"We are facing a problem now," Sige put down his coffee and looked around at the authors, "Who will be the person responsible for memory input and output?"

"Isn't it everyone?" Kōngxū asked, hesitatingly.

"Risk and control," Lǎo Mò hit the nail on the head, "As Simpsen said, the technology of memory preservation exceeds the range that humans can currently control, and quantumizing memory takes a step into unfamiliar territory, so there are risks involved."

Simpsen nodded slowly, "As Lǎo Mò said, quantum memory is only theoretically feasible, but there is no supporting data, making accidents easy to happen."

"Sige, why don't you give us a divination to assess the risks?" Four Eyes suggested.

"I have indeed done the divination, but the results are hard to put into words."

"Mr. Kōngxū, is quantum memory transfer really so high-risk?"

Kōngxū sighed and took out a compass with sixty-four hexagrams.

He had also brought this thing out at the previous author meeting. The compass was made of brown solid wood, with bright red and black hexagrams engraved on it, giving it an antique and unique appearance.

Four Eyes' eyes shimmered with excitement, "This is a great item, Daoist. What type of tool is it?"

The old Daoist smiled faintly, "It's just an ordinary item that costs less than twenty bucks..."

"..."

"Cough, divination is about people, and objects are just carriers, like the I Ching's sixty-four hexagrams or tarot cards for studying the future. They are all ways to explore the future," Kōngxū added hastily to salvage his image.

Under the gaze of the others, the Daoist sat with his back straight and faced the north, manipulating the central abacus neither too lightly nor too heavily. After a few seconds, the abacus stopped and revealed the result.

"A trapped dragon finds water and luck abounds, bringing joy to the brows. All desires will go smoothly, and future fortunes will rise. This is Qián as Heaven, the hexagram of utmost luck."

Listening to the somewhat stuttering translation from the device, Lǎo Mò reluctantly understood Kōngxū's meaning - it was very auspicious.

"Isn't this a good thing?"

"At first, I also thought so, until I divinated more than ten times using different methods. However, every divination turned out to be auspicious, which is really unsettling."

"Does this imply that we will successfully resolve this bizarre event and not encounter danger?"

"If that is truly the case, it would be great. But if I divined using death, the result is still auspicious and fortunate. It's hard to say."

If Kōngxū hesitated to do something dangerous, then the divination would surely be unpredictable and complex. However, no matter what method Kōngxū used for divination, the result always accurately pointed to "auspicious" and everything going smoothly. This was very uncanny. Could even death be considered auspicious?

"I see, your divination only works in the real world and doesn't function here, right?" Four Eyes said.

"The poor Daoist has no refutation, let it be so."

The question returned to its initial point, who would be the guinea pig?

"I'll do it," Simpsen said calmly, "As a significant participant in this imperfect plan, I am more familiar with its details."

"No, Professor Simpsen, your knowledge and memories are precious. They are the key to deciphering this bizarre event. How about this, let me, Kōngxū, and Four Eyes draw lots, and one of us will be chosen?" Lǎo Mò suggested.

"I agree."

"The poor Daoist...is also forced to agree."

Simpsen hesitated to speak, his tired eyes softened a bit, and he said, "Thank you... dear friends, for your sacrifice."

The lottery ended, and Four Eyes was ultimately chosen as the memory transmitter.

"It seems that I am the chosen one." Four Eyes showed no sign of dissatisfaction.

"I am glad to help, my friend."

"I will do my best to assist you."

"Hahaha, it's my pleasure. We are all working towards the team's goals."

After discussing the candidates, the next step was to transfer memories.

Memory transfer was relatively easy, as it was a technology that had been experimented with repeatedly. The memory extraction device was not large and could be moved out of the laboratory with Professor Simpson's authorization. However, the quantumization device was a large microwave laser that occupied 300 square meters, and it required sufficient authorization to be used.

Finally, they decided that just before the cycle ended, which would be before 8 a.m. tomorrow in Jerusalem time, Simpson would convert the digitized memories of Four Eyes into quantum format.

There was one uncertain factor: whether the quantumized memories would actively seek their owners and whether the memory conversion would be successful. They could only wait for the next cycle to confirm this.

After some discussion, a simple plan was formulated: tonight, Four Eyes would digitize the memory data, and Old Mo would act as an assistant along with Professor Simpson to enter the laboratory. Afterwards, Empty would create a fire outside the laboratory to divert the attention of the staff on duty, giving Simpson and the others the opportunity to activate the microwave laser and complete the quantumization. Four Eyes would take care of all the cameras to ensure that there were no traces of the crime - Four Eyes was a skilled hacker (at least he claimed to be) but his English listening skills were not very good, so he had to wear a translator.

Excited, Morton tinkered with the machine he had brought out from the laboratory. After discussing with Professor Simpson, he quickly understood the working principle of the "memory transmitter". With his rich theoretical knowledge, he soon realized the concept of mapping the functionality of one neural network onto another with different topological structures without affecting the original functionality of the second neural network. It was truly mind-boggling technology! Having worked in the scientific field for many years, Morton had never heard of such a bizarre and incredible technology.

When Morton asked Simpson about the internal structure of the synchronization device, Simpson shook his head helplessly and said, "This is an item provided by the 'All-Seeing Eye', and they never told me how it works. I haven't been able to figure it out myself. I suspect that such technology is not of human origin. The team's previous research materials can be shared, perhaps you can find some answers there."

"As long as I can get the method to make the synchronization device, I might even be able to assemble a memory transmitter by myself!" Morton had an urge to dismantle the synchronization device.

"Morton, don't be impulsive. This item is an important prop. Let's figure out the bizarre event first and then we can study it slowly," Four Eyes worried that Morton would really take action and quickly advised.

"I know, survival takes priority over curiosity, of course." Morton smiled and replied.

It was evident that he was very happy to encounter something new.

...

Simpson touched his face. Before boarding the plane, he had applied some moisturizer to disguise the wrinkles and make himself look younger. However, no matter how much makeup he wore, he couldn't hide the fact that he was a seventy-year-old man.

He used to move like the wind, but now he can only sit in a wheelchair. Though he can still manage to stand with the help of crutches.

Is this aged and feeble version of him the real him?

Simpson felt a sense of inexplicable desolation.

Of course, aging is just a sorrowful catalyst, what truly saddens him is that his half-life here has become a facade.

So at the author's meeting, he voiced his belief that this is the real world, hoping that other authors could confirm his aspiration. Unfortunately, no one agreed with him.

"Professor Simpson, how did you manage to stand up?" Mr. Mo noticed the elderly man leaning on crutches and quickly set aside his work, wanting to assist him.

"No, I'll walk on my own. I'm not that fragile yet," Simpson replied.

"Sir, where are you going? I'll accompany you," Four-eyed said.

Taking a deep breath and suppressing the heaviness in his chest as well as the urge to cough violently, the old man hoarsely said, "I want to go home...my home in this world. I'll be back before dark. My house is close to the lab, and it's also easy to catch a taxi outside."

"Alright, contact me if you need anything," Mr. Mo nodded.

Under the gaze of the young people, Simpson struggled with his cane as he made his way through the corridor and reached the elevator. While waiting for the elevator, he noticed a sloppily dressed old Taoist flipping through erotic magazines.

"Old man, I advise you to let go of some concerns. One must recognize reality," Emptiness offered Simpson a photo album of female celebrities. "Would you like to sit down and appreciate the different facets of life with me?"

Simpson didn't accept, he only shook his head and self-mockingly said, "I've lived in this world for decades, it's almost my entire life."

"This world is fickle, everything seems fake. Only happiness is true. Listen to my advice, don't invest your spirit in unpredictable people or things. I used to crazily chase internet celebrities, but over time, some forgot their original intentions, some chose to graduate, leaving me alone wandering at the initial crossroads."

"The longer one lives, the more weaknesses they have, sorry my friend."

Emptiness watched as the old man entered the elevator, watched as the elevator doors closed, sighing, "Reality and illusion are unpredictable, why bother entangling?"

...

Simpson flagged down a taxi and headed towards his home.

If "rules" hadn't awakened him, he would probably still be living a life of flourishing love and career, forever immersed in illusory happiness.

Isn't illusory happiness also happiness?

He didn't want to admit that this world is fake.

He made a decision; if he was to part with his family, he at least wanted to see them one last time.

Stone path, courtyard, shrubs.

After getting off the taxi, he walked slowly for a moment, and a charming English-style garden appeared before him.

Trembling, he reached out his hand and pressed the doorbell at home.

The old man's heart was filled with anticipation, afraid to see her yet afraid not to see her.

Finally, a stylish middle-aged woman wearing Western-style clothes opened the door and walked towards him gracefully.

"Joan..."

Simpson was a scientist immersed in science and novels. He had never considered his own emotions until he reached middle age and suddenly realized he was still all alone.

Perhaps fate pitied him, and in this virtual world, he found his other half.

That was Simpson's wife, his wife in this illusory world, the person he loved the most.

On her left hand, his wife still wore the ring he had given her before they got married. Although it wasn't the most expensive ring, it was definitely her favorite.

The added value of emotion often surpasses its essence.

As Simpson saw the approaching figure, memories rushed through his heartstrings, bringing both reality and nostalgia.

Only here could he find a sense of belonging.

"Sir, who are you...?" The woman looked at the face that bore a strong resemblance to her husband but with many more wrinkles, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh my God, dear, why have you aged so much? Am I mistaking you for someone else?"

Simpson smiled and said, "It's me, Joan. Can I come in? I have a lot to say to you and Shannon."

The reunion with his family, even though it had only been a day, felt like a century apart.

"Dad, what happened to you? You should go to the hospital."

Simpson watched his daughter Shannon grow up, and now she was just as tall as him, appearing even more elegant with only a few freckles on her face reminiscent of her childhood.

"Shannon, your dad's mentality is still young, heh, I'm planning to live to be 150 years old."

"Dad, are you really okay?"

"My dear, please tell us the reason, don't let your loved ones worry!"

"Joan, Shannon, don't worry about me, actually..."

The old man sighed and slowly revealed the truth. Of course, he didn't mention that this world was fake or the situation of other authors.

Having repressed his emotions for so long, Simpson felt a slight relief after confiding in them, but he feared he might be seen as mentally ill.

However, he immediately gained their trust.

"We believe you, dear. Please tell us what we can do to help."

"Dad, hang in there. You must recover! Otherwise, I won't have the heart to date anyone if I see you like this."

"My dear, I'll go cook. Let's eat before you leave. Remember, your wife and daughter will always support you."

"Alright..." Simpson gently held back his tears, afraid that he would suddenly burst into tears.

As he got older, he became more sensitive.

If possible, Simpson would rather give up his identity as an author and just seek the truth of this world.

Time passed gradually, and the sky darkened. After sitting on the rocking chair for a while, Simpson felt it was time to go back since it seemed his wife hadn't prepared dinner yet. Although he regretted not being able to taste the dinner cooked by Joan, Simpson was already satisfied. Perhaps he came here just to find solace for his soul.

Supporting himself with a cane, Simpson slowly walked to the front door.

The silence around him felt eerie, and he suddenly felt that something was off.

During the years he became an author, he had experienced several strange and even bizarre events, and each time there was this uncomfortable feeling that foretold danger.

[Mr. Simpson, you finally came back, and now you're leaving?]

Just as the old man was about to step out of the front door, a hoarse voice, like sandpaper rubbing against glass, came from behind him.

Before the voice sounded, there was no sound of footsteps, as if the owner of the voice had been silently standing there, waiting for him to pass by.

[I never expected to encounter such a big fish. It's truly delightful.]

Simpson's shoulder trembled, and then he quickly turned around—

A "person" covered in pitch black with a twisted face stood at the entrance of the kitchen, and behind it was Joan, lying unconscious against the doorframe. She still held a half-cut onion in her hand.

"Who are you? What have you done to her?" Simpson suppressed his shock and anger and asked.

"You can call me Number 13. Your wife is fine, just fainted, and your daughter is safely watching a movie in the bedroom."

"Number 13, the nearest police station is only 2 kilometers away. Security guards will be there within two minutes, and a police car will be at your doorstep within five minutes. Cough, cough... I hope you understand your situation." Simpson felt a tightness in his chest, but he spoke quickly, hoping to shake the other person's resolve.

"I must say, you live up to your reputation as the oldest author. Even in a situation like this, you remain calm. But you wouldn't want to call the police, would you? You wouldn't want your wife to become a corpse, right?"

(Author?!)

Simpson said coldly, "Tell me your purpose."

"How about working together?"

"Work together on what?"

"We want to eliminate all authors. If you provide information about other authors, we can spare your life and even help you restore the life you desire."

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

"Professor Simpson, as the author of Horror Novel Web, do you want to continue your happy family life? We can easily fulfill your wishes."

Upon hearing the five words "Horror Novel Web," Simpson knew that this was a dire situation.

Everything was part of a bizarre event.

"I can't trust you."

"You have no choice, do you?" The monster revealed a gun from somewhere, pointing it at the unconscious Joan. "Our patience has its limits."

(There's more than one monster!)

Simpson quickly surveyed the surroundings.

"If you dare to make a move, you will never get any useful information from me."

"So, I propose a cooperation. Have you considered it?"

"Who are you, exactly?"

"I have no need to tell you, and you don't qualify to negotiate with me."

"I can collaborate with you, but only if you don't harm my family." The old man put his hand into his pocket.

"Don't play any tricks, Professor." The monster was sensitive to his actions. "Don't attempt foolish resistance."

"I just want to calm down." Simpson trembled as he took out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and then put the lighter back.

"Tell me, how many authors are there? And how many of them are with you?"

"Before I tell you, first remove your gun from my wife's head."

"Hehe, as long as you cooperate, I will cooperate too."

"There are... probably over a hundred authors..."

"If you try to deceive me with lies again, I won't hesitate to blow your wife's head off. Where are those dozen or so people?"

(How does it know about the dozen or so people?)

"Well, let me think..."

Simpson's words were slow, but his right hand, hidden in his pocket, had already reached for his cellphone. With a subtle motion, he unlocked the touch screen.

The first person in his contacts was Four Eyes. Just by calling Four Eyes, even if he said nothing, the other person would immediately understand his situation.

Four Eyes and the others were smart people. They would make the right decision.

Simpson didn't expect other authors to come to his rescue, but at the very least, he wanted to pass on the information.

The rules were true. There were monsters of adversarial authors in this world, and these monsters were likely connected to the Eternal Life Church.

However, just as Simpson had opened the phone book and was about to dial, he heard his daughter's voice from behind him, saying, "Dad~"

"Shanshan?" Simpson turned around in astonishment.

(But isn't Shanshan in the bedroom?)

To his surprise, his daughter grinned. In a flash of white light, a sharp blade slashed Simpson's throat.

Simpson, who already had trouble walking, collapsed to the ground in intense pain.

Apart from being an author and a professor, Simpson was just an ordinary old man.

[Oh dear, didn't we agree to cooperate? Why did you attack directly?] The monster walked over with regret.

"Number 13, there are too many flaws in your scripting. I am very unsatisfied," Shanshan said as she squatted down to snatch the phone from Simpson's pocket.

Simpson covered his bleeding throat, staring in terror at his daughter, unable to make any sound due to his severed vocal cords.

[Number 8, I thought it was perfect. Using family as leverage, this old guy has no reason to refuse.]

"Well, well, is that so? Do you think all the authors here are amateurs?" Shanshan said. "Your second sentence, 'I never expected to encounter such a big fish,' directly exposed our chance encounter with the author, rather than a premeditated plan. You even sold out our people. Just after revealing the author's situation to his family, while cooking a meal, we were raided. Don't you think he would suspect something is wrong with his family?"

[What? Isn't he supposed to unconditionally trust his wife and daughter? Is all the care for his family just a pretense to extract information from me?]

"Perhaps he didn't suspect at first, but after a few conversations with you, it became clear," Shanshan continued. "You were too hasty and lost the initiative. 'Where are those dozen people?' exposed us, allowing the professor to deduce that we have other means of monitoring the author's existence. Hehe, if we can smoothly make the professor call, we will lose the advantage we just gained."

[Well, it seems I underestimated the authors.]

Simpson looked at this unfamiliar daughter and became increasingly horrified.

Who exactly is she, and is Shanshan also an author? No, this monster is definitely not Shanshan!!

Oh no, the authors are in great danger. He must convey this message or everyone will die!!

Suddenly, Shanshan, who had her back turned to Simpson, twisted her head 180 degrees. Her once delicate face became twisted: [I'm sorry to tell you, Dad, but your wife and daughter never existed. It's the authors who have awakened you and brought you back to your painful reality. If you want to hate, hate them...]

Just then, the phone in Shanshan's hand lit up and vibrated.

Caller ID: AAAA

Seeing the caller ID, Simpson breathed a sigh of relief.

It was Sige's phone. As long as he didn't answer, or if someone else answered who wasn't him, Sige and the others would know something was wrong with him and escape the danger.

At least, in his final moments, Simpson didn't burden his kind author friends.

However, Simpson didn't anticipate that Shanshan would unhesitatingly answer the call.

"Old man, are you okay? The Daoist priest had a bad feeling when he read your fortune, so we were a bit worried and decided to give you a call to check if everything's alright," Sige's voice came through.

"I'm fine, just spending time with my family. Just wait for me for an hour... I'll be back," Shanshan surprisingly spoke with the exact same voice as Simpson.

...Simpson's eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth open but unable to make a sound. He wanted to tap on the floor, but weakened by blood loss, he had no strength. He was now on the verge of death.

After hanging up the phone, Shanshan laughed sinisterly, "I didn't expect to have three authors with you, Dad. It went so smoothly, thanks to you. Without you, we would have had to go through many more cycles to catch the authors."

Qiong slowly stood up beside the black monster, her figure twisting and gradually becoming taller and frail. Soon, she transformed into the appearance of Simpson.

Qiong was also with the monsters!

"Don't worry, my dear, you won't die. After all, this is the world of immortality. We just want to obtain your memories to better protect this place," Qiong said initially in the voice of Simpson's wife, but by the end, her voice had completely become identical to Simpson's.

"Enter the inner world. We will assimilate you little by little, and you will have endless time," she said.