On the other side, Tang Erda was speaking with Fang Xiaoxiao.
As the head of the Heresy Bureau, Tang Erda was always wary of suspicious NPCs like Fang Xiaoxiao—or monsters disguised as such. His tone was inevitably sharp.
"How did you know we went to the observatory and saw another Fang Xiaoxiao?" Tang Erda asked coldly. "You seem awfully experienced at being dug up."
Fang Xiaoxiao didn't appear surprised by the interrogation. He only smiled bitterly.
"Because this isn't the first time I've been dug out. These monsters don't just test alien humans—they also test how we react to members of our own kind."
"In the early days, when we were first thrown into the ice crevasse, they hadn't buried us with snow yet."
"They told us they were conducting a study on how humans survive in freezing conditions with limited resources. Within three days, they would gradually fill the crevasse with snow. Anyone who secured enough resources to escape during that time would be released. Those who failed would be permanently frozen."
He closed his eyes with difficulty as tears slipped down his face.
"To mislead the monsters about human nature—to make them believe humans inevitably turn on each other and trend toward extinction—we staged a brutal struggle for resources. We fought viciously."
Fang Xiaoxiao took a trembling sip of hot water. Tang Erda noticed dried blood crusted between his teeth, as if he had once torn into flesh.
"We concentrated all our remaining resources on the youngest members of the team and helped them escape. Three days later, we were buried under the snow."
His melancholic expression twisted into something raw and feral, like a wounded animal forcing sound through its throat.
"We thought that was the end of it. But we didn't know they had marked the young members who escaped. They monitored their movements. When those young members couldn't control their emotions and returned to rescue us, the monsters found a new research direction."
"They deliberately misled them—tricked them into digging open another ice crevasse."
Fang Xiaoxiao trembled violently.
"They arranged for two monsters to morph into the appearances of those young escapees and dig open our crevasse… while luring the real young members to dig open another crevasse filled with monsters disguised as us."
"They wanted to see which scenario humans trusted more—whether victorious humans are more likely to believe the defeated people they rescue are truly their own kind… or whether defeated humans are more likely to believe the victors who save them are their own kind."
Tang Erda fell silent for a moment. Seeing Fang Xiaoxiao's numb expression, he unconsciously softened his tone.
"So… what was the result?"
Fang Xiaoxiao's face remained blank. Only a stiff, distorted smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Tears streamed from his hollow eyes.
"We, the ones dug out, identified the victors correctly."
"But the children… didn't recognize that the ones they rescued were monsters."
"They lived with those monsters for two months. Two of them even formed intimate relationships with the impostors. Then the children were brought before us and shown the truth."
His voice hollowed out.
"They lost their minds. They poured fuel over themselves, set themselves on fire, and jumped into acid."
"I later learned that one of the humanoid monsters used to deceive them had taken my appearance."
Tang Erda was silent again before asking evenly, "How can you be certain that we—who came to dig you out—aren't monsters?"
Fang Xiaoxiao's eyes shifted dully.
"You can't be. These monsters only imitate humans who have already appeared. They can't fabricate entirely new individuals. I've never seen you in Antarctica before."
"And they've already tested our ability to identify whether those who dig us out are genuine. They wouldn't repeat the same test a second or third time. Even if they did dig us up again, they would usually appear in their original protoplasmic forms—they wouldn't bother taking human shapes."
Nearby, Bai Liu, who had been overseeing the excavation, waved a hand to signal Tang Erda to come over.
Tang Erda stared at Fang Xiaoxiao sitting motionless on the sled for a long moment. Even knowing he was only an NPC, he finally gave him a reluctant pat on the shoulder.
"…Rest here. Don't wander off."
Then he jogged back to Bai Liu and reported everything Fang Xiaoxiao had told him.
Mu Sicheng rubbed his arms furiously, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising along his skin.
Bai Liu pondered for a moment. Then he smiled—a smile that sent a chill down Mu Sicheng's spine.
"It seems this is more complicated—and more interesting—than we thought. I think I understand what Mr. Edmond was trying to do. But I'll need to confirm with Mu Ke and see whether he's found anything—perhaps the old professor's diary—to support my suspicions."
Mu Sicheng blinked. "So… are we still digging?"
"Dig," Bai Liu replied calmly, a faint smile on his lips. "Dig them all up. Bring every last one back to Tarzan Station."
He looked toward the distant observatory.
"Then we'll gather everyone together… and see who the real monster is."
Mu Sicheng: "!!!"
-----------------
Edmond Observatory
Mu Ke and Liu Jiayi worked their way through nearly all the books and materials in the observatory, sorting them by name. Liu Jiayi handled the lighter reading, while Mu Ke focused on the specialized academic texts. After translating key sections, he handed his notes to Liu Jiayi to consolidate.
Fortunately, since graduate students had once lived at Edmond Observatory, there were introductory textbooks in the dormitories. These made it somewhat easier for Mu Ke to interpret the experimental data and provided reference tools when needed.
"Mostly professional texts on meteorology and biology," Mu Ke said, pulling a bookcase from Edmond's cabin and flipping through the volumes rapidly, skimming for annotations. "And quite a few sociology books."
He paused suddenly and frowned.
"It seems Professor Edmond was deeply dissatisfied with the politics and authorities of Country A. He actually wrote comments like this in a recent history textbook published in his own country—praising human rights and emancipation."
Liu Jiayi leaned over and read aloud:
"—The parallel exploitation of labor is capital's primary human right. (Note 1)"
Mu Ke flipped to another page.
"There's another one here, written next to an account of the Bachata War—a campaign Country A justified by accusing the other side of privately developing biological and chemical weapons."
Liu Jiayi read carefully:
"—Order without freedom and freedom without order are equally destructive. (Note 2)"
Continuing their search, Mu Ke eventually discovered a file in the archives labeled with a yellow prohibition seal:
[Copy of Edmond's Evidence of Treason]
He and Liu Jiayi exchanged a glance—then opened it without hesitation.
Inside were fax records, arranged chronologically.
1 October
You are right, my friend. I have tested these corpses. It is true—they cannot be used for any legitimate scientific research. This is ethically wrong and violates my fundamental moral code as a scientist.
I understand why they were sealed here. They should never have been allowed out into the world. I will try to persuade the "robbers" who took your crates to return the three missing ones intact. (Well… perhaps not entirely intact.)
You have done something both dangerous and great. In a hundred years, humanity may honor you with a jie fang (my spelling) tablet! Wasn't your warrior's honor roll called the Jiefang Monument the last time we spoke?
Congratulations on your founding.
-----------------
7 October
I'm sorry that I may not be able to return your crates for the time being.
It's strange to say this, but this is the first time I've been forced to implement my own research… on myself.
I've lost my sense of taste and warmth. I occasionally fall over while walking—though, to be fair, I did that even before, as an old man. My balance is slightly off; they modified my cerebellum.
Other than that, I'm quite well.
It feels as though I'm turning into a small warm whale. Perhaps I should dive into the sea and greet a real one face-to-face? After all, I'm no longer afraid of the cold. I'm no longer quite human. Perhaps life as a whale in the deep sea would suit me.
I rather admire how whales rub against rocks when molting—very similar to how I rub my back against a wardrobe when I can't quite reach it.
Don't worry about the crates. They still need me for research. I'll find a way to return them.
-----------------
17 October
Oh dear, am I frightening you?
That boy—Xiaoxiao Fang. I remembered him from his meteorology studies; I even supervised his thesis. He was sobbing uncontrollably while clutching what remained of my leg.
I must say, it was an abysmal thesis. Half the figures lacked units, and the citation formatting was atrocious. I still don't know how he made it into graduate school, let alone Antarctica. (No offense to his advisor.)
This time, they chained me by the neck to a snowmobile and dragged me across the ice. Punishment for another attempt to retrieve the crate—or perhaps merely a daily test of my modified body's endurance.
After all, I am their most successful transformation—and a criminal. There is no more exciting subject for experimentation than me. It is something of a national tradition.
My limbs eventually detached from my body like rusted pencil fragments. Fortunately, it was painless—the cold had numbed everything. That at least stopped the boy from crying over me.
Watching him chase my scattered arms and legs across the snow, howling in despair, truly saddened me.
He called me "Teacher."
God.
That was the happiest word I had heard in a month.
No one has called me "Teacher" since I was branded a criminal.
Don't worry about me. I will solve the problem of the crates. Fax remains relatively discreet; paper feels safe to these fools. I'll inform you if there's progress.
-----------------
17 December
It seems they discovered I was faxing you secretly. I had to suspend contact for two months.
Perhaps I was arrogant. I underestimated their intelligence. Fax was not safe after all.
This may be the last time I retain enough human will to send you a message. So please allow this old skeleton to ramble a little longer. I hope you won't get bored with me. I truly have no one else left to talk to.
I came to Antarctica thirty-three years ago. It wasn't yet called Edmond Observatory. I can't even remember its original name—but it certainly wasn't as grand.
The man who placed me aboard the icebreaker Polaris was a veteran of the Peninsular War. He wasn't old then, though he looked it—and I teased him about it often.
He was one of the few friends I ever had.
In those adventurous gold rush years, a bookish man like me struggled to find anyone willing to talk.
Fifteen years after I arrived in Antarctica, he left this world, broken by disabilities and hardships inflicted by war. Every year before he died, he returned the money I had sent him, insisting it was only a loan.
The doctor said he voluntarily abandoned treatment. After the war, he was plagued by constant pain and haunted by visions of blood—common among soldiers.
But I know that wasn't the only reason.
My friend died because of another war.
He had entered the first war to end it.
He was taught, deceived, and used by public opinion and politics. He believed every knife he thrust and every bullet he fired would save innocent people held hostage by conflict.
Later, he realized that those he had killed were as innocent as he was.
The guilt nearly destroyed him.
The only thing that sustained him was a slogan: Let this be the last war. Let us end this chaotic and unjust world.
He believed that.
But wars continued without end. The world he dreamed of never came.
Then, fifteen years ago, a brutal war of aggression was launched by a country he once trusted. That was the final blow.
He understood, at last, that he had been complicit in injustice all along.
He found it filthy. Ugly. Disgusting—everything he despised.
He said he had been nothing more than a politician's whitewashed executioner.
He could not continue living like that.
I did not know how to respond. I had always buried myself in books. The only brave thing I had ever done was flee to Antarctica.
During that war, many people in Antarctica braved the cold to protest. (Note 3)
I stood among them, hands trembling as I held a sign reading "NO WAR," gazing up at the encroaching polar night while snow nearly buried us.
All we could do was protest.
It did nothing.
In his final letter, he wrote:
It must be beautiful in Antarctica. Bitterly cold, cruel, and sunless—but surely free of war. A pure land. I hope you will not bring your memory of me—an ugly war criminal—to pollute that purity.
But he was wrong.
Antarctica is as cold as he imagined—but not as pure.
Everyone who comes here carries grand ideals: to save humanity, to mitigate the global crisis.
We meticulously record data. We tag whales and band penguins. Year after year, we confirm that their populations have dropped to less than half their former numbers. We watch a thousand feet of glacier collapse into the sea within an hour. At every conference, we shout like scheduled alarms at the highest levels of politics:
Harsh climate. Global warming. Human crisis.
They listen carelessly, half-asleep. Then they parade the rhetoric on television while continuing to plot wars capable of devastating pollution.
Inside and out, it is never about right or wrong—only tenure and personal interest.
I guarantee none of them can even name last year's rise in average global temperature.
You are probably tired of reading by now, thinking I am a rambling old man.
But allow me to continue.
I was born in a country famous for freedom and democracy, where individual liberty is supposedly respected above all.
Sacrifice for the collective is left to heroes. Ordinary people are free to pursue personal achievement.
But my friend, you and I both know this:
Humanity survives as a species—as a group.
No species can pursue freedom in isolation.
When the group ceases to exist, freedom becomes meaningless.
And we are the only "heroes" who cannot choose otherwise.
The collective values we pursue are not recognized by society at all. We are like a lone whale separated from its pod, sensing an impending volcanic eruption or tsunami, yet able to warn the others only through a strange frequency they neither understand nor care to heed.
They chase the fish before them, the drifting clusters of krill. Volcanoes and tsunamis are irrelevant—it is the heroes' problem.
At times, I felt as though I were living in Sarto (note 4), a land of absurdity—of entertainment unto death, narrow-mindedness, and quiet disintegration.
Last year, the Observatory nearly faced another budget cut simply because our current leaders do not believe in global warming or the greenhouse effect.
There were moments when I fell into a trance, wondering whether my work was truly an effort to save humanity—or merely another pawn in political gamesmanship.
Just like my friend.
I envy you, my friends. You are not alone in this struggle. Your community understands the responsibility you shoulder and has not shirked from sharing it.
You are not "heroes." You are vanguards.
Every young man at Tarzan Station who sought my guidance carried a bright and shining homeland in his eyes. How beautiful that light was—purer even than Antarctic snow.
It reminded me of my friend when he saw me off after watching Titanic. He stood smiling and waving, shouting, "Don't hit the iceberg! Watch out for my Ruth on that ship!" His eyes shone just the same.
All species eventually go extinct. So will humanity, my friend. You and I both know this beyond any doubt. It is the destiny of all living things, just as individuals must eventually die.
But it is for us to decide when, where, and how we perish.
Would I rather see our end come with us huddled together in ice and snow, freezing side by side?
Or in a devastated wasteland, where the last two humans drive their spears into each other's hearts over a scrap of prey?
Forgive me, my friends, for choosing you in my despair—for doing to you what an arrogant god has done to mankind.
The corpse contains energy powerful enough to overturn the world. It seems almost as though it were created to fulfill my desires. When refined and applied, it could produce unprecedented meteorological and biological consequences.
Rather than let it fall into the hands of others, I chose to write the endgame myself.
For the first time in my life, I have used my knowledge in a sinister way—to plunge the planet into cold and extinguish the human race.
Perhaps I truly have gone mad.
And yet, I left a margin within that madness.
I researched creatures capable of adapting to this frozen world. I selected you. I incorporated your genetic material into theirs. I let them test you to determine whether you might be the ones to carry forward the Starfire.
You may resent me, my friends.
With a fervor as fierce as raising a glass of vodka, I took up my rifle and drove those who had been paralyzed by my obedience for two months out into the ice and snow, ordering them to take neither clothing nor food.
Strangely, despite all the inhumane treatment I endured, my request for a firearm for "self-defense" was granted. In the guards' eyes, it was harmless. They believed I was merely a frail scientist without the courage to resist.
So they granted me that freedom.
Perhaps that is the only good thing freedom has given me—though it violated Antarctic law.
I stood in the snow with my rifle in hand. The creatures I had taught crouched beside me, waiting quietly as the humans stumbled into the blizzard, just as I had predicted they would.
Now I return to my room to write this final fax—to hammer the last nail into the coffin of the dreadful plan I have been constructing since August 10.
Soon, the creatures will reach your territory…
(Addendum: I attempted to make sauerkraut using your method. It failed. My God, your cooking is more difficult than a biochemistry experiment. I had intended to prepare it as a strategic winter reserve for you, but for safety reasons, I do not recommend consuming the two barrels I produced.)
Your friend,
Edmond.