Little Pink Starfish

A snow-white strand of mycelium reached out, lightly resting on the surface of the metal mesh. Then, it slipped through the fine gaps between the grid.
—It was safe, at least for now. There were no lethal weapons here, just a mesh barrier.

Once the first strand passed through the three layers of mesh into the pipe, the remaining mycelium moved forward as well. Gathering together, they became soft and flexible, almost liquid in form. The snow-white tide seeped through every gap of the triple mesh, remerging into one after it passed. A forward-stretching pipe appeared in An Zhe’s perception—the pipe walls were smooth overall, though some spots were already speckled with rust. The scent of rust spread like blood. Wind was blowing in from the end of the duct.

An Zhe advanced, his mycelium pressing against the pipe walls like tendrils, flowing forward smoothly. The pipe was straight; after one right-angled turn, it remained straight. He continued on and soon encountered a crossroad. A horizontal, slightly wider pipe intersected with his current one.

The wind picked up, and the airflow’s direction became complex, indicating this massive duct system was a winding maze.

An Zhe hesitated briefly in place. He extended a long mycelial strand, leaving it in the pipe, then continued forward—although Lu Feng didn’t think he was smart, An Zhe felt he wasn’t exactly stupid. He decided to mark his path with the strand. That way, no matter where he ended up, he could retrace his steps by following it.

Having made that decision, An Zhe felt much more at ease. He went straight through the crossroad, continuing forward. After another right-angle turn, faint light appeared ahead.

An Zhe arrived at the source of the light—another vent. A familiar broadcaster’s voice could be heard. No doubt, he had entered someone else’s ventilation outlet.

“Over the course of a month, the main city recalled 12,000 mercenaries from the outer zones and officially entered the recovery phase. During the expected ten-year recovery, all scientific efforts of the main city will focus on investigating the source of the infection…”

Knock knock knock. A rhythmic knocking sounded.

An Zhe hadn’t intended to spy on others and was about to leave, but the next moment made him pause.

The door opened.

“Colonel Lu,” a brisk voice said crisply.

Colonel Lu.
This was Lu Feng’s room.

An Zhe quietly shifted a bit closer from the vent to hear more clearly. He was indeed curious about Lu Feng’s life.

Then he heard that familiar cold voice: “Hello.”
“Hello, Colonel Lu. I’m a staff member from the eleventh floor of Eden.”

Eden.
An Zhe perked up—if he had ears in this form, they would be standing upright.

Lu Feng: “What is it?”

“Well,” the woman smiled slightly, “first, congratulations on your return from the outer city. Second, I represent my department to ask whether you are currently willing to donate sperm to Eden.”

Lu Feng’s reply was swift and cold: “No.”
“That’s unfortunate. If you change your mind in the future, please contact us. Your genes are outstanding. Not utilizing them is a loss for the entire base.”

“Thank you.” Lu Feng’s tone didn’t soften at the compliment. “Anything else?”

“Madam Lu’s flowers have bloomed,” the woman said. “She asked me to deliver you a bouquet. Work in the main city is exhausting, and she reminds you to rest and take care of yourself.”

After a brief silence, Lu Feng asked, “Is her health alright?”
“Everything is normal.”
“Thank you,” Lu Feng’s voice lowered slightly. “Give her my regards.”

Their conversation ended there. The door shut again, and the room went quiet.

The weather forecast broadcast continued—the windstorm persisted, and the temperature would drop.
The sound cut off abruptly, likely because Lu Feng turned off the TV. Then footsteps approached—Lu Feng returned to the bedroom and sat at the desk. After the sound of pages turning, the room fell silent, save for Lu Feng’s breathing.

An Zhe was tempted to stretch a few mycelial strands from under the bed to see what the colonel was doing, but he didn’t dare. Eventually, he quietly withdrew the way he had come.

At the crossroad, he chose the direction where the wind was blowing and dragged his slender marking strand along as he went.

The cold, blood-scented wind blew against his mycelium. The pipe walls branched into other ducts, each connecting to even more complex structures. Another crossroad appeared—just this short segment already revealed the system’s complexity. He had no map, only a vague sense of where the Lighthouse was. He could already imagine the difficulty of reaching it through these pipes.

But he could keep searching. He—

After several turns, An Zhe completely lost his sense of direction. He only knew that as he followed the wind, the pipes grew wider, and the wind stronger. He began to worry his mycelium strand might break, but there was no way to reinforce it. If he bled too much mycelium, he would die. He couldn’t use it all.

Sometimes, metal meshes or sharp, fan-like turbines appeared ahead. He had to carefully slip through to avoid having his strands cut.

An Zhe didn’t know how long he had been traveling. Only the sound of wind and the faint rustle of his mycelium brushing against corroded pipe walls kept him company.
Ahead, and behind—it was the same. The feeling took him back to the time he had lost the spore—in the Abyss, where maybe he’d find it tomorrow, or maybe never at all.

When the pipe’s diameter grew to be as tall as two people, An Zhe saw a faint red glow ahead. He moved forward, cautiously slipped past a large turbine—then suddenly fell out of the pipe.

He landed hard on a rough metal floor, bathed in a dusky red light. Looking around—this wasn’t inside a pipe anymore, but a wide, cylindrical space as large as Eden’s central hall. Wind and red light streamed in from above. It was too high—he couldn’t sense the top.

His snow-white form stretched on the ground. The mycelium gathered, reshaping into human skin and a body. It was cold, so the mycelium spread over him again, weaving into a loose white robe to block the chill.

An Zhe stood barefoot on the metal floor and looked upward.

A massive turbine tilted down from the far end of the chamber, dominating his view. Around it, a dim red laser barrier flickered, like those on the outer city walls—he knew it was a human defense system. Any biological intrusion would trigger an alarm.

Looking through the turbine’s iron teeth, An Zhe saw the sky outside. The auroras were still shimmering. This place connected to the outside—it was the intake for the ventilation system. Once activated, the turbine would draw in air from outside and distribute it throughout the ducts.

He looked forward. In the center of the cylindrical space was a rectangular metal platform—likely the control center of the system. He approached but realized it wasn’t what he thought.

On the metal platform were three welded rectangular boxes. Under the light, he could see worn lettering beside them, as if etched long ago.

An Zhe bent slightly, wiped off the dust and rust, and read the densely packed inscription.
—It was a letter.

“To those who come after:

I am Kang Jinglan, lead engineer of the North Base underground ventilation system. The system took one year to design and nine years to build, costing 110 million per unit.

Opponents once suggested delaying the project due to its complexity and resource demands. But after discussion, we believed that if Earth’s magnetic field continued to weaken, humanity’s economy would collapse within ten years, and heavy industry would be lost within fifty. Medical technology would be the only focus left. We had no time to wait.

Fortunately, the ventilation system was completed alongside the underground base. Our fellow humans could live under this protection—this is my only comfort. Even under heavy shielding, cosmic radiation gave me many cancers and immune diseases. I requested my ashes be buried at the system’s core, so that every generation of engineers who enter will know the base is safe and humanity still exists.

May you have a bright future.

Yours truly,
June 2030”

It was ashes.
This box held a human’s remains. It was a tomb, and these words were a letter to the future—a eulogy.

An Zhe looked right. There was another nearly identical box, welded to the platform. Another engraved inscription:

“To Mr. Kang Jinglan and those who come after:

I am Liao Ping’an, maintenance chief of the North Base underground ventilation system. The system is inspected every six months and fully maintained every two years, currently operating perfectly.

As Mr. Kang predicted, Earth’s magnetic field disappeared completely in December 2030. Fortunately, artificial magnetic field technology soon succeeded. Radiation no longer causes sickness. Unfortunately, cosmic rays mutated bacteria, fungi, and viruses—humanity entered an unprecedented catastrophe. I witnessed the collapse of our survival domain, economy, and industry. All remaining resources went into military production and base expansion. Weapons were made endlessly—guns, bombs, aircraft, tanks.

I don’t know the purpose or whether this hastened our resource depletion. I can only hope the base has a deeper plan. In this disaster, I was fatally infected. Facing death, I still feared for the base’s future. I chose to be buried here with Mr. Kang, awaiting the next generation to report peace.

May you have a bright future.

Yours truly,
November 2052”

Then came the third box and eulogy:

“To Mr. Kang Jinglan, Mr. Liao Ping’an, and those who come after:

I am Yang Ye, current chief of ventilation system maintenance at North Base. The system is inspected every six months and fully maintained every two years, operating perfectly.

I must tell you, in this era, the ventilation system is no longer just infrastructure—it plays a radiant role in protecting human safety. In 2053, global biological mutation began. Our base entered a grand defense war, relying on the military and mercenaries. Lacking resources and industry, the strong military bases and weapons passed down from you proved invaluable. The ventilation system was transformed into part of our defense, shielding us from insectoid monsters.

North Base remains safe. Military and mercenary forces recover monster samples, science equipment, and vital materials from fallen human cities. Our scientists focus on infection research and human reproduction. The former has no breakthrough, but the latter shows promise. Many lives are born—our population rises. Though the world is still harsh, I believe it will improve.

I passed peacefully under the base’s protection from old age illness.

May you have a bright future.

Yours truly,
January 2104”

An Zhe carefully finished reading. Looking to the side—nothing more. No fourth box. 2104 was a distant year. Maybe another engineer would one day lie here, their inscription telling of outer city collapse, or something else.

At that moment, a deep wailing echoed from all directions. The powerful night wind roared through the intake, making An Zhe shiver. The storm felt unstoppable—he could barely keep his eyes open.

He shielded his eyes with his elbow and bowed his head slightly.

Just then, pain shot through his body.
A strand of white mycelium, caught in the wind, fluttered into his peripheral vision—then vanished.

An Zhe snapped his head back. The marking strand he had left earlier now only dragged a short piece along the ground, trembling in the gale.
The wind had broken it. He didn’t know where the rest had blown to.

His pupils shrank.
Looking back—six pitch-black tunnel mouths stood side by side, all identical.