It's 520 Again

“Moss, help me condense this macroeconomics paper into an 800-word summary, and order me a pancake with double eggs and sausage.”

In Peking University’s Dorm 404, Guo Yang lay in bed without lifting a finger, just shouting into the air.

The screen of his deep-space Meizu phone on the desk lit up.

“Got it. The summary has been generated and sent to your file transfer assistant. The order has been placed and is expected to arrive in eight minutes. Additionally, based on the health checkup data from your bound university hospital, your recent blood lipid levels are on the high side. I recommend replacing the sausage with lettuce.”

Guo Yang rolled his eyes.

“Mind your own business. I want the sausage.”

“Instruction confirmed. The sausage has been kept.”

Li Zicong was sitting below playing games without looking up. “Are you really too lazy to even get up and grab your phone now?”

“This is called enjoying the dividends of technology,” Guo Yang said, stretching comfortably. “Back in the day, ordering takeout meant opening an app, flipping through choices for ages. Now it’s just one sentence. That Moss Chen Zhi cooked up is basically a slacker’s dream.”

Zhang Tianyang pushed up his glasses. “It’s not just for slackers. Yesterday I went to the dentist—didn’t even have to book an appointment myself. I just pointed my phone at myself with Moss, and it gave me a preliminary screening report, plus booked an expert appointment for this afternoon. This thing is getting scary.”

The dorm door swung open.

Chen Zhi walked in, wrapped in a gust of early summer heat, carrying a few cups of iced coffee.

“What are you guys talking about that’s so scary?”

Guo Yang sat up in bed like a fresh fish springing up and immediately flashed a fawning grin.

“Godfather! What brings you back to the dorm today?”

Chen Zhi tossed the coffee onto the table.

“Grabbing some textbooks. I have a closed-book exam this afternoon.”

Li Zicong took off his headphones, looked at Chen Zhi, and wore a complicated expression.

“Boss Chen, you’re a multi-billionaire worth hundreds of billions, and you still have to take a Marxism exam with us? Isn’t that a bit surreal?”

Half a year had passed since that nationwide-stirring forum at Peking University.

In those six months, the world outside had turned upside down.

Shenkong Technology hadn’t gone public, but it had just completed a Series C funding round the previous month.

Its valuation: $520 billion.

That didn’t just break the record for the world’s youngest startup’s valuation—it catapulted Shenkong Technology onto the throne as the fastest-growing company in human history.

Chen Zhi was now so wealthy that he could casually buy half the school with spare change.

But he still had to come back for his Marxism exam.

“Being worth hundreds of billions doesn’t get me an exemption,” Chen Zhi said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He stuck a straw into his iced coffee and took a sip. “If I fail another course, the academic advisor will start nagging again.”

Guo Yang climbed down from his bed, grabbed a cup of coffee. “Godfather, seriously, how much money is your company making now? I saw the news yesterday—Baidu’s search business has dropped almost forty percent in six months, and its stock price has been cut in half.”

Chen Zhi smiled.

“Times have changed.”

Over these six months, Shenkong Technology had done something that pissed off every major internet company.

The MossOS plugin ecosystem rolled out fully.

Before, users needed to download dozens of different apps to book a ride, order food, check the news, or buy plane tickets on their phones.

Now, they didn’t need to.

Users just had to say to Moss: “I need to go to the airport, and grab a Starbucks on the way.”

Moss automatically calls for a ride through the taxi plugin, while simultaneously placing an order via the coffee plugin, precisely calculating the time so that the user can pick up a hot coffee just as they pass the store.

No app launch pages, no splash screen ads, no cumbersome redirects.

Ultimate efficiency.

This directly caused a catastrophic drop in the opening rates of traditional apps.

The traffic pools that major tech giants prided themselves on were intercepted by Moss in a single move.

"Alright, go ahead and review your notes. I need to head back to the company." Chen Zhi picked up his books and didn't linger in the dorm.

...

Half an hour later, on the twentieth floor of the ICC.

By now, it wasn't just the twentieth floor—the entire top ten floors of the ICC had been fully leased by Deepsky Technology.

No sooner had Chen Zhi stepped into the CEO's office than Pei Ningxue pushed open the door and walked in.

She was dressed in a well-tailored beige business suit today, her long hair tied back, holding a thick file in her hands.

"Sign this." Pei Ningxue slapped the file onto Chen Zhi's desk.

Chen Zhi glanced down at it.

Deepsky Technology Series C Option Pool Exercise Plan

"Five point two trillion in valuation—those Wall Street guys finally came around?" Chen Zhi picked up a pen and scribbled his signature.

Pei Ningxue pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing her long legs.

"What else could they do? Last month, the open-source alliance backed by Google and Microsoft released their new model, but it couldn't even beat the version Moss had six months ago. Now developers from all over the world are flocking to our plugin marketplace."

She looked at Chen Zhi, a trace of pride she hadn't even noticed creeping into her voice.

"Chen, you're officially a hundred-billion-dollar billionaire now. How does it feel?"

Chen Zhi pushed the signed document back.

"Not bad, except I've got more people hitting me up for money every day."

Pei Ningxue tapped her fingers on the desk twice.

"This half-year's financials are insane. Moss phone global sales have surpassed 40 million units, but that's just the carrier. The real money is in the service fees from MossOS."

She paused.

"We've not only locked down the phone market, but now domestic EV infotainment systems, smart home systems (sic), and even part of the underlying control for industrial manufacturing are all integrating Moss. That Industry 4.0 you always talked about? It's really here."

Habit is a terrifying thing.

Once humans get used to solving every problem by just speaking, there's no going back to the era of tapping screens everywhere.

Chen Zhi leaned back in his chair.

"Any news from Baidu lately?"

"Li Mingyuan has been pulled from the core business lines," Pei Ningxue said flatly. "Baidu's search gateway has been drained dry by Moss. All they can do now is sell off some old assets to keep their financials afloat."

Just then, there was a knock on the office door.

Dai Damai walked in, holding a newly assembled test device.

"Boss, Pei." He greeted them and set the test device directly on the desk.

"The latest iteration of Moss—its multimodal comprehension has climbed another level. Now it can not only understand human speech, but also analyze users' emotions and micro-expressions in real time via the camera, proactively offering services."

Dai Damai grew more excited as he spoke.

“This thing is way too human now. I was working late in the lab last night, sighed, and it actually asked me if I was stuck on a bottleneck, then played me some ‘Great Compassion Mantra’ to calm my nerves.”

Chen Zhi’s mouth twitched.

“You wrote that ‘Great Compassion Mantra’ plug-in yourself, didn’t you?”

“That’s not the point.” Dai Damai pushed his glasses up. “The point is, our daily active users have surpassed 400 million. Right now, no company in the world can threaten us in the AI ecosystem.”

Chen Zhi nodded.

“Good work. Give the tech team an extra treat this week.”

Dai Damai hugged the test machine and left with satisfaction.

The office fell quiet again.

Pei Ningxue picked up the documents from the table and was about to leave. When she reached the door, she suddenly stopped.

She turned back to look at Chen Zhi.

“By the way, Mr. Zhang from Hillhouse just called me. He wants to invite you to dinner tomorrow night to discuss the follow-up on the spin-off and IPO.”

Chen Zhi glanced at the desk calendar on his desk corner.

May 19th.

“Cancel it,” Chen Zhi refused directly.

Pei Ningxue raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Zhang is the lead investor in our Series C round. You’re not even giving him face?”

“I’m busy tomorrow.” Chen Zhi’s tone was casual, but there was no room for negotiation. “Cancel everything for tomorrow—meetings, interviews, dinners, all of it.”

Pei Ningxue looked at him, silent for a few seconds.

She was an extremely sharp woman. Four months ago in Beijing University’s library, she had already figured out where Chen Zhi’s weak spot lay.

She also knew what day it was tomorrow.

May 20th.

Chen Zhi’s birthday.

And someone else’s birthday too.

Pei Ningxue didn’t press further. She just nodded lightly.

“Got it. I won’t schedule any work for you tomorrow.”

She pushed open the door and walked out, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hallway.

Chen Zhi sat alone behind his desk.

Outside the window, Beijing’s early summer sunlight bathed the city in brightness, the entire CBD’s splendor in full view.

A business empire worth 520 billion U.S. dollars, the world’s most advanced AI ecosystem, a peak admired by countless people.

But none of that held his attention now.

Chen Zhi pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk.

Inside, there was no company secret, no Patek Philippe watch—just an ordinary, slightly yellowed small cardboard box.

【Do not open for one year. If you open it, you’ll never see me again.】

That was the “second gift” Lin Wanwan had personally handed to him half a year ago, in the early hours of that rainy Jiangcheng morning.

Chen Zhi took the box out and placed it on the desk.

Time had flown.

Over this year, he hadn’t called Lin Wanwan even once, hadn’t sent a single WeChat message, and hadn’t used any resources to track her whereabouts in Boston.

He had forcibly endured an entire year.

Endured until DeepSky Tech had grown into an unshakable behemoth, endured until his leg injury had fully healed, endured until today.

Counting the days, nearly ten months had passed since that rainy night in Jiangcheng.

Lin Wanwan had been in Boston for exactly half a year now.

Chen Zhi leaned back in his chair, his fingers gently tracing the rough surface of the cardboard box.

Six months, and she truly hadn’t let out a single message. Back then, she’d said she’d contact him when she was ready. Turned out, once this girl made up her mind, she was more ruthless than anyone.

Chen Zhi pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

He didn’t have the face to call Lin Shuxian or Lin Jing. During the New Year, he had sent them a holiday greeting message. Lin Shuxian simply replied with an "Mm," while Lin Jing acted as if she hadn’t seen it at all.

Two decades of neighborly bonds between their families, and he had somehow strained them to this unfamiliar degree.

He could only dial Su Man’s number.

After a few rings, she picked up.

"Director Chen." Su Man’s voice carried a courteous, businesslike tone.

"Man Jie," he said, casual yet hesitant, "Are you busy?"

"I just finished running a schedule with a newcomer. Any instructions, Director Chen?"

"Tomorrow is May 20th," Chen Zhi said directly. "How is she doing over there?"

Su Man paused for two seconds.

"She’s doing well. Her studies are going smoothly, she’s made new friends, and she’s adjusted to the local food."

It was always the same standard answers.

"Tomorrow’s her birthday. Will anyone celebrate with her?" Chen Zhi asked.

"I’m not sure. Wanwan is very independent now. She has her own social circle." Su Man’s tone softened slightly. "Director Chen, remember the agreement—one year, and it hasn’t been that long yet."

"I know." Chen Zhi rubbed his brow. "I’m just asking. Does she have enough money?"

"She has a full scholarship, Director Chen. She doesn’t need anyone else to support her now."

The call ended.

Chen Zhi stared at the darkened phone screen and let out a sigh.

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a small cardboard box, and then put it back again.

The office fell silent.

Chen Zhi turned his head to look at the Moss testing machine on the desk.

"Moss," he said.

"I’m here, Director Chen." The screen lit up.

"Search the public video archives of the Berklee College of Music in Boston for the last six months. Filter criteria: Lin Wanwan, or WanwanLin."

Within ten seconds, several video windows popped up on the computer screen.

Most were from internal school performance recordings, and one showed her singing in a corner bar with a laid-back vibe.

Chen Zhi clicked on a video.

It looked like a passerby had recorded it with their phone.

Lin Wanwan sat on a high stool, holding an acoustic guitar. She had cut her hair short and wore a simple white T-shirt with jeans.

She was singing an old English song.

Her voice no longer had that spoiled, sheltered quality from before. Now, it carried a newfound ease and resilience.

After she finished the song, a white guy at the bottom whistled loudly and walked up to her, drink in hand, trying to chat her up.

Lin Wanwan smiled and shook her head, politely declining in fluent English. Then she slung her guitar over her shoulder and walked out the back door without a second glance.

Chen Zhi pressed pause.

The frame froze on her carefree, departing figure.

She had really grown up.

At seven in the evening.

Chen Zhi pushed open the door to Wanliu Shuyuan.

The room was lit with warm yellow light, and from the kitchen came the rich aroma of pork rib soup.

Li Zhiyi, wearing a gray hoodie and an apron, was placing the last dish on the table.

When she saw Chen Zhi, her eyes curved into a smile.

"You’re back. Wash up and come eat."

Chen Zhi changed his shoes and walked over. He looked at the four dishes and one soup on the table. In the middle sat a small strawberry cake.

"It’s not my birthday today," Chen Zhi said as he pulled out a chair.

"Tomorrow’s your birthday." Li Zhiyi handed him the chopsticks. "But tomorrow, President Pei will definitely have your time booked. So I’m celebrating a day early. That’s not cheating, is it?"

Chen Zhi took the chopsticks, then gently pulled her wrist, guiding her to sit down beside him.

"I’m not going to the company tomorrow. Not going anywhere."

Li Zhiyi froze for a moment, then shook her head.

"Stop messing around. Today, Mr. Pei even canceled your work for you. If you don't show up tomorrow, what's she supposed to do?"

She cut a piece of cake and placed it on Chen Zhi's plate.

"Try it. I made it myself. Not too much cream."

Chen Zhi took a bite.

"It's good."

Li Zhiyi rested her chin on her hand and looked at him.

"Chen Zhi, are you in a bad mood today?"

"No, I'm not."

"You can't fool me." Li Zhiyi reached out and gently smoothed the slight furrow between his brows. "It's because tomorrow is also Lin Wanwan's birthday, isn't it?"

Chen Zhi paused mid-motion.

Li Zhiyi withdrew her hand, her tone very calm.

"These past six months, even though you haven't mentioned her, I know you've been keeping it in your heart. It's about that time, isn't it?"

After dinner, Li Zhiyi washed the dishes in the kitchen.

The sound of running water roared loudly.

Chen Zhi was restless.