There was still about a month until school started, and Yun Chuji sometimes forgot she was still a university student. However, Chu Yuexi would occasionally urge her to submit her paper and send her materials, which made the fact feel much more real.
Yun Chuji had intermittently finished the required materials and background research for Professor Song’s course, “Remnants of the Industrial Age.” It was a good thing she had no hobbies in this era besides occasionally playing an instrument; otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to get through those difficult books.
This field research assignment wasn’t complicated. The main focus wasn’t on the “field” part, but on the “research.”
In academia, the period when the Empire used AI production as the primary mode of social production was called the Intelligent Age. It was the culmination of the Information Age and the tomb of the Industrial Age.
Humans completely withdrew from factories, and social production was entirely handed over to machine control. The drastic changes in the means and relations of production led to the chaos of the late Federation period, which some called the Cyberpunk Era.
During this period, human culture and morality were all challenged. Idle people worshipped violence and power, entertainment products flooded the market, and social cohesion dropped to zero.
But under the maintenance of the intelligent production system, society did not collapse. It was like trying to smash a steel cylinder—no matter how hard you hit it, it was futile.
By the time of the Empire, this problem still hadn’t been properly resolved. The positions once held by Federation capitalists were now filled with the nobles of the present-day Empire.
However, the Empire and the Federation were still fundamentally different.
And that was the ABO gender system.
Even with all the drawbacks of pheromones, it was undeniable that they had stitched humanity back together. They made humans need each other again in the Intelligent Age. This was knowledge written in the Empire’s textbooks and the fundamental reason why betas could not gain legitimacy for a revolution.
True, the Empire had its share of problems, but could it be any worse than the Federation? In any case, the Federation represented a regression.
In the late Federation, introverts would stay home their entire lives, entrusting their existence and livelihood to the star-net. Extroverts, on the other hand, treated risking their lives like a game, causing destruction everywhere. Aside from the upper class, held together by etiquette, regulations, and power, the entire nation had virtually no normal social atmosphere. People were trapped in a state of perpetual depression.
Planetary exploration had once brought about a brief revival for the Federation, but after technology failed to break through, humanity’s outward exploration halted at the H Galaxy. Once the planets were fully explored, people quickly returned to their former state.
Later on, even the discovery of new planets failed to capture people’s attention. After all, AI would have everything managed within five years. Humans just needed to take the AI-generated maps and receive the results. There was no need for labor, nor was it required. In this regard, humans were simply no match for AI.
In the Imperial Era, the brand-new gender system ignited humanity’s passion. Amidst new, vibrant contradictions and conflicts, people used the study of human behavioral rules under the ABO gender system as the core of social cohesion. That intense anarchist impulse was finally suppressed.
Humanity had a new starting point, and society generated new jobs. Even though all production was still handled by AI, most non-production-related jobs were deliberately preserved, aside from those in command, management, and research.
The rationale of providing citizens with opportunities for courtship became the underlying support that allowed this policy to endure.
As for betas, although they didn’t have the uncontrollable desire for each other that alphas and omegas experienced due to pheromones, their physiological desires were still much stronger than those of people in the Federation era. They had a more fervent craving for interpersonal communication and touch.
Yun Chuji followed the beta guide in front of her, recalling the contents of her books as the guide told her the story of these industrial ruins.
C-District was located on the edge of the northern temperate zone, with a cold environment. Humans only gradually occupied this place after the dawn of the Industrial Age. However, due to the lack of a land base for developing agriculture, the people mainly lived off fishing, industry, and commerce. Economic development was relatively slow, and the area remained sparsely populated. For this reason, even with the advent of the Intelligent Age, C-District remained on the fringes of the Federation, limited by its geographical conditions.
This meant the chaos of the Federation did not affect this place too much, allowing many relics of the Industrial Age to be preserved.
As Yun Chuji looked at the dazzling graffiti on the factory’s concrete outer wall, she frowned in confusion. Seeing this, the beta guide explained, “During the Federation era, this place had no historical value. It was considered an abandoned building, so it became a place for local young people to gather and have fun.”
“Then may I ask what’s written on it?”
Currently, besides the official language of the Empire, Yun Chuji had only mastered the relatively popular Han language of S-District. This language bore some similarities to her own former language, but only in a few syllables.
After the Federation unified the globe, although it successfully promoted the Federation language worldwide, people in various regions still preferred to use their own ethnic languages in daily communication. The writing on this wall was undoubtedly the traditional script of the local people.
The beta guide gave an awkward laugh, like someone whose household trash had just been exposed. His eyes darted around as he said, “It’s all just profanity.”
However, faced with Yun Chuji’s intensely curious expression, the guide carefully translated some of the less offensive content—or at least, what was considered less offensive in the ABO era.
Listening to the insults, which were filled with references to genitalia, Yun Chuji was dumbfounded and quickly told him to stop. The guide shrugged and said, “This is actually pretty mild. The rest is even more obscene. People from the Federation just had lower standards.”
But this was actually a complete misunderstanding. In the ABO era, the importance of genitalia had long since given way to the gland. The most popular curse words were no longer things like “I’ll fuck you,” but rather things like “Your gland is a piece of rotten meat.” Consequently, the guide logically ranked insults containing physical threats as more malicious than those involving genitalia, inadvertently establishing Yun Chuji’s prejudice against the Federation era.
She had thought the Empire was already decadent enough, but it turned out the Federation was there to set an even lower bar.
Yun Chuji continued to follow the guide through the factory. The equipment inside had long been removed, leaving only the building’s frame, which was smeared with all sorts of malice from human existence. Logically, it didn’t have much historical value, but when compared to modern factories, a significant difference became apparent.
Nowadays, the concept of a “factory,” both in practice and in language, was equivalent to “machine.” A factory was a giant machine that achieved perfect self-circulation and adjustment. Its only connections to the outside world were an inlet for raw materials and an outlet for products. AI-automated trucks were responsible for transporting raw materials and finished goods. Therefore, the word “factory” had fallen outside the scope of human life. Food and supplies were delivered endlessly to people’s homes as if they had sprung from the ground themselves.
But within the framework of this Industrial Age building, a place for humans still existed. There were cafeterias, dormitories, and lounges. At that time, humanity and production were integrated.
After seeing the ruins, Yun Chuji was lost in thought. She arranged with the guide to visit another chemical plant the next day, then returned to where she was staying.
Next to an iceberg.
Since the Empire’s technological level was advanced enough to create clothing that ignored the changing seasons, it didn’t seem surprising that they could also build a few houses adjacent to an iceberg.
After discovering on the spaceship that C-District had such beautiful architecture, Yun Chuji, despite her body still suffering from the dizziness of extraterrestrial travel, hailed a driverless taxi and headed straight for the iceberg as soon as she disembarked.
Not many people lived here. After all, it wasn’t part of the urban area. Although all daily needs could be met by the AI transport system, socializing and work were still inconvenient. Furthermore, gazing at the desolate scenery of the iceberg for long periods could create a persistent psychological pressure, leading to a sense of weariness with daily affairs. Therefore, only tourists visiting C-District would stay here for a while to try something new.
Yun Chuji had rented her house from a male beta. The two completed the transaction on the star-net. After learning that she was the famous founder of A-Virtue, the owner had enthusiastically suggested that Yun Chuji could pay her rent with an advertisement, but she politely declined.
The hovercar sped across the sea’s surface and landed on the roof of a blue and white building. It was a small, detached three-story house. The first floor was sea-blue, the second was transparent architectural glass, and the third was white, serving as a parking area for the hovercar.
Its foundation was a steel frame extending from the continental shelf. Around it were several similar buildings, clustered on one side of the iceberg, standing like beautiful dovecotes amidst the bluish-white snow.
Yun Chuji went down from the third floor to the second and stood in the spot where she had often lingered these past two days. Facing the iceberg, which was just a stone’s throw away, she opened a small window, and the biting scent of the iceberg slowly radiated outward.
The iceberg was covered with a layer of hard snow, and beneath the snow was translucent blue ice. At night, the layer of snow reflected the moonlight, bringing a faint brightness to the surroundings.
It naturally gave off an impression of being ancient and pure. On her first day here, with the help of an automated submersible, Yun Chuji had seen what it looked like beneath the sea’s surface. Through the small window, she stared blankly at this massive natural creation. It was brighter than crystal, more dazzling than a pearl.
Yun Chuji’s first reaction was: It’s exactly like Tang Jianxi.
This was the source and the conclusion of all her astonishment.
And this was precisely why she had come.
Yun Chuji wanted to understand what lay behind her wild thoughts, her hesitation, and her fluttering heart. Why could she never refuse Tang Jianxi? It was related to this body’s instincts, but it wasn’t entirely determined by them.
After all, they had been apart before.
And that hadn’t caused her instinctual pain, but had instead plunged her emotions into darkness.
So, in reality, the reason for everything was related to her emotions: she had fallen in love with Tang Jianxi.
Her longing at this moment confirmed this fact to her. Yun Chuji breathed in the scent of the iceberg—remembering the softer, more beautiful iceberg she had once touched. Her gaze seemed to penetrate through this thick layer of ice and the even thicker atmosphere, trying in vain to reach another distant world.
After standing quietly for an hour.
Yun Chuji went downstairs.
To continue working on her course report and her love letter.
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