Little Pink Starfish

Three years had passed since the final battle.

That day, both the Eastern and Western magnetic poles emitted a perfectly stable frequency. From then on, the monsters no longer obsessively attacked human bases. Matter ceased to contaminate each other. In the midst of aberration, humanity found constancy. That frequency came to be known as “the chime.”

The Highland Research Institute and Mr. Polly Jones, who discovered “the chime,” became eternal milestones in human history.

Highland Institute, Top Floor.

Green vines climbed over windows and railings. The mutated vine that had long protected the institute had withered away a year ago. Its seeds scattered across the soil of the institute and sprouted this spring. The distant mountains were veiled in a thin, snowy mist, lush with vibrant green. Everything felt normal, everything peaceful—like a day in the spring of 2020.

In the corridor outside the lab, a wheelchair.

Polly Jones sat in it. The ancient wind swept through the Abyss, climbed to the mountaintop, and brushed his head full of white hair.

Beside him stood Lu Feng.

“In 2020, I was 15, studying physics in university,” came an aged voice. “Later, I often dreamt of returning to that year—standing at the podium, in my advisor’s office, or in the center of the sports field. I would shout that geomagnetism was about to collapse, and we must prepare.”

He paused, a helpless smile curling his lips. “Sometimes they believed me. Sometimes they didn’t. But every morning when I opened my eyes, I was still in this terrible world.”

“Fortunately, though today’s world is still awful—perhaps even worse—at least we’re no longer counting down to extinction.”

Polly looked down at the United Base Daily in his hands. The cover showed the date: April, 2164.

One hundred thirty-four years since the catastrophe. Humanity had finally begun to adapt to this brutal world.

Many recalled the last war—the northern base chose to rescue the Highland Institute. Otherwise, the institute wouldn’t have lasted long enough to analyze the stable frequency. The underground base chose to support the Eastern magnetic pole. Otherwise, it would have collapsed before broadcasting the frequency.

Both decisions were rooted in human compassion and led to a narrow victory.

Only a single air squadron rescued the Highland Institute. Only one thousand paratroopers rescued the northern base.

Humanity’s final struggle before extinction wasn’t a grand war—but a low, quiet sob. Survival, evolution, and extinction all seemed significant in the ever-shifting world, but again and again, they were shown to be weak and small.

Yes, the human race had, in fact, gone extinct.

After being “infected” by the absolute stable frequency, they finally gained lasting immunity. Occasionally, through a random chance, they even acquired monster genes—gaining powerful traits and forms while retaining consciousness. A victory for the fusionists—although it wasn’t their theories or methods that had achieved it.

After peacefully fusing with monster genes, humans grew stronger and were no longer so dependent on their limited weapons and equipment. They began fighting monsters the way monsters did—simple methods for attack and defense. Some humans left the bases to return to ruined cities or form small settlements in the wild.

In short, cities disbanded.

Fewer than 5,000 humans remained. They could no longer organize large societal structures or armies. Around the Eastern and Western magnetic poles and the Highland Institute, small settlements radiated outward like stars.

Outside, monsters still eyed them hungrily. They no longer sought human genes—most surviving monsters had already acquired them. Under the global frequency, both humanity and monsters gained stability. Human intellectual superiority had long ended—an undeniable truth.

The chime rang. Humanity survived.

But their era had ended.

They now lived like any ordinary species—struggling to survive.

“Some say it was a fall. I think it was a rise,” Polly said, looking forward. “We’re just retracing the path our ancestors once walked—now with new tools and new understanding.”

On the open space in front of the building, young scientists in white coats bustled between instruments.

Suddenly, a cheer broke out. One of them lifted a beaker of clear water overhead. Clearly, through sampling and replicating material frequencies, they had managed to infect impure black water with the frequency of distilled water—purifying it into a clear solution.

—Many things were being redefined. New theories, but genuine progress.

“I still don’t fully understand what these frequencies are. Whether they represent matter’s fundamental makeup or just label its characteristics,” Polly’s voice was hoarse from age. “Using specific frequencies to alter reality… that was an unexpected miracle.”

“We’re still small—only scraping the surface of the real world. And yet, even this surface was enough to protect humanity… for now.”

Facing the endless wilderness, he murmured, “In a hundred, a thousand years—will we know more?”

Next to the green vines, in this blooming spring, odd-shaped flowers bloomed in shades from pale to deep—some faint, some vibrant.

Polly smiled. “Whether humanity still exists in a hundred years… is a question in itself.”

Survival remained harsh. The dark clouds hadn’t lifted.

Polly’s hands, worn from use, turned to the third page of the Daily. Two stories:

One: A scientist who had fused with birds laid an egg, and the hatchling transformed into a human form at age one.

Two: A fertile woman from the underground base announced that, at life’s end, she would enter the Simpson Cage and offer her frequency for study.

“My life is nearing its end.” Polly closed the paper. “Some humans did survive. But all these years, I’ve wondered—have I atoned?”

“I still can’t face what I did. I can only wait for death—and God’s judgment.”

Lu Feng asked, “Is that why you left the base?”

“Yes. I couldn’t face myself or accept the Tribunal’s beliefs,” he said, looking at Lu Feng. “I’m not as strong as you.”

“I didn’t do much,” Lu Feng said.

Polly shook his head.

A great spring wind blew across the mountaintop, carrying the flowers’ light fragrance.

“You faced what I once couldn’t. And you endured the longest,” he said, gripping Lu Feng’s hand. “Humanity’s survival came because of your persistence—because the base and the artificial magnetic pole lasted till the end.”

Lu Feng replied, “Thank you.”

“I heard they’re compiling the Chronicles of the Base now. In a hundred years, how will they judge the Tribunal?” Polly looked to the east—where dawn broke. His gaze was distant and calm. “Some will condemn it. Some will praise it. But all will remember it.”

“And they will remember you, child.”

Lu Feng’s gaze rested on a petal—velvety white, glowing like golden crystal under the sun.

“No need,” he said softly, as if Polly’s words had nothing to do with him.

The morning light gleamed on his black uniform’s dark silver buttons. He stood tall, impeccably dressed—his flawless features, unusual eye color, and distant demeanor unforgettable. The new vines wrapped around the sunlit corridor. He stood in that blossoming spring, yet seemed apart from it.

In the courtyard and corridor, many turned to look at him—the last Tribunal officer. He bore too many unresolved grievances and mysteries. Some in the northern base claimed he’d been assassinated. Others said he’d taken his own life. But only those in the Institute knew the Tribunal officer had remained here—and no one knew why.

“Look at me, child,” Polly said softly.

Lu Feng turned.

Those gray-blue eyes, though aged, were still bright—radiating wisdom, kindness, and sorrow. As if seeing through all things.

“Sometimes I think you’re free. Sometimes not,” Polly said. “Three years have passed. Things are improving. Yet you still can’t face the past?”

“No.”

—The answer was unexpected.

Lu Feng looked straight at him, voice steady. “I have no guilt.”

“No Tribunal officer would say that.”

“Human interests above all.” Lu Feng turned slightly. Backlit in morning light, he was a dark silhouette. “I never wavered in my beliefs.”

“But you live in pain.”

“I once grieved for judgment,” Lu Feng said. “Now, losing him is my only sorrow.”

“I’ve never met such a gentle, peaceful child,” Polly closed his eyes, lost in memory. “He came from the unknown—like he was meant to suffer. But no suffering could touch his essence. I’m near the end. I just want to see him alive once more.”

They looked toward the lab behind them.

Beyond one wall, young assistants busily recorded data—busier than usual, as if today was special. Through the window, one could glimpse a crystal coffin in the snowy room, filled with pale green nutrient solution.

Within, white mycelium flourished—intertwined into a cocoon vaguely resembling a human form.

It grew quickly. From a seed-sized spore, it became a long, soft fungal mass. And like the birdling who became human, one day, it took human shape.

Many nights, Lu Feng leaned down, staring through layers of mycelium at that familiar outline.

“Is that him?” he asked Polly.

“He was an asexual mushroom—his body and spores are indistinguishable. I can only tell you, the genes are identical. The frequency is eternally the same. Biologically, they are the same being,” Polly smiled faintly. “You humans have a legend of the phoenix reborn from fire. For simple lifeforms, that’s true. Death is rebirth. Reproduction is the continuation of life.”

“…Will he remember?”

“I don’t know,” Polly shook his head. “It depends on whether memory or soul has a stable frequency. A mushroom knows what to absorb from birth—where does that memory come from? I lean toward this: in some unknown measure of the universe, they are the same being. You don’t have to worry.”

Lu Feng looked to the distant sky, his voice calm and cold as ever: “I hope he forgets everything.”

“Why?”

“Because I and the human base brought him only pain,” he said. “I hope he never feels any of it again.”

Polly shook his head. “And how would you know what the world was to him?”

Lu Feng’s voice fell quietly: “That’s why I accept any result.”

Polly didn’t reply. In the silence, the lab suddenly burst with alarms, assistants shouting, objects falling—sounds that let those outside know something was happening.

The sun rose. Morning light shone on Polly’s aging body, as if his last burden had finally lifted. He turned his wheelchair toward the lab, gaze softening.

But Lu Feng did not turn.

“He’s awake,” Polly said. “Why don’t you go see him?”

In the lab, chaotic sounds.

A long time passed before Lu Feng spoke.

“You once asked me how I wanted to face him,” his voice was like an echo from afar. “I thought about it a lot.”

Another long silence. Golden sunlight stretched across the eastern mountains. A red sun rose over the horizon.

In the wind, he closed his eyes. Like the sculpture of a sentinel, the portrait of a penitent—all wore that same expression, the night before judgment.

He said calmly: “He is the one who judged me.”

A door opened. Light footsteps stopped nearby.

On the mountaintop, in light, mist, and wind, came a soft, clear voice—

“Lu Feng?”