raknovel Chapter 116 No! I am who I am!
Chapter 116 No! I am who I am!
Chapter 116 No! I am who I am!
"Isn't I dead?"
Alka Punk murmured.
The sound didn't travel because there was no air around.
But this sentence created a clear vibration within my consciousness, like striking a hollow bone.
He can't feel his body.
But I can still feel my body.
Conflicting information flooded in at the same time.
He has no limbs, no torso, no skin, but there is a sense of "boundary," something that separates him from the outside world, even though the outside world is also empty.
Then a sense of connection emerged.
It didn't come from one direction; it came from all directions simultaneously.
Countless fine threads passed through that boundary, hooked onto the core of his consciousness, and began to pull.
He was dragged out.
It moves very fast, but there are no reference points, so it's impossible to judge how fast it is.
I just felt like I was moving.
Fly, fly.
This description is inaccurate because there is no wind, no resistance, only pure displacement.
Then the boundary changed.
Gurgle.
It's like entering a giant bubble.
The moist feeling envelops you, but it's not the kind of moisture that comes from water; it's more like a semi-solid gel—warm, elastic, and slowly flowing.
The voice appeared directly in her consciousness: "Arka, my Arka, you've come."
Familiar with.
The timbre, intonation, and rhythm of the pauses were exactly the same as I remembered.
My mother's voice.
Alka did not respond.
He felt himself being absorbed. The boundaries began to dissolve, and a gelatinous substance seeped in, carrying with it a large amount of debris.
Fragments of memory.
They have mothers.
The smell of bacon frying in the kitchen, the afternoon sunlight casting patterns on the floor through the lace curtains, the warmth of my fingers stroking his forehead.
There's one by Jeffrey King.
The recoil of the pistol made my hand numb, the bitter taste of cheap beer in the bar, and the mole below a woman's collarbone.
There's one with Gene Jose.
The sound of the prison gates closing, the feel of soap sliding on the concrete floor, the texture of breakfast cereal that has been soaked for too long and turned into a paste.
There's more.
Thousands upon thousands.
"This is----"
Alka felt a sense of familiarity.
Each fragment carries the emotional undertones of its original owner—gentle, accepting, like returning to a place one should have long ago.
Beautiful.
It's like completely integrating with everyone.
But the next second, unfamiliar fragments rushed in.
anger.
A man named Tom from Utah.
The suffocating feeling of a gun pointed at the chest, the stinging pain of an old knee injury, the sound of a morning bell turning into a bone-scraping knife.
sad.
It comes from a girl named Alice.
Watching his loved one eat turkey.
And it's cold.
An endless expanse of cold.
It's like being thrown into a cold storage; your skin freezes, your blood turns to ice, and even your thinking slows down.
And I'm hungry.
The hunger that had disappeared from my stomach.
The stomach wall was rubbing against itself, stomach acid was burning the esophagus, my fingers were trembling, and my vision was blurry.
These sensations did not come in a specific order.
It happened at the same time.
All memories, all perceptions, all emotions crashed into Alka's consciousness like a tsunami.
He tried to maintain his individuality.
"It feels so good, everyone."
This sentence came to mind automatically, like a conditioned reflex after being assimilated by the gel.
Then he struggled.
"No! I am Alka Punk!"
The sound exploded within consciousness.
"This kind of integration is wrong!"
no respond.
His words were like tiny bubbles, rising in an endless gel of loving kindness, floating to the surface, and then bursting with a "pop."
The ripples spread out in a small circle and then disappeared.
The gel continues to flow.
Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University, third floor of the biology lab building.
The air smelled of formalin and culture medium.
Professor Kain Heinrich bent over, his eyes pressed against the microscope eyepiece.
He held the fine-tuning knob in his right hand and recorded data on his notebook with his left.
There were three sterile petri dishes on the worktable in front of him.
Inside are mycelial samples isolated from different homeless people.
Grayish-white, as thin as a hair, it grows slowly in the nutrient gel.
The fourth petri dish contains the experimental subjects.
A white mouse, half of its body crushed and its internal organs exposed, but it was still alive.
The hyphae penetrate the wound and spread through the interstitial spaces, forming a dense network.
My heartbeat continued, faint but regular.
At least scientifically speaking, it is still alive.
"professor."
The voice came from behind.
Kain Heinrich did not move, continuing to stare at the microscope.
He recognized the person as a postdoctoral researcher from India, but he couldn't remember the last name; the pronunciation was complicated.
"What is it?"
The impatience in his tone was obvious.
"The dean and the others urgently invited you to come over."
Kain Heinrich finally straightened up and turned his head.
The postdoctoral researcher stood two meters away, his face displaying a mixture of fear and frustration.
There was sweat on his forehead, and the collar of his white coat was askew.
"An urgent invitation?"
"Yes, Professor. They sent an email, but you didn't reply. So they sent me to get you."
Kain Heinrich frowned.
He definitely didn't read the email.
He has been here for the past six hours, observing how the hyphae maintain the metabolic activity of the damaged tissue.
This stuff has enormous potential. If we could isolate the active ingredients and develop it into a clinical formulation—
He suppressed his thoughts, walked to the cabinet next to the control panel, and took out his phone.
The screen lit up with three unread emails, all from the Dean's Office.
The title reads "Emergency Meeting!"
He opened the latest email and quickly scanned the text.
It's about that Noah AI thing that's been all the rage lately.
Kain Heinrich put down his phone.
"This could very well grant immortality."
He spoke in German, in a very low voice, as if talking to himself.
Then he cursed a few more times in German mixed with slang.
The postdoctoral researcher stood there, not understanding, but not daring to ask.
Kain Heinrich returned to the workbench, carefully transferred the mycelial sample from the microscope into a sealed petri dish, labeled it, and placed it in the refrigerator. He locked it.
Then he took off his white coat and hung it behind the door.
"lead the way."
He said.
The two walked out of the laboratory, the door closed automatically, and the airtight lock made a slight clicking sound.
The corridor was long, and the cold white light shone on the smooth tile floor.
The sound of footsteps echoed.
Kain Heinrich walked along, thinking about the mycelium.
Their properties, such as maintaining vital signs in severely damaged individuals, repairing neural connections, and possibly even delaying cell apoptosis, are all worthy of in-depth study.
But now we have to have a meeting.
He recalled a report he had received last week from a colleague in Florida.
A new drug-resistant strain was mentioned, with an unknown transmission route. Infected individuals develop tissue fibrosis but remain conscious.
He didn't pay attention at the time.
Now we might need to pay attention to this.
The elevator doors opened, and the two stepped inside. The postdoctoral researcher pressed the button for the seventh floor.
As the elevator ascended, Kain Heinrich looked at his reflection in the metal door.
The elevator has arrived.
The door opened, revealing the corridor leading to the administration floor.
The carpet was thick and absorbed all the sound.
Kain Heinrich walked out and headed straight for the conference room.