The blue light from the Data Tower had not yet completely faded when Shan Jue and Qian Hui's student IDs vibrated simultaneously. There was no congratulatory message—only a single line of concise white text:
"Please proceed alone to the Special Assessment Room on the top floor of the Administration Building before 23:59 today. Access granted with top-ranking credentials."
In the lore of Stellar University, the "Special Assessment" on the administrative top floor existed only in rumors. It was not documented in any handbook, and even professors only spoke of it vaguely as "the selection process of the Central Government's most secretive department."
Shan Jue and Qian Hui parted ways in the elevator lobby, each stepping into a different dedicated elevator.
The elevators ascended directly to the top floor. The doors opened onto a pure white corridor, the air carrying a faint scent of sandalwood mixed with old paper. The assessment room bore no doorplate, only a heavy solid wood door that slid open soundlessly as they approached.
Two elderly figures sat inside the room.
The elder facing Shan Jue was dressed in a deep gray Zhongshan suit, its cuffs worn to a shine, and wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Spread open before him was a thick paper file.
"Please take a seat, Student Shan Jue," the elder's voice was gentle yet imbued with undeniable authority. "I am an advisor from the Central Policy Research Office. Today, I'd like your help in looking at a problem with a set of 'perfect regulations.'"
**Shan Jue's Test: The Flaws in Perfect Rules**
The file the elder slid over was titled: *Implementation Details for Cross-Jurisdictional Social Welfare Distribution (Seventh Revised Edition)*.
"This set of details has undergone seven rounds of revisions," the elder said slowly. "It was completed over three years by twenty-seven top legal scholars and twelve sociologists. It specifies all distribution details, from food rations to medical resources, spanning eighteen chapters and four hundred sixty-three articles, supported by forty-nine calculation formulas and eighty-one evaluation indicators."
Shan Jue quickly scanned the document. The details were indeed "perfect"—every situation had a corresponding clause, every variable had a calculation formula, and even "special circumstances" listed seventeen contingency plans.
"It has been operating in three pilot zones for two years," the elder continued. "The data shows everything is perfect: complaint rates down 87%, administrative efficiency up 43%, resource utilization reaching 98% of the theoretical optimum. The superiors are very satisfied and are preparing to promote it nationwide."
The elder drew out another, far thinner document from the dossier.
"This, however, is the 'Report on Non-Natural Deaths' from the same period in those three pilot zones. The suicide rate increased by 300%, rates of treatment for mental illness rose by 450%, and the scale of private exchange of goods among the populace expanded sevenfold—none of these contravened a single provision of the rules, and thus they are absent from the statistical reports."
He took off his glasses and regarded Shan Jue:
"Your assignment is this: within twenty minutes, find the fatal flaw in these perfect regulations. Not contradictions in the text, not deviations in implementation, but the fundamental defect in the design logic of the regulations themselves—the one that renders all the data perfect yet drives people to collapse."
Shan Jue did not reply at once. He closed his eyes—not to consider the provisions, but to envision a person living by those regulations.
Someone who each day received food amounting to exactly 2467 calories, determined by formula;
who, when sick, obtained medical care corresponding to their tier on the "Disease Grading Table";
whose very grief could be converted into a corresponding length of psychological counseling according to the "Psychological State Assessment Scale"…
"I've found it," Shan Jue opened his eyes. "The flaw isn't in the regulations. It's in their premise."
The elder leaned forward a little.
"The premise of the regulations' design is that humans are perfectly quantifiable, rational economic units. But people are not," Shan Jue's voice was calm. "The regulations eliminate all 'waste'—yet human warmth, unexpected kindness, illogical sacrifice, these are all 'waste' in the system's view. The more perfect the rules, the less they allow people to live... as people."
He pointed to the suicide rate data: "When even a person's pain must conform to 'mental health indicators' to be acknowledged, they can only choose death to prove their suffering is real."
The room was quiet. The elder slowly nodded. "Then, if it were you, how would you amend them?"
"I would not revise the regulations," Shan Jue said. "Instead, I would establish a channel alongside them for applying for rule exemptions. Permit each individual three chances in their lifetime to apply for a provisional exemption in circumstances that 'cannot be justified by the rules but must be undertaken.' The aim is not to break the rules, but to open a small window beside them—allowing sunlight to enter."
The elder remained silent for a considerable time. Finally, he said, "You cannot see ghosts, yet you know how to open a window when the house is haunted. Well done."
**Qian Hui's Trial: The Stakes of Life**
Qian Hui faced another elderly woman, dressed plainly yet in excellent-quality dark blue *qipao*, her hair meticulously styled in a bun at the back of her head. Before her lay not a file, but a screen showing data in real time.
The screen displayed a simulated map of a city, with a flashing red dot at its center.
"Student Qian Hui," the elderly woman's voice was gentle yet allowed no pause for breath, "this is Ning'an City. The red dot is the Municipal Central Hospital. At three o'clock this morning, the hospital's blood bank received notification: a batch of plasma with a rare blood type is being transported, but there is only enough for five individuals."
The screen split, showing ten medical records.
"These are the ten patients awaiting the plasma. Their ages range from eight to seventy-four, their conditions from acute surgical needs to chronic organ failure, and their societal roles from ordinary laborers to top scientists. The plasma will arrive in four hours, but three of these patients will die if they do not receive a transfusion within two hours."
The elderly woman looked at Qian Hui:
"The hospital's existing 'Critical Resource Allocation Protocol' stipulates: prioritize based on the severity of the condition. However, if we follow the protocol, among the three who should be saved is a seventy-four-year-old retired individual, with a life expectancy of no more than two years even if saved. Yet, if we prioritize saving the slightly less critical but more 'valuable' young scientist, the elderly person will die."
"Your task is not to make a choice," the elderly woman stressed. "It is to design an implementable plan that would make this choice acceptable to everyone and keep them willing to trust the hospital. The plan must be executable within thirty minutes."
Qian Hui looked at the ten medical records. She recalled her brother's words: "Harming others is authorizing them to resolve you." But here, no matter what choice was made, some people would be harmed.
Then she noticed something not mentioned in the regulations: fear. The fear of the families, the fear of the doctors, the fear of society.
"I need to accomplish three things," Qian Hui lifted her head. "First, immediately convene a meeting of the families. However, the purpose of the meeting is not 'to decide who lives and who dies,' but 'to witness together and participate in establishing temporary supplementary rules.' Transform the moral burden into building the procedure together."
"Second, add two key clauses to the supplementary rules: first, 'those not chosen automatically enter the national emergency allocation list, enjoying absolute priority for the next batch of resources'; second, 'the hospital will provide lifetime medical expense reductions for the families of those not chosen, as compensation for the system's imperfections.'"
"Third," she paused, "I would demand the hospital director be present on site and resign immediately after the plan is implemented—not because he was wrong, but because the system needs someone to take responsibility for its imperfections. His resignation would make the public believe: this system is still striving to do good, it's just that its capabilities are temporarily limited."
A sharp light flashed in the elderly woman's eyes. "You use economic compensation to trade for moral exemption, procedural justice to trade for the legitimacy of a cruel outcome, and one person's career to trade for the credibility of the entire system. It's cruel, but indeed... effective."
She let out a soft sigh. "You grasp it now: the art of allocating vital resources lies not in finding the most correct answer, but in making the inevitable mistake appear as a choice made collectively by everyone."
**The Unseen Selection**
After the tests ended, the two elders each handed the siblings a sealed envelope.
"Open them later," the elder in the Zhongshan suit said. "This is the Central Think Tank's reserve talent program. No more than twenty individuals qualify through today's trial."
The envelopes were light, containing only a card and a number.
After the siblings departed, the two elders remained seated in the room.
"So?" the elderly woman asked.
"The brother saw through the rule system's soul-consuming nature, yet his thought wasn't to overturn the rules, but to open a window within them," the elder in the Zhongshan suit said slowly, tidying the documents. "That sort of person is dangerous—he understands the system too well, so he knows how to reshape it from the inside."
"The sister is even more formidable," the elderly woman said, observing the data simulation results of Qian Hui's plan on the screen. "She can transform a moral dilemma into an executable system design within three minutes. Give her authority, and she can make any brutal act seem both reasonable and necessary."
The two fell silent for a moment.
"Should we report this upward?" the elderly woman inquired.
"Absolutely. The 'Celestial Talent Reserve Program' requires fresh blood," the elder in the Zhongshan suit rose to his feet. The moonlight outside the window illuminated him, but the shadow he cast upon the floor possessed an outline that was distinctly non-human. "After all, maintaining order in the mortal world requires two kinds of deities: one kind to establish the rules, another to make those rules accepted."
"Do you believe they can pass the final 'Apotheosis Trial'?"
"Unknown. But one thing is certain—" The elder pushed open the window, and night air surged into the room. "Lord Wan Quan's system has operated for too long, so long that even it has forgotten why rules are necessary. Perhaps it is time for a few new individuals to pose that question."
At the corridor's end, Shan Jue and Qian Hui reconvened before the elevators.
"What was your test about?" Qian Hui asked.
"Examining why a set of perfect rules gets people killed," Shan Jue replied, looking at the envelope in his hand. "And yours?"
"Distributing plasma that wasn't sufficient to save everyone."
The elevator doors closed and began their descent.
Shan Jue clenched the envelope tightly. In the darkness, the number on the card emitted an extremely faint golden glow: **释-09**, **执-09**.
He recalled the elder's final words: "The ultimate goal of rules is not to make people comply, but to make them believe that compliance is the only correct choice."