Chapter 57: The Dialectic Game, Part Two: A Record of Death |
The meticulously scientific report detailed a diagnosis that was nothing short of fantastical, yet it strangely aligned with reality, conforming to common sense.
Qi Si continued to leaf through the remaining paper records with keen interest.
The next several dozen pages were lab reports, filled with scientific terms he couldn't decipher. Beside the data were arrows pointing up and down—a clear sign that the patient's condition was dire.
There were also several monochrome ultrasound images, covered in symbols scrawled in a messy hand. Qi Si feigned studying them for a moment before giving up on making any sense of them.
The reports were arranged in chronological order, documenting minor check-ups every three days and major examinations every seven. The last entry was dated January 1, 2038.
This instance was clearly based on reality, yet the timeline had been pushed forward by three years.
Qi Si wasn't surprised. After all, the *Flesh Eating* instance had already proven a link between reality and the game, showing that timelines could be inverted, stretched, or thrown into disarray.
He wasn't offended by the fact that the instance had woven his real information into its narrative; on the contrary, he found it rather amusing.
He had always maintained a careful distance from the identity of "Qi Si," a construct of human society, much like a gamer controlling a character from a third-person perspective.
Now, he pulled himself out of the immediate context, analyzing the situation with the cool detachment of an observer.
"From the clues I have, 'Qi Si' should have succumbed to his illness and died three years ago. Yet someone, by some unknown means, kept him 'alive' in a vegetative state."
"Would someone really burn money on me for three years? What a curious setup. Did I perhaps tell someone about a vast inheritance before I died, then deliberately leave out the most important details?"
"Or is this the influence of the Weird Game? Perhaps it's just an illogical premise unique to this instance."
Qi Si picked up the last sheet of paper, his eyes flying across the lines as he read:
[Clone #9's vital signs are normal. Data points including reflexes and brainwave responses are consistent with the original host. Metrics such as intelligence level, thought patterns, and behavioral choices are pending assessment.]
[No soul fluctuations have been detected at this time. However, based on collateral data, it cannot be immediately deemed a failure. A three-day observation period is recommended before a decision on termination is made.]
Qi Si set the page down and glanced at the cuff of his right sleeve, where the number "9" was written in red ink.
He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, the number "9" on the massive glass tank was a jarring, vivid red.
"So, I'm not 'Qi Si.' I'm just a clone, Number 9. My entire purpose is to cultivate 'Qi Si's' soul?"
Qi Si let out a soft chuckle. "This setup... is just brimming with malice."
He returned the papers to their original spot, stood up, and walked barefoot across the cold tile floor toward a shape against the right wall, draped in a black canvas.
He pulled back the canvas, revealing a row of large glass tanks underneath.
Massive glass tanks, each about a meter in diameter, stood packed tightly in a neat row. Their numbered faces were turned outward, marked in red ink from "1" to "8".
The tanks were empty, though the fluid level in each had dropped. It was easy to imagine that something had once been submerged inside—something that had been removed and never returned.
Putting the pieces together, Qi Si was certain that these tanks had once held "clones" just like him—his eight predecessors, all of whom had been terminated as "failures."
Suddenly, he heard a sound from behind him—the sharp *click* of a key sliding into a lock, followed by the turning of the handle.
Reacting in a flash, Qi Si dove back onto the operating table. In one fluid motion, he switched off the lamp, lay flat, shut his eyes, and feigned lifelessness.
*Creeak—*
The iron door of the room swung open, and a shuffle of footsteps filed in, quickly forming a circle around the surgical table.
With his eyes closed, Qi Si couldn't tell exactly how many people had entered, but he knew from the sounds that there were many of them. His chances of escape were slim to none.
"It seems Number 9 has awakened ahead of schedule," a deep male voice announced from the doorway. "He consciously explored his surroundings and chose the optimal response under pressure. He's much closer to the original host than any of the others."
The scratch of a pen on paper followed, as if someone were taking notes.
Qi Si remembered the sticky nutrient fluid covering his body. He must have left footprints when he was moving about. It was no wonder his ruse had been discovered.
Since the jig was up, he opened his eyes, sat up, and offered a casual smile. "Hello there. Could any of you tell me the time?"
No one responded. One of them met his gaze, and the corner of his eye twitched as if he'd just seen something repulsive. *Am I disfigured?* Qi Si wondered. *Or do they see me as some kind of monster?* He pressed his lips together, deciding to remain silent and convey a willingness to cooperate.
There were nine men in white lab coats in the room. Judging by their brawny builds, any one of them could have pinned him to the floor with a single hand.
Two of the younger men stepped forward, produced a pair of handcuffs from their deep pockets, and swiftly cuffed Qi Si's hands behind his back.
Their movements were unnervingly practiced, as if they had performed this exact procedure many times before. He supposed they'd had plenty of practice on his eight unfortunate predecessors.
Qi Si remained perfectly still, allowing them to move him into a wheelchair and secure him with restraints. All the while, his eyes subtly scanned each of their faces.
He couldn't see their features clearly behind their surgical masks, but their eyes still offered some clues.
Their expressions, for instance, were utterly detached—not the look of physicians sworn to heal, but of researchers handling lab rats.
The men in white coats took turns approaching him. One drew blood with a lancet, another checked his temperature with a scanner, while others measured his blood pressure and heart rate. The process was complex but executed with methodical precision.
The readings were called out one after another, and someone diligently recorded them.
Discretion was the better part of valor. Qi Si didn't move a muscle, letting the white-coated figures handle him as they wished.
Once they seemed to be finishing up, he ventured a question. "Excuse me, can any of you tell me where this is?"
There was no response. Not a single person even spared him a glance.
Rebuffed, Qi Si once again felt the palpable malice of the instance.
His most effective tools were verbal, yet these people refused to engage with him at all. It was completely unsportsmanlike...
At last, the men in white coats finished their work and wheeled the restrained Qi Si out of the room.
Beyond the room stretched a long, narrow corridor, extending out of sight in both directions. Doors to various departments were embedded in the walls like tombstones, each marked by nothing more than a faint seam.
Fluorescent tubes overhead bathed everything in a sterile white light. The pristine, metallic walls reflected it, forcing the shadows into the narrowest of crevices, creating faint, grayish wisps like the wings of a fly.
It was less like a hospital and more like a research institute—the kind where deranged experiments were conducted.
The men in white coats—or perhaps, researchers—unfolded the wheelchair, locking it flat. Only then did Qi Si realize it was a collapsible gurney, kept folded to navigate the cramped confines of the previous room.
The gurney was pushed forward swiftly, his body jolting with every movement, only to be snapped back by the restraints.
Unable to move, Qi Si could only stare up at the ceiling from his supine position, counting the fixtures as they passed overhead.
Square light, square light, air vent, square light, circular light...
The gurney came to a halt. A researcher standing beside it reported in a smooth, carefully curated tone, "Director, Number 9 is emotionally stable and has so far shown no signs of aggression. His speech and mannerisms are much more human. I believe we're close to a breakthrough."
"But he still has no soul," a younger voice sighed. "Don't let your guard down. I know him. He's an expert at feigning innocence, only to land a fatal blow when you least expect it."
...*Can't argue with that, you really do know me well.*
Qi Si found the voice strangely familiar. A conclusion was forming in his mind, but it seemed so obvious that he immediately suspected it was a trap.
He strained against his restraints, twisting his neck to try and see the speaker.
"We still have the three-day observation period," the first voice said. "This time might not be a failure. All his data matches the original host perfectly. If only he had a soul..."
The younger voice interrupted, "But without a soul, he is nothing."
After a moment of struggling, Qi Si finally managed to lift his head just enough.
When he saw the face of the so-called "Director," he couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.
He laughed until he was breathless, the laughter turning into a fit of violent coughing.
After a moment, he managed to choke out the words, as if coughing up blood: "Long... time... no... see..."