PGVCW 11

Playing God in Various Catastrophic Worlds

By

siofra

Chapter 11: The State-Sponsored World-Building Project

Translator's Note:

Welcome to Chapter 11! Here we witness the absolute wholesome chaos of the Salvation Plan pivoting into full-blown institutional world-building—complete with 99 bureaucratic departments, weaponized web novel updates, and sweet moments of found family. Enjoy! 

PS: If the formatting or font looks a bit different starting from this chapter, please bear with me! I’m currently translating and editing on my phone using Wordpad Plus, which doesn't have advanced font styling options. Thanks for understanding and enjoy the read!

— Siofra

Playing God in Various Catastrophic Worlds

Chapter 11: The State-Sponsored World-Building Project

"They're back! They're actually back!"

Over at the Energy Research Institute, Zhang Heng watched in utter bewilderment as the deputy director sprinted past him with a radiant expression, moving with the terrifying velocity of that one administrative staff member who could physically transform into a duck.

"What on earth is going on? Who's back?"

Zhang Heng stared blankly at the deputy director’s retreating back, clutching half a piece of coarse cornmeal bun (wōwotou) he had smuggled out from the canteen.

It wasn't that he made a habit of hoarding or smuggling food; it was simply that these buns were structurally indestructible. Even with his exceptionally robust dental health, consuming a single bun required a solid hour of aggressive, jaw-exhausting gnawing.

Zhang Heng considered himself relatively easily satisfied. Given that global nutritional reserves were dwindling by the day, maintaining a status where he could routinely secure an eighty-percent-full stomach was a privilege exclusively reserved for senior tier-one researchers.

His primary source of anguish was his one-year-old daughter. The infant was far too young for hard solids and could only process soft, easily digestible mashes. Yet finding soft-textured rations in the current climate was an exercise in futility, forcing desperate parents to smash their daily cornmeal rations into crude, jagged fragments before feeding them to their toddlers.

In a peaceful era, such a crude method might have been viable; alas, natural corn had long since gone extinct. Modern cornmeal was an industrial triumph of "chemical additives and high-tech processing"—even when pulverized into flour by heavy machinery, the resulting particles remained stiff enough to brutally lacerate the esophageal lining.

Innocent infants would scream and wrawl in agony as their throats were grated raw during meals, leaving parents half-crazed with anxiety yet utterly powerless to intervene. Zhang Heng had even debated whether he should grit his teeth, force his entire household into voluntary starvation, and redirect his personal rations entirely to his wife. With adequate nutrition, perhaps his wife could produce maternal milk, sparing their infant daughter from such agonizing torment.

Seeing Zhang Heng re-enter the lab with a face etched in profound despair, a colleague who had been hunched over inspection records from the previous day offered a sympathetic inquiry:

"Still stressing over your daughter's rations?"

"Indeed," Zhang Heng sighed heavily. "The child screams the moment she eats, yet screams from hunger if she refuses food. She's already a year old, yet she's profoundly malnourished and looks stunted enough to fit in the palm of your hand. Had I known things would deteriorate to this, I never would have fathered a child in the first place, sparing her from sharing in this collective misery."

Zhang Heng heaved a ragged sigh. Even though state media aggressively projected an optimistic national facade, nobody aboard the sinking ship was genuinely blind. The daily rations distributed across sectors shrank visibly with each passing month, leading everyone to the bleak private conclusion that even that final, unpolluted seed vault had likely failed to survive.

"Even our income brackets place us comfortably within the upper-middle stratum, yet our domestic situation is this dire—one shudders to imagine how ordinary civilians are surviving," his colleague muttered, equally morose.

"I heard the Entertainment Bureau division is pulling endless mandatory overtime once again," the colleague continued, lowering his voice. "It's because this month's food distribution quota dropped another distinct tier; to pacify public panic and maintain social stability, they're frantically rushing out new video games."

Zhang Heng shook his head bitterly: "When people are starving, no amount of gaming entertainment will fill a stomach. My only prayer is that we don't experience a sudden surge of mass psychological infection events."

As the pair murmured back and forth, a deep, rumbling mechanical roar echoed from the thoroughfare outside, causing the concrete flooring to vibrate perceptibly. Startled, they dropped their conversation and rushed toward the exterior exit to investigate.

To their utter astonishment, a prolonged convoy of heavy cargo transport trucks was rolling past, every vehicle bearing a distinct stencil of a steaming bowl of rice emblazoned across its metal flanks.

"The Food Bureau's transport fleet?" "Just how many years has it been since the Food Bureau deployed active transport columns? What on earth is happening?"

Scores of personnel spilled out of the Energy Research Institute to gawk at the thoroughfare. Ever since the second-to-last genetic seed tier had suffered total environmental contamination three years prior, the Food Bureau had existed in a state of administrative ghosthood. This marked the inaugural display of such heavy mobilization in over thirty-six months.

While the surrounding researchers buzzed with frantic speculation, Zhang Heng peered through a leading truck's armored cab window, noting that the security escort detail consisted of fully combat-geared soldiers encased in advanced mechanical exoskeleton rigs—unmistakable indicators of a high-priority strategic operation.

An absurd, intoxicating hypothesis flashed unbidden through his mind: "Those vehicles... they look precisely like grain haulers, complete with armed tactical escorts... could they actually be transporting real food supplies?"

The moment he voiced the thought, the surrounding chatter instantly flatlined. Seconds later, a colleague emitted a dry, hollow laugh laced with bitterness: "What sort of absurd daytime delusions are you entertaining? In this day and age, where on earth would surviving grain materialize?" "If you can locate a single genuine grain of rice in this province, I'll legally change my surname to match yours."

"Soybeans, 30 metric tons!" "Wheat, 200 metric tons!!" "Paddy rice, 250 metric tons!!!"

The logistics officer tasked with logging the caloric inventory grew progressively unhinged with euphoria as he read aloud: "Additionally featuring assorted produce—including eggplants, cucumbers, string beans, spinach, radishes, and Chinese cabbage—totaling 15 metric tons!"

The clerical staff assisting with offloading operations were similarly electrified, practically vibrating with adrenaline as they fought the urge to shove aside the automated machinery and hoist the crates by hand.

Even the Chief Commander—a legendary figure renowned for maintaining absolute iron composure amidst planetary extinction crises—stood directly before the towering mountain of harvested provisions, her fingers trembling uncontrollably as she gently brushed against the husks of grain.

The Director and Deputy Director of the Energy Research Institute, having sprinted across multiple military checkpoints, broke through the perimeter and froze instantly, their eyes widening to impossible diameters as they confronted the mountainous drifts of wheat and rice.

"Such an astronomical volume... and every single kernel is entirely pristine, completely unpolluted by biological contamination??!" "And look at this water... crystal-clear, uncorrupted aqueous reserves..."

To be frank, given their elevated bureaucratic standing, even they had long since forgotten the visual reality of natural agricultural yields. The Institute Director’s gaze remained locked in a glassy stare: "I wouldn't even dare invent a dream this extravagant..."

A cluster of elderly, venerated botanical authorities, specially summoned to the site, gingerly cupped heavy, densely packed stalks of golden rice within their trembling palms, tears of unadulterated joy streaming down their weathered cheeks: "Not only are they mutation-free, but every single specimen exhibits hyper-viable agricultural yields and extraordinarily robust biological activation energies. The probability of successful laboratory propagation is exceptionally high." "Magnificent... truly magnificent! Humanity has been granted a lifeline!!!"

The Chief Commander’s eyes were already swimming with moisture, and upon hearing the botanist's choked affirmation, she completely lost her grip on her emotional equilibrium.

Pivoting toward Xia Wang'an, her lips trembled so violently she could barely articulate the words: "Wang'an... thank you. You have literally preserved the entirety of the human race..." "To think you managed to secure such an unimaginable bounty of agricultural provisions..."

Despite her unwavering, institutional backing of the [Salvation Plan], the Chief Commander had privately harbored severe doubts regarding the initiative's operational probability.

As critics of the program frequently argued, staking the survival metrics of a dying civilization upon the fragile shoulders of a single operative was an unacceptable gamble burdened by crushing, apocalyptic weight.

Yet she had consciously chosen to shoulder the political blowback and authorize absolute logistical support, simply because facing the grim alternative of an unmitigated timeline collapse left Great Xia with zero alternative pathways.

Who could have possibly predicted that Xia Wang'an’s maiden interdimensional deployment—executed entirely solo without direct frontline tactical reinforcement—would yield such a staggering mountain of provisions?

Xia Wang'an, having already completed decontamination sweeps of her imported grain samples, was currently standing nearby industrially slurping down a bowl of noodles. The emergency rations were manufactured using peak industrial chemistry—stiff as industrial composite timber and entirely lacking Ming County’s optimal textual balance—yet she consumed them with unmitigated bliss.

Hearing the gratitude, the black-haired maiden lifted her head, pausing briefly between slurps of a noodle strand that heavily tested her molar integrity, and blinked: "Actually, I was forced to leave a vast quantity behind. The primary bottleneck was the localized population scarcity in Ming County; even with every able-bodied civilian mobilizing transport carts, our logistical throughput was capped."

That specific dimension possessed a sprawling geographical footprint relative to its minuscule population base; following the botanical uprisings, human census metrics had plummeted catastrophically. Ming County and its surrounding agrarian hamlets supported a total demographic baseline of barely 1,800 souls, inclusive of geriatrics and infants.

Fortunately, because the locals had long internalized the institutional survival habit of "collectively incinerating mutant crop yields to prevent secondary seed germination," they had executed the requisition orders with zealous enthusiasm, enthusiastically ferrying every single stalk Xia Wang'an had purged directly to the Gao homestead, enabling her to secure this monumental haul.

Yet an even greater volume of agricultural biomass had inevitably been abandoned directly within the fields.

The Chief Commander, however, wore a beatific smile of profound fulfillment—arguably marking the most genuine expression she had worn across the past several years: "The yield is more than sufficient. It has been an eternity since I last laid eyes upon such an abundance of natural agricultural harvest."

Flanking her, the remaining directorate officials mirrored her elation, smiling brightly enough to rival blooming flora.

"Wang'an, is there anything your heart desires? You need merely voice the command, and the full apparatus of the Great Xia state shall stand as your unshakeable bulwark!"

Xia Wang'an set down her empty bowl, having drained the final drops of broth. Hearing that absolute guarantee, the black-haired maiden's eyes slowly dilated, sparking with brilliant illumination: "Anything at all?"

The Chief Commander smiled, nodding affirmatively: "My word is absolute—anything you desire."

Fifteen minutes later—

Xia Chun, having just concluded an exhausting shift and returned to her residential quarters, was currently attempting to spoon-feed fragmented rice porridge to her perpetually wailing daughter, encountering total resistance with every pass.

Exhaustion hung over Xia Chun like a physical shroud, a weariness instantly compounded the moment her husband, Zhang Heng, trudged through the front door, completing a domestic portrait of synchronized systemic burnout.

Among her private outlets, Xia Chun maintained a passionate hobby: authoring web fiction. Though her commercial metrics largely relegated her to the lower-tier rankings, within an era where baseline physiological survival remained an unfulfilled luxury, crafting stories afforded her a vital sanctuary to sustain her mental and spiritual equilibrium.

However, she had been forced into a prolonged hiatus exceeding half a month.

The relentless erosion of existential despair had steadily drained her creative reserves. While she recognized that Great Xia maintained superior civilizational stability relative to external sovereign states, the daily grinding reality of chronic malnutrition, combined with watching her infant wither in persistent hunger, constantly reminded her that the global machinery was actively sliding toward terminal, irrecoverable collapse.

Literature fundamentally functioned as humanity's collective projection of idealized fantasy domains into reality; yet Xia Chun felt she had entirely forfeited the emotional capacity to entertain such illusions.

"Please, just swallow a mouthful... if you refuse nourishment, your body will fail..."

Flanked by identical dark circles under their eyes, the married couple practically knelt in supplication before their infant.

Yet how could an infant comprehend adult rationalizations? Despite raging hunger pangs, the child violently shoved away the abrasive, throat-scratching porridge. Just as the parents exhausted their final psychological reserves, a sharp, authoritative rapping echoed against their apartment entry.

"Coming."

Casting a strained glance at the infant still sobbing uncontrollably within her husband's arms, Xia Chun unlatched the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Standing outside in the corridor were two heavily armed military guards, maintaining ramrod posture as they executed a crisp, perfunctory salute:

"Greetings. Are you the author operating under the handle [Crispy Sesame Cake], responsible for the web novel Those Years I Spent in the Cultivation World? Have you exceeded a fourteen-day hiatus without publishing a chapter update?" "The state formally requires you to resume serializing this manuscript immediately. Your cooperation is mandatory."

Xia Chun: "......" Zhang Heng, standing directly behind her with a howling toddler cradled against his chest: "???"

Xia Chun mechanically closed the apartment door, stood frozen for three seconds, and then mechanically reopened it.

The two armed soldiers remained standing precisely as before, expressions rigid and professional, offering zero indication that they were mere auditory hallucinations.

She: "???" Why on earth would the sovereign apparatus of a collapsing nation explicitly require her to resume writing web fiction?!

Thirty minutes later, the one-year-old infant—having successfully consumed a bowl of velvety, simmered rice porridge cooked to absolute velvet smoothness—was presently snoozing peacefully, radiating profound infantile contentment within the arms of a designated state administrative escort.

Meanwhile, her biological mother sat furiously hammering away at a virtual holographic keyboard under direct state supervision.

Xia Wang'an, positioned directly behind Xia Chun's chair while casually munching on a fresh peach, monitored the virtual monitor with the intense absorption of an elite reader tracking a cliffhanger.

(Admittedly, she possessed the technical clearance to project a shared holographic feed directly from her personal interface, but Xia Wang'an fundamentally preferred breathing down the author's neck to maximize the authentic serialized web-novel reading ambiance.)

Out in the corridor, Bureau Director Fan strode forward with characteristically sharp tactical momentum, having just rushed in from the frontline mutant containment sectors. Making a preliminary detour to inspect the primary grain vaults and reverently verifying the structural integrity of the imported crops for the umpteenth time, she arrived with heightened adrenaline.

Peering through the reinforced observation glass at the adolescent girl blissfully tracking serialized fiction, Fan murmured: "Having delivered a civilizational salvation milestone of this magnitude, the child’s singular personal reward demand... was simply forcing the author of her favorite web novel to resume updates?"

"Indeed," the Chief Commander concurred, her gaze softening as she observed Xia Wang'an through the glass, her expression blending maternal fondness, profound respect, and deep tenderness. "The child possesses an exceptionally pure soul." "Precisely because her internal paradigm is so untainted, our institutional imperative to shield her is absolute."

While Xia Wang'an likely remained blissfully unconcerned regarding whether she required external protection—having long internalized solitary survival strategies, relying upon self-engineered solutions, and venting her intermittent cognitive burdens exclusively to her internal AI companion 007—she had imperceptibly grown accustomed to other fixtures of her reality. She was habituated to having persistent logistics recorders shadowing her trail, accustomed to campus cafeteria chefs prioritizing her nutritional preferences, and accustomed to her companions actively carving out leisure time to accompany her recreation.

Consequently, the physical configuration behind Xia Chun's chair had expanded to a collective audience of four spectators.

Xia Chun: "......" Though the surrealism was suffocating, factoring in that this constituted an official national directives mandate—(she still refused to process why the sovereign government was actively weaponizing national security resources to compel a web novel update)—she diligently hammered out a freshly drafted chapter.

Ah! Chapter successfully uploaded; now she was required to survive Xia Wang'an’s cross-examination.

For instance, at this exact micro-second, the maiden leaned forward with an expression of intense academic inquiry: "Esteemed author, how do you logically resolve the physiological anomaly wherein an immortal cultivator experiences lower extremity numbness resulting from prolonged static meditation?"

Xia Chun: ......Which lunatic web novelist meticulously accounts for such mundane biological anomalies in a cultivation setting?! Yet, preserving her professional survival instincts, she rapidly processed the variables and supplied a rigorous rationalization: "My theoretical stance is that when circulating spiritual qi achieves total somatic integration, static meditation induces zero numbness. This is because during advanced ascetic cultivation, while the physical vessel remains stationary, the practitioner's consciousness operates within an accelerated metaphysical plane."

Xia Wang'an instantly slapped her palms together in triumph: [Indeed! That aligns precisely with my internal calculations! I formulated the correct deduction!]

She spun around with radiant smugness to share her validation with her three companions.

Yuanning offered an encouraging, affirming smile: "Phenomenal work, Wang'an. To independently deduce the mechanics to that degree of precision is remarkable."

Xia Wang'an's features swelled visibly with unadulterated pride. The more airtight her theoretical parameters remained, the more securely her mental constructs anchored into reality, minimizing psychological fragmentation; thus, successfully ironing out the minor narrative bug of [meditation-induced leg numbness] constituted a milestone worthy of genuine celebration.

Xia Chun: ......It was merely a passing narrative flourish, why are you treating this like an academic defense? She remained trapped within a swirling vortex of surreal confusion.

However, her bewilderment was abruptly truncated when Xia Wang'an wrapped up her reading session and departed with an expression of supreme contentment. As Xia Chun continued staring blankly into space, a uniformed administrative liaison approached her workspace with a distinctly envious lilt in his tone: "You possess extraordinary karmic fortune, author. To actually be actively serialized by student Wang'an is a privilege beyond measure."

What does serialization by a reader have to do with karmic fortune? Had Great Xia genuinely degenerated to the institutional nadir of deploying high-priority state resources to summon web novel authors for live-reading sessions targeted at a single adolescent girl?? Was this administrative indulgence not directly accelerating the administrative collapse of an already terminal civilization?!

Before Xia Chun could process her internal tirade, she was promptly escorted out of the residential sector and transferred into a cavernous, high-security subterranean facility.

The scale of the division was staggering: within a single gargantuan hall, upwards of three hundred specialists operated in synchronized unison. Every workstation was buried beneath towering physical dossiers, or glowing aggressively with multi-monitor holographic interfaces dense with textual parameters.

The aesthetic radiated supreme technological authority. Yet the ambient audioscape—a chaotic convergence of urgent cross-talk, suppressed frustration, and sarcastic workplace complaints—stripped away any residual Hollywood cinematic grandeur, reducing the operational environment to an intensely mundane, high-pressure white-collar grind.

"Can someone push the 107th revision of the Talisman Compendium over to my terminal? I need to verify whether the historical background parameters map accurately." "I have severe structural concerns regarding the sartorial mechanics detailed in The Immortal Cultivator Apparel Codex. Cadet Zhao, please patch me through to the [Textile Design Cell]; we require an immediate plenary conference." "Spiritual Qi Operational Logic cell—dispatch a representative delegation down to Sector Four to execute live somatic testing." "Has Professor Cheng arrived from the Department of Ancient History?" "Negative. Professor Cheng was temporarily requisitioned by the adjacent [Immortal Sect Architectural Cell]; estimated return is delayed by two hours. Shall I dispatch an internal runner to interface with Professor Ling? Professor Ling just returned from a mandatory rotation at the [Mythological Lore Cell]." "Who on earth drafted Design Variant Delta-37 of the Flying Sword Manual Maneuver and Mudra Compendium?! What logical framework governed this layout? You have an immortal cultivator of supreme transcendental dignity standing atop a flying sword while forming hand gestures resembling the internet slang for '666'?? Erase this architectural heresy immediately and execute a complete structural redesign!"

Xia Chun stood stranded on an elevated catwalk, her cognitive faculties struggling to bridge individual intelligible phonemes into a coherent organizational framework.

"Pardon me... what exact institutional objective governs your operations??"

The administrative onboarding liaison offered an amicable smile, extending a welcoming hand: "Our core institutional directive is singular: centering our operational framework around the psychological stabilization of student Xia Wang'an, we are tasked with engineering a structurally rigorous, internally consistent cosmological framework for an authentic immortal cultivation universe within parameters she can organically comprehend and accept." "This will constitute your permanent professional mandate moving forward. Rest assured, your remuneration package will comfortably eclipse your prior industry baseline by multiple structural orders of magnitude."

Xia Chun’s expression remained frozen in total cognitive suspension. Xia Wang'an—that was the exact name of her youthful reader. But what on earth was an [internal cosmological framework for an immortal cultivation universe]?

Yet, against all rational expectations, a fragile spark of raw, unadulterated hope ignited within her chest.

Drawing a deep, stabilizing breath, she posed a singular clarifying inquiry: "Then... what is our official departmental designation?"

The liaison smiled, flexing his palm outward: "Welcome to the Salvation Plan, Task Force Ninety-Nine: The Narrative Settings Cell."

"Ninety-nine distinct cells?"

Xia Wang'an blinked in wide-eyed astonishment, her ocular diameter expanding perceptibly. "An operational deployment of that magnitude exists?"

Prior to this briefing, her administrative exposure had been strictly confined to the [World Transmigration Cell]; this marked her inaugural realization that behind the scenes, an entire army of specialized operatives was tirelessly laboring to construct her cultivation universe.

"Indeed," Cai Cai confirmed, blissfully crunching down on a freshly boiled ear of sweet corn as she strolled alongside Xia Wang'an. "Are you aware that every single individual recruited into this initiative executes a legally binding state secrecy covenant? The core clause explicitly mandates that regardless of situational variables, prioritizing your personal preservation supersedes all alternative objectives—even if it necessitates forfeiting their individual lives."

Xia Wang'an, currently mid-bite into her own cob of corn, paused, her astonishment compounding: "Directly targeting my personal safety?"

"Precisely," Cai Cai grinned. "Therefore, our esteemed Wang'an currently holds the undisputed title of the State’s Ultimate Precious Treasure."

Xia Wang'an had never perceived herself as a vulnerable asset requiring external shielding. Solitary survival was her default operational baseline; troubleshooting crises independently was second nature, and venting obscure psychological friction exclusively to her internal AI 007 was her established emotional outlet.

Yet, somewhere along this winding trajectory, she had imperceptibly grown accustomed to having logistics recorders dogging her footsteps, accustomed to canteen chefs tailoring her culinary portfolio, and accustomed to her peers carving out dedicated intervals to drag her into recreational pursuits.

Consequently, the physical configuration trailing behind Xia Chun's workspace had seamlessly transitioned into an integrated fellowship of four.

Xia Chun: "......" Though the overarching surrealism remained staggering, factoring in that this was an official national directive—(she still refused to process why the sovereign government was actively weaponizing national security resources to compel a web novel update)—she diligently hammered out a freshly drafted chapter.

Ah! Chapter successfully uploaded; now she was required to survive Xia Wang'an’s cross-examination.

For instance, at this exact micro-second, the maiden leaned forward with an expression of intense academic inquiry: "Esteemed author, how do you logically resolve the physiological anomaly wherein an immortal cultivator experiences lower extremity numbness resulting from prolonged static meditation?"

Xia Chun: ......Which lunatic web novelist meticulously accounts for such mundane biological anomalies in a cultivation setting?! Yet, preserving her professional survival instincts, she rapidly processed the variables and supplied a rigorous rationalization: "My theoretical stance is that when circulating spiritual qi achieves total somatic integration, static meditation induces zero numbness. This is because during advanced ascetic cultivation, while the physical vessel remains stationary, the practitioner's consciousness operates within an accelerated metaphysical plane."

Xia Wang'an instantly slapped her palms together in triumph: [Indeed! That aligns precisely with my internal calculations! I formulated the correct deduction!]

She spun around with radiant smugness to share her validation with her three companions.

Yuanning offered an encouraging, affirming smile: "Phenomenal work, Wang'an. To independently deduce the mechanics to that degree of precision is remarkable."

Xia Wang'an's features swelled visibly with unadulterated pride. The more airtight her theoretical parameters remained, the more securely her mental constructs anchored into reality, minimizing psychological fragmentation; thus, successfully ironing out the minor narrative bug of [meditation-induced leg numbness] constituted a milestone worthy of genuine celebration.

Xia Chun: ......It was merely a passing narrative flourish, why are you treating this like an academic defense? She remained trapped within a swirling vortex of surreal confusion.

However, her bewilderment was abruptly truncated when Xia Wang'an wrapped up her reading session and departed with an expression of supreme contentment. As Xia Chun continued staring blankly into space, a uniformed administrative liaison approached her workspace with a distinctly envious lilt in his tone: "You possess extraordinary karmic fortune, author. To actually be actively serialized by student Wang'an is a privilege beyond measure."

What does serialization by a reader have to do with karmic fortune? Had Great Xia genuinely degenerated to the institutional nadir of deploying high-stage resources to summon web novel authors for live-reading sessions targeted at a single adolescent girl?? Was this administrative indulgence not directly accelerating the administrative collapse of an already terminal civilization?!

Before Xia Chun could process her internal tirade, she was promptly escorted out of the residential sector and transferred into a cavernous, high-security subterranean facility.

The scale of the division was staggering: within a single gargantuan hall, upwards of three hundred specialists operated in synchronized unison. Every workstation was buried beneath towering physical dossiers, or glowing aggressively with multi-monitor holographic interfaces dense with textual parameters.

The aesthetic radiated supreme technological authority. Yet the ambient audioscape—a chaotic convergence of urgent cross-talk, suppressed frustration, and sarcastic workplace complaints—stripped away any residual Hollywood cinematic grandeur, reducing the operational environment to an intensely mundane, high-pressure white-collar grind.

"Can someone push the 107th revision of the Talisman Compendium over to my terminal? I need to verify whether the historical background parameters map accurately." "I have severe structural concerns regarding the sartorial mechanics detailed in The Immortal Cultivator Apparel Codex. Cadet Zhao, please patch me through to the [Textile Design Cell]; we require an immediate plenary conference." "Spiritual Qi Operational Logic cell—dispatch a representative delegation down to Sector Four to execute live somatic testing." "Has Professor Cheng arrived from the Department of Ancient History?" "Negative. Professor Cheng was temporarily requisitioned by the adjacent [Immortal Sect Architectural Cell]; estimated return is delayed by two hours. Shall I dispatch an internal runner to interface with Professor Ling? Professor Ling just returned from a mandatory rotation at the [Mythological Lore Cell]." "Who on earth drafted Design Variant Delta-37 of the Flying Sword Manual Maneuver and Mudra Compendium?! What logical framework governed this layout? You have an immortal cultivator of supreme transcendental dignity standing atop a flying sword while forming hand gestures resembling the internet slang for '666'?? Erase this architectural heresy immediately and execute a complete structural redesign!"

Xia Chun stood stranded on an elevated catwalk, her cognitive faculties struggling to bridge individual intelligible phonemes into a coherent organizational framework.

"Pardon me... what exact institutional objective governs your operations??"

The administrative onboarding liaison offered an amicable smile, extending a welcoming hand: "Our core institutional directive is singular: centering our operational framework around the psychological stabilization of student Xia Wang'an, we are tasked with engineering a structurally rigorous, internally consistent cosmological framework for an authentic immortal cultivation universe within parameters she can organically comprehend and accept." "This will constitute your permanent professional mandate moving forward. Rest assured, your remuneration package will comfortably eclipse your prior industry baseline by multiple structural orders of magnitude."

Xia Chun’s expression remained frozen in total cognitive suspension. Xia Wang'an—that was the exact name of her youthful reader. But what on earth was an [internal cosmological framework for an immortal cultivation universe]?

Yet, against all rational expectations, a fragile spark of raw, unadulterated hope ignited within her chest.

Drawing a deep, stabilizing breath, she posed a singular clarifying inquiry: "Then... what is our official departmental designation?"

The liaison smiled, flexing his palm outward: "Welcome to the Salvation Plan, Task Force Ninety-Nine: The Narrative Settings Cell."

"Ninety-nine distinct cells?"

Xia Wang'an blinked in wide-eyed astonishment, her ocular diameter expanding perceptibly. "An operational deployment of that magnitude exists?"

Prior to this briefing, her administrative exposure had been strictly confined to the [World Transmigration Cell]; this marked her inaugural realization that behind the scenes, an entire army of specialized operatives was tirelessly laboring to construct her cultivation universe.

"Indeed," Cai Cai confirmed, blissfully crunching down on a freshly boiled ear of sweet corn as she strolled alongside Xia Wang'an. "Are you aware that every single individual recruited into this initiative executes a legally binding state secrecy covenant? The core clause explicitly mandates that regardless of situational variables, prioritizing your personal preservation supersedes all alternative objectives—even if it necessitates forfeiting their individual lives."

Xia Wang'an, currently mid-bite into her own cob of corn, paused, her astonishment compounding: "Directly targeting my personal safety?"

"Precisely," Cai Cai grinned. "Therefore, our esteemed Wang'an currently holds the undisputed title of the State’s Ultimate Precious Treasure."

Xia Wang'an had never perceived herself as a vulnerable asset requiring external shielding. Solitary survival was her default operational baseline; troubleshooting crises independently was second nature, and venting obscure psychological friction exclusively to her internal AI 007 was her established emotional outlet.

Yet, somewhere along this winding trajectory, she had imperceptibly grown accustomed to having logistics recorders dogging her footsteps, accustomed to canteen chefs tailoring her culinary portfolio, and accustomed to her peers carving out dedicated intervals to drag her into recreational pursuits.

Seizing the corn cob, Cai Cai watched Xia Wang'an’s cheeks puff out comically, and unable to resist the tactile temptation, reached out and vigorously ruffled the girl's hair: "Rest assured! My archery grouping parameters are exceptionally precise now! I shall fulfill my duty and keep you thoroughly protected moving forward!"

Xia Wang'an—who possessed combat output capable of obliterating Cai Cai ten times over—replied mildly: [Sigh, very well.]

With the two young women chatting animatedly, the two young men brought up the rear in quiet companionship, silently gnawing on their respective cobs of corn.

For a brief, suspended interval, the world felt entirely tranquil.

Until the courtyard gate of the Energy Research Institute was shattered by a booming baritone roar from Grandpa Niu, the veteran gatekeeper: "What in tarnation are the four of you doing hanging upside down outside the perimeter gate! Are you trying to give this old man a fatal heart attack?!"

Xia Wang'an—currently suspended upside-down by her ankles—remained largely unfazed by his approach, though Cai Cai hastily seized her arm and bolted: "Run!"

Before she could reflexively point out that Old Man Niu couldn't physically outrun us anyway, her lower limbs had already instinctively synchronized with the retreat.

Having undergone rigorous stamina conditioning under the speed-ability operative Zheng Shanhe, the quartet possessed peerless cross-country transit capabilities. Old Man Niu found himself completely incapable of closing the distance, reduced to standing at the gate and roaring furious obscenities in their wake: "You insolent brutes! If you have the audacity, don't ever bother coming back!!!"

Hilarity echoing in their wake, the four youths sprinted unimpeded until they collapsed against the exterior perimeter wall of a quiet residential block, wheezing heavily, their lungs expanding and contracting as they gulped down ambient air.

Xia Wang'an exhibited the highest baseline recovery, her respiratory rate barely elevated above resting baseline. Yet watching her three companions double over in breathless fits of laughter, an infectious warmth tugged at her lips, and she began chuckling alongside them.

Cai Cai clutched her heavily protesting ribs, gasping for air: "Wang'an... do you recall back in primary school when we used to pull these exact stunts? We'd sprint while the headmaster chased us down the halls—it was absolute chaos."

Xia Wang'an strained to excavate her archival memory banks, ultimately offering a regretful shake of her head: "I have no recollection of that."

To suppress her escalating mental pollution levels during her formative adolescent years, Xia Wang'an had systematically excised substantial segments of her autobiographical memory. Yet the specific underlying catalyst driving her to purge those segments remained frustratingly opaque.

Failing to retrieve shared childhood milestones with her peers triggered an instinctive jitteriness; her fingertips twitched against her pockets, yearning for an examination paper to soothe her cognitive static.

Yuanning registered the micro-shift instantly. Extending his long, slender palm—its skin roughened by faint calluses from manual labor—he gently enclosed Xia Wang'an’s fingers within his own, replicating a childhood gesture of quiet reassurance.

Xia Wang'an looked up, meeting the youth's gentle, reassuring gaze as he turned toward Cai Cai and casually interjected: "I don't recall it either. Who genuinely retains distinct memories from primary school anyway?"

Qiuzhuang chimed in from the sidelines: "Damn it! I didn't transfer into your academy until middle school—you two reminiscing about elementary days is blatant social isolation!"

Cai Cai delivered a resounding slap against his shoulder: "Relax! We'll just provoke Old Man Niu with comparable frequency moving forward; you'll accumulate identical trauma memories in no time!"

Xia Wang'an paused, a subtle, upward arc forming at the corners of her lips as she nodded with solemn sincerity: "Indeed!"

She felt genuinely content. Observing her smile, Yuanning’s expression mirrored her satisfaction; though Cai Cai remained oblivious to the underlying emotional subtext, she continued grinning brightly, while Qiuzhuang cheerfully bumbled along in blissful ignorance.

Ultimately, everyone experienced profound happiness—with the singular exception of Old Man Niu.

And while Xia Wang'an luxuriated in carefree recreational hours surrounded by her companions, out across the broader geopolitical grid—operating within an environment where ordinary citizens continuously struggled to secure even five-tenths of a standard daily caloric baseline—heavy freight trucks continued rolling forward.

Carrying precious sacks of uncorrupted grain, accompanied by scarce yet meticulously preserved seasonal vegetables, the transport convoys pressed onward into every designated administrative sector.