Chapter 58: Ambers of the Long Night (14)
And at this moment, what was the man at the center of it all, Tang Mobai himself, doing?
He was lying flat in a hotel room—ah no, more precisely, pretending to be sick.
“How’s it? Do I look the part?” Tang Mobai lay on the bed with a pale face. Next to the bed were all kinds of medical instruments Emmanuel had prepared. A mess of tubes connected to Tang Mobai, and combined with his ghostly complexion, he looked every bit like a seriously ill patient.
“It looks convincing, but did you really have to go this far?” Yan Wuzhen said, exasperated.
“Couldn’t be helped,” Tang Mobai replied, pulling up his status page. “It looks like it’ll still take some time.”
[Tang Mobai
Lv. 35]
As expected, his level had risen—but not nearly as fast as he’d hoped.
And the reason was obvious. Yan Wuzhen and Seth had gained levels through visible, tangible “achievements.” Whether helping people raise their levels or serving as a doctor to heal patients, their contributions to society were direct and measurable. In contrast, scientific or academic contributions were much harder to judge.
After all, how could the Super AI accurately assess whether a brand-new theory or line of research was correct or wrong? When something entirely new was created—something humanity barely understood—how could anyone know whether it would benefit or harm human civilization? Could a “correct” theory always lead to good outcomes? And did an “incorrect” one always lack value? Science could never be so easily concluded.
Could the Super AI serve as an infallible judge? Impossible—unless it were a god.
Tang Mobai had already asked in detail how the system evaluated scientific contributions. Aside from measurable impact on society, the other factor was the recognition of the scientific community itself—journals, conferences, peer evaluations—all affected level scoring.
The first factor would take too long, so they had to aim for the second. His slow leveling clearly meant his previous review comments hadn’t yet circulated widely enough, and the academic community’s recognition of him wasn’t fully established.
Thus, they needed to strengthen his “genius persona” and meet those professors and renowned scholars now chasing after him. The only problem—how to meet them without blowing his cover. The expert team had already devised a plan for that:
He would pose as a terminally ill genius—brilliant but frail, bedridden yet mentally sharp.
Seth had been designated his accompanying doctor precisely for this purpose—someone needed to provide a believable medical record.
“Get ready,” Tang Mobai instructed. “They’ll probably arrive any moment. Stick to the plan!”
He then dabbed powder onto his lips until they looked bloodless. With the pale makeup already in place, he now looked convincingly weak.
Yan Wuzhen’s mouth twitched. “Why is it that your acting skills suddenly get better at times like this?”
But as he looked up, he saw Seth already in full character—tucking Tang Mobai’s blanket, pressing a stethoscope to his chest, and saying seriously, “You must rest. Stop thinking about those research projects. Look at you—your body can’t take it!”
“I’m sorry, doctor…” Tang Mobai rasped weakly. “But this might be my last… chance… cough cough.”
“Enough, don’t speak,” Seth said gravely. “I understand. After all, it’s your dream.”
Emmanuel, watching the two, was utterly dumbfounded.
…When did they start acting?!
The next moment, urgent footsteps sounded outside the door.
“Huh? You’re here too?”
“Well, my student begged me, how could I refuse?”
“Hmph, you’re just curious about him, you old fox.”
“Is it this room?”
“Sir? Sir! You can’t go in there, this is a guest’s room!”
“Oh, please, miss, this is really important, can’t you make an exception?”
Before Emmanuel could react, Yan Wuzhen opened the door, wearing a stern, heavy expression as if he’d just been arguing with someone. “What’s with all the noise? There’s a patient here—”
The group of scholars stopped immediately. Though Yan Wuzhen’s frame partly blocked the view, they still caught sight of a sickly young man lying in bed. For a moment, they all exchanged confused glances—was this the right place?
But that distinctive, machine-like man was indeed there…
“You’re here for the person who wrote the whiteboard corrections?” Seth asked.
“Yes, yes,” one professor said quickly, his eyes scanning Seth. “Are you the one who—”
Strange, he’d never seen this person in academic circles before.
“No,” Seth shook his head and stepped aside. “The one who wrote them is right here.”
The scholars finally saw Tang Mobai lying pale and frail on the bed. The words they had prepared stuck in their throats as disbelief flooded their faces. “H-he’s the one?”
“Yes,” Seth nodded calmly. “He truly is a genius—and the most intelligent human I’ve ever met. Unfortunately, heaven is cruel. Tang Mobai was born with a rare congenital illness—his heart and lungs are severely weakened. He must rest often.”
“Who told him to push himself, pretending he was fine and sneaking out of bed just to work? We thought he’d recovered, let him out for some fresh air, and he collapsed the moment we got back!” Yan Wuzhen said coldly, arms crossed. “You really have a death wish.”
Such perfect improvisation—it was like a script.
Emmanuel, though internally speechless, smoothly played along: “Alright, stop scolding him. His illness can’t handle stress. With a mind like his, it’s no wonder he can’t rest—he just doesn’t want to leave the world without leaving something behind.”
That short exchange was enough for the scholars to piece together the full picture: a gifted but fragile prodigy, bedridden yet proud, whose brilliance shone through despite his frailty.
Even better, since the Super AI couldn’t monitor the Lost Paradise livestream but could detect real physiological conditions, Tang Mobai’s level wouldn’t drop—he truly was in a weakened state.
In a sense, they had just exploited another loophole in the system.
This was the complete plan Tang Mobai and the expert team had devised: he’d deliberately left his theories half-finished to lure in the professors. When they came to find him, he’d answer up to 10 bullet-screen questions a day, proving his genius persona—then “collapse” from exhaustion once the daily limit was reached, repeating the process the next day.
That way, he’d raise his level steadily, and during these three days, the expert team could also complete their “cross-world academic exchange” achievement. Two birds with one stone—perfect profit.
When the three-day conference ended, they’d simply pack up and leave—no one would ever realize the truth.
Zhen Ding and Fletcher exchanged glances, stunned. The situation was far more complex than they’d imagined. A genius, yes—but one with tragic flaws. No wonder he had never appeared publicly in academia, and why he seemed to live such a secluded life. His body simply couldn’t handle it.
Science required physical strength—experiments and deep thought both demanded energy. For someone so ill to contribute across so many fields—this was nothing short of a miracle in human history.
Moved, Zhen Ding asked softly, “Are you his family?”
Emmanuel: “You could say that. I’m his friend.”
Seth: “I’m his household and attending physician.”
Yan Wuzhen raised an eyebrow, glanced at Tang Mobai pretending to sleep, and smirked. “I’m his older brother.”
Tang Mobai: “!?” Great. Taking advantage of me while I’m down, huh?
“Hello, may I speak with him?” Zhen Ding asked gently. “To be honest, I was deeply impressed by the corrections he made on the whiteboard. Please don’t worry—I’m not a bad person. You can verify my credentials online.”
Fletcher added quickly, “And me as well, young man. I’m genuinely fascinated by your unfinished ideas. Are you interested in polymer chemistry? With how advanced communication is these days, you don’t even need to attend classes in person—you could join our discussions remotely. Oh, right, you’ve probably heard of my university—Maestra University, the one hosting the current conference. I’m an associate professor there.”
Seeing these renowned scholars express open admiration despite his condition, the others followed suit, extending their own invitations.
Yan Wuzhen frowned deeper and said irritably, “He’s in no state to talk! I don’t care how talented he is—our family only cares that he stays alive!”
“Cough cough, cough!” Tang Mobai suddenly coughed violently, reaching out to grab Yan Wuzhen’s wrist. Enough, enough, stop overacting already.
“I… I’m fine,” Tang Mobai said hoarsely, ears flushed red with barely contained excitement. His gaze darted toward Fletcher and the others, then quickly away again, perfectly embodying the image of a fragile youth who’d finally found recognition. “I want to talk to them, Brother…”
That “Brother” was practically bitten out through gritted teeth. Yan Wuzhen, delighted, patted his hand solemnly. “But we’re worried about your health…”
“Brother! Please!” I said enough!
“Sigh, fine. I can’t say no to you,” Yan Wuzhen said, suppressing his grin. “We’ll wait outside. Tell us if you feel unwell.”
Yan Wuzhen and the others stepped out, leaving Fletcher’s group inside. Seth stayed to supervise.
“Student Tang—or may we call you Xiao Bai?” Zhen Ding said softly, seeing his pale complexion and sighing. “Please relax and breathe steadily. We’ll just ask a few questions.”
“I’m fine, please go ahead.” Tang Mobai pulled the blanket slightly higher to hide his mouth, fighting the urge to laugh.
At that very moment, in the real world, professors and scholars from every field were gathered around their screens, eyes blazing.
The first-ever academic exchange between Earth and another world—had officially begun.
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