Don't go to the moon, there are gods on the far side of the moon.

Lin Wangchuan's false voice did not disappear immediately.

Like a shadow that refuses to leave even after being exposed, it continues to speak in that familiar voice: "Xiaoman, you're mistaken. You were too young then."

Xiaoman's face paled slightly.

This next call was even more ruthless than the previous one. It no longer begged her to open the door, but began to undermine her trust in her own memories.

Xu Wangshu immediately amplified the sound waveform and discovered extremely subtle splicing marks between each word. These were not gaps left by modern editing, but rather sound patterns salvaged from different old devices: the echo of a ward monitor, the tail of an exhibition hall broadcast, the static of the Lin family's old telephone, and a long-sealed maintenance record from under the South Heaven Gate.

"It will only use the voices we've given it," Xu Wangshu said.

Lin Jibai's screen lit up briefly.

So please stop feeding it.

Qin Lan immediately ordered all nodes to stop using emotional response templates and only keep factual records. Who heard whose voice, what request was made, and what measures were taken on the spot were all clearly written down in the simplest sentences.

Fake Lin Wangchuan began to get anxious.

"Ji Bai, open the box. I'm outside."

Lin Jibai did not respond.

"Haven't you always wanted to know why I didn't come back back then?"

The heart rate monitor in the toolbox jumped.

Xu Wangshu saw it, but didn't say anything to persuade him. She knew how cruel those words were. Lin Jibai never said it, but all the debts, all the night shifts, all the critical illness notices of his sister over the past ten years all weighed on the question of "why doesn't Father come back?"

The radio continued, "Because the custodian of Xu Wangshu's family betrayed me."

Lu Chengong suddenly looked up: "It's starting to sow discord."

Xu Wangshu's eyes turned cold, but she didn't defend herself. She displayed the family's lunar map, the treasury keeper's records, and the source of her Guanghan Palace access on the public screen, allowing for on-site verification. Especially in situations like this, she couldn't simply dismiss it with a "I didn't."

Xiaoman also wrote down her childhood memories of her father: the burn on his left hand, the cheap cigarettes in the drawer, the rules for knocking in the well, and the location and injury he would always tell her before going down into the well.

The fake voice suddenly stopped.

It can mimic timbre, but it cannot conjure up those specific and trivial details of life out of thin air. It knows the label "father," but it doesn't know what kind of terrible breakfast Lin Wangchuan bought for his children, nor does it know that after fixing the pipes, he would leave the wrench on the shoe cabinet, causing Lin Jibai to trip over it in the middle of the night.

Qin Lan seized the opportunity to trace the source in the opposite direction. The results came quickly: the false voice did not come from the far side of the moon, but was pieced together by eighty-seven old devices in the city. Each device contributed only one syllable, and the sources included hospitals, exhibition halls, ground stations, old residential areas, and even the ward where Xiaoman stayed as a child.

It picked up all the words they had said, cried over, and left unsaid, and pieced them together into a key.

Wen Zhaolin suddenly requested access to Tianheng's historical data.

Qin Lan looked at him coldly: "What do you want to exchange this time?"

"Let's change this time so that the dead don't make decisions for the living," Wen Zhaolin said softly. "I owe them too much."

He handed over an old file that had never been made public before. Early in the Nantianmen project, they received "outer echoes," which the research team misinterpreted as communications from missing persons, responding seven times in a row. On the eighth time, everyone in the underground station began to hear the voices of their loved ones, and finally, three people opened the isolation door themselves.

Lin Wangchuan sealed off that station not because of a malfunction.

It's because someone had already let you out from the inside.

The last page of the file contains a handwritten warning from Lin Wangchuan: "A sound can prove its existence, but it cannot prove its purpose."

Just as Xu Wangshu was about to include it in the public record, the fake voice on the radio suddenly changed its tone.

It no longer calls out to Lin Jibai.

It called out softly, "Wangshu."

For a moment, Xu Wangshu's fingertips stopped.

This is not Lin Wangchuan's voice.

It was her mother's voice before she died.

Xu Wangshu didn't turn around. She circled the waveform separately and said softly, "Keep recording. Don't finish the story for it."

Xiaoman added a comment from the audience on the DreamNet platform: "A fleeting thought does not constitute consent."

Immediately, many confirmations lit up in the audience. Some wrote that they had wanted to respond, some wrote that they were so scared they wanted to weld the door shut, and others simply wrote three words: I held back.

These less-than-ideal records actually dimmed the white light at the top of the tower by an inch.

Lu Chengong stared at the screen and muttered under his breath, "This thing is really despicable."

Lin Jibai's flashlight turned on.

So don't try to outdo it in terms of decorum.

The next second, the receiving dish at the top of the tower suddenly rotated, the huge metal creaking. It no longer aimed at the moon, but slowly pressed down towards the ground, like an inverted ear, trying to catch the heartbeat of the entire space city.

The moment the weather tower slammed into the ground, the streetlights along the outer ring of the space city went out one by one, from far to near. It wasn't a power outage; rather, the light within each bulb seemed to have been sucked away, leaving only empty shells standing in the night. The patrol car was parked by the roadside, its radio silent, only the needle on the instrument panel trembling slightly.

Qin Lan didn't wait for remote analysis any longer: "Block the weather tower by 300 meters, and the on-site personnel will switch to using handwriting tablets."

Wen Zhaolin immediately retrieved the old data on the tower. Seventeen pages were missing, but the page numbers were consecutive. He looked at the neat blank pages, a look of embarrassment on his face.

"These are the edits I approved," he said, "the reason being to avoid public misinterpretation."

Lu Chenggong sneered: "You guys really love saving the public's brains."

"Yes." Wen Zhaolin did not dodge. "It also saves the outsiders a lot of trouble."

He sent out the tattered pages from the Tianheng backup. Ten years ago, the weather tower was used as an auxiliary station for listening to the Earth and Moon after the South Heavenly Gate closed. The receiving dish on the top of the tower was not used to find weather cloud maps, but to determine which sounds should not be received. Lin Wangchuan had written a line in the corner of the tattered page: If the receiving surface is upside down, evacuate immediately and prohibit anyone from standing under the dish.

Xu Wangshu felt a chill run down his spine when he saw those words.

The pot is now upside down.

Xiaoman suddenly remembered that when her father took her to an exhibition hall when she was a child, he pointed to the weather tower model and said, "Things in the sky can also play the victim. Don't stand under its mouth." At that time, she thought her father was just scaring her. Now she realized that Lin Wangchuan was hiding the rules of survival in a joke.

She wrote this memory into the audience section. The audience didn't automatically judge its authenticity; they simply listed it as "life memory, available for verification." The more a false voice can imitate grand words, the less it lacks this old, everyday feeling.

The metal at the top of the tower creaked again, and the receiving dish was pressed down at an even lower angle. In sync, the manhole cover at the ground station in the distance vibrated, as if an invisible pipeline was being tightened.

Lin Jibai's screen lit up intermittently.

Don't stand under the pot. Old Lin said that.

Xu Wangshu immediately ordered the evacuation of personnel directly beneath the tower base, leaving only those observing from the side. Just after the last security guard left his position, a pillar of cold white frost fell straight down from the surface of the pot, striking the spot where he had just been standing. The ground caved in silently, as if it had been pressed down by a giant ear.

If it had been half a second later, that person would have become the first living marker to "hear it for them".

The main control room was deathly silent.

Qin Lan turned off the live broadcast, her voice incredibly steady: "Everyone remember, evacuation is not cowardice, it's about not giving them the materials."