Genius Club

Chapter 475: The First Millennial Stake

This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation

Once bitten by a snake, one fears even a harmless rope for ten years.

When Mai Mai opened her eyes, Lin Xian quickly leaned over, carefully checking her pupils.

Hmm.

Good.

They were black, not glowing blue. The danger level dropped instantly by 99.754%, allowing Lin Xian to breathe a sigh of relief.

Based on his observations in the Sixth Dreamscape, he knew that when a normal human woke from a hibernation chamber, it usually took time. The process wasn’t quick.

Typically, it took over an hour for the body to regain sensation, and even longer to stand. Speaking came even more slowly.

So Lin Xian figured he had at least two hours to kill. With nothing else to do, he picked up Mai Mai’s manuscript, “Devouring Heaven Demon Emperor.” Even if it turned out boring, it might at least help him pass the time.

He found a spot and sat down, flipping through the first few pages. He skipped over something labeled “Qizi.”

“Shouldn’t it be called a ‘Prologue’?” Lin Xian muttered to himself, shaking his head. There had been too much to criticize before for him to focus on just one thing.

“Really, Mai Mai? Why does everything about this scream ‘failed author’?” He decided to skip the prologue altogether and started with what he thought was the main story.

However—

Instead of the main story, he was greeted by four large characters:

“Realm Settings”

“There are a total of 12 levels in this book, each with 12 sub-levels. Each sub-level has four stages: upper, middle, lower, and complete. Altogether, there are 576 realms…”

Snap.

Lin Xian shut the manuscript decisively. “Hopeless.”

At this point, he had no expectations left for Mai Mai’s so-called masterpiece. Whether it was the structure, the writing, or even the ordering of “Realm Settings” right after a prologue—she had every sign of a cliché failure. It was a perfect demonstration of how not to write a book. ?

Yet, there was one thing in the prologue that caught his eye—April 17th, 2025.

So, with some reluctance, he reopened the manuscript and forced himself to read the awkward, overly dramatic text:

“On April 17th, 2025, the Mist of the Demon God descended upon the world, marking its end… This story is based on real events.”

Lin Xian paused, deep in thought. There’s no smoke without fire, as the saying goes.

Even though Mai Mai’s story seemed ridiculous and fantastical, she specifically noted that it was based on real events. That meant there had to be some element of truth behind this “Mist of the Demon God.”

Otherwise, why bother emphasizing it?

If the date wasn’t so close to his present time, he would have brushed it off without a second thought. But April 17th was just a month away. And mid-April also happened to be the estimated due date for Zhao Ying Jun’s baby—the day his little Yu Xi would be born. As a soon-to-be father, how could he ignore such a detail?

Lin Xian nodded to himself.

“Judging from her author bio, Mai Mai seems like someone with big dreams and ambitions—someone who takes her work seriously. She wouldn’t just make something up like this.”

“From that perspective, there must be something major happening on April 17th, 2025.”

“Otherwise, why would a girl born in 2222 remember an event from 200 years ago so clearly—right down to the exact date?”

The more he thought about it, the clearer Lin Xian’s thoughts became.

“Besides, every author wants a hook. Since Mai Mai chose this date and pointed out that it’s based on real events, then clearly, this historical event must have been well-known—something everyone talked about.”

“It couldn’t possibly be Yu Xi’s birthday, right? Could it be that the ‘Demon God’ refers to little Yu Xi?”

Lin Xian shook his head and chuckled. Even if Yu Xi had once been a time-traveling assassin and a near-unstoppable force, she couldn’t possibly be called a “Demon God.” Not now, with her prenatal education consisting mainly of cartoons for toddlers. No way.

“Impossible,” Lin Xian murmured to himself. “This time, Yu Xi will definitely be a gentle, well-behaved little girl.”

So then—what exactly was the “Mist of the Demon God” incident on April 17th, 2025?

With no clues and no way to find out more, Lin Xian looked up at Mai Mai, who was slowly waking inside the hibernation chamber. Her body was beginning to move—tilting her head, stretching her legs—as she gradually regained sensation, performing the various checks prompted by the system.

Finally—

With a soft whirr, the hibernation chamber’s lid lifted open. Everything was calm, with no mist escaping. The liquid had already been pumped out.

Mai Mai sat up, blinking at Lin Xian in curiosity, while Lin Xian studied her in return. She was quite tall, probably at least 165 centimeters, with a slim build and clear, delicate features. She looked like the sort of “literary girl” who belonged in a scholarly family—someone brimming with talent.

Except, after reading her supposed masterpiece, Lin Xian couldn’t quite see her in the same light.

Mai Mai stared at him, then asked, “You are…” She looked down at her hands, bewildered. “And I am… Where is this place?”

It had been so long since he’d seen another living person. Lin Xian wanted to make a good impression, so he extended his hand politely. “Hello, Mai Mai. My name is Lin Xian.”

“Lin Xian?” Mai Mai blinked. “I am… Mai Mai?”

She seemed confused, but noticing Lin Xian wasn’t hostile, she relaxed and reached out, using his hand for support as she stepped out of the chamber.

“My name is Mai Mai?” she asked again, looking at Lin Xian.

“That’s right,” he nodded. “Judging by your age, you should be seventeen or eighteen. You were born in 2222, so it’s likely you went into hibernation around 2240 and just woke up.”

He pointed to a nearby storage locker. “Normally, you would watch the memory video in that locker first. It would help you remember some things before hibernation. But since everything here is damaged, we can’t play it.”

“Instead, you might want to check this out.” He handed her the manuscript. “You can sit there and read it—maybe it will help jog some memories. Whatever you remember, we can talk about it after.”

Since it was something she had written herself, there was a chance it could trigger her memories. Perhaps—if they were lucky—this seemingly ridiculous book might even be a memory code she had left behind for herself.

Mai Mai obediently took the manuscript, sitting down against the hibernation chamber, using its light to read. She kept flipping the pages, her eyes widening at times, a frown crossing her face at others. Her reactions surprised Lin Xian.

Was she really starting to remember something?

Seeing her so absorbed in reading, Lin Xian chose not to disturb her. He waited—and waited—and waited some more…

Two hours later, Mai Mai was still reading, while Lin Xian had grown bored, yawning repeatedly. He glanced at his watch.

00:10.

He had found this rock crevice before dusk. Between climbing, exploring, waiting for Mai Mai, and giving her time to read, the evening had slipped away. If he waited much longer, he’d run out of time and have to leave the dreamscape.

Clearing his throat, Lin Xian spoke up, “So, what do you think?”

Mai Mai looked up, her eyes shining with sudden determination. “It’s a masterpiece!”

“Huh?”

Lin Xian blinked, taken aback.

Mai Mai pointed at the manuscript on her lap, giving a big thumbs up. “This book—it’s a masterpiece! It’s amazing!”

Lin Xian was speechless. Was she really praising her own work like that?

“I was asking if you remembered anything,” Lin Xian clarified, his patience thinning. “Like, it says here, ‘April 17th, 2025, when the Mist of the Demon God descended upon the world’—what does that mean?”

“Oh, you mean that?” Mai Mai replied casually.

Hmm?

Her response gave Lin Xian a glimmer of hope. “You know what it means?”

“Of course!” Mai Mai said, flipping through the manuscript to chapter 16. “Isn’t it written clearly here? The ‘Demon God’ is the main villain who reached the peak of the eleventh level, the Destruction Realm, and on April 17th, 2025, spread a mist of despair that enveloped the world.”

She looked up at Lin Xian’s puzzled face. “What?”

Lin Xian was left speechless again. Was he too old to understand how young people thought these days?

“That’s exactly what it says in the book,” Mai Mai insisted, noticing Lin Xian’s skepticism. She handed him the manuscript. “See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Lin Xian sighed. “So, after all this, you just got lost in the book.”

“It’s just so good!” Mai Mai said, visibly excited.

“Right, right,” Lin Xian said, deciding not to argue—there wasn’t time. He pointed to the prologue again, tapping the last line. “Look, it says the background of this story is based on real events. I want to know—what’s the real event this is based on?”

“Oh, that,” Mai Mai scratched her head, her gaze turning apologetic. “I have no idea.” She smiled sheepishly. “Like you said, I can’t remember my past, so of course, I don’t know what this ‘real event’ is.”

“Alright then,” Lin Xian muttered, feeling like the entire day had been wasted. “So… can I have the book back?”

Mai Mai blinked, then shook her head. “I want to keep reading!”

“You’re really not picky, are you?” Lin Xian chuckled, handing the manuscript back. “It’s strange—you wake up from hibernation, and instead of worrying about what happened to the world or your life, you just get lost in a book.”

“I don’t know why,” Mai Mai said, her fingers flipping quickly through the pages. “But I just really like it. And I love the idea of writing! I really, really want to write a book of my own.”

Lin Xian leaned back against a broken hibernation pod, watching her.

“Maybe… writing is your ‘obsession,'” he mused aloud.

“Obsession?” Mai Mai tapped her cheek, thinking. “Yeah, that’s probably it. Just the idea of creating a world, telling a story—it makes me excited.”

Lin Xian smiled softly and walked over, opening “Devouring Heaven Demon Emperor” to the cover, and pointed to the author’s name. “Well, congratulations,” he said. “It seems you’ve already reached your dream. You were flipping through the book so quickly, you skipped right over the cover and the author bio. This masterpiece you’re praising so much—you wrote it.”

Mai Mai’s eyes widened in shock. She looked at the name on the cover, then back at the nameplate inside the hibernation pod where she had woken up. Realization dawned on her face.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped, “could it be that I’m actually… a genius author?!”

Lin Xian nodded, giving her a thumbs up. “Absolutely! You’re the best author in the world. No one better within a thousand kilometers.”

Mai Mai burst into laughter. “Now you’re exaggerating.”

“No, no,” Lin Xian said, waving his hand. “I’m really not. Because, within a thousand kilometers… it’s probably just the two of us.”

“What?” Mai Mai’s smile dropped, her expression turning serious. “Everyone else is gone? But… that means no one will read my book!”

Lin Xian sighed, a mix of amusement and frustration showing on his face. Even now, Mai Mai was still worried about her “publishing dream.”

“It’s how things are,” Lin Xian said, pointing at the manuscript. “And besides, I think whatever happened to humanity might have something to do with the ‘real event’ mentioned in your book—April 17th, 2025. If you want your story to be read worldwide, there’s still a chance. You just have to remember if you’ve got any clues about that date or this ‘Mist of the Demon God.'”

He gave her a grin. “Without any leads, there won’t be any readers or fans, and you definitely won’t get a publishing contract. Your dream might be over before it even begins.”

Mai Mai stared at him, determined, then closed her eyes, trying to focus. But after a long moment, she sighed, shaking her head in frustration.

“It’s no use. I can’t remember anything,” she admitted, frowning. Then her expression brightened as she opened her locker and pulled out a small memory storage drive. “What about this? Do you think there’s any way to play it? If it’s got recordings from before hibernation, there should be a lot of my creative ideas on it.”

Lin Xian shook his head, looking regretful. “I searched every part of this underground facility, both wings of it. All the equipment is destroyed.”

Mai Mai’s face fell, and she slumped against the hibernation pod, sighing heavily. “What do we do now? If no one ever reads my book, it’s no different from a failure, right?”

Lin Xian bit back his true thoughts. No need to tell her she couldn’t even get a deal like this.

In the days that followed, whenever Lin Xian entered the dream, he would find Mai Mai. Together, they analyzed “Devouring Heaven Demon Emperor,” trying to dig out any clues. But the book was full of typical tropes.

It began with the usual “spiritual power test,” the protagonist—a fallen genius—getting mocked. Lin Xian made it through the entire book, though he had no idea how the story jumped from the human realm to the celestial, then the divine, and ended at the edge of the universe.

“Here,” Lin Xian said one day, unable to hold back his thoughts, “I see bits and pieces of a hundred different books in this.”

Mai Mai’s eyes lit up. “So you mean it’s a collection of all the best parts?”

Lin Xian stared at her, speechless, watching this eternally optimistic girl. No wonder she could stay calm, even in a desolate world like this. Her outlook was something special.

“Maybe… you really are a genius,” he said sincerely.

Days turned into weeks. Despite their efforts, Lin Xian couldn’t help Mai Mai recover her lost memories. By now, it was the end of March—less than twenty days to go until April 17th, 2025. Lin Xian was increasingly sure something important was going to happen on that day. Otherwise, why would someone as passionate as Mai Mai include it in her book as the Demon God’s day of descent?

Fortunately, Du Yao’s research was progressing well. Since getting inspiration at Tang Xin’s grave, Du Yao had been making breakthroughs. It wouldn’t be long until the Brain Neural Electric Helmet was ready. Once it was finished… Even if it didn’t change the timeline, it could be used in this facility to give Mai Mai a bit of electric therapy. There was no other option—if she couldn’t remember the key details, they’d have to use technology.

Meanwhile, Zhao Ying Jun was getting closer to giving birth. Her belly had grown, and she was now focused on resting at home, handing over her responsibilities at work.

One day, just as Lin Xian was preparing to enter the dream, his phone rang. Liu Feng’s excited voice came through.

“Lin Xian! The positioning module for the time-travel machine—it’s finally done!”

An hour later, Lin Xian arrived at the Rhine Joint Laboratory at Donghai University. In the center of the lab stood a machine roughly the size of a double-door fridge, with wires and parts sticking out in all directions. It looked pretty rough.

“Don’t mind the way it looks,” Liu Feng said, a bit embarrassed. “We had to rush, so we prioritized function over appearance. And since it’s just a positioning module, a lot of parts are attached temporarily.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lin Xian waved dismissively. “Get the spacetime particles in there and let’s see if we can find any spacetime rifts.”

Liu Feng nodded and brought over a small refrigerator. He punched in the password, opened it, and inside, the entangled spacetime particles were still swirling around each other, seemingly forever.

He used a special clamp to handle the particles, making sure not to touch them directly, then transferred them into the positioning module. As he closed the lid, he smiled at Lin Xian. “This clamp I made, I call it…”

“A baking clamp?”

“No! It’s the Spacetime Clamp!” Liu Feng announced proudly.

Lin Xian chuckled and clapped lightly. “Right, I forgot—everything you make starts with ‘spacetime.’ Great work, great work. Can we get started now?”

Liu Feng turned on the machine, and after a moment, the screen flickered to life, displaying a stable but abstract image.

Lin Xian frowned at the complex diagram. “Didn’t the engineering manual have instructions for this?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve studied them carefully,” Liu Feng reassured him. “I’ll explain as I operate it.” He began turning knobs, muttering to himself.

“Look at this, Lin Xian. In 2024, there are several spacetime rifts, but they’re all small—except for July 1st, where a bunch appeared.”

Lin Xian nodded thoughtfully. “So every time the timeline changes, a rift is created. One jump equals one rift—pretty precise.” He paused, considering. “Can you check March 28th, early 2024? The day Chu An Qing became stardust and created a stake.”

Liu Feng adjusted the settings, the screen shifting backward until a tangled, chaotic mess appeared, like a ball of yarn.

“There it is,” Liu Feng said. “There are so many rifts, they’re impossible to count. From a spacetime perspective, Chu An Qing’s action was extremely violent—like hammering in a stake without any regard for spacetime.”

They continued looking back through the years—1976, 1952—and found similar clusters of tangled lines.

“If these are identical, that means…” Liu Feng whispered, staring at the screen. “In the second half of 1952, a Millennial Stake was hammered into spacetime.”

Lin Xian’s eyes narrowed. His suspicions were correct. Einstein had lied—or perhaps had seen a false future.

“Let’s look even further back,” Lin Xian suggested. “We need to find the truth—when was the first Millennial Stake planted?”

Liu Feng’s breath quickened. He twisted the dial, the years flashing by faster and faster. But no tangled mess appeared—just stable, unbroken spacetime lines.

“Stop,” Lin Xian said quietly. “It’s clear. The Millennial Stakes were planted every 24 years. There’s nothing else.”

Liu Feng nodded, taking a deep breath. “The pattern is obvious. We didn’t miss anything.”

Lin Xian turned from the control panel, looking out of the window, his gaze distant.

“1952,” he murmured. “The beginning of everything—the source of all secrets and truths. The year the first Millennial Stake was hammered into our timeline.”