds into mechanical bodies. They built vast megastructures known as Stasis Tombs, where they slumbered in a desperate bid to escape the ravages of cosmic radiation.

But the Thanatophobes miscalculated. While their metallic bodies granted them a form of immortality, the river of time ground away their minds and souls, leaving only madness and bloodthirsty instinct behind.

It was the consensus among the Empire’s archaeologists: the Thanatophobe race was long extinct. The space revenants that now prowled the galaxy were nothing more than their undying husks.

“If the enemy sealed with Master is truly a Thanatophobe, then Master must be at least tens of billions of years old…” The more Ji Ruyue thought, the brighter her eyes became, like a detective slowly unravelling a mystery.

Hidden beneath the table, her hand clenched tightly into a fist.

I must free my master!

Ji Cheng had noticed the flicker of doubt and contemplation in Ji Ruyue’s eyes, and could easily guess what she was thinking. He couldn’t help but curse under his breath—if it weren’t for this godforsaken Baishan Star with no access to the imperial network, he would never stoop to such measures.

“As you command, my lord.” Ji Ruyue’s thoughts had flashed by in an instant; she dared not keep Ji Cheng waiting. She straightened, her voice fervent with loyalty: “Ruyue will complete the mission as quickly as possible.”

“Very good. In exchange, I will grant you a small reward,” Ji Cheng responded solemnly.

A reward?

Ji Ruyue’s eyes reddened. After much inner conflict, she bit her lip and said in a clear, delicate voice, “It is Ruyue’s honor to serve you, my lord. I dare not hope for a reward.”

She had done so little for her master, and yet received so much favor—chosen as a follower, and now even being offered a reward. How could she accept it in good conscience?

Ji Cheng paused for a moment, somewhat speechless.

You’re really too deep into the role, miss.

Of course, from his perspective, this was a good thing.

Ji Ruyue, born of the royal family, had been steeped in imperial intrigue from a young age, and displayed a cold, sometimes ruthless demeanor—a true ice princess in public. Yet at heart, she was still a young girl with a vivid imagination, obsessed and reverent toward powers that defied scientific explanation.

To her, serving a “god” like Ji Cheng was the greatest fortune a mere mortal could hope for.

Ji Cheng, however, was unmoved by her words. He rapped the table gently and said in a cool tone:

“The key to ascension is the formation of a persona anchor.”

“Vast amounts of information create logical gravity, which can cause the will to deviate after upload. Only a sufficient number of persona anchors can ensure a successful ascension.”

“Ascension? Persona anchor?”

Ji Ruyue was completely lost, but she trusted that Ji Cheng’s words concealed profound meaning. She repeated them to herself over and over, and at last caught hold of a crucial insight, her whole being lit with excitement.

She lifted her coldly elegant face, but her expression now resembled that of a puppy given a treat: “I understand, my lord is referring to the Digital Ascension Project!”

Her master was truly unfathomable—the Imperial Royal Academy had barely scratched the surface of such research, and yet her master had casually revealed its deepest secret, as if it were the simplest matter in the world.

Ji Ruyue bowed her head again, her heart overflowing with adoration and awe.

Did my master share this knowledge because my coming-of-age ceremony is near? she suddenly realized.

“Thank you for your gift, my lord. This knowledge is truly precious to me.” Her cheeks flushed, overcome by both shame and gratitude.

The Galactic Empire placed supreme value on science and knowledge. Royal heirs, upon reaching eighteen, were required to present at least one academic hypothesis as part of their coming-of-age. The single sentence Ji Cheng had given her was, in fact, a conclusion reached only after countless trials by professional players in the late stages of the game. In the era of the Galactic Empire, this insight would be centuries ahead of its time, more than sufficient as a coming-of-age thesis.

Ji Cheng had recalled this fact after learning Ji Ruyue’s royal status. According to his plan, not only would this raise Ji Ruyue’s standing within the royal family, it would also allow this knowledge to be passed to the Royal Academy of Sciences through her.

“You may go,” Ji Cheng said with a wave, his expression indifferent.

“Yes, my lord.” Ji Ruyue bowed slightly again, reaffirming her loyalty. “Ruyue will upload what you need as quickly as possible.”

As the master of this virtual space, Ji Cheng severed the network connection from the black node at the Weiyang Star Palace. A flash of darkness, and Ji Ruyue’s figure vanished from the grand council hall.

After kicking her offline, Ji Cheng turned his attention back to the permissions of the Gaia Network. By the rules, his virtual space could accommodate up to nine people. It would be a waste not to make use of that.

“The main storyline begins in eight years. I’ll need to plan and lay the groundwork carefully. If I can work my way into the upper echelons of the Empire before it collapses, I might be able to reap even greater benefits.”

Thinking of the turbulent era ahead, Ji Cheng couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement.