Genius Club

This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

…

Brilliant, multicolored fireworks burst across the Brooklyn sky, painting it in radiant hues. This unprecedented display captivated every passerby, halting them mid-step. They tilted their heads upward, marveling at the spectacle, exclaiming:

“It’s so beautiful! I’ve never seen so many fireworks before!”

“Who could be setting off such a massive display in Brooklyn? Isn’t this kind of thing restricted?”

“Maybe some rich kid’s trying to impress a girl, haha. Lucky us! We get to enjoy it for free!”

It was the night of November 2, 1952.

The entire Brooklyn community seemed transfixed, their eyes reflecting the explosion of dazzling colors lighting up the sky. Yet amidst the awe and wonder, one figure stood apart.

He turned his back to the sky.

Walking aimlessly along the Brooklyn streets, away from the riverbank where the fireworks exploded, was a man in black. Lin Xian wore a black woolen hat pulled low over his face, obscuring most of it. Perhaps he was the only person in Brooklyn not mesmerized by the grand display above.

Those fireworks… they were meant for CC.

The cheerful girl who loved hot dogs had dreamed of this very moment. But she wasn’t here to see it. She never got the chance to live her dream, never got to witness this breathtaking show meant for her.

Children dashed past Lin Xian, their laughter and shouts echoing through the streets. They jumped and skipped with excitement, their faces lit with joy as they pointed at the dazzling sky.

If CC were still alive;

If CC hadn’t become a Millennial Stake;

If CC hadn’t dissolved into blue stardust…

She, too, would be among the children, standing on tiptoes, pointing at the sky, her cheeks dimpling with a sweet smile, her eyes curved into crescent moons.

But fate had other plans.

Just a little more time… just a few more hours…

The [fireworks], once a symbol of joy, had now become CC’s regret—a longing that spanned 600 years through the corridors of time.

Lin Xian finally understood it all.

Zhao Ying Jun had been right all along—

[All the dreams of the Millennial Stakes are fragments of the same story—pieces of the life of the first Stake, CC.]

In Zhang Yu Qian’s videotape, CC had awakened abruptly and mentioned a series of keywords: white light, burning, mushroom clouds, 1952, newspaper, Einstein. That scene had been a dream fragment of November 1, the morning when Lin Xian and CC were at the Empire State Building Hotel, watching television.

On the TV was footage of a hydrogen bomb test. The conversation revolved around Einstein, with a copy of the latest New York Daily lying on the coffee table. The mushroom cloud from the hydrogen bomb had left a deep impression on CC, enough to transform it into a recurring nightmare for Zhang Yu Qian centuries later.

And in CC’s own dreams, 600 years later, she had seen blue-eyed Lin Xian.

For a long time, Lin Xian had thought that a “blue-eyed version of himself” was an impossibility, a contradiction to the laws of spacetime. Yet, against all odds, at the very instant the first Millennial Stake was driven into place and the temporal laws began to solidify, such a figure had appeared.

CC, translucent and panicked, had seen him—blue-eyed Lin Xian—the final image of her 20-year-old life. It was seared into her memory and became the foundation of her dream.

As for Chu An Qing’s dreams, the explanation was simpler.

The fireworks… her longing for them.

The spectacle she’d yearned to see since childhood.

A show tantalizingly close, yet forever out of reach.

Perhaps this was the first Stake, CC’s deepest desire—and her greatest sorrow.

…

The sound of Lin Xian’s solitary footsteps echoed in the still night, a stark contrast to the lively celebrations around him. He wandered through the cold streets without purpose, unsure where he was or where he was headed. It felt as though every corner of Brooklyn had once held CC’s presence, but now, she was nowhere to be found.

Above, the vibrant fireworks continued to explode in bursts of light and sound. The sheer quantity—ten truckloads’ worth—would take a long time to exhaust. The booming cacophony seemed endless.

Walking under the canopy of fleeting light, Lin Xian’s mind churned with thoughts about the Millennial Stakes.

Moments earlier, he had unraveled the mystery of the dreams. Yet that clarity only gave rise to deeper, more perplexing questions…

What was certain now was this:

On November 2, 1952, at precisely 12:42 PM American time, the first Millennial Stake was hammered into the river of time.

Though it remained unverified, Lin Xian suspected this moment marked CC’s 20th birthday. He had no evidence, only intuition.

From that moment, history became “locked,” the temporal laws took effect, and Lin Xian’s appearance began to change. His eyes turned a striking azure blue.

Earlier, he had caught a glimpse of himself in a storefront window. What stared back was an unfamiliar man—a stranger mimicking his movements and posture, their gazes meeting.

This man was Lin Xian after temporal divergence. Yet he struggled to accept this new face as his own. It felt alien and detached.

Though his height and build remained unchanged, his facial features had been drastically altered. His deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and chiseled jawline gave him the appearance of a North European blend. Even his square face and faint chin dimple emphasized his Western look.

Only his black hair and yellow-toned skin hinted at his Asian origins. But overall… no one would think he was a native of Long Country.

Lin Xian theorized that the world, and its spacetime, had transformed the moment the first Stake was driven. From that instant, it had become the world he now knew.

Whether he could dream of future realities was yet another question. He suspected he could—an idea he would test when he fell asleep tonight.

For now, his thoughts were chaotic.

From a broader perspective, Lin Xian had uncovered several truths about the Millennial Stakes:

The Millennial Stakes indeed served to lock history. Once history was locked, temporal laws would activate, triggering spacetime anomalies.

The Millennial Stakes were undoubtedly man-made. Though the identity of the “man” remained unclear, spacetime particles couldn’t appear or target someone without deliberate intervention.

The selection of the Millennial Stakes seemed to follow some rules, yet it didn’t matter who was chosen. At least based on the trajectory of the spacetime particle earlier, the first target wasn’t CC—it was him.

These three facts had been confirmed through observation and reasoning.

However, beyond these conclusions lay three unanswered questions:

Who drove the first Millennial Stake, and for what purpose?

Where did the spacetime particle come from, and why did it appear at that precise moment?

If CC hadn’t pushed him aside, and the spacetime particle had struck him instead, what would have happened?

The first two questions offered no leads for now. But the third…

It was clear.

The spacetime particle had been aimed at him from the start. If it had struck, he would likely have been the one to dissolve into a Millennial Stake.

“So… CC saved me.”

Lin Xian clenched his fists.

“CC took the hit for me. She became the Millennial Stake in my place.”

He stopped walking and lifted his gaze toward the slowly rising moon.

This was the closed loop.

It was both the beginning and the end; the cause and the effect. Even his journey back to 1952 fit into this loop.

Earlier, he had discussed the model of worldlines with Liu Feng. Simply put, it was like a tree—one trunk splitting into thousands, millions, even billions of branches, each representing a different temporal curvature or timeline.

Without a doubt:

The spacetime and history before November 2, 1952, were the trunk, the source of all branching timelines.

Even if he hadn’t traveled back to 1952, it wouldn’t have stopped spacetime from continuing to diverge. Because…n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

He was merely one branch among billions. Merely one Lin Xian among countless others.

On any of those billions of worldlines, as long as one version of Lin Xian traveled back to 1952, it would trigger the same historical loop, driving the formation of the Millennial Stakes and locking history from that point onward.

The trunk needed only one root.

Branches could break, wither, or disappear—it didn’t matter.

For now, detailed theorizing would have to wait until he learned more truths and returned to 2234. But Lin Xian had already resolved himself.

No matter who drove the Millennial Stakes, no matter their purpose…

He would uncover the truth.

He would uproot everything.

And he would save all the Millennial Stake girls.

With a final resounding burst, the last firework bloomed in Brooklyn’s night sky. The grand display, which had lasted over ten minutes, finally ended, and calm returned to the city.

The bustling noise of the streets grew clearer again. In a nearby alley, the sounds of scuffling and mocking laughter pierced the quiet:

“Little Johnny! Stealing so little money today? You trying to get yourself killed?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t—ahhh!”

The cries of a child caught Lin Xian’s attention. He glanced around, realizing he had wandered into an unfamiliar area. Judging by the surroundings, he was likely between Brooklyn Heights and the slums.

Brooklyn at night was chaotic and unsafe, with cruelty lurking around every corner.

With his hands in his coat pockets, Lin Xian’s fingers brushed against the white square gift box containing the $20 watch. It was CC’s gift to him—bought with her entire savings, money she had refrained from spending for years.

He hadn’t worn the watch. It felt unbearably heavy, a weight his wrist couldn’t bear.

Tomorrow marked the start of Standard Time.

America’s Daylight Saving Time would end on the first Sunday of November.

This detail… he knew he would never forget it.

From the alley, the sound of blows grew louder.

It seemed a few grown men were beating a boy in his early teens, who cried and begged pitifully.

Normally, Lin Xian wouldn’t concern himself with such things.

But he couldn’t help thinking…

In the past, CC had roamed the streets as a vagrant.

Was she ever bullied?

The moment such a thought crossed Lin Xian’s mind, he couldn’t ignore the situation. To him, every child wandering the streets of Brooklyn now carried a fragment of CC’s shadow.

He turned toward the direction of the cries and ventured into the dark alley.

Around the corner, he saw three men, laughing cruelly as they viciously kicked a boy curled on the ground, his arms wrapped around his head in a futile attempt to protect himself. The boy had yellow-toned skin and black hair, and his English, heavily accented with a clear Long Country inflection, was clumsy and broken.

A Chinese boy.

Lin Xian noted the boy, called “Little Johnny” by his attackers, was dressed in tattered clothing resembling rags. Blood seeped from wounds on his mouth and arms, evidence of the relentless beating. Covered in dirty shoe prints, the boy cowered, making no effort to resist, as if too terrified to defy them.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

The boy repeated his apologies weakly amidst sobs, but the men only became more amused, showing no signs of stopping. One of them raised his foot to aim another brutal kick at the boy’s head—

Bang!

A gunshot rang out.

The leader’s hat flew off his head, landing on the ground.

All three attackers froze, their eyes wide with shock, and turned to see a tall man dressed in black standing at the alley’s entrance. Lin Xian held a smoking pistol in his right hand.

Bang! Bang!

Two more gunshots cracked through the air. With precise efficiency, Lin Xian sent the other two men’s hats tumbling to the ground. The speed and precision of his shots left no time for them to react.

He raised his head, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the three men.

“Leave.”

His voice was soft but carried the chilling finality of death’s whisper.

“R-run! Run!”

Panic overtook the men as they stumbled over themselves to flee the alley.

The boy, trembling, picked himself off the ground, his wide eyes darting between the fleeing attackers and Lin Xian. Gathering his courage, he bowed repeatedly in gratitude.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you for saving me!”

Lin Xian switched to Chinese, asking, “Are you from Long Country?”

The boy froze, surprised, before quickly switching languages.

“Sir, are you… are you mixed-race?”

His dialect wasn’t standard Mandarin but a heavy northern accent, confirming Lin Xian’s guess.

“Yes,” Lin Xian answered dismissively, not offering further explanation. His altered appearance, due to the spacetime anomaly, made him look foreign, so claiming to be mixed-race was the simplest response.

“Why were they attacking you?”

Lin Xian’s deep voice, now alien to himself, carried an edge of authority.

The boy brushed dirt off his tattered clothes and spoke hesitantly, his tone filled with grievance.

“They… they force me to steal things! To pickpocket wallets from others!”

“When I was little, Long Country was at war. My parents took me on a boat to escape to America, but they both passed away not long after we arrived. My father was beaten to death, and my mother died from illness. Since then, I’ve been living on the streets in Brooklyn.”

“Those men caught me and made me steal money for them. If I didn’t steal enough, or if I failed, they’d beat me like this. Many times, I’ve been beaten unconscious.”

“I can’t escape them. I have no choice but to do what they say…”

Lin Xian looked at the boy’s battered face, bloodied mouth, and malnourished frame. He was no older than 14, his back slightly hunched, a testament to years of hardship and hunger. The boy’s story was painfully similar to CC’s—both trapped in cruel, unforgiving lives.

“They call you Little Johnny?”

“Yes!” The boy nodded quickly. “Everyone calls me Little Johnny. You can call me that too, sir!”

Lin Xian said nothing. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills, placing it into the boy’s hands.

Little Johnny stared, wide-eyed.

“Sir! This… what are you doing?”

“Take it,” Lin Xian said, straightening his posture and readjusting his hat. He slid his cooled pistol back into his pocket.

“If you don’t want to keep getting beaten, leave this place. Learn a trade. Start a new life.”

“In this cruel era, no one will help you. If you want to survive, you must grow stronger yourself.”

With those words, Lin Xian turned and walked away.

Little Johnny remained frozen in shock, staring at the crisp, green bills in his hands, then back at the retreating figure of the blue-eyed man. He couldn’t stop replaying the scene in his mind—how effortlessly this man had driven away the attackers with just a few gunshots. Strong, composed, and elegant.

“This… this is what it means to be truly remarkable!”

Determination flashed in Little Johnny’s eyes as he clenched his fists. Without hesitation, he began to run after Lin Xian.