Adrian said irritably, “I’ll say it again—I didn’t want to hit him!”

“No way, man! Over the years, you’ve knocked down enough people to circle the headquarters three times! Aren’t you the type to hit first, talk later?” Fein exaggerated, “You even fought me once!”

“That was because you deserved it.” Adrian wasn’t in the mood to argue. He raised a hand to stop Fein from retorting. “Did you get the list from ‘Specimen’?”

Fein looked like he wanted to keep the conversation going, but since Adrian mentioned official business, he had to stifle his curiosity.

“It just came in; the Liaison Officer returned a few minutes before you. Here.”

Adrian took the stack of crisp white sheets. In an era where most information was displayed on virtual screens and even physical screens were rare, regular citizens almost never came into contact with such an old-fashioned medium as real paper. The “Specimen” group was always cautious, firmly adhering to a one-on-one, in-person message transmission policy. Short messages were relayed verbally, and if written, they used pens—vintage mechanical pens, not styluses for virtual screens. For lengthy messages, like this list of confirmed anti-AI faculty members from the Federation’s Highest Academy, paper was the only viable option.

The Highest Academy held a special status in the Federation. A hundred years ago, after generations of relentless attempts and several failures, humanity finally created a mature, independently-operating artificial small planet. Keeping it running was extremely costly, and the entire Federation had a heated debate over what purpose it should serve. Some advocated moving the Academy of Sciences there, others suggested making it an eco-planet, and some wanted it developed as a luxury residential area. Ultimately, the first-generation AI “Cocoon” proposed building a school there.

A school was seen as sacred, and dissenting voices were silenced. Thus, the Federation’s Highest Academy was established, covering most of the small planet, with the remaining areas designated for the faculty and staff’s families. This first artificial planet became a purely academic world, and its name followed the institution’s, becoming “Academy Star.”

Less than three years after the Highest Academy’s establishment, “Cocoon” retired, and humanity entered a new era of safety, efficiency, and optimal development under a new AI named “Butterfly.”

Since its first class of students, the Highest Academy had only accepted the best across the Federation, and three years after this initial intake, the first graduation ceremony coincided with the activation of “Butterfly.” This marked the Federation’s first graduation season.

The Academy’s establishment was only possible because of AI, and the century-long prestige it earned was tightly intertwined with “Butterfly.” For most of the past century, the Academy has reciprocated with unwavering loyalty to “Butterfly.” The students set an example, actively supporting and obeying “Butterfly’s” decisions. Over the past hundred years, many of its graduates have gone on to hold important positions, establishing new aristocratic families that, together with old family powers, formed a complex network in Capital Star’s high society.

Only in the past thirty years have Academy graduates publicly rejected “Butterfly’s” arrangements during graduation ceremonies. Ten years ago, the planet witnessed its first radical anti-AI protests. Who would have thought that history would unfold as it has? At this centennial graduation ceremony of the Federation’s Highest Academy, the refusal rate reached a staggering forty-six percent—surpassing other top-tier institutions and breaking their own record of forty-one percent from the previous year.

With so many students showing resistance, there had to be faculty members with similar sentiments. Some openly stated their positions, others were ambiguous, and still others stayed silent. Separating truth from deception required thorough investigation, leading Adrian’s team to partner with “Specimen’s” Academy Star branch, agreeing to share information.

After scanning the pages, Adrian remarked, “Some positions here…we can make use of.”

Fein nodded in agreement, clearly familiar with the list. “The Liaison Officer has scheduled a solo meeting with you tomorrow. ‘Specimen’ has given him a heads-up about their next steps on Academy Star.”

“Alright, I’ll talk with him and see where we stand,” Adrian said, stretching a bit, then casually asked, “How’s the public response today?”

Fein’s eyes brightened, thinking Adrian was finally willing to discuss Zhong Yan, and he eagerly blurted out, “What do you think? It’s chaotic! You should see what everyone’s saying. Some say you bullied that guy at the entrance with a crowd, others speculate about your encounter this afternoon. Some claim he’s practically taken over as the Atte family’s young master. But what everyone’s freaking out about is the marriage rumor! Your supporters are going crazy, engaging in personal attacks and conspiracy theories. Oh, and what’s ‘above’? Someone read that guy’s lips.”

Adrian looked at him with a headache. “I meant…public reactions to the Academy’s forty-six percent rejection rate.”

“Oh, that.” Fein shrugged. “People hardly paid attention. Isn’t this normal? It only went up five percent, less than last year’s increase.”

Last year, a serious AI misjudgment scandal erupted on Capital Star. A young girl who’d posted anti-AI opinions for years in virtual communities and was somewhat known in certain forums was mistakenly judged guilty in a civil dispute. The scandal escalated for months until the Supreme Council publicly apologized and admitted the error. Although the Council repeatedly stated that this was a rare error due to “Butterfly’s” routine updates and was purely technical, public opinion didn’t settle. Over the years, various rumors and leaks, whether true or false, made people question if the Supreme Council could influence “Butterfly’s” decisions. Had “Butterfly” lost its impartiality? Had it developed a self-awareness that suppressed dissent?

Any of these possibilities were enough to unsettle the public. By the end of the year, surveys from major institutions showed that support for restoring human governance exceeded thirty percent.

“Last year’s scandal certainly stirred the public, but this year’s increase is still significant,” Adrian said. “That event wasn’t an ideal way to get people to think critically. To inspire genuine consideration and recognition…”

Fein interrupted, “Why not? I thought it was great. After all, it was that demon ‘Butterfly’ who made the misjudgment first; ‘Specimen’ just seized the opportunity to sway public sentiment. Some people are just blindly devoted to ‘Butterfly’; they wouldn’t wake up unless something big happened. Speaking of which,” Fein tapped his copy of the list, “Who is this group? They’ve stirred up several major scandals over the years, each involving them as instigators. And their sources—they had internal files from Capital Star’s Central Hospital to overturn last year’s case! And now this internal list from the Academy…they must have high-level connections. Shouldn’t we look into them?”

Adrian tapped the table thoughtfully. “No need. Caution is the survival strategy of such underground organizations. If they couldn’t keep secrets, they’d have been wiped out long ago. As long as they don’t interfere in Navi, I won’t concern myself.”

They were in the middle of their discussion when Adrian received a message from Wei Lan about Zhong Yan’s treatment progress.

Zhong Yan lay on the bed, looking weary. The medication had started working, and he felt more comfortable, but also exhausted and a bit sleepy.

The room was set at the ideal scientific temperature, but his body temperature was dropping, and he felt a chill. He glanced around; other than Adrian’s jacket by the bed, there was nothing else he could cover himself with.

He gave up searching and pulled the jacket over himself. Suddenly, he felt something hard pressing against him. Curiously, he reached inside and pulled out a completely battered camera.

When Adrian came in, he saw Zhong Yan half-sitting in bed, absentmindedly toying with the camera’s remains.

“What’s this?” Zhong Yan held it up when he saw Adrian enter. “A patrol camera from the school?”

Adrian dragged a chair to the farthest corner of the room. “Yes.”

“Why did you destroy it?”

“No reason. It annoyed me.”

For some reason, Adrian didn’t sound happy about this question—he didn’t say so directly, but Zhong Yan could tell. Wisely, Zhong Yan decided to change the subject.

“I need to contact my assistant. Is this room signal-blocked? Can I go out to reach them?”

“No. You want to explore my ship’s structure while you’re at it?”

Zhong Yan was far more clear-headed now, and his emotions were calm as always when he was rational. He replied calmly, “This ship is a standard Federation small-sized high-end model.”

“Modified. Step outside, and there are secret weapons everywhere. I’m here watching you myself. It’s late—haven’t you had enough excitement for one day?” Adrian said impatiently, “I’ve given you the bed, so go to sleep before I change my mind.”

Zhong Yan was helpless against Adrian’s stubbornness. But it was indeed late, and this was, after all, the high-profile Academy Star, just after yesterday’s grand event. Heading out now wouldn’t be ideal…He accepted the offer to wait until tomorrow to leave.

Though…he was feeling a bit thirsty.

Zhong Yan opened his mouth but then closed it. Adrian had said not to call him by name, but asking him to pour water without addressing him would probably just annoy him further. He hesitated, unsure of what to call him. He could always use Adrian’s formal title, “Commander Atte,” just like the countless millions across the Federation who had nothing to do with Adrian personally.

But Adrian seemed entirely engrossed in his virtual screen, probably working on military district files.

After some thought, Zhong Yan finally tried, “…Classmate, could you pour me a glass of water?”