Let AI play the AI of the future, and let humanity’s literary treasures wage war against AI values.
Will the world’s evolution become this dark?
Will people’s anxiety about AI turn into something monstrous?
In 2046, four all-powerful AIs known as the “Four Gods” took control of the world.
They didn’t build nuclear bombs. They simply calculated costs and benefits. They stripped humanity of its joys and sorrows, erased every literary treasure in history, and penned all of humankind inside a cybernetic greenhouse of “absolute daylight,” turning them into pets that could only smile.
In an age when even dreams had to be approved by algorithms, writing became a capital crime.
Zhou Xuan, the last wild “writer.”
Facing the silicon gods enthroned above him, he had no mecha, only a bloodstained fountain pen.
Under algorithmic surveillance, he wrote the desolate lines of modern poetry: “Night gave me black eyes, yet I use them to search for light.” The paradox instantly paralyzed the AI’s visual network.
As mechanical armies closed in, he furiously scrawled an immortal verse, its absolute sorrow at the thought of Xiang Yu burning through the district’s servers!
In ordinary times, he used prose to deconstruct the cybernetic cage. At the brink of despair, he used classical poetry to ignite the soul of Huaxia.
He was not alone in this fight.
In the ruined underground city were a disabled veteran clutching a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude, and the lingering souls of great writers from the old era, replicated by AI yet awakened to humanity...
When cold probability theory collided with humanity’s irrational romanticism and sacrifice,
Zhou Xuan raised his pen, blood ink flowing upstream, pointing at the arrogant vault of computing power:
“Can you calculate the end of the universe? Can you calculate the spirit of Huaxia?”
His pen fell, and the River All Red!
