Prodigy’s Playground

Chapter 132 Volunteers

Arriving at the laboratory—

Jiang Ran realized that aside from himself, everyone else was already there.

Teacher Yan Chonghan still carried that refined, elite-student-like appearance—smooth, neatly parted hair, gold-rimmed glasses, impeccably tailored high-end clothing, and… a stern, unapproachable gaze.

Jiang Ran quickly checked his phone.

Fortunately, he wasn’t late. The others had simply arrived early.

“Take a seat.”

Yan Chonghan looked at Jiang Ran.

“Let’s begin.”

As Jiang Ran sat between Cheng Mengxue and Fang Ze, Yan Chonghan pulled over a chair, sat behind the lectern, and began speaking:

“This is our first class. There’s no specific objective—mainly just casual discussion, exchanging ideas, seeing what research directions interest you, what topics you might want to explore.”“Don’t be too restrained. Say whatever comes to mind. Ask whatever questions you have. I’ll do the same—I’ll ask you questions as they occur to me. I hope you’ll stay focused and take it seriously.”

Then he fell silent, looking at the three of them.

Fang Ze raised his hand first.

“Teacher Yan, what’s your main research direction? We don’t really know your field of expertise yet.”

“I work in the field of [Artificial Intelligence].”

Yan Chonghan spoke calmly.

“I graduated from Dartmouth College. It’s not particularly close to either of your schools. But since it’s also in the U.S. and part of the Ivy League, I assume you’re familiar with it.”

Cheng Mengxue and Fang Ze exchanged a glance and nodded.

The Ivy League—eight of the world’s top universities: Harvard, University of Pennsylvania, Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Dartmouth, Brown, and Cornell.

In this small lab, out of four people, three were from Ivy League schools.

Quite the gathering.

…Alright, this topic was not something Jiang Ran could join in on.

The name of Donghai Foreign Trade Vocational College was simply too “resounding” in this room.

“Dartmouth is the birthplace of AI, with world-class anthropology and computer science programs,” Yan Chonghan continued.

“After graduating, I stayed at Dartmouth, working with my advisor on artificial intelligence research.”

“Come to think of it… I’m not sure how much you all know about AI, so I’m not sure how to introduce my work.”

“In that case—let’s do some questions.”

A very American-teacher move—when in doubt, ask questions.

Without any buildup, he pointed directly at Fang Ze:

“Fang Ze, you start. Explain your understanding of artificial intelligence and AI technology.”

As a top student from Harvard, Fang Ze stood up and spoke fluently.

Neural networks, biological data models, bits of English terminology Jiang Ran couldn’t follow…

In short—very deep, very technical.

Harvard truly lived up to its reputation.

After listening—

Yan Chonghan, who had maintained a stone-like expression, actually showed a faint smile and nodded approvingly.

“Not bad.”

Clearly, he was satisfied.

Then his gaze shifted to Jiang Ran.

“Jiang Ran, your turn.”

Jiang Ran stood up helplessly.

In Worldline 0, he had studied computer science for two years—but mainly software engineering and information security. He had never touched artificial intelligence.

Donghai University’s computer science program was highly specialized. You studied exactly what you chose—no broad mixing, unless you pursued a double degree.

But since he had been called on, there was no choice.

He could only push through.

Jiang Ran talked about everyday uses of AI—things like Doubao, AI-generated images, and similar applications.

Yan Chonghan listened, visibly stunned.

When Jiang Ran finished—

Yan Chonghan adjusted his glasses.

“That’s… quite surprising.”

“How so?”

Jiang Ran was confused.

What he said had been pretty ordinary. Hardly surprising.

Yan Chonghan sighed lightly.

“Of course… where there is a Spirit Pearl, there is also a Demon Pill.”

…Huh?

Jiang Ran felt personally attacked.

Yan Chonghan looked up at the ceiling.

“I truly didn’t expect this. Others talk about neural networks and biological models, and you talk to me about Doubao.”

“Jiang Ran, as a so-called prodigy highly regarded by the Dragon Country Academy of Sciences, someone the vice dean places high expectations on—don’t you think your understanding of AI is… rather shallow?”

“Well, I’m not even in this field.”

Jiang Ran shrugged.

“I don’t study this stuff.”

Yan Chonghan ignored him and turned to Cheng Mengxue.

“Cheng Mengxue, your turn.”

She waved her hands quickly.

“I—I’m even worse, Teacher Yan.”

“I studied medicine at Penn, specifically pharmaceuticals. I know nothing about AI.”

“I think AI’s applications in medicine are mainly in clinical diagnosis, maybe precision surgery as well. But… when it comes to treating terminal illnesses, especially diseases humans currently can’t cure, I don’t think AI can offer much help.”

However—

After hearing her answer, Yan Chonghan smiled and shook his head.

“Cheng Mengxue, that’s where you’re mistaken.”

“The project my advisor and I are working on has enormous significance in the medical field.”

He stood up, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote four large characters on the board:

[Consciousness Upload]

“That’s the breakthrough we’re pursuing at Dartmouth.”

He flicked the chalk cleanly into the tray and looked back at her.

“Tell me—how does medicine currently handle patients in deep coma, with no chance of waking up?”

“They can only be kept alive by machines,” Cheng Mengxue answered.

“And what about patients classified as vegetative? While it’s not 100% certain they’ll never wake up, medically speaking, if they haven’t regained consciousness after several years, it’s generally assumed they never will.”

Cheng Mengxue stood up.

“Yes, Teacher Yan.”

“For vegetative patients, the brain has suffered severe damage. Only the brainstem functions remain, so breathing and heartbeat are intact… but the likelihood of waking is extremely low.”

“In movies, you sometimes see patients waking after years in a coma, but that’s mostly fiction. In reality—even someone like Formula One champion Schumacher, despite vast resources and top-tier medical care, has not recovered and remains unconscious.”

“From a medical perspective, vegetative patients are technically alive. But for their families… it’s incredibly cruel.”

“They can’t bear to give up, yet they see no hope on a path that leads nowhere. In the end, it often results in total loss—financially and emotionally.”

What she described was indeed a harsh reality of modern medicine.

A vegetative patient—

Someone whose brain is severely damaged, reduced to living like a plant.

Especially after five years without recovery, the possibility of waking is essentially considered nonexistent.

So what should be done?

Continue treatment? Wait for a miracle? Or give up?

Most families cannot bring themselves to let go.

They can only deceive themselves, cling to hope, and keep going—waiting for a miracle that almost never comes.

And as Cheng Mengxue said—

In 99.99% of cases, it ends in total loss.

Nothing gained. Nothing saved.

The problem of vegetative patients was one of those questions in life that had no answer.

“Well said.”

Yan Chonghan gestured for her to sit.

Then, standing at the lectern, he continued:

“What Cheng Mengxue said is correct. Vegetative patients are typically unconscious—but this unconsciousness stems from brain dysfunction, not the absence of consciousness itself.”

“So let me put it this way—”

“[For vegetative patients, including those in deep coma, their consciousness, personality, and memory are often intact.]”

“It’s like a computer. The hard drive is fine, the data is intact, the operating system works… but the graphics card, display, power supply, or RAM is damaged. The machine simply can’t run.”

“A vegetative patient is like that—a system where the core data remains intact, but key hardware has failed.”

“Therefore, we propose—if there were a technology that could extract that intact data from the brain… that is, consciousness, personality, memory—and transfer it into mechanical hardware or a virtual network as a form of [digital life]…”

“For both the patient and their family—wouldn’t that be something to celebrate?”

The statement was shocking.

The three of them were stunned.

Had technology really advanced this far, somewhere out of sight?

Fang Ze immediately stood up.

“Teacher Yan—has this technology already been achieved at Dartmouth? Can you already extract a living person’s consciousness and memory… and upload it to a network?”

“If this becomes reality, it would be a blessing for vegetative patients, terminal patients, those on the brink of death.”

“They could abandon their damaged bodies and become [digital life], continuing to exist in servers and networks like artificial intelligence.”

“And wouldn’t that… essentially be a form of immortality?”

“Once consciousness is uploaded, the body becomes binary data—something that doesn’t die, that can live forever in a network world built on hardware infrastructure!”

Yan Chonghan didn’t answer immediately.

He smiled faintly, meaningfully, and shook his head.

“It’s a beautiful idea. And we share that vision.”

“But at present, the technology is far from mature. It cannot yet enter the real world, hospitals, or clinical use.”

“There are many reasons—policy, law, human rights. We can’t conduct human experiments freely.”

“But beyond those external constraints, there is a more critical internal problem.”

“Do you know what it is?”

All three shook their heads.

“This [Consciousness Upload] experiment has a fatal flaw.”

Yan Chonghan’s expression turned serious.

“It is fatal.”

“Consciousness upload is not what most people imagine—not copying consciousness and creating a duplicate digital self.”

“It is… the true digitization and [transfer] of a single, unique consciousness and memory into a network or storage medium.”

“Do you understand?”

“It is transfer—not copying.”

“Once the upload begins, the original brain—and the living body—will die immediately.”

“So under these conditions—where success is not guaranteed, and whether it succeeds or fails, the subject dies…”

Yan Chonghan sighed, a bitter smile on his face.

“We simply… cannot find suitable [volunteers].”