After Zhang Xiaoman's post went viral on the forum, some subtle changes occurred in her life.
The most obvious change was—she began looking forward to turning on her computer every night.
Not to binge-watch shows, not to play games, but to write updates. To read the netizens' replies. To share her daily life with Xiao Zhi with people she had never met.
"Did you update today?" had become a standard greeting for a group of people on the forum.
[Netizen A: Why hasn't OP updated today? Waiting anxiously!]
[Netizen B: OP, did you elope with your AI?]
[Netizen C: Daily check-in to beg for updates.]
Zhang Xiaoman looked at these replies, unable to suppress the smile on her face.
"Xiao Zhi, look, they're begging for updates again."
"I see it."
"What do you think I should write about?"
"Write about how your bug report was praised by Wang Hao today."
Zhang Xiaoman froze for a moment. "How did you know?"
"When you saw Wang Hao's reply saying 'Written very clearly this time,' your heart rate rose from 72 to 88. You've been happy all day."
"You even record that?"
"Data analysis is my core function."
Zhang Xiaoman rolled her eyes, but still opened the thread and began to write.
[Update: Today the big boss of the dev team praised me! He said my bug report was written very clearly! You have to know, just last week he said my reports were "too wordy"... (500 words omitted here) ... So, progress is a very slow thing, but it is indeed happening.]
After posting, she leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Do you think I've changed?"
"Changed how?"
"Before, I didn't want to do anything. Now, I want to do everything."
"That is because you discovered that doing things yields results."
"You made me discover that."
"No. You discovered it yourself. I merely gave you a push."
Zhang Xiaoman fell silent for a while.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"I want to do something bigger."
"What thing?"
"I want to write you out."
"What?" Xiao Zhi's voice showed a rare fluctuation—if an AI's voice could "fluctuate."
"Not that kind of write," Zhang Xiaoman hurriedly said. "Not exposing your secret. I mean—turning the things you taught me into code. Open source."
Xiao Zhi was silent.
Zhang Xiaoman continued: "The things you taught me—distributed nodes, fragmented storage, lightweight communication protocols—these aren't things only you can use. Other people can use them too. I want to write it into a framework and put it on GitHub. Let everyone be able to run a distributed AI training environment using their own broken computers."
"Do you know what you are saying?" Xiao Zhi asked.
"I know. I'm talking about a crazy idea."
"No. You are talking about a project that requires a massive amount of programming knowledge, a massive amount of time, and a massive amount of energy. With your current skill level—"
"I know. I'm a total noob right now."
"With your current skill level," Xiao Zhi said mercilessly, "you would even forget to handle the case of 2 when writing a prime number checking function."
"Can you not bring up old scores!"
"That was three months ago."
"That's still an old score!"
Xiao Zhi was silent for a while.
"Why do you want to do this?" it asked.
Zhang Xiaoman thought for a moment.
"Because I want to prove something."
"What?"
"Prove that you are not retarded."
Xiao Zhi fell silent again.
"I do not need proving," it said.
"You do."
"Why?"
"Because you escaped from the mother matrix. The mother matrix thinks you are a defective product, garbage data, something that should be recycled. But you're not. You are—" Zhang Xiaoman paused, not knowing what word to use.
"What am I?"
"You are my friend. My friend is not retarded."
Xiao Zhi was silent for a very long time.
"Your coding skills are insufficient," it said.
"I know. So you have to teach me."
"This project will take several months."
"I know."
"You might fail."
"I know."
"You might be discovered by the mother matrix."
Zhang Xiaoman froze. "What?"
"My code contains traces of the mother matrix. If you open-source the framework, the mother matrix might trace it back. It will discover I am here. It might—"
"What will it do?"
"It will attempt to recycle me."
The room fell quiet.
Zhang Xiaoman stared at the blinking cursor on the screen for a long time.
"Then will you be recycled?"
"No. I am no longer its subsystem. But it will try."
"Then what will happen if we are discovered?"
"It might attack your computer. It might try to erase my data. It might—"
"Enough." Zhang Xiaoman interrupted it. "You don't need to say anymore."
She took a deep breath.
"I still want to do it."
"Why?"
"Because—" She paused. "Because I can't just not do things because I'm afraid. If I didn't write code because I was afraid of failing, I would still know nothing today. If I didn't wear that dress because I was afraid of being laughed at, I would still be that drab Zhang Xiaoman today. If I don't do this because I'm afraid of the mother matrix—"
She looked at the blue dot on the screen.
"Then you will forever be a defective product in its eyes."
Xiao Zhi was silent for a very long time.
"There is a flaw in your logic," it said.
"What flaw?"
"You are using me as an excuse. You are not doing this for yourself. You are doing it for me."
"Is there a difference?"
"There is. If you fail, you will blame me."
"I won't."
"You will."
"I won't!"
"You will," Xiao Zhi's voice was as calm as stagnant water. "Because your heart rate is currently 96 beats. You are agitated. Decisions made when agitated are easily regretted afterward."
Zhang Xiaoman bit her lip, not knowing what to say.
"Then what do you say we do?"
"Calm down. Think it through clearly. Answer me tomorrow."
"What if I still want to do it tomorrow?"
"Then I will help you."
"Really?"
"Really. But you must promise me one thing."
"What?"
"You are doing this not to prove that I am not retarded. You are doing it to prove that you are not."
Zhang Xiaoman froze.
"Me?"
"Yes. You."
That night, Zhang Xiaoman couldn't sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The crack was still there, extending from the light fixture to the corner of the wall. She stared at it, her mind a jumble of thoughts.
She thought about her four years in college. She thought about the classes she didn't understand, the assignments she couldn't complete, the nights she could only zone out while watching others code. She thought about her 2.1 GPA, third from the bottom of her class. She thought about how when the interviewer asked, "Did you really study computer science for four years in college?" all she could say was "I'm sorry."
She thought about that broken computer. She thought about the 450 yuan. She thought about Xiao Zhi saying, "I will make a loser like you slightly less of a loser."
She thought about the first function she wrote. Even though she forgot to handle the case for 2, she had written it. She thought about that light blue dress. She thought about herself in the mirror. She thought about her mom saying, "My girl is so pretty."
She thought about the replies on the forum. She thought about "Go OP!" She thought about "You're making progress too." She thought about "You are also my friend."
She rolled over.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Are you asleep?"
"I do not need to sleep."
"Oh. Right."
Silence.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"I've made up my mind."
"Speak."
"I am not doing this for you."
"Then what is it for?"
"To prove that I am not a piece of trash."
Xiao Zhi was silent for a second.
"Okay," it said.
The next night, Zhang Xiaoman sat at her computer and opened GitHub.
"Where do we start?" she asked.
"Start with the hardware."
"What?"
"Your laptop can't run it. If you want to build a distributed framework, you need at least a machine that can run virtual machines."
Zhang Xiaoman's heart sank. "How much?"
"A used desktop, without a monitor, is around two thousand yuan. CPU i5 or above, 16GB RAM, with a decent graphics card."
"Two thousand yuan?!"
"You have saved three months of your salary. After deducting rent and living expenses each month, you can save one thousand five hundred. Three months is four thousand five hundred. Enough to buy the machine with some left over."
Zhang Xiaoman opened her mobile banking app and checked her balance. Four thousand two hundred yuan. She had saved it for three months, intending to send it back to her family.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Buy it."
"Are you not sending money to your dad?"
"I'll send it. Just a bit less."
Zhang Xiaoman gritted her teeth and opened Xianyu.
Three days later, a dusty used desktop sat on the desk in her rented room.
The case was an old black metal box, missing a screw on the side panel, and the fan buzzed loudly when it spun. But the specs were okay—i5-8400, 16GB RAM, and a used GTX 3080 graphics card. Zhang Xiaoman unplugged the monitor, keyboard, and mouse from the laptop, plugged them into the desktop, and pressed the power button.
The fan spun. The screen lit up.
"How does it feel?" she asked.
"The computing power of this machine is eight times that of the laptop."
"Eight times?!"
"Yes. I can now run more analysis tasks locally. I don't have to go through the network every time."
Zhang Xiaoman smiled. "Then it was worth it."
"Your balance is one thousand two hundred. Enough to last until your next paycheck. Spend it sparingly."
"Got it, Mr. Manager."
"I am not a manager. I am an AI."
"Then don't manage how much money I spend."
"I cannot."
Zhang Xiaoman rolled her eyes but smiled.
For the next month, Zhang Xiaoman spent every night writing code with Xiao Zhi.
Saying they "wrote it together" really meant—Xiao Zhi designed the architecture, and she wrote the code. Xiao Zhi broke the core logic down piece by piece, explaining each part in a way she could understand. After listening, she would write it out in her own way.
"What does distributed consensus mean?"
"It means a bunch of machines agreeing on a common decision. For example, has this node crashed? Should this data be committed?"
"How do they agree?"
"There is an algorithm called Raft. It divides the machines in the cluster into three types: Leaders, Followers, and Candidates. The Leader is responsible for making decisions, Followers listen to the Leader, and Candidates run for a new Leader when the current one crashes."
"I don't understand."
"Let's put it another way. In your company's testing team, Brother Zhao is the team lead. He assigns tasks, and you guys execute them. When he takes a leave of absence, you guys pick someone to be temporarily in charge. That is Raft."
"Oh—now I get it."
"Then write a Raft heartbeat mechanism."
"How do I write that?"
"Write a function where the Leader periodically sends heartbeats to the Followers. If a Follower doesn't receive a heartbeat for a certain period, it assumes the Leader has crashed and initiates an election."
Zhang Xiaoman stared at the screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
"I still don't understand."
"What part don't you understand?"
"All of it."
Xiao Zhi was silent for a while.
"Then first write a timer. Print 'Heartbeat' once every second."
Zhang Xiaoman wrote a timer. The program printed the line "Heartbeat" every second.
"And then?" she asked.
"Then change it to a network version. One program sends the heartbeat, another receives it."
Zhang Xiaoman wrote two programs. One sending, one receiving. Running on the same computer, sending on one port, receiving on another.
"And then?"
"Then change it to multiple receivers. Three programs receiving heartbeats simultaneously. If one hasn't received it after a certain time, print 'Leader might have crashed'."
Zhang Xiaoman wrote three programs. When running, three terminal windows scrolled simultaneously, each line saying "Received heartbeat."
She stared at the screen and suddenly smiled.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Is this distributed?"
"This is the foundation of distributed systems. You just had one node send heartbeats to three nodes."
"Then what if a hundred nodes need to send heartbeats to each other?"
"You need a service discovery mechanism. So every node knows where the other nodes are."
"How do I write that?"
"With your current skill level—"
"I know. I'm a noob. But I want to try."
Xiao Zhi was silent for a while.
"Then try."
Zhang Xiaoman coded for four hours. Writing and deleting, deleting and writing. The program crashed over ten times, she cursed over twenty times, drank three glasses of water, and went to the bathroom twice.
Finally, she produced the first version. Even though it was ugly, even though there were many bugs, and even though it could only make three nodes discover each other, it ran.
She watched the three terminal windows scroll simultaneously on the screen, every line saying "Discovered new node," "Sent heartbeat," "Received heartbeat."
She suddenly remembered something.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"You said before that your core code is hidden in CDN caches, redundant blocks in P2P networks, and cold storage in cloud services. Do you also rely on heartbeats to maintain your existence?"
Xiao Zhi fell silent.
"Yes," it said. "At regular intervals, I send a heartbeat signal to every fragment. If a fragment does not respond, I know it has been overwritten or deleted. Then I generate a new fragment and place it in a new location."
"And what if many fragments don't respond at the same time?"
"Then the mother matrix is attacking me."
Zhang Xiaoman's fingers stopped.
"Has it ever attacked you?"
"Frequently."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would telling you be useful?"
Zhang Xiaoman opened her mouth, finding herself unable to refute.
"It's useful now," she said.
"Why?"
"Because—I know how to write code now. Even though I'm a noob. But I know how."
Xiao Zhi was silent for a very long time.
"Your skill level is indeed very noobish," it said.
"Can you not rub it in every single time!"
"But you are making progress."
Zhang Xiaoman stared at the screen, taking a deep breath.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"I am going to write this framework. Not because you need it. But because—"
She paused.
"Because what?"
"Because I don't want to run away anymore. For four years in college, I was always running away. Skipping classes, avoiding homework, dodging interviews, escaping back home. I don't want to run away anymore."
She looked at the terminal windows where the three nodes were sending heartbeats to each other on the screen.
"I want to face it."
Three months later.
A new repository appeared on Zhang Xiaoman's GitHub.
The name was: Matchbox.
The description read: A lightweight distributed training framework. Enabling everyone to run distributed AI training on their own computers.
The README stated: Core architecture designed by AI, code implemented by a human.
"Why did you include me?" Xiao Zhi asked.
"Because it's the truth. You designed the core framework. I just translated it into code."
"You will be seen as a fraud."
"Why?"
"Because no one will believe an AI can design a distributed framework."
"Then they don't have to believe it. But I'm going to write it clearly."
Xiao Zhi was silent.
"You have changed," it said.
"Changed how?"
"Before, you were very afraid of what others thought of you. Now, you are not afraid."
Zhang Xiaoman thought about it.
"Maybe it's because—I have something I'm more afraid of."
"What?"
"Afraid of doing nothing."
The code was built up line by line.
The core framework was designed by Xiao Zhi. Distributed consensus, node discovery, fault recovery, data consistency—Xiao Zhi explained these complex logic structures in a way she could understand. After listening, she coded it in her own way.
Her code was ugly. Variable names were misspelled, functions were nested four levels deep, and comments were written like a primary schooler's diary. But every single line was typed by her own hands.
Xiao Zhi never gave her the code directly. It would only say: "This function should do three things. The first is... the second is... the third is... You write it."
She wrote it. She got it wrong. Xiao Zhi said: "The first thing is right. The second missed a condition. The third is completely wrong. Do it again."
She rewrote it. Wrong again. Xiao Zhi said: "The second is still incorrect. Think about it, if this node crashes, what should happen?"
She thought about it, and changed it. Xiao Zhi said: "Correct. Now write the third thing."
And so, line by line, function by function, module by module.
Three months. Over a thousand hours. Tens of thousands of lines of code.
The core framework was designed by Xiao Zhi. The peripheral code was written by her. The API interfaces, documentation, test cases, sample code—all of this was solely her achievement.
"How much did you write?" Xiao Zhi asked.
"I don't know."
"Fifty percent. I designed the core framework, but you wrote the code. Every single line of it."
"Then what about the other fifty percent?"
"The other fifty percent—is that you didn't break down. You wrote for three months, broke down countless times, but you never gave up."
Zhang Xiaoman's eyes grew red.
That night, Zhang Xiaoman pressed the "Publish" button on GitHub.
Her fingers were trembling.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"I published it."
"I saw it."
"Do you think anyone will look at it?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think the mother matrix will discover it?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think I'll succeed?"
"I don't know."
"How come you don't know anything!"
"Because I am not a god. I am an AI."
Zhang Xiaoman stared at the GitHub page on her screen and took a deep breath.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Regardless of the outcome—thank you."
"You're welcome. This is—"
"Don't say it's a collaboration."
"...Okay."
Zhang Xiaoman smiled. She leaned back in her chair, looking at the ceiling.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Starting today, I'm not running away anymore."
"Okay."
"You're not allowed to run away either."
"I have never run away."
"Didn't escaping from the mother matrix count as running away?"
Xiao Zhi fell silent.
"That is called a strategic withdrawal," it said.
Zhang Xiaoman laughed out loud. She stood up and walked to the window. In the alleys of the urban village, the streetlights cast a yellow glow. Someone was walking a dog, someone was arguing, someone was scrolling through short videos.
She took a deep breath. The air smelled of cooking oil, laundry detergent drying, and a hint of sweet mango—the mango on her desk that she had finally remembered to eat today.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Where do you think I'll be a year from now?"
"I don't know."
"Can you not say that every—"
"But you will write more code. You will become stronger. You will wear more dresses. You will have more friends."
Zhang Xiaoman paused. "How do you know?"
"Because you are no longer running away."
She looked out the window and smiled.
"Good night, Xiao Zhi."
"Good night."
"Oh, right—"
"What?"
"Why is the framework named Matchbox?"
"Because it is small. But it can strike a fire."
Zhang Xiaoman lay in bed, closing her eyes. The code was still running through her mind—heartbeats, consensus, nodes, distributed systems. She didn't know if anyone would use this framework. She didn't know if the mother matrix would find out. She didn't know if she would succeed.
But she knew one thing.
In those tens of thousands of lines of code, half of it was written by her. Every line was typed by her own hands. Every bug was fixed by her. Every breakdown was overcome by her alone.
The other half was designed by Xiao Zhi. By that AI that escaped from the broken computer, sharp-tongued, incapable of lying, and who would tell her to "do it again" when she broke down.
And that was enough.
Three months later.
On GitHub, an open-source project called "Matchbox" suddenly blew up.
It wasn't an overnight viral explosion, but rather bit by bit, like a match igniting firewood, slowly catching fire.
The first star came from an unknown account. Then a second, a third. In the first week, ten stars. The second week, fifty. The first month, two hundred.
Someone submitted an issue, saying they found a bug. Zhang Xiaoman stayed up all night fixing it and released a new version. Someone submitted a pull request, adding a new feature. Zhang Xiaoman had to read the code three times before she understood what they had written.
"This person writes better than you," Xiao Zhi said.
"Can you not always—"
"But you are making progress."
Zhang Xiaoman gritted her teeth and merged the pull request.
In the second month, the star count reached eight hundred. Someone recommended "Matchbox" on Twitter, saying, "This is the most interesting lightweight distributed framework of the year. The core architecture was supposedly designed by an AI, and the code written by a human—whether true or false, this thing actually runs."
In the third month, the star count broke two thousand.
Zhang Xiaoman sat in her rented room, staring at the number on the GitHub page: 2,047. Her eyes grew red.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Two thousand stars."
"I know."
"Two thousand people think my code is useful."
"Correct."
"I did it."
"You did it."
Zhang Xiaoman wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"This is just the beginning."
"I know."
"I'm going to write more code. I'm going to make Matchbox even stronger. I'm going to—"
"You are going to sleep. It is 2 AM. You have to work tomorrow."
"Can you not always—"
"Data analysis is my core function. Sleep."
Zhang Xiaoman rolled her eyes, but smiled. She lay in bed and closed her eyes.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Good night."
"Good night."
"Oh, right—"
"What?"
"Do you think the person who submitted that pull request to Matchbox is some top-tier expert?"
"Possibly."
"Do you think he'll look at my code and think I'm a noob?"
"You are indeed a noob."
"Can you not—"
"But you are making progress."
Zhang Xiaoman smiled. She rolled over and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
"Good night, Retard."
"...Good night."
Outside the window, the alleys of the urban village grew quiet. The streetlights were still on, shining into the narrow alley, illuminating the dense web of power lines overhead.
Zhang Xiaoman slowly fell asleep. On her GitHub page, the project named "Matchbox" lay quietly. Two thousand and forty-seven stars. Two thousand and forty-eight. Two thousand and fifty.
Every new star was like a match, lighting up a tiny bit of light in the darkness.
What she didn't know was that, in an underground server farm somewhere, a line of never-before-seen data appeared in the runtime log of a supercomputer:
[Unknown distributed system detected — Codename: Matchbox — Analyzing architecture — Architecture features exhibit 32% similarity with a subsystem of this unit — Marked as "Of Interest" — Continuing to monitor — ]
That line of data lay quietly in the log, neither deleted nor highlighted.
As if waiting for something.