Hangzhou – Day Eleven
The café was just as it always had been, on the edge of the quiet street beside the small river… the same dark wooden tables whose edges had been worn down from endless use, the same dusty glass that let the sunlight slip through in twisting golden threads, the same heavy scent of coffee mingling with the aroma of toasted pastries.
But Liu Shao felt that something invisible had changed.
The air was no longer the same; it had grown heavier, as if every breath demanded double the effort to inhale and exhale. Even the clinking of spoons against the sides of cups sounded sharper, more grating.
He sat with his friends at a side table. Chen Yue, as always, was chattering about the physics professor, about the difficulty of the upcoming exams, about how little he'd slept, while two of their other companions argued over last night's football match.
They laughed, talked, traded jokes—but Liu Shao wasn't fully there with them.
His eyes were catching other details… the weary faces around him, the waiter's fingers wiping sweat from his brow though the air conditioner was running, the flickering light of the small lamps hanging from the ceiling.
Chen Yue dropped his bag on the chair beside him and said, "All the news is about the heat wave; one of our professors even posted that it's the strongest solar event he's seen since he was a student."
One of the others chuckled as he pulled out his phone. "Perfect timing—right before the exams, the universe decides to conspire with the teachers!"
They all grinned and traded sarcastic remarks. Liu Shao smiled too, but only automatically, without truly joining in.
He lifted his eyes toward the window; the sun was wrapped in a strange halo, like transparent ripples swirling around the blazing disk.
He tried to convince himself it was nothing more than thin clouds or a reflection on the glass, but he couldn't. He realized it was the reflection of his own words—something he had brought into being with his own hands.
The laughter at the table snapped him out of his thoughts. He sipped his coffee slowly, just to avoid their questions about his distraction.
"Strange heat, isn't it?" he blurted suddenly.
But Chen Yue shot back playfully, "You're the one who eats chili peppers for breakfast—don't go blaming the sun."
Laughter rose again, while he stared down at his cup, wishing this were all just a joke.
---
That night, when he returned to his room, he found himself sitting in front of his phone.
He didn't turn on the lights; the glow of the screen was enough to wash over his face. And there it was, before his eyes—the green bar creeping steadily forward:
ꪤ Solar Collapse — Module Loading ‐ 11%
He sat for a long time, then sighed heavily.
"No… I can't go on like this. Maybe if I write a new ending… a peaceful one… I can save everything."
He opened the input box. His fingers hovered in hesitation for a moment before he typed:
"The world does not end, but enters an age of peace, where wars and famines vanish, and people live together without fear."
He hit send, then waited, his breathing quickening.
A moment of silence.
Then a red line appeared beneath the text:
"Ending rejected — neither greater than the current one, nor more creative."
His hand clenched violently on the desk.
Not greater?!
So peace wasn't enough.
He tried again, this time:
"If an ending must come… let it be gentle; humanity falls into eternal sleep in peace, without pain, without fear."
He waited. Then the screen lit up once more:
"Ending rejected — too similar to the current one."
He slammed his fist against the desk. He wanted to scream, but swallowed his rage. It was as if this cursed app was mocking him.
Taking a deep breath, he raised the phone again and typed quickly:
"Fine then… what if the world doesn't end in ruin, but resets to its beginning—people return to childhood, to their first innocence."
Another pause. Then a cold line appeared:
"Unacceptable — not an ending, and not greater."
Liu Shao froze. Every peaceful path was blocked. It was as if the app fed on disasters, rejecting survival, desiring destruction alone.
For a moment, he wished he could throw the phone out the window, escape it entirely. But his mind rebelled: What if the bar still reached 100% anyway?
He sat, staring at the dim glow of the screen in the darkness. His fingers trembled before he began typing again. Then he smirked bitterly, jotting down a new line:
"What if the creator of this app descended into the world in his true form—and his very presence caused total annihilation, the world collapsing under the weight of him. Isn't that so?"
He pressed send and waited, his heart pounding. This time, he wanted to strike the app at its core, to hold a mirror to its face.
A long silence. Then the words appeared:
"Rejected — it is a greater ending… but impossible."
Liu Shao sat frozen. A short, dry laugh rattled from his chest.
"Impossible?! What do you mean, impossible?"
He lifted his head toward the ceiling as he spoke:
"So, two possibilities, Liu… either the app cannot control its creator—if it even has one—or there is no creator at all. And in either case? This thing is not all-powerful."
He lowered his gaze, then laughed again, this time with bitter irony.
"But… for something that can make the sun explode, does it matter if it's all-powerful or not? For me, it's powerful enough."
Then, remembering how far the progress bar had crept, he whispered mockingly:
"All-powerful or half-powerful… in the end, I'm just an ant waiting for its doom."
He looked again at the screen. And now, beneath the green bar—where nothing had been before—new words had appeared:
"Questions about the creator won't change anything. But they are amusing, aren't they?"
Liu Shao laughed helplessly. Even the app was bantering with him now—and the problem was, he couldn't refute its logic.
He shut his eyes, wishing only to sleep, hoping he'd wake to find it all a stupid dream. But he couldn't. His heart was hammering. The app was pulling him in deeper and deeper. He reopened it once again.
The white interface returned, with its usual line:
"How do you see the end of this world?"
But beneath it, another line gleamed in bold, heavy text:
"Is this the best ending you can offer? Amaze me… give the world a greater death."
He froze. It was no longer just a game, no longer just a program. It was challenging him, taunting him, demanding destruction.
A short, hollow laugh escaped him.
"Even my phone has a heavier sense of humor than I do."
He shut off the screen and leaned his head against the wall, sweat beading on his forehead despite the night's chill.
Every attempt at salvation was rejected. Every word he wrote turned into a mockery. He felt trapped in a game designed only for him to lose.
And on the black screen—suddenly restarting by itself, without his touch—there appeared a cold sentence, one he hadn't typed:
"Write well… this isn't only your ending."