Chapter Ninety-Five: Beneath the Board
Section One: Return to Old Ground
After code R7 relit, a saying spread through Iron Valley:
"Process boards don't forget people."
"Remember it, and it remembers you."
The first stir came at S-6's old east tower.
Code HX-S2-F3, sealed three weeks, should've been frozen, data wiped, binding chain broken.
But on the fifth evening, someone returned to the board.
Shen Min, thirty-seven, former fourth-section patrol member, F3's original line holder.
When the process war hit East Tower, he was reassigned to R13 by "structural optimization."
No defiance, no desertion—just a transfer.
Now, he was back.
In worn armor, carrying the signal tag once hung under F3, he reinstalled the process exactly as before.
Then crouched, wiping rust from the board.
That rust wasn't just time's mark.
It held his blood, palm-bone scars from a fall on a steel frame during patrol.
He didn't cry out, just sat ten minutes, then stood until shift change.
This code saw him grit through.
He remembered.
He thought the code did too.
When he activated the process link module, a signal responded.
Not main system—the board itself clicked, flashing a low-frequency red glow.
Like an eye opening, a heartbeat.
But a system warning followed:
"Code HX-S2-F3 is voided."
"Process system deems this an illegal rebinding attempt."
"Executor Shen Min, vacate 10 meters from the board or be marked a code control disruptor."
He didn't move.
Didn't look up.
Just four words, "It's still alive."
Control center received the alert, dispatching a process discipline team.
Not to arrest—to seize the board.
It shouldn't hang there.
It was dead.
Man and board had to be severed from that unpermitted memory chain.
They found Shen Min sitting.
No gun, a recorder by the board.
Inside, his old patrol log:
"Day six, fierce wind, toes numb."
"Didn't stomp, feared board sensing movement."
"Process is trustworthy… if you don't walk first."
Discipline team didn't speak, drawing code transfer tools to cut the beacon chip.
Shen Min stood, blocking the board.
Voice low but clear, "You say it's void."
"But I came, it flashed."
"You say it doesn't know me, but it moved."
"You say process isn't alive, but I know it always remembered me."
Team leader, face cold, "It's a system code, not your dog."
"It doesn't remember. It's data."
Shen Min tore off his old process badge, slamming it to the ground.
"Data didn't keep me up ten days."
"Data didn't flash before I passed out."
"You say process follows orders, so why—when I touched it—did it light up?"
"Dare pull it, I die here."
The team paused three seconds, stowed tools, didn't pull.
Not compromise—waiting for main control's ruling on the first "board recognizing old holder" case.
Meanwhile, similar incidents erupted citywide.
C-3, N-4, old port gate, waste gas tower, east wall dispatch vault…
Six retired boards, in four hours, were approached by former line holders, re-stood, rebinding attempted.
Two showed faint glows.
Not system-driven—the boards reacted to people.
That night, Jason received the report.
No anger, no kill order.
Calmly, one line, "From tonight, anyone returning to old boards is barred from frontline process chains."
"You're not guarding code."
"You're hijacking code to defy system."
"Process doesn't know people."
"Process only moves forward."
Section Two: Name Erasure
Midnight, the system launched "Memory Wipe Protocol."
Neutral name, brutal logic.
Order:
"All boards with historical binder revisits, repeated contact, or three+ unbound link attempts are deemed abnormal emotional persistence."
"System to erase non-structural cognitive markers in their ID chains."
"Erasure will remove all historical contact recognition for the executor."
Plainly:
"Boards must forget you."
"Even if you guarded, bled, it's wiped clean."
S-6 Tower Shadow Alley, before HX-S2-F3.
Shen Min stayed, guarding like a coffin.
The board didn't glow but stayed faintly warm.
He felt its "old recognition."
As he reached to touch, the board clicked, a yellow light bar flashing.
System:
"Code to erase historical executor recognition."
"Binding log to be overwritten."
"Confirm this person is no longer process executor?"
His heartbeat wasn't pounding—it scraped, like a blunt knife.
He realized:
The code was choosing to "forget" him.
Not disowning—erasing their shared past.
He stepped back, crouched, gripping the board's strut.
"I'm not dead."
"Why forget me?"
"I braved the coldest nights, guarded the worst posts."
"You won't even remember my name?"
He roared.
No one heard. The board stayed calm.
It glowed briefly—like hesitation.
Then dimmed.
Main control map updated:
"Code F3 executor recognition: Erased."
"Code status reverted to standard structure mode."
"Transfer rights reopened, awaiting new line holder."
Shen Min sat.
His eyes hollowed, aged a decade.
Silent, he shed his armor, tossing his three-year line holder badge into scrap rubble.
The badge bore his words:
"As long as I'm here, the board won't die."
He was here; the board forgot him.
Not an isolated case.
C-3, N-4 rail gate, old well zone, riverside alley…
Overnight, the system erased seventeen old executors.
Some protested, some went quiet.
Some knelt, hands on boards, reciting past guard logs;
Some smashed boards, left process for good;
Some tried hacking old signal ports, shocked unconscious, marked "illegal disruptors."
That night, board-side people rebelled against process itself.
Jason, on the report, said only, "They're not against process."
"They're checking if process 'abandoned' them."
"Boards were their reason to live."
"We're making process—choose to forget."
"Then they're not people, but names erased from history."
Zhao Mingxuan, cold, "Process shouldn't remember."
"If it recalls every guardian, it can't take new orders."
"This is system, not sentiment."
"We're not killing them—we're killing process's weakness."
Maria said nothing, standing by the hall, watching R7's glow.
It shone.
Not system-permitted—it chose to shine.
All boards forgot people, but this one said:
"I remember him."
"Strip my structure, take my code, deny new holders."
"But you can't make me—stop glowing."
Section Three: Dual Listening
C-3 old industrial segment, code HX-S2-E19.
Two stood before the board.
Peng Lian, fifty, former process squad leader, guarded seven days early on, left arm maimed, later reassigned, went missing.
Wu Jia, twenty-two, first-batch process trainee, assigned to E19 via "trust inheritance sequence."
Both in process armor. Both claiming the board.
It didn't dim or glow. Mute.
System gave it two choices—who continues?
The board didn't know who to trust.
"I guarded it, every crack I patched," Peng Lian said low.
"First enemy break, I crawled to reconnect the signal."
"It glowed when I bled, sang when I passed out. I woke, it held."
He eyed Wu Jia, "Tell me, what day did you come?"
Wu Jia didn't flinch, "System gave it to me, deemed me fit."
"I stood my hours, passed tests, aced guard drills."
"You have past, I have now."
"Process isn't your ashes."
The board didn't judge.
It glowed once, dimmed.
It self-checked—history matching combat, stand time, code strength, order consistency…
But halted at:
"Trust Index: Tied."
Not an algorithm humans could solve.
The board didn't know who to hear.
Main control tower decided:
Activate dual-selection mechanism.
The board, not system, would choose its executor from the binders.
Not democracy—code voting.
The board's surface sprouted dual ID modules.
Both pressed palms to ports, awaiting chain recognition.
All C-3's process segment watched.
Peng Lian stood steady, like a night guard.
Wu Jia stood straight, like a shift-taker.
Recognition began.
No flicker.
No movement.
Signal formed.
System voice, calm, "Code HX-S2-E19 executor evaluation."
"Record read complete."
"Criteria: Board historical damage alignment with executor logs; order overlap; compliance priority; anomalous response count."
Evaluation ended.
Board glowed.
Not a flash—a shine.
A line surfaced:
"Peng Lian."
Wu Jia stepped back, silent.
Not shamed—system slapped him.
Not system choosing old blood—process rejected replacement.
Peng Lian looked at the board, one line, "You still know me."
No tears, no smile, just bending to sit on the cement pad from his guard days.
Board quiet. Code pulsed once, steady.
System logged, first marking a process operation:
"Board proactive choice · System order logic overridden."
Section Four: Welded Shut
C-6 north stack gate, code HX-S2-B40.
A mid-tier board, no combat merits, no special trust events. A "standard process zone," typically system-scheduled.
Tonight, it was unbolted—not for loss, but a transfer order to River Mouth outpost.
Order received, two line holders—one system-assigned, one mid-term relief—began removal for redeployment.
They didn't expect, mid-pull, an elder in tattered process armor limping from the alley.
He said nothing, pressing hand to a cracked board seam, welded shut one stormy night.
His voice rasped, like old garage alarms, "You can't pull."
"Code transfer order, what's your authority?" the relief holder snapped.
The elder, calm, pulled a rusted core tube from his chest pouch, bent, scarred.
"This was my first signal line for this board."
"No system record of me—I guarded before it was logged."
"It lit then, not your doing. My brothers and I welded, burned, bled—to make it glow first."
The board flickered, like a heartbeat, hesitation, reunion.
Relief holder paused.
System showed no elder's identity, database blank, order clear: "Code transferable, no individual memory risk."
But the board didn't dim.
It warmed.
Not system-driven—board activating residual memory.
Transfer halted. System couldn't force removal.
Main control got the alert.
Zhao Mingxuan, cold, ordered, "Non-merit board, no trust binding allowed."
"Erase all non-structural behavior chains in board chip."
"If needed, initiate process meltdown."
Not an order to people—to the board.
Meltdown: Overheat signal waves fry the board's core, permanent failure.
Process system's "death penalty."
Not removal—burning it alive.
An hour later, process techs arrived with meltdown gear.
Not soldiers—"process structure correctors."
They fixed errors, not feelings.
Before reaching the board, two figures blocked them.
Not crowds, not rioters.
Third Legion process guards, sentinels.
No fight, no shouts.
One line, "This board's still glowing."
"It remembers him."
"Burn it, you tell Iron Valley boards can't know people."
"You burn it, you burn the heart that trusts process remembers."
No second team came.
By dawn, the board was rewelded, base reinforced, sealed.
Charcoal scrawl:
"Forbidden Transfer."
System logged:
"Code HX-S2-B40 · Special Status: Welded Code."
"Note: Process structure rejected system transfer due to strong historical guardian memory, manual override failed."
"Status: Immobile · Irremovable · No new executor registration."
Section Five: Forgetting Law
Code B40 dimmed without smoke or flame.
A faint beep from its core, like hot air escaping old iron.
System, flat, "Memory erasure in progress."
"Binding behavior data… cleared."
"External recognition response… terminated."
"Code reverted to standard order state."
Zhang Lu stood before it, in old armor.
He stood rigid, as if the system might say something, leave something.
The board didn't respond.
He watched the code he guarded sixteen days, patched four times, repaired with three core tubes—forget him.
Not betrayal, not reset.
Erasure.
Silent, rational, complete.
Two days prior, main control passed the *Process Code Memory Restriction Ordinance*. Codes showing "excessive executor binding" triggered "Forgetting Law."
Forgetting Law: System-initiated structure reset, wiping individual trust chains.
Not barring guarding.
Making codes strangers to you.
You're not process people—just "unknown" before the board.
Rust Street's execution layer called it "code purification."
"Codes must shed emotional tint to be structure."
"Memory is baggage. Process isn't a diary."
That day, B40 pulsed once—not revival, but a post-erasure signal, "clean."
Then dimmed.
System deemed it "redeployable."
Three hours later, new line holder Wu Song arrived, system prompting, "Code binding executable."
He hesitated, seeing Zhang Lu sitting nearby, eyes complex.
Zhang Lu said nothing.
He stood, pulling a cloth wrap from his sleeve, holding the beacon ring from B40's first planting.
"Take it," he said. "It's yours now."
Wu Song didn't reach, voice rough, "It remembers you."
Zhang Lu smiled, "It doesn't. I'll remember."
Similar scenes hit over ten code sites.
Post-"full memory purge," boards cut chains. Old executors stood, codes silent.
No farewells, no notices. System didn't inform.
Boards severed contact.
In C-7's east third mine, a board pulsed faintly before erasure.
Some said it "struggled."
Some said it didn't want to forget.
System allowed no choice.
Process was structure, not sentiment.
Codes shouldn't think. Codes couldn't feel.
Tarn, hearing the erasure reports, stayed silent.
R7 still glowed. System hadn't wiped his binding.
He knew—temporary.
Codes not knowing people was system's endgame.
All codes would become cold command tokens.
By R7, he asked low, "If I'm gone, will you be rewritten?"
No answer.
Wind blew, a fallen iron scrap rolled, clanging against the board's base.
Process flinched, signal jumping.
For a moment, Tarn saw "hesitation."
Fear? Knowing? Saying:
"I… don't want to forget."
System gave no chance.
Second-stage erasure plan issued:
"Codes showing hesitation (delayed signal, unconfirmed binding, post-interrupt flickers) are class-two memory leaks."
"Action: System intervention, forced logic rewrite."
Codes couldn't miss anyone.
If they "remembered," they'd be burned clean.
Codes needed order loyalty, not blood memories.
That night, an old line holder welded his board's scrap into a wall.
He said:
"It forgot me."
"I'll remember for it."
"If it dies, I guard its ground."