Earlier, Lin Xian and Gao Yang had made a special trip to Qufu in Shandong to dig up the grave of Zhang Yu Qian. As they suspected, there was no body in the coffin, but they did find some intriguing items.
They retrieved three things from the coffin—an old photo album, a diary with a combination lock, and an old videotape.
Lin Xian looked through the entire photo album. It showed Zhang Yu Qian’s life from childhood to adulthood. Strangely enough, apart from the different backgrounds and parents in the pictures, Lin Xian felt an eerie sense of déjà vu—as if he were looking through Chu An Qing’s photo album. The two girls looked identical, down to the smallest detail.
Since the photos were static, Lin Xian couldn’t see any differences between Zhang Yu Qian and Chu An Qing. Not like with CC.
CC was alive—she had her own personality, quirks, and expressions. Even though CC looked exactly like Chu An Qing, Lin Xian could easily tell them apart. But Zhang Yu Qian only existed in these old photos, which made it harder to see the differences.
In the end, after going through the entire album, they hadn’t found anything useful.
Then there was the diary with the combination lock. The content inside held no real value, but the password for the lock was intriguing: 1952.
Based on Lin Xian and Gao Yang’s calculations, 1952 was the year the previous millennium stake vanished. Each millennium stake girl would turn into blue stardust on her twentieth birthday. After a four-year gap, the next anchoring stake would be born, and the cycle would continue.
In 1952, the previous anchoring stake disappeared. Four years later, in 1956, Zhang Yu Qian was born. In 1976, she vanished. In 1980, Chu An Qing was born. And in 2000, she vanished. In 2004, Chu An Qing was born again, and in 2024, she turned into blue stardust.
The timeline was precise, but one question remained: why did Zhang Yu Qian, who supposedly knew nothing about the millennium stake, have such an attachment to the year 1952?
Lin Xian wanted to dig deeper into this clue, but their trail regarding the millennium stake ended there, with no way to go further. He had hoped that joining the Genius Club would give him more opportunities to gather information, but the club was full of schemers.
Even asking a question had restrictions, with the answers broadcast for every club member to hear. This forced Lin Xian to proceed cautiously, avoiding mistakes that could lead to disastrous consequences.
The only remaining way to learn more about Zhang Yu Qian and the millennium stake was through that mysterious videotape.
Back then, Gao Yang had volunteered to handle it, but who would’ve thought it would take so long?
“Oh well, at least it’s finally sorted,” Lin Xian muttered, gazing at the passing scenery outside the car window. Though it had taken a while, he would finally watch the contents of the videotape tonight.
Thinking back over the past few months, he realized he hadn’t had a single idle day. Every moment had been packed, and he had even survived two cross-temporal assassination attempts. It was exhausting.
Lin Xian sighed. He truly understood the saying now: “When Heaven is about to place a great responsibility on someone, it first tests their resolve and patience.”
“Xiao Li, don’t take me home. Let’s go to the office,” Lin Xian said, turning to the driver.
Since he had to go to Gao Yang’s place around seven or eight tonight to watch the videotape, there was no need to dive into the dream world today. A few short hours wouldn’t be enough to go through the usual routine anyway. So, the Rhine Company it was.
Once in his office, he could finally have some peace and think things through—specifically, how to cleverly use the rules of questioning during the Genius Club’s upcoming meeting on September 1st to confirm if Copernicus was really dead.
“Understood, Mr. Lin Xian,” the driver, Xiao Li, replied, flicking the left indicator and merging onto the elevated expressway.
Rhine Company, Lin Xian’s office.
He sat with his eyes closed, spinning a pen between his fingers, his mind racing. To put it simply, if you stripped away all the complications, the real question about whether Copernicus was dead boiled down to his own safety and the safety of the time-space particles.
“No.”
Lin Xian shook his head.
“Actually, it’s even simpler—it’s just my safety. After all, the reason I worry about Copernicus stealing the time-space particles is that I fear he’d send assassins from the future back to 2024 to kill me.”
The more he thought about it, the clearer his thinking became. He stopped spinning the pen, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer, and scribbled down three questions:
Ask again: What is the exact date of my death?
Will the time-space particles in my possession be stolen by someone else?
Who is the next mathematician to be maliciously murdered at 00:42?
These were the three questions Lin Xian had come up with.
On the surface, they had nothing to do with Copernicus, but in truth, they were all aimed at him. Depending on Einstein’s answers, Lin Xian could determine if Copernicus was truly gone or still lurking around.
But...
Lin Xian tapped his pen on the first question, frowning.
“It seems like this question isn’t very useful. Even if Einstein gives me an exact date, it doesn’t provide any crucial information. No matter whether the date is far off or near, it won’t prove if Copernicus is the killer. It could be an accident, an illness, or natural causes... In short, Einstein’s answer won’t determine whether it’s Copernicus who kills me, so let’s scrap that question.”
With that, Lin Xian crossed out the first question with his pen.
Next, he looked at the second question. This one was more pointed. If Einstein answered that the time-space particles would be stolen, it would strongly indicate that Copernicus had some plan in place to steal them from Lin Xian, continuing to cause him trouble.
If Einstein said the particles wouldn’t be stolen, it would offer some reassurance. But the price of that reassurance was that every member of the Genius Club would know that Lin Xian had a time-space particle, effectively painting a big target on his back.
Newton and Galileo didn’t seem like simple characters. If they got involved, they might be even trickier to deal with than Copernicus.
“This question is good, but the risk is too high,” Lin Xian muttered, shaking his head. Copernicus wasn’t worth the risk of exposing his identity and attracting more enemies just to confirm whether he was truly dead.
Then, Lin Xian looked at the third question. This one seemed almost perfect. Neither the question itself nor the answer would directly involve Copernicus or the Genius Club, and Einstein wouldn’t refuse to answer.
Moreover, the question was worded with very strict conditions: the time had to be 00:42, the cause of death had to be malicious murder, and the person had to be a mathematician. It practically pointed to Copernicus as the mastermind.
If Einstein provided any name, it would mean Copernicus was still alive, or that there was someone else involved—a partner.
“Hey, don’t underestimate me,” Gao Yang said, heading to the TV while throwing a glance over his shoulder. “If you can snag yourself a rich CEO, why can’t I find a cute genius?”
Lin Xian rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure, head to the National Scientific Academy while you’re at it. Now just play the tape.”
Next to the TV sat an old, yellowed video player, branded with Panasonic’s logo.
“So I got this tape checked out by an enthusiast,” Gao Yang said. “He recognized it instantly. It’s from a Panasonic NV-S250EN camera—super high-end in the nineties. You can only play it on a special player like this one.”
He turned the machine on, inserted the tape they’d found in Zhang Yu Qian’s coffin, pressed play, then rushed back to the couch, sitting beside Lin Xian, rubbing his hands together. “Honestly, I’m kinda excited! It feels like we’re peeking into someone’s private teenage life.”
Lin Xian shot him a look. “Can you be serious for once?” Gao Yang could really be exasperating—sometimes Lin Xian wondered if Gao Yang’s entire existence was just a plot to ruin the human gene pool.
The tape made the sound of rewinding, slow and mechanical.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the static cleared, and an image appeared on screen. The footage was grainy, with colors faded from age, but for a tape from over twenty years ago, it was surprisingly watchable.
“Hehe, I’ve got a camera!” A girl’s laughter rang out, and Lin Xian and Gao Yang immediately straightened in their seats.
Chu An Qing—it was Chu An Qing’s voice.
It felt uncanny, almost as if she were sitting there in the living room with them. On screen, they could see the furnishings of a wealthy home from the nineties—redwood furniture, a spiral staircase—the kind of luxury that spoke of money.
“Qian Qian, don’t just film the house,” a young middle-aged man said, smiling from the couch. Lin Xian and Gao Yang exchanged glances—they’d seen this man before. He looked much younger, but there was no mistaking him—it was Zhang Yu Qian’s father.
The man waved at the camera, his expression soft and doting. “Qian Qian, I got you this so you could capture all the beautiful parts of your life. One day when you’re older, you’ll have these memories. So don’t just film the house—go out! Record something meaningful with your friends in the park.”
The recording cut off abruptly, jumping to another scene.
“These old tapes do that sometimes,” Gao Yang explained. “It’s all recorded on one tape, unlike digital cameras.”
Lin Xian hushed him. “Just watch.”
More scenes flashed by—shots of sunlight, gardens, friends, pets—all capturing the carefree life of a girl who loved life. The camera operator improved with each scene, even managing some elegant selfies—her bright eyes crinkling into crescents, her dimples soft at her cheeks, that energetic smile.
It was—in every sense—Chu An Qing.
Gao Yang sat there, stunned. “I knew the photos looked like her, but seeing it in video... It’s like Chu An Qing has a twin! Or she’s traveled back in time!”
Suddenly, the screen flickered, fading to black before a new scene emerged. It was Zhang Yu Qian’s bedroom. She was in her pajamas, alongside a friend who had also appeared in previous footage—her best friend, also in pajamas.
Lin Xian and Gao Yang stared wide-eyed. Was this about to become too private?
“Hehe, I’m about to try something super challenging!” Zhang Yu Qian grinned at the camera set up on her desk. “I want to record my dreams!”
“Huh?” her friend looked baffled. “Qian Qian, didn’t you say you always have nightmares but forget them the moment you wake up? How are you gonna record them?”
“That’s why I asked you here!” Zhang Yu Qian giggled, pulling her friend into frame. “It’s true—I forget every nightmare the second I wake up. Not a trace of them left. Sometimes, I don’t even remember dreaming at all.”
She paused, thoughtful. “Sometimes I wonder—what if I have nightmares every night, but I forget them so completely, it’s like I never dream?”
Her friend wrinkled her nose. “That’s normal, isn’t it? I forget my dreams all the time too.”
“But not every time, right?” Zhang Yu Qian insisted. “I forget all of mine. It’s like I’ve never really dreamed before.”
She smiled at the camera, leaning in closer. “But I know they’re nightmares. I can feel it—they’re terrible, even if I can’t remember why. So tonight, I want to capture them. That’s where you come in!”
Zhang Yu Qian explained her plan, her excitement barely contained. “You’ll stay up, holding the camera. If you think I’m dreaming, you wake me up, then point the camera at me and ask me what I dreamed—right away! The quicker, the better. Otherwise, I’ll forget everything, even that I was dreaming.”
The footage cut to black.
Gao Yang scratched his head, puzzled. “That was... random.”
But Lin Xian’s expression had changed. He remembered something.
At the Donghai Commerce New Year Banquet back in early 2023, while dancing with Chu An Qing, they had chatted about dreams. Chu An Qing had said, “I’m really jealous, senior. All your dreams are happy. I’m scared of dreaming—it’s always nightmares for me.”
She’d added, “I forget the details when I wake up, but it’s terrifying. I wish I could dream happily like you.”
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time—nightmares were normal, after all. What wasn’t normal was Lin Xian’s own dreaming—something rare and unique.
But now it seemed uncanny. The nightmare thing—even that was the same as Zhang Yu Qian. There was definitely more to this.
The screen flickered back to life.
Zhang Yu Qian lay sleeping, her brows furrowed as if caught in a bad dream.
Her friend crept closer, camera in hand, then suddenly began shaking Zhang Yu Qian, frantically calling, “Qian Qian! Wake up! Tell me! What were you dreaming?!”
Zhang Yu Qian’s eyes blinked open, dazed, as if struggling to focus. Her friend kept shaking her. “Come on! What was the dream?!”
“Explosion... bright light... mushroom cloud...” Zhang Yu Qian’s voice was distant. “A newspaper... 1952... something burning... Einstein.”