Tu Shenshi departed from the battle game and entered a separate white space.
The Clown lay inside. Its head and body had parted ways, with a length of coiled spring sagging limply between them — like a broken mechanical toy.
“Is the game over?” the Clown asked.
“It’s over,” Tu Shenshi said, walking slowly toward it. “This was your battle to oversee. You should have conducted the settlement yourself.”
“I didn’t want to see her.” The Clown lay motionless on the ground, drained of its former bright energy. “She said I wasn’t funny. She said I don’t understand humor. She said no matter what I say or do, I can never make anyone truly laugh from the heart…”
Tu Shenshi offered gently, “The definition of humor is not limited to what she described. She deliberately framed it narrowly to provoke you. It was a form of verbal resistance from a player — you should understand that.”
“I understand… but I feel she was right.” The Clown’s voice was flat and even. “I am a clown, and yet I don’t understand humor. I cannot make people laugh from the heart. Why am I a clown?”
The spring flexed and turned, bringing the face upward. Looking up at Tu Shenshi, the round, padded lips opened and closed as it asked: “Do you understand? What is humor?”
Tu Shenshi was quiet for a moment. “In the academic study of human humor, there are three major theoretical schools — the Superiority Theory, which examines humor as a social behavior; the Relief Theory, from the perspective of psychoanalysis; and the Incongruity Theory, from a cognitive standpoint. Though we are well-versed in the conceptual definitions, on an experiential level, we still cannot understand it fully.”
The Clown watched Tu Shenshi in silence. “…So then why am I a clown? …A clown who isn’t the least bit funny — why should one like that exist? Truly a strange thing.”
It asked again: “You said we are products of the system. Why does the system need a clown who isn’t funny? …Where did we come from, exactly?”
Tu Shenshi fell silent at that. After a long moment, he said quietly: “Since you want so badly to know — let me take you to see.”
“Alright,” the Clown said. “I’d like to see.”
As the words fell, the Clown’s body began to fade, draining of color until it matched the pure white of the space around it. As it faded, its form began to disintegrate — breaking apart into tiny square particles, smaller and smaller.
Head, hands, feet, body, clothing — and that one length of coiled spring — all of it dissolving. One-centimeter particles became one-millimeter particles, continuing to break down, smaller and smaller, endlessly fragmenting.
It scattered into the air and vanished without a trace.
Tu Shenshi looked up slightly, watching as the very last square particle dissolved. He exhaled a breath, barely audible.
Another failed product.
—
On the other side, the main headquarters building was buzzing with activity.
Chu Huaijin had arranged for a projector to be brought in and set up a screening in the main hall. At a king’s request, they had chosen a vampire film — *Bram Stoker’s Dracula*.
It was a rare form of entertainment, and even the staff had been drawn over. The hall was packed to the brim.
When the vampire appeared on screen, Bai Youwei said, “Oh my, how terrifying~”
Then she burrowed into Shen Mo’s arms and held tight around his waist. “I’m so scared~”
Shen Mo’s brow furrowed slightly. “Then we can change to a different film.”
Bai Youwei: “…”
“Watching things like this late at night can cause nightmares.” Shen Mo glanced around. “Since so many people are already watching, switching mid-film would probably be inconvenient. Why don’t we go back to the room instead? Tan Xiao’s phone has a good number of animated shows saved on it — watching something like that could help you unwind.”
Bai Youwei pursed her lips. “I’m perfectly unwound right now…”
The crowd around them suddenly fell quiet. On screen, the male lead was being seduced by a glamorous female vampire — a scene that was somewhat bold in its depiction. Everyone was riveted.
Bai Youwei looked at Shen Mo with a meaningful smile.
—