Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

Ling Wuwen's shoulder blade cracked, the sound like ice shattering, crisp and piercing.

On her seventeenth attempt at 4A, she lost her pivot on the second and a half laps.

Gu Xidong saw her body tumble in the air. He reached out to grab her, but the clone's nerves were delayed by 0.1 seconds—that insurmountable, fatal gap.

She fell onto the ice, landing first on her right shoulder. The ice skates carved a ten-meter-long furrow in the ice before stopping.

When Gu Xidong slid over, she had already sat up, her left hand pressing on her right shoulder, her face as white as ice.

But she was smiling, with blood at the corner of her mouth.

"Almost," she said. "The baby moved and shifted its center of gravity."

"Don't speak." Gu Xidong tore open her protective suit.

My right shoulder is swollen, and there is a large area of ​​bruising under the skin.

He pressed down gently and felt the abnormal movement of the bone—a fracture in the body of the scapula.

Two hundred and thirty-seven clones watched silently around the ice.

They don't understand this kind of self-torture.

For them, exercise is a program, a muscle memory accurate to the millisecond; it doesn't require "trying," it only requires "execution."

A-2 walked over and handed over a medical kit: "It needs to be immobilized. Judging from the sound, it's a fracture, but not completely broken."

Gu Xidong took the bandages and splints, his hands trembling.

It wasn't fear, it was anger. Angry at that 0.1-second difference, angry at what Ling Yaqin said at the entrance to the frozen lake:

"The way you guys train reminds me of when I was young. Knowing you'll get injured, you still jump."

Ling Yaqin did not stop them.

Instead, she fixed the lighting, adjusted the temperature, and even pulled out training data from the Soviet era.

"Why do you want to help us?" Gu Xidong asked.

"Because I want to watch." She was like an audience member.

"I want to see if an unmodified body can reach the level of a modified one. It's an interesting experiment."

"We are not guinea pigs."

"Everyone is." She smiled.

"The only difference is that some are proactive, and some are reactive."

Now, she sits on the observation platform, watching Gu Xidong bandage his wound.

Her gaze wasn't one of concern, but rather curiosity.

"The seventeenth failure." Her voice echoed through the loudspeaker.

"The probability of completing a standard double 4A is 0.03%. Continuing to try will result in more serious injuries, or even death."

Ling Wuwen gritted his teeth and had Gu Xidong secure the splint: "0.03% is enough."

"Why?" B-3 asked. She and the other clones gathered around, their eyes filled with genuine confusion.

"Why do something with such a low success rate? If the goal is to defeat the club, we can train our combat skills and learn how to use weapons. Why insist on jumping into 4A?"

2

Ling Wuwen stood up, his right arm secured to his chest with a bandage.

She walked up to B-3 and took the clone's hand in her left hand.

"Because it's a choice," she said.

"Everything the club gives you—the abilities, the knowledge—is predetermined. You never get to choose what you want to become. But Gu Xidong and I did. We chose skating, we chose each other, and now we've chosen to jump the quadruple. Every choice we make says: We are free."

A-2 frowned: "But choices lead to injuries, to failure. We're trained to prioritize efficiency and avoid risk. Your approach... is irrational."

"Humans are not entirely rational by nature." Gu Xidong stood up.

"We might do foolish things because of love, and we might persist to the end because of hatred. This irrationality is what distinguishes us from programs."

The clones fell silent.

Their brains are filled with a lot of knowledge, but no one has taught them "irrational values".

Ling Yaqin clapped from the observation platform, but the applause was hollow:

"Well said. But saying and doing are two different things. Do you still have the courage to try an eighteenth time? With her current injuries, the next fall could result in spinal cord injury and lifelong paralysis."

Gu Xidong looked at Ling Wuwen. Her eyes gave the answer.

"We need to adjust the plan," he said.

"What if I abandon the standard technique and focus on creating better takeoff conditions for her?"

"What do you mean?" Ling Wu asked.

"I act as the axis, giving her extra lift." Gu Xidong drew a diagram on the ice.

"At takeoff, I exert force 0.1 seconds later, using my lift to propel you, giving you greater height and rotational speed. This allows you to complete four and a half rotations, while I might only be able to complete three and a half. Upon landing, I act as a buffer, reducing the impact on you."

Ling Wuwen stared at the diagram: "But that wouldn't be a two-person 4A. You would be judged as having failed."

"The competition is no longer important." Gu Xidong wiped the drawing off the ice.

"The important thing is that you complete the action safely, and the important thing is that we prove that even without perfect synchronization, even with a 0.1-second difference, we can still do what one person cannot do through cooperation."

A-2 suddenly spoke up: "This strategy... isn't recorded in our training database. The standard approach for pairs events is to achieve perfect synchronization, not this kind of asymmetrical cooperation."

"Then let's create a new model," Gu Xidong said.

"If only one of us can survive, I'll choose her. If only one of us can succeed, I'll still choose her. This isn't a competition; it's about survival."

The clones looked at each other.

This concept challenged their preconceived notions—

In their program, teamwork means that every member meets the standard, rather than sacrificing one person to make another person succeed.

B-3 crouched down and wrote on the ice with her finger. She wrote: "Why would I be willing to sacrifice myself for her?"

Gu Xidong looked at the words, then at Ling Wuwen: "Because she deserves it."

The answer was too simple, too "irrational," but the clones seemed to be starting to understand.

They huddled together, communicating quickly in sign language. A few minutes later, A-2 came over.

"We want to help," he said.

"While we may not understand your 'feelings,' we can analyze the data. We have 237 people who can simultaneously monitor every physiological parameter of yours and provide real-time adjustment suggestions."

Ling Yaqin smiled on the observation platform:

"Interesting. The clone is going to help the original complete suicide training. You know, if she dies, you will lose the 'mother,' you will lose the reference point for your existence."

"But if we do nothing and just watch her get hurt again and again, what's the difference between us and the machines in the incubation chamber?" B-3 looked up at Ling Yaqin.

"You taught us everything, but you didn't teach us what 'helping' means. We want to learn now."

Ling Yaqin's smile vanished.

3

Looking at the group of "products" on the ice, these clones that she had designed herself and that should have been completely controllable, she showed a confused expression for the first time.

"Then give it a try," she said finally. "Let me see what you can create."

Over the next 24 hours, the ice lake transformed into a giant laboratory.

The clones were divided into groups:

One team analyzed historical data to identify the key points of the previous seventeen failures; another team monitored real-time physiological parameters using old-fashioned electrocardiographs, respiratory monitors, and even visual observation; and yet another team was responsible for ice surface maintenance and safety protection.

Their work efficiency is frighteningly high.

It requires no rest, no food, and works continuously like a precision instrument. Every detail of the eighteenth attempt was repeatedly simulated, calculated, and optimized.

Gu Xidong discovered that these clones had an amazing talent for analyzing motion data.

They can process more than a dozen variables simultaneously, predict the body position 0.01 seconds later, and calculate the optimal force angle.

But they lack "intuition"—that instantaneous judgment an athlete makes in mid-air, that physical feeling that transcends data.

"Here," A-2 pointed to the 3D simulation.

"At 1.27 seconds, Ling Wuwen's rotation axis will deviate by 3.5 degrees. This is because fetal movement causes a slight shift in the center of gravity. Solution: Gu Xidong applies a lateral force at 1.25 seconds to compensate."

"But how do I know it's 1.25 seconds?" Gu Xidong asked.

"I have no timer in the air."

"Muscle memory," B-3 said.

"We can train your muscles to remember this timing. Repeat the training until it becomes instinctive."

They actually started training.

It's not a complete jump, but a breakdown of the movement. Take-off, lift, spin, and landing—each step is broken down into dozens of small steps, which are practiced repeatedly.

The clones use whistles, lights, and even direct touch to signal the timing.

Gu Xidong's clone muscles quickly memorized those patterns.

But what's even more amazing is Ling Wuwen—her body is adapting, and the fetus seems to be "learning" these movements.

When Gu Xidong was doing the twentieth repetition of the lift, he felt her abdominal muscles actively cooperating, tightening at the most crucial moment to provide extra stability.

"It's helping," Ling Wuwen said breathlessly. "It knows what we're doing."

"Or it might just be imitation," Gu Xidong said, "but in any case, it's helpful."

During training breaks, they sat on the edge of the ice to rest.

The clones delivered heated nutritional paste—soldiers left over from the Soviet era, tasting like a mixture of dirt and metal, but providing warmth.

Ling Wuwen ate slowly with his still-functioning left hand.

Her right shoulder was more swollen, but she refused to use painkillers: "I need to feel the pain to know where my limit is."

"Your father will be proud of you," Ling Yaqin's voice suddenly came from behind.

She had somehow walked onto the ice and was standing behind them.

Ling Wuwen didn't turn around: "He's not my father. You're not my mother either."

"Genetically speaking, I am." Ling Yaqin walked up to her, squatted down, and looked into her eyes.

"I gave you a perfect body, an excellent mind, and a strong will. Your current perseverance and your unwillingness to give up are all part of my design."

"And what about love?" Ling Wuwen looked up. "Was my feeling for Gu Xidong also something you orchestrated?"

Ling Yaqin was silent for a few seconds:

"Emotions are a chemical reaction of neurotransmitters and hormones. Yes, I can design them. But I don't. It's your own choice—or rather, your brain's natural response to his stimulation."

There are some things you can't control.

"Everything can be controlled, as long as there's enough data." Ling Yaqin stood up and looked at the busy clones in the distance.

"But you've made me start to wonder... perhaps 'out of control' itself is also a valuable type of data."

After she left, Gu Xidong grasped Ling Wuwen's hand: "She's wavering."

"Or perhaps they're collecting more data." Ling Wuwen leaned on his shoulder.

"But it doesn't matter anymore. We're going to jump for the eighteenth time. Not to prove anything to her, but for ourselves."

Late at night, all preparations were completed.

4

The ice surface was adjusted to its optimal condition.

The lighting was turned up to its highest brightness, creating a beam of light over the frozen lake.

The clones stood around the perimeter, each responsible for a monitoring point. A-2 and B-3 were at the control console, ready to record all the data.

Ling Yaqin returned to the observation platform, this time bringing an old-fashioned movie camera, and began filming.

"The eighteenth attempt." Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen were in position at the takeoff point. "Ready?"

Ling Wuwen nodded. Her right arm was still fixed to her chest, but her core muscles were tense, and the skate blade on her left leg was stuck in the ice.

The whistle blew.

Take off.

Gu Xidong felt time slow down again.

He could see every ice shard kicked up as the ice skate left the ice, he could see the taut muscles on Ling Wuwen's face, and he could see the outline of life beneath her protective suit.

In 0.3 seconds, his lifting hand touched her waist.

In 0.5 seconds, he began to exert force, not upwards, but with a rotational thrust, giving her an initial rotational velocity like throwing a hammer.

Ling Wuwen's body began to spin like a top. One week, two weeks—she spun faster and more steadily than ever before.

Gu Xidong could see that her brow was almost perfectly aligned, as perfect as a textbook example.

Three weeks.

Gu Xidong's own rotation slowed down.

He was sacrificing his own rotational speed to transfer all his kinetic energy to her.

He felt his muscles screaming and his joints groaning, but he didn't stop straining.

Three and a half weeks.

Ling Wuwen began his fourth rotation. Gu Xidong's own rotation speed had already decreased to the point where he could no longer complete four and a half rotations, but he didn't care.

His eyes were glued to her trajectory, his brain frantically calculating: Was the height sufficient? Was the rotational speed enough? What would the landing angle be?

All around.

Ling Wuwen completed her four rotations and began the final half-rotation. Her body traced a graceful arc in the air, like a shooting star streaking across the night sky.

Four and a half weeks.

At the moment of landing, Gu Xidong touched the ice surface 0.05 seconds earlier than expected.

He wasn't trying to gain a foothold; he was trying to cushion the impact.

His body glided across the ice, arms outstretched, ready to catch her.

Ling Wuwen landed on him.

The impact caused the two to slide twenty meters across the ice.

Gu Xidong felt that at least two of his ribs were broken, but he held her and absorbed most of the impact with his own body.

When we stopped, the ice was completely silent.

Then, Ling Wuwen made a move.

She lifted her head from his embrace, fresh blood seeping from the bandage on her right shoulder, but her eyes shone like burning stars.

"I did it," she said hoarsely. "Four and a half weeks. I saw...all the light."

Gu Xidong wanted to speak, but the sharp pain in his chest only allowed him to gasp for breath.

He nodded, his eyes conveying: I know.

The clones rushed over. B-3 helped Ling Wuwen up, while A-2 checked Gu Xidong's injuries.

The other clones began to cheer—not a programmed reaction, but a genuine, emotional cheer.

They witnessed the impossible.

On the observation platform, Ling Yaqin's camera was still running.

But she wasn't looking at the camera; she was looking at the two people on the ice. Her face was expressionless, but her fingers were trembling slightly.

The printer on the control panel started printing data automatically. A-2 picked up the stack of papers and quickly scanned them.

Then he froze.

"What's wrong?" B-3 asked.

A-2 looked up at the observation deck: "These data... we're not the only ones recording them."

He held up the data sheet.

At the very bottom, there is a hidden line of code: [Real-time transmission to: Northern City Central Database Recipient: Professor]

"All data has been transmitted in real time." A-2's voice was icy.

"It has been from the very beginning. Our training, our data, every single attempt... has been providing samples for 'Nirvana 2.0'."

Ling Yaqin stepped down from the observation platform and walked towards the printer.

She pulled out the top sheet of data and looked at the motion parameters detailed down to the millisecond.

"Of course," she said calmly. "Why do you think I'd help you? Just to make you feel good about yourselves?"

She looked at Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen, her eyes regaining the calm composure of a scientist:

"Every jump, every failure, every adjustment... all the data is refining our model. Now, we can create clones that are even more perfect than yours. Not just imitating you, but surpassing you."

She held up the data sheet so everyone could see it:

"Your 'miracle' has just become the upgrade patch for 'Nirvana 2.0'."