Rebirth: Starting from Lighting Up the Tech Tree

After the seventh signal arrived at the home port, a title line automatically activated in the Central Log Referendum section: Proposal Number: Web-Weaving Referendum 001.

Zuo Weiyang was drinking soy milk when she saw that line of text. She put down her cup and read the text of the proposal automatically generated by the system. It wasn't about whether the seventh civilization should be allowed to access the network; she had already activated a temporary license. The proposal concerned something else entirely: whether to automatically incorporate civilizations that proactively knock on the door into the Weaving Civilization Community, without application, recommendation, or review—just knock, and the door will open automatically.

She thought for a moment, then wrote one word below the proposal: "Send".

All 92 active nodes of the network received this proposal simultaneously.

The first response came from the listener. The listener's statement was brief. We were judged for a long time before we entered. That judging time was spent proving our worthiness of acceptance. But the act of knocking itself proved it. A person willing to persistently knock beyond their lifespan isn't proving their worthiness; they're telling themselves that there are people in the universe. This fact allowed them to travel the entire distance from solitude to the door of the web. They didn't need to be judged. They walked in on their own.

The builder's response was a series of frequency offset data. The gist of the translation is: We've built countless bridges, each requiring approval, structural calculations, and load-bearing tests. But this bridge is different. Someone walked across to the other side on their own. We can't set up a roadblock at the bridgehead and say, "Please fill out a form first." We should lower the bridge.

The onlookers' responses were usually no more than six words. This time it exceeded that by a little bit. Once the door is open, don't close it.

However, there are also dissenting voices.

The signal from node 155 was that familiar low-powered broadcast. But this time, there was an extra line of text after the broadcast: We chose to retreat. We retreated to a quiet place. Not because it was dangerous outside, but because it was too noisy. The door was open to everyone, and the wind would rush in. Not every gust of wind is suitable for every room. We abstained. Not against opening the door, but as a reminder. The wind not only brings things in, but also takes things away.

The response from #048 came slower than anyone else's. It remained silent for a long time. Zuo Weiyang didn't urge it. She glanced at #048's dedicated page in the Central Log; the gold dot on that page was still there.

Finally, the 048th person posted four words: "I abstain."

Zuo Weiyang didn't ask any further questions after reading it. She simply clicked on a tiny gold dot on page 048, next to the previous one.

No one voted on the 027th vote. It sent a message: "I'm here with it. No vote. Whatever the outcome, I'll be there."

Zuo Weiyang copied comment number 027 into the proposal appendix.

Over the next period of time, opinions from all nodes in the network arrived one after another. Zuo Weiyang did not interfere, guide, or urge. She simply sat in the central hub, read each opinion, archived them according to node number, marked them with timestamps, and posted them below the proposals.

Some objected. Their reasons varied. Some worried about security, given the history of the Web's underlying protocols being used as weapons. Others worried about resources, as each additional node increases maintenance costs. Still others worried about culture shock, as different civilizations have different understandings of the word "knock."

Zuo Weiyang read each objection twice. She didn't refute them. She simply used her central authority to file each objection separately and post it in the complete record of the proposal. Then she opened the central log referendum section and published the voting results.

The vote was anonymous. Each node cast one vote. Of the 92 active nodes, 67 voted in favor, 11 voted against, and 14 abstained. The proposal passed.

Zuo Weiyang did not give a victory speech. She simply wrote a short message below the results.

The proposal is archived. Opponents' voices will not be withdrawn. From today onward, any civilization sending a low-power, continuous knocking signal to the Weaver Core Protocol for more than its stellar standard time unit will be granted temporary access. Observer participation in the full Weaver discussion is welcome. Please allow yourself and the Weaver a period of adjustment before full access is granted at the core level.

After she finished writing this, she paused and added a small line of text.

All the concerns raised in the dissenting votes—security, resources, and cultural misinterpretations—have been archived in the Web Security Archive, the Home Port Resource Allocation Optimization Algorithm Group, and the Cross-Civilization Communication Protocol Extension Directory, respectively. They will not be forgotten. They will not be ignored. Someone will continue to pay attention. That person is me.

She sent the message out.

The entire net fell silent for a moment.

Then a signal came from the seventh direction. It wasn't a formal reply, but a short sentence translated by the encoder into the creator's code. The translated sentence was only one line.

Received. There were dissenting votes in the poll. I saw them. The dissenting votes weren't meant to push me out, but rather to show concern for me. Thank you. To everyone.

Zuo Weiyang remained silent for a long time after reading this sentence.

She sat in a chair in the reception room, a cup of soy milk that had gone cold in front of her. Han Lu pushed open the door and saw her lost in thought, asking what was wrong. Zuo Weiyang said nothing, someone had approved a proposal, and then said thank you.

Han Lu didn't press the matter. She simply took the cooled soy milk away to reheat it, and brought it back in a new cup. When Zuo Weiyang took the cup, she noticed a note stuck to the inside, with Han Lu's handwriting on it: "You are everyone too."

Zuo Weiyang tore off the sticky note and looked at it for a long time before tucking it into the first page of the Central Diary.

That evening, when the Pioneer flew over Hangzhou, she wasn't in the control room watching. She stood by the window in the access room, opened it, and waved to the evening breeze.

The light in the sky flashed. Just like countless other flashes before.

But this time she knew that the light in the sky wasn't just from Shen Yiming. There was another person in the cockpit. Starting with the new route log 0048, someone had learned to flash the light an extra time in the sky—not by pressing a switch, but by mentally skipping a beat before pressing the switch.

Jian Ning's central log was updated that day. I didn't flinch when she waved goodbye today. But I read the word she wrote in her central log twice. That word was "good." Not any other word. Just "good."

Zuo Weiyang was drinking hot soy milk when she saw Jian Ning's diary. She smiled. Then, at the very bottom of the referendum section of the central diary, she wrote another line.

The proposal passed. The rules took effect. The first batch of temporary access licenses has been issued. The seventh is adapting to the language environment of the web. He just said thank you to everyone. Not every vote. Everyone who voted. Including the eleven hearts that worried about him behind the dissenting votes. He wasn't angry after seeing those concerns. He said thank you. Because in the universe, someone's willingness to worry about you is something more valuable than a vote of approval.

She closed the central log, took the soy milk, and walked to the window. The sky outside transitioned from orange-red to deep blue. The Pioneer's track lights were no longer visible. But the scent of osmanthus lingered in the evening breeze. It wasn't that the osmanthus in Hangzhou had bloomed; it was that the tree at the central headquarters, which hadn't even been planted yet, had already sprouted buds ahead of schedule.

She didn't tell anyone. She just kept the location of the bud in her heart. She put it together with the archive address of the dissenting votes. She put it together with the crack left by the first person who agreed. And with the seventh person's thank you.

The roots of that tree don't need to be planted in data. It's enough to plant them in the hearts of those who will remember it.