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墨書 Inktalez
I began to pay attention to the discarded items, hoping to find more substantial evidence. That evening, taking advantage of the sparse crowd in the teaching building, I sneaked back to the garbage collection point on the west side of the top floor. The familiar smell still lingered in the air, though it was fainter than during the day.
I held my breath, suppressing my nausea, and quickly rummaged through the black garbage bags.
"Who’s there!" A sharp voice suddenly echoed from the stairwell.
My heart raced; it was a patrolling security guard! Just when I felt helpless and thought I would be caught on the spot, a janitor, Old Zhang, pushed his creaky garbage cart around the corner, conveniently blocking the line of sight between me and the guard.
"Old Li, checking up?" Old Zhang greeted with a hoarse voice.
"Oh, it's you, Master Zhang," the guard's tone softened. "Nothing much, just heard some noise."
Seizing the moment while they spoke, Old Zhang turned his back to the guard and quickly pulled something from his pocket, swiftly stuffing it into an empty garbage bag beside me. Then he continued pushing his cart forward as if nothing had happened. His movements were quick, yet his gaze never met mine.
The guard mumbled a few words and left.
Still shaken, I quickly grabbed the bag that had been stuffed with something and fled the scene.
Back home, after locking the door, I took out what was inside the garbage bag. It was a crumpled piece of waste paper.
I carefully unfolded it. The paper was old and yellowed, with edges singed and curled from burning, emitting a faint musty smell mixed with stale ink.
With trembling fingers, I smoothed out the creases on the paper as a wave of mildew and burnt odor filled my nostrils. Some of the writing was illegible but still recognizable.
At the top, several incomplete words formed a title: "…Student Mental Potential…Initial Research Proposal…"
Below it, a line of small text was barely visible: "Internal Code: Qingyuan Project."
The date was from over a decade ago.
My heart began to race faster. The content was even more shocking:
"...through 'strict environmental control'..."
"...'high-frequency cognitive guidance'..."
"...'physiological rhythm forced unification'..."
"...with the assistance of specific mental enhancers ('Cognitive Focus Agent C-7', next to it was a hasty note in pen: 'Initial dosage 0.5mg, observation period 72h, emotional detachment response is a normal phenomenon') in small doses, requiring close monitoring of neurological side effects..."
Among these, the line about 'side effect monitoring' was brutally crossed out with a black pen, and beside it, in the same hurried handwriting, was written: "Efficiency first, risks controllable."
"Emotional detachment response is a normal phenomenon..."
"Efficiency first, risks controllable..."
These cold words struck my heart like hammers. I slumped in my chair, the piece of paper in my hand felt light as a feather yet heavy as a thousand pounds.
Later, I found an opportunity to strike up a conversation with Old Zhang. He avoided eye contact, his speech was fragmented and filled with apprehension.
"...that thing... it's been around for years... the school is clearing things out... a pile of papers to burn... I looked at... the words written on them... terrifying... so I secretly hid a few sheets..."
"...there are also some... broken bottle pieces... drawings... torn apart..."
"...those kids... poor things..." He sighed and said no more, pushing the garbage cart away.
"The Qingyuan Project."
It turned out that all of this had begun over a decade ago.
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