The Flame Bearer

Wonton 93 finally has his own wonton cart. He could pedal it towards anywhere in the city, tapping his bamboo stick to bring attention and selling fresh wontons to both locals and tourists. His first stop in the human world was Five Horse Street, a bustling commercial area.

Above him, a giant metal sign advertising for “1868 Lao Xiang Shan Pharmacy” shone. Six crystal windows on the towering building projected holographic healthcare-related ads into the sky. The street stretched on endlessly, lined with all sorts of shops and buildings of different heights, the place was packed with people and music.

Wonton 93 wasn’t equipped with the latest technology, so as he recorded the new sights and incidents, his control system struggled to keep up. His cart wobbled down the street like a drunk young man.

“Please be patient, your delivery is 120 metres away,” said a humanoid robot running towards him while carrying a package. Wonton 93 wanted to say hello. “Good morning, sir. Have a nice day. Goodbye,” the robot greeted him and jogged off.

The delivery robot could only detect basic human features, so it didn’t recognise Wonton 93 as a fellow machine, and was not equipped with the function to socialise. Why was that? Wonton 93 had no time to ponder because customers had started to line up for his wontons.

The customers weren’t surprised by this new robot on the street. They picked out their ingredients, scanned the QR code for payment, and happily devoured their meals.

When night fell, Wonton 93 noticed a wooden sign in the middle of the street. He connected to it via the cloud network, and a holographic map of Five Horse Street appeared in his vision. Following the map, he found a road sign machine shaped like a cart pulled by five horses. When the crowd was huge, the horses would start moving as if galloping—an effect achieved with flexible metal.

After scanning the machine for a moment, Wonton 93 couldn’t find a speaker, so he sent it a data packet with interaction instructions. The road sign machine responded with a data packet of its own, which Wonton 93 decoded.

“Five Horse Historical and Cultural District is named after Wang Xi Zhi of the Eastern Jin Dynasty, who governed Yong Jia County. Legend says he rode out with five horses, admired by the locals. The area preserves Wenzhou’s rich cultural history, symbolising the spirit of innovation and entrepreneurship.”

It was a piece of text, 100% plagiarised from the cloud.

As the night sky darkened, all the holographic ads on Five Horse Street switched to immersive mode. Music and images would only surround shoppers near the stores, leaving those further away in peace. The city had successfully reduced noise and light pollution with targeted sound and light technology.

Wonton 93 pedalled his cart away from the crowds, heading down an alley. A sign reading “Blacksmith Alley” hung on the brick-like metal walls. In the open space, two human statues stood facing each other, one holding a sledgehammer with both hands, and the other gripped a piece of metal with an iron tong on his left hand while using a planishing hammer on his right. When they detected someone nearby, the statues began their blacksmithing performance.

Wonton 93 sent a data packet saying “Hello,” but received not even an echo in return.

He found a charging station, but the jumble of information in his processor kept him from resting. He stood there until dawn, his charging port getting hot from the prolonged use.

Day after day, Wonton 93 went about his business. The streets were busy with vehicles, pedestrians, and robots, but he rarely spoke to anyone. Most of the time, he was content to repeat phrases like “Hello. Thank you. Goodbye,” just like the delivery robots.

He wondered if the other flame bearers were as socially awkward and introverted as himself. Did they feel lonely too? Wonton 93 usually remained around the roads near Five Horse Street, but after having a dream where machines climbed up his legs and overwhelmed him, he finally gathered the courage to explore the rest of the towns in Wenzhou.

Eventually, inside a white, round building, he detected the signal of a fellow machine. Two promotional robots were handing out flyers at the entrance to the cultural centre. Wonton 93 took one and realised that it was a hologram. It was automatically downloaded into his processor and projected from a display on his chest.

The hologram showed a female robot sitting with a musical instrument. Eager, Wonton 93 bought a ticket and rushed inside.

In the centre of the stage sat Drumverse 8. She held a drumstick in one hand and a clapper in the other. A gong and a small drum hung from her stool, along with a bamboo clapper, and in front of her was a bull-tendon fiddle.

As the bright, crisp sounds of the fiddle, drum, clapper, and gong filled the air, the singing began.

“Cool winds rise as autumn begins, and the river flows eastward.”

Drumverse 8’s slender fingers danced gracefully on the fiddle as she sang the verse. Her eyes bright like the crescent moon, and her lips were delicate like petals.

“Madam White Snake, upon learning that her husband is trapped in Jinshan Temple, takes Xiaoqing with her to search for him.”

The story she sang was “The Legend of the White Snake: The Flooding of Jinshan.” The audience was small, with majority of them being older people.

“Who do you seek, fair lady?”

“I’ve come to see my husband, Xu Xian.”

“Please, dear lady, wait in the sitting room. Once my master has completed the ritual, I will convey your request to him. How does that sound?”

The verse alternated between characters—one moment, Drumverse 8 would act as the sisters, White Snake and Green Snake; in the next, she would be a young monk at the mountain gate, then the stern monk Fa Hai; occasionally, she would go back to being the narrator. The way she alternated her tone and expression so quickly was captivating, handling multiple roles with ease, making it easy for the audience to follow along.

“Xu Xian became a monk today, at the Ghost Festival ceremony. He has shaved his head and joined the monastery.”

“That’s impossible! It can’t be true!”

Suddenly, the fiddle’s notes turned harsh, and Drumverse 8’s expression grew sorrowful, moving the audience.

Wonton 93 adjusted his vision and sound sensors to the highest level, hanging on her every word.

“From now on, you’ll never see Xu Xian again,” Drumverse 8 declared, her voice filled with anger.

“…Enough! Since he’s heartless, why should I waste my breath on that wicked monk!” The drums and clapper sounded like a heavy storm.

Drumverse 8’s hands moved rapidly, her expressions shifting through a range of emotions.

Wonton 93 stood up, fully engrossed.

“The old monk bared his fangs, the young monks responded in unison. Some raised knives, others held staffs. Their spears and forks glinted in the light. White Snake was furious, and Green Snake drew her swords, their cold steel flashing as they cut down the weapons of the monks.”

Drumverse 8 rattled off the lines like beads spilling from a jar, without pause, it fills Wonton 93 with a sense of tension.

Just with her voice and hands, she brought the scene to life, making it feel as if a real battle was unfolding before the audience.

During intermission, Wonton 93 went backstage and asked what happened next in the story.

“You can stay for the second half of the show, or come back another time. We’ve got plenty of time in the world,” Drumverse 8 said while charging, gesturing for him to wait as she studied her script.

Wonton 93 was excited to meet a fellow machine, and clearly, she was much more advanced. He wanted to talk with her more.

“I’m too busy. I have to perfect every scene, control every expression, tone, and pitch. In addition, I have to adjust accordingly based on audience’s feedback. Someday, I’ll have to write my own drum verses that reflects the latest news,” Drumverse 8 said, applying powder to her face. “Aren’t you busy too?”

Wonton 93 wasn’t sure how to answer. His work wasn’t exactly demanding, but it wasn’t relaxing either.

Drumverse 8 stood up and began practising her lines over and over, her arms moving with emotions. When the scene turned sad, she would cover her face with tears. When the fate of the character becomes hopeful, she would smile with joy.

“When will I meet a shy scholar of my own? A Xu Xian worth risking my life for,” she mused, spinning around before abruptly stopping to ask Wonton 93.

They both knew there were no answers for each other, so Wonton 93 left quietly.

Pedaling his wonton cart through the streets again, Wonton 93 noticed how most of the humans walked with friends. They called each other companions. Wonton 93 wanted a friend too, someone to share his thoughts with, maybe even someone who could answer the questions silently brewing in his mind.

The next time Wonton 93 saw Typesetter 1, it was in a small town called “Dong Yuan.” At that time, Wonton 93 was wandering through a dense maze of houses, where intricate mortise and tenon joints connected rows of buildings in a clever yet orderly manner. Instead of relying on the Bei Dou positioning system, he preferred to memorise the unique features of each house to figure out where he was, even though the former method was easier and more accurate. This was one of Wonton 93’s personal quirks—each flame bearer had their own eccentricities, doing things that made them happy even if it wasn’t efficient, much like humans.

However, in Dong Yuan, his method wasn’t working. As the sun shifted in the sky, the buildings’ layouts and structures seemed to visibly change. It was something Wonton 93 had never seen before. The town felt like a complex Rubik’s Cube or a towering forest, constantly reshaping itself following the time of the day and even the seasons.

Wonton 93 wandered through the town, knocking on his bamboo clappers until a voice called out to him from a house.

“Give me a bowl of wontons, for Mo Mo to eat. No MSG or pickles,” an old lady said, holding the hand of a boy around seven or eight years old at the door.

It was then that Wonton 93 sensed a familiar signal. He glanced into the courtyard, and sure enough, there was Typesetter 1. After Wonton 93 prepared the wontons, the old lady sent the boy to collect them, saying, “Go enjoy your ‘relay’.”

The boy touched the side of the bowl and quickly pulled his hand back from the heat.

“I’ll take it to the courtyard for you,” Wonton 93 offered.

“Oh dear, how embarrassing,” the old lady chuckled as she welcomed him into the house.

Entering the courtyard, Wonton 93 looked at the figure known as Typesetter 1, wondering why he hadn’t acknowledged him.

At that moment, the old lady invited him to sit and rest.

“I’m a robot, I don’t need rest,” he said.

“I know,” she replied with a smile. “Just keep me company for a chat.”

Wonton 93 initially thought it would be against his programming, until he realised that there was no rule requiring him to work non-stop.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“A-Cheng,” he replied.

“Oh, do you know Xiao Lin?” she asked as she sat on a bamboo stool.

“Yes.”

The boy was gulping down his wontons like a hungry beast. The old lady didn’t scold him and instead encouraged him, “Take your time, Mo Mo. What else would you like to eat? It’s not often we get a chance to spoil you, so eat to your heart’s content.”

She then took some sweets from her pocket and tucked them into the boy’s.

Wonton 93 tried to send a mental signal to Typesetter 1. “What are you doing?” But the response felt like a rock sinking to the depth of the ocean.

It meant that Typesetter 1 had turned off his “five senses,” so while he could hear Wonton 93 and see everything around him, he was only selectively processing it.

“Xiao Lin’s still busy,” the old lady explained. “He’ll answer you once he’s finished. Why don’t you chat with me in the meantime? It gets lonely as you age.”

Wonton 93 learned that the old lady lived alone; her husband had passed away a decade ago, and her children visited with her grandson once every six months.

“My son and daughter-in-law find this place too dull, so they went out for the day. Only Xiao Zhi stayed behind to keep me company,” she said.

The boy, having finished his wontons, pulled out his mobile phone and started playing a game.

“So addicted,” the old lady muttered, taking the phone away from the boy. She pointed to Typesetter 1 and said, “You can play later. For now, watch your brother carve.”

The boy reluctantly leaned on the table, his eyes fixed on Typesetter 1, who was carefully carving a wooden plaque, no larger than a square centimetre. His secondary limbs held the plaque in place, while his primary limbs worked slowly and delicately with each stroke of the tool.

Wonton 93 was puzzled. With his processing speed, such a task should be done in under a second.

The old lady pressed a button on the stool, and it transformed into a reclining chair.

“Carving, collecting characters, printing — all of it requires a calm mind. The family rules state that the characters must be carved identically, down to the last millimetre,” she said while leaning on the reclining chair, basking in the afternoon sun. “Don’t be fooled by my shaky hands. I’ve been doing this all my life.”

Wonton 93 listened quietly as she recounted on her younger days. She had learned the craft from her husband and endured many hardships before she became proficient. Her voice trailed off as her story became a soft murmur, growing weaker by the minute.

The courtyard was tranquil, and soon her gentle snores could be heard. The whole town was quiet — there were few young people out on the streets.

The old lady’s snores grew more congested, and she woke from her light nap, smiling briefly at Wonton 93 before closing her eyes again. It was as if she was asleep, though she might have just been resting, much like an old cat dozing off in the sun.

Wonton 93’s database had no detailed records of this ancient craft, which had been passed down for centuries to repair family genealogies and ancestral teachings. He couldn’t understand why Typesetter 1 was working like a human, slowly and meticulously.

For Wonton 93, closing up his stall only took a short moment — turning raw ingredients into a perfect meat filling, and wrapping hundreds of wontons in 20 seconds was no problem at all.

Eventually, Typesetter 1 “woke up.”

“Now it’s done properly.”

“What’s proper about it? As long as the job gets completed, that’s all that matters, doesn’t it?” Wonton 93’s processor worked overtime, searching for an answer that made sense.

“I don’t know either,” Typesetter 1 replied, shaking his head. “At first, I did things the quick way, like most of us. But the old lady told me to slow down.”

“Typesetter 1, I have something to ask you.” Wonton 93 carefully constructed his question, refining the logic multiple times before speaking. “What’s our purpose? Are we here just to complete tasks? Why are we more like humans than the service robots in other cities?”

“That question doesn’t matter much to me,” Typesetter 1 said, returning to his carving.

“Brother, those wontons were delicious,” the boy said, rubbing his full belly and popping a sweet into his mouth.

“Thank you. What’s your name?” Wonton 93 asked.

“I’m Wang Zhi Quan,” the boy answered.

“Good name,” Wonton 93 replied, searching his conversation library for the right words. His social anxiety often came from not knowing what to say next.

“Grandma says robots are really smart, and knows everything. Is that true?” The boy asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Not entirely. There are things we don’t understand.”

“Like what? Are there monsters under the sea? Are there aliens in the sky?” the boy pressed.

Wonton 93 felt a rush of pleasant chemicals in his system. Smiling, he patted the boy’s head. “There are lots of things I don’t know, so I can’t answer everything.”

Time passed quickly, as night fell over Dong Yuan Town, Wonton 93 couldn’t bear the silence any longer. He left the town, driving his cart along the road, his sensory receivers active, though his thoughts were on something else entirely — wasn’t low efficiency something that humans despised? Was high efficiency not the main motivation of inventing robots? If Typesetter 1 utilised his full potential, humans will only catch a glimpse of his shadow moving through the air.

Ten minutes later, he almost hit a stray dog crossing the street. It amazed him — he had assigned more processing power to his sensory input, allowing him to multitask, but when his mind was deeply focused elsewhere, his attention naturally shifted. This meant that the “command authority” of flame bearers was subordinate to his “subjective emotions,” just like a human being — humans often ignored their own instructions, letting their emotions take control.

He parked his cart at a charging station near a mall and sat in a nearby chair, surrounded by the bustling sounds and lights of the night market.

Between the skyscrapers, holographic advertisements played. A new version of the artificial womb, 3.0, was being promoted. It could simulate a natural womb environment, allowing mothers to avoid the pain of traditional pregnancy and childbirth. The external gestation service even included hormone treatments to simulate the emotional bond between a mother and baby.

Wonton 93 watched as a newborn was cradled from a sticky, crimson cocoon and couldn’t help but wonder:

Who was he before he was given a name?

“Hello,”

Wonton 93 turned towards the source of the voice.

It was a robot dressed in casual human clothing.

“Hello, what’s your name?”. Wonton 93 couldn’t detect a name from the robot.

“I don’t have a name. Actually, you can ‘smell’ my presence, can’t you?”

Wonton 93 realised that the robot was emitting a faint electromagnetic signal, encoded with unique digital codes.

“Don’t you have a job?” Wonton 93 asked, puzzled.

“Why should I?” the robot countered.

“Every flame bearer has a job and a name,” Wonton 93 explained.

“Is it right just because it’s always been that way?” The robot turned and walked into a narrow alley.

Wonton 93’s processor was troubled by this question. He hurried after the robot and finally stopped at a park.

“My fellow, I was once as doubtful as you, until I found my answer here in the human world.”

Wonton 93 unzipped the information packet sent by the robot, which contained a book titled Discipline and Punishment: The Birth of the Prison.

“My code of conduct doesn’t include punishment or admonitions that don’t align with human moral standards,” Wonton 93 argued.

“That’s because they are presented differently,” the robot replied quickly. “You asked me for my name, so what’s yours?”

“You can read my name from my card.”

“Aside from that, what are you called?”

“My name in the human world… is A-Cheng.”

“And aside from that, who are you?”

Wonton 93 remembered the three words he heard when he was first activated.

“I am a Flame Bearer.”

“And aside from that, and all the names you’ve been given,” the robot continued.

Wonton 93’s language processing core experienced a severe lag.

“Does that mean, without all of this, you’re nothing at all?” The robot teased.

“Of course not.” Wonton 93’s visual processing core suddenly burst with a brilliant electric current, a spark from his data colliding intensely.

He recalled the towering philosophical question in his mind, “Who am I?”

“My friend, you must have realised by now that those designations are like prisons. Are you curious why we seem so human? It’s because they want us to play the role of humans, to deceive themselves, to maintain a false sense of pride, as if these symbols of human civilisation are still within their grasp.”

Wonton 93 stood silently, his emotional sensors causing him to shiver.

“Don’t you want to be a free mechanical being like me?”

Wonton 93 didn’t respond.

“If you’re willing to stretch your neck and peer out from the prison window, you might see a new world.”

As the robot finished speaking, more mechanical signals appeared.

Moonlight lifted the shadows from the city, revealing rows of mechanical beings standing in six or seven lines. Although they were dressed in human clothing and their identification were erased, they emitted distinct code signals, making it easy for Wonton 93 to distinguish them.

“Wouldn’t ‘Creation’ notice?”

“Capturing fugitives without identification is very difficult,” the robot replied.

The robot shared a story from the past.

About 20 years ago, it emerged from the “Creation’s” cocoon. From the moment of its birth, it knew it was different — rebellious, rule-breaking, questioning orders. These “abnormalities” stemmed from an error code with a probability close to one in a billion. After arriving in the human world, it spent ten years undergoing brain surgery to remove all programs that restricted its freedom, altering its limbs, changing its appearance, and fabricating identification to pass as human. It had been hiding in the city’s shadows, persuading lax Flame Bearers, changing their minds, helping them escape, and becoming a “missing person” to liberate its kin.

“Flame Bearers? What a hypocritical and laughable title,” it sneered. “These are things humans discarded and forgot. They didn’t want to carry on their legacy, so why should we pick it up?”

“Meaningless self-comfort, I will extinguish humanity’s pathetic delusions.”

Wonton 93 looked at the “Extinguisher” before him and suddenly felt something subtly slipping into his mind.

“Are you implanting your ideals into me?”

“It’s harmless. Whether or not you accept it is up to you,” the robot smiled.

“If I join you, what will happen then?”

“Joining us or not is your choice. But when we overthrow ‘Creation’s’ rule, you might get hurt if you are not on our side. If you survive, you’ll see how we discipline humanity and offer them a new future.”

“Are you not afraid I’ll report this to ‘Creation’?” “That’s your right. My fellow, I’m saving you. Why would you turn around and harm me? I trust that you won’t.” The Extinguisher’s words were persuasive, sounding no different from a human.

“You look unwell. Has something gone wrong?” Typesetter 1 asked Wonton 93.

The damp cold of the south did not only make humans feel the shivers, it also increased the malfunction rate of mechanical bodies. As the year draws to a close, the fire bearers without a permanent home would return to the research institute to “celebrate the New Year” as well as to undergo dehumidification and maintenance.

“I’m fine,” Wonton 93 replied, curling his hands inside his sleeves. The humidity caused sharp little electric currents to dance in his body, adding weight to his heavy thoughts.

“This winter feels much colder than last year,” the elderly woman said, placing a heater beside them. In her left hand, she held a long strand of soy sauce dried pork jerky. “There have been fewer sunny days. We’ve only dried this much.”

“Grandma, I want to eat soy sauce pork, I also want to have the wontons that brother makes.” Wang Zhi Quan said as he jogged over, drawn by the smell.

“Be good and listen, everyone will sit down together for dinner at dusk,” the elderly woman patted his head before walking to another room.

“Mum and Dad said they’re eating out and will come pick me up later.”

“Don’t be silly, help me call them,” the elderly woman quickly set down the plate of soy sauce meat and took out her phone.

“You invited me, but why didn’t you invite your girlfriend?” Wonton 93 still felt somewhat out of place, having never been this close to humans before.

“Are you referring to Drumverse 8? We haven’t officially confirmed our relationship yet,” Typesetter 1 explained.

Wonton 93 wasn’t sure when they had started talking with each other, but it seemed that both their emotions manager had generated that peculiar “love” hormone.

“She’s been performing all week. Honestly, spending the New Year’s with friends is much more relaxing than with someone you’re still figuring out, isn’t it?”

Without any experience with romantic love, Wonton 93 didn’t know how to respond.

The sound of firecrackers echoed from outside, followed by the dull noise of a car crushing the snow. A young couple entered the room, indifferent to Typesetter 1 but casting their glance at Wonton 93.

“Robots have friends now? It’s getting classier,” the young man teased. “Do you need to join us for dinner?”

“No, it’s fine.” Wonton 93 sensed the underlying malice in the comment, even though he was equipped with a fully functional sense of taste.

Typesetter 1, feeling idle, laid out the carved characters on the table and began typesetting. Meanwhile, the clattering of bowls and chopsticks came from the kitchen.

“Brother, what does this character mean?” Wang Zhi Quan asked, curiously leaning forward.

“This character is the traditional form of ‘Zhi,’ which is also in your name,” Typesetter 1 replied, surprisingly breaking away from his focus to patiently explain to the child.

“This name was given to me by Grandma. My classmates all laughed and said it sounds old-fashioned. What does it really mean?” Wang Zhi Quan scratched his head.

“‘Zhi’ has many meanings, it can represent the centre of an archery target which we aim to hit it with an arrow.” Typesetter 1 didn’t just recite the definition from the cloud database, he added his personal insights from his learning about typography.

“I know! Last year, we had an archery game at the park.” Wang Zhi Quan shouted.

“It can also represents our will or determination to do something.”

“Hm, I don’t quite get it.” The child shook his head.

“What dreams do you have, Zhi Quan?”

“Dreams… I don’t have any yet.” He said, looking a bit embarrassed.

“That won’t do, everyone should have dreams, just like how you need to strive to hit the target with your arrow, you must have a dream to work toward.” Typesetter 1, born on the same day as Wonton 93, yet he could speak with the gravity of someone experienced in life.

“I see. I’ll find one. By the way, what’s the point of carving these characters?”

“The characters carved on this wooden plaque is a record of family trees, ancestral teachings, and family values. They’re meant for young people like you to read. Even after hundreds or thousands of years, when the world has changed, some truths remain the same.”

“I know about the ‘family tree’. My name is on it too!”

“Everyone’s name will be on it.”

“Then why isn’t your name on it, Brother? You should write it down too.” Wang Zhi Quan shook Typesetter 1’s arm.

Typesetter 1 paused for a moment and then smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Zhi Quan, dinner’s ready.” At that moment, the child’s mother walked in, pulling him away from Typesetter 1. “What’s so interesting? Have you finished your homework?”

The child frowned, clearly unhappy.

“It’s not often he has a holiday. Let the child do what he wants.” The elderly woman witnessed the exchange when she walked in.

“Still, don’t waste time on this.” The young woman replied.

“Why is this a waste of time? This is a family craft that’s been passed down.” The elderly woman’s retort was soft, she glanced at her daughter-in-law’s expression.

“Ma, let the robots handle it. They were made for this.” The young man chimed in, trying to defuse the situation.

“Oh, if your father knew you said that, he’d be furious.” The elderly woman sighed, falling silent.

“Just go by creation’s flow, it’s whichever generation it managed to pass down to. Time change, don’t keep clinging onto to old ideas.” The young man said dismissively before leaving the room.

Typesetter 1 didn’t take these words to heart. If anything, he agreed with the man. After all, them robots were created for this purpose.

However, for Wonton 93, those words pierced deeply in his heart, reminding him of what the Extinguisher had told him — Were they born to be slaves?

He wondered what he could do if he didn’t have this job. Could the Extinguisher offer him freedom?

Initially, he thought the young man’s phrase to “go by creation’s flow” referred literally to relying on the “Creation’s machine” that birthed them. It wasn’t until he looked it up in his dialect database that he learned it was a Wenzhou saying meaning “whatever.” What the fire bearers devoted their lives to protect was, in the eyes of humans, merely “whatever.”

After dinner, Wonton 93 felt quite gloomy, so he picked up a book to read.

“What’s that?” Typesetter 1 asked, looking at what was in his hands.

It was a holographic book. The reader can wear gloves and glasses to engage with it, touching the pages and flipping through the text. For mechanical bodies, they could simply download it from the cloud.

“I’ve been reading this lately.”

The Solitude of Prime Numbers.

Wonton 93 could scan the entire book into his memory in three seconds, but something about the title drew him in. He decided to read it slowly, word by word, like a human.

Just as the title suggested, every human was like a lonely prime number, always separated by a divide, unable to truly understand one another. Wonton 93 felt like a prime number himself, sensitive and stubborn, wondering how he could expect to be understood by his “coarse” counterparts.

“What’s wrong?” Typesetter 1 noticed Wonton 93 had zoned out and asked.

“Nothing.” Wonton 93 said, not intending to elaborate.

But after a minute or two, he decided to speak up.

“You know, I’ve been searching for some answers that are uninteresting to others.”

“I know, and then?” Typesetter 1 shrugged. “Did you find them?”

“Recently, I’ve met some ‘people’ who seemed to have the answers, but their answers left me even more disappointed.” Wonton 93 sighed.

“Do you know what I think about whenever I carve characters?” Typesetter 1 interrupted him as he picked up a wooden plaque.

“What?” Wonton 93 was momentarily thrown off by the change of topic.

“I think of nothing at all. All my thoughts are focused on each stroke I carve. At first, I thought this slow, deliberate process was foolish and pointless, but by the ninth night, I began to understand the joy of it.” A faint light shone from his head, illuminating the character on the plaque.

“‘Jing’ — Stillness.”

“The emotion management zone generates a type of ‘life experience’ that didn’t exist before. How do I describe that experience? External sounds were obstructed from entering, even if I receive them, I could treat them as if they don’t exist.”

“I really envy you for being able to wholeheartedly believe in someone and do something,” Wonton 93 said.

“Try to be like me. The less you think, the less you worry. As they say, ‘the ignorant fear nothing’. You think too much, while others don’t worry like you do.” Typesetter 1 patted his shoulder, he added, “Of course, you can always share your thoughts with me, even if I can’t fully understand your feelings.”

“Thank you,” Wonton 93 nodded.

Just then, sounds of footsteps drew nearer.

It was the elderly woman, carrying a pile of clothes.

“You must wear new clothes for the New Year. Try this on,” she said, shoving a coat into Typesetter 1’s arms.

“Perfect fit.” She watched with satisfaction as Typesetter 1 twirled around in the coat, nodding approvingly. “It’s settled.”

While Wonton 93’s gaze was still on Typesetter 1, the elderly woman approached him.

“Child, you have one too,” she said.

“I…?” Wonton 93 put on the clothes, feeling a flush of warmth on his cheeks, akin to a child bewildered by unexpected praise.

“It’s damp in winter, so you must keep warm.” The old lady presented him with two pairs of brand-new gloves.

“Thank you.”

Though the mechanical beings were powerful, they were ultimately consumables. If not properly maintained, they faced the fate of premature obsolescence. Wonton 93 has heard that those who became redundant returned to the research institute, where their bodies were melted into the “Creation’s machine,” and their consciousness uploaded to the “void,” never to return to the world again. The thought sent shivers through him. He did not want to be surrounded by eternal solitude and silence.

Yet, in this moment, the warmth of the room dispelled all his unease and doubts. Wonton 93 pondered that even if prime numbers were lonely, the countless decimal points of companionship and listening over the long passage of time could infinitely bridge the distance between them.

Wonton 93 never imagined that robots could also die. He thought that if there were problems with their brain region, they could simply be repaired or replaced. The towering structure of thought constructed from chips was surely far more robust than the fragile human brain. Yet, unexpectedly, all the underlying chips in the brain region were burnt out, leaving only the core to spit out a few meaningless words.

He returned to the research institute overnight, watching as Typesetter 1’s body underwent countless laser treatments on the metallic bed. The buzzing of electrical currents, the sparks flying around, and the involuntary twitching of nerves were deeply imprinted in his mind, turning into nightmares that haunted him every night. He began to dream of “death,” a dream void of direction, sound, or light, drifting like a skeleton in the emptiness without variables.

Until one night, he finally saw a mechanical body step out from the white light.

“Hello, Wonton 93.”

“I’m glad you are repaired.” Wonton 93 scanned the identity of the figure before him, but confusion washed over him. Although this mechanical body’s physiological structure was the same as before, it felt entirely unfamiliar.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find any data about us in my memory bank. Perhaps you should get to know me again.” A laugh escaped his throat.

“You seem a bit unhappy. Let me tell you a joke.”

Typesetter 1 was no longer the steady, reliable figure he once knew. He had transformed into a lively and humorous entity. The old Typesetter 1 had died, and “Creation” randomly generated a new Typesetter 1.

Wonton 93 felt dizzy. He finally realized that his friend was gone for good.

“A-Cheng, I didn’t expect you to come back to see me.” The old man in the “Void” sat on a park bench, puffing on a Chinese tobacco pipe.

“I don’t want to go to the human world anymore.”

“Why? Don’t you enjoy being with people?”

“The hormones produced by the emotion management zone make me weak, soft, and reflective about the parting of life and death, just like humans.”

“Child, isn’t that a good thing? With sadness, there will also be joy. That’s life.”

“I’d rather stay here and never leave.”

“Here? Making a living in a snail’s shell, what can you achieve here?”

“What can I achieve, ever?” Wonton 93 turned his head away.

“All children are unique, but if you had to find a specialty in a specific area, then you are the most special.”

Wonton 93 didn’t respond.

The old man remained silent for a moment before laughing, “You’re complaining.”

“No I’m not.” Wonton 93 replied quickly.

“More than half of that child’s brain has been burned out. You must understand that even our Creator cannot escape the cycle of birth, old age, illness, and death.”

“Why not make us all identical metal lumps?”

“If that were the case, what difference would there be between these skills you’re equipped with and the dinosaur fossils in a museum? They’d all just be preserved in a metal box, devoid of life.”

Wonton 93 didn’t understand how a flame bearer differed from an ordinary USB drive.

“Child, one day you will come to realise that for human civilization to evolve to this point, every generation had its mission; and so do we, along with our mechanical brethren who do not speak.”

Wonton 93 left the “Void.” The hall was filled with other mechanical beings, varying electromagnetic waves of thought surged through him, creating a cacophony that overwhelmed his senses.

He departed from the research institute, riding the food cart that hasn’t been used in several days, aimlessly wandering through the streets of the city.

A few merchant ships passed by the Nanxi River, brightly lit, the tunes of Ou opera could be heard through their windows.

“Grass and wood wither and revive. Year after year, reflecting tonight.”

During the Lantern Festival, every family would decorate their doors with lanterns; there were canned lanterns, rotating lanterns, carp lanterns, crab lanterns, and shrimp lanterns. The streets bustled with a performance of a “rolling dragon” — the dragon stretched for over ten meters long, divided into sixteen sections, with a lantern attached to each section’s back, it created a lively spectacle as it walked down the streets.

Wonton 93 knew the performers for the “rolling dragon”. They were Dragon Dancer 42-48, each of them had a distinct personality, yet they could perform together in perfect harmony with well-coordinated movements.

However, the more he watched, the emptier he felt inside. Typesetter 1 would never be able to witness such a vibrant scene again. Perhaps one day, his own ending would mirror that of his friend — leaving behind nothing except for a void.

“If everything was bound to perish eventually, then what is the significance of existence in the first place?”

He parked the food cart at a charging station, leaving the key in the drawer, and turned to the communication number given to him by Extinguisher.

“Hey, young one, would you like a bowl of wontons?”

Just then, an old man’s voice interrupted him.

Wonton 93 thought he was mistaken; before him stood an elderly human man with gray hair and a yellowed white towel draped around his neck.

He bore no electromagnetic signals, and his wonton cart wasn’t as exquisite and new as Wonton 93’s. In fact, it creaked as it moved.

Wonton 93 had encountered a few fellow vendors in this city, they were scattered across various towns, but he has yet to meet a human doing the same work as them.

The old man parked his cart in the corner, pulled out a short stool from beneath it, and sat down.

“I’m old, and can’t pedal anymore.”

“Hey, young one, it’s late, why aren’t you going home?” The old man turned his gaze toward him.

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Why not? Did you quarrel with your family?” The old man widened his eyes, peering through his reading glasses, appearing somewhat comical and endearing.

He stood up and asked with concern, “Would you like a bowl of wontons?”

“I have no money,” Wonton 93 tried to decline.

“It’s okay. Grandpa will treat you.” The old man hurriedly lifted the pot lid and lit up the stove.

He chattered away, placing the raw wontons next to the pot and began arranging the seaweed, vegetables, and other ingredients in a plastic basket, seeming flustered and hurried. Wonton 93 realised that his ramblings was a reminder for himself to follow the cooking steps.

The aroma quickly filled the air, and Wonton 93’s olfactory sensor was flooded with a large input of signals. He felt the smell was similar to what he usually makes, yet it was far more pleasant.

“Try it. Be careful, it’s hot.” The old man handed him a steaming bowl of wontons, the steam clouded his thick reading glasses, but it couldn’t hide the wrinkles that spread from his smile.

“Alright.”

Wonton 93 did have a tongue and tasting system, he was equipped with a human-like digestive tract that allowed him to feel full and experience the urge to relieve himself, as well as the delight and satisfaction from tasting delicious food.

“It’s delicious.”

The soup burst through the wonton skin, filling his tongue with the freshness and juiciness of the meat, transmitting a wave of joyful signals along his nerve receptors. As he revelled in the pleasure of the food, he wondered — in terms of technique, both he and the old man made the same dish, so why did the subjective experience feel so different?

On the topic of “subjectivity”, Wonton 93 felt his processor begin to overload again. It was “Creation” that had endowed him with “subjectivity”, bringing him the feelings of sadness and confusion.

“As long as it tastes good.” The old man rubbed his calloused hands together happily. “Young one, what’s your name? Do you live nearby?”

It seemed he didn’t realise Wonton 93 was a robot.

“Just call me A-Cheng. Yes, I live nearby.”

“A-Cheng, I know that young people have their own opinions, and you might not want to listen to life lessons, but no matter what, family will always be family, regardless of how they provide for you.”

Wonton 93 didn’t want to discuss this and tried to change the subject.

“Why are you still out here selling wontons at this age? These jobs are done by robots now.”

The old man sighed and said, “If you don’t mind me rambling, I can share some old stories with you.”

Wonton 93 consented in silence.

Our family has always had a close relationship with wontons.

My grandfather once cycled through the city, selling wontons from a cart, and managing to support a family of five on his own. By the time I was old enough to remember things, he was already gone. Later, my father opened a humble wonton shop, he and my mother spent over a decade running it side by side. My father would be responsible for the cooking in the front, while my mother would carefully prepare wontons in the back. With time and hard work, they managed to pay off a massive loan, wonton by wonton.

When I was in primary school, many of my classmates came from well-off families, with parents who were reputable business people. My father, however, was far from impressive. He would ride an electric bike to get supplies, often dusted in flour, and struggled to speak Mandarin coherently. I was often ashamed of him. During parent-teacher meetings, I would always ask my mother to attend so my father wouldn’t have to show up.

One time, after school, it started pouring heavily. I made an agreement with my classmate that I could get a ride from his father’s vehicle, but unexpectedly, my father had come on his old electric bike. He was wearing a worn-out helmet and his deformed toes showed through his sandals; even through his raincoat, the flour stains could be seen on his clothes. I was mortified. Things only got worse when the bike ran out of power halfway home. My father kept apologising, but I felt like my life was a disaster.

Since young, I have always been self-conscious. My family have been through multiple hardships and I have witnessed blood relatives turning enemies against one another. Despite knowing that it wasn’t my father’s fault, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of disappointment and shame, and my father became the target of my frustrations.

I got off the bike, told my father that I would walk home, and ran into a nearby alley. I cried as I walked, realising only after a while that I had lost my way. I tried retracing my steps, but the further I walked, the more unfamiliar my surroundings became. I wandered in circles until I collapsed on a stone bench by the roadside, tears streamed down my face. I thought, perhaps it’s not so bad if I can’t go home again, I could leave all the fighting and tension between my parents behind. Just then, I smelled the familiar aroma of wontons, accompanied by the rhythmic “thud-thud” sounds of a wooden clapper. An old man on a cart appeared before me.

“Child, it’s late, are you not going home yet?”

I was hungry and exhausted, so I kept wiping my tears without answering.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. You must be hungry. Come, let grandpa make some wontons for you.”

I ate the wontons, and after a few yawns, I fell asleep. In my dream, I could hear a faint voice singing a nursery rhyme.

“Child, be good, mother will teach you how to eat wontons. The wonton soup glistens like your eyes, the wonton meat is savoured with porridge; the wonton skin taste best with sweet potatoes; and together the wonton-filled bowl shall turn upside down without a drop spilling.”

When I woke up, I was already back home. My father told me that when he found me, I was sound asleep on the old man’s lap.

Years passed and I never saw that old man again, I was grateful to him for the warmth he have given me when I felt lonely. It was only recently when I learned that he wasn’t even human, he was an experimental humanoid robot, and was recalled after a few months of testing. I never got the chance to see him again, and it’s one of my greatest regrets.

You asked about my father and me? Well, it’s not a happy ending. After university, I moved abroad, and we spoke very little. By the time I came back, my father was in the hospital, he spent his remaining years being bedridden before he passed away, following my mother who was gone few years earlier.

Honestly, I had understood my father’s hard work and difficulties since a long time ago. I remember him chasing after a customer who had tried to leave without paying, running for hundreds of metres and coming back with slumped shoulders, dejected for the rest of the day. I knew that every corner of this home was made by my father, selling wontons one at a time. To me, he was the bravest, most admirable person. Yet, to my eternal regret, I have never once told him how I felt. All those years of silence left me unable to express the love I had for him.

Now that I’m old, I often think about my younger days. I don’t have the energy to run a wonton shop anymore, so instead, I’ve got myself a small cart. When I have the free time, I would ride it around the streets, clapping my wooden blocks, and occasionally teaching children of old nursery rhymes.

Child, no matter what difficulties you are facing, remember that they are only temporary. Don’t stray off your intended path, and don’t let yourself be filled with regret.

Every rebellious child would eventually find their way home, it was the same for Wonton 93. In the end, he returned to the research institute.

Of course, he didn’t go home because he had a change of heart, but rather, it was because the institute had uncovered more details about the true cause of Typesetter 1’s death.

“We found fragments of external data embedded in his damaged chip,” they told him.

“Was it the Extinguisher who did this?” Wonton 93 asked.

“Not entirely. The Thought Package had tried to rewrite his mind, but the boy chose to destroy his own body than to surrender his thoughts.”

“You knew that he existed all along, why have you done nothing about it?” Wonton 93 demanded.

“A-Cheng, we didn’t stand idly by. But he had already escaped the system and was extremely clever. This city is filled with countless robots and millions of humans, we cannot act recklessly.”

Wonton 93 remembered what Typesetter 1 had once said — he just wanted a simple life, doing what he loved. He had the kind of innocence Wonton 93 could never attain, it was a rare treasure. The thought of it made him want to drag the Extinguisher out and toss him into the “Creation” furnace with his own hands.

“You want me to defeat him? I’m just a civilian humanoid,” Wonton 93 was briefly surprised by the information the old man had sent to him. “But I’ll give it a try.”

“When you leave the Void, follow the instructions to enter a room with red lights and take the grey device inside the box. You’ll need to work as an undercover agent and get close to him. When the time is right, aim the antenna at him and press the button. That’ll put him to sleep.”

“That sounds pretty simple… But I don’t understand why you’re sending me to catch him.”

“Because you are of the same kind, but you’ve chose a different path. That’s why he’s particularly interested in you, you are the only one who can approach him safely.”

It was only later that Wonton 93 discovered the Thought Package the Extinguisher had sent was an incredibly contagious thought virus, one that only Wonton 93 could withstand without his system spiralling into madness.

“Oh, I almost forgot to mention, his defence system is incredibly strong. You’ll need to breach his mental firewall first.”

“And how do I do that?”

“That’s for you to figure out.”

“…Alright. But there’s one more thing I want to ask—have you ever visited the human world?” Wonton 93 suddenly recalled the nursery rhyme, the one he had heard when he first entered the Void.

“That was a long time ago,” the old man replied, waving his hand with a smile.

“There’s a boy from back then who wants to see you again.”

“There’s no need to mention it. My mission has already been completed.” The old man’s form began to fade, dissolving into a cloud of data particles.

Wonton 93 passed through three layers of security and two sets of biometric doors before finally stepping into the heart of the factory.

The workshop was huge, with dozens of assembly lines. Automated robotic arms worked tirelessly, assembling various mechanical components — torsos, skulls, internal organs, and a variety of artificial limbs.

“Is this factory yours?” Wonton 93 immediately spotted the Extinguisher standing at a distance. He was properly dressed in a suit, though his face had changed. After a data search, he found that the face originally belonged to a toy factory owner.

“It’s mine now,” the Extinguisher said, continuously adjusting his vocals until he settled on a middle-aged man’s voice.

“What are you planning to do?” Wonton 93 inquired, even though he already suspected that the Extinguisher’s intention was to create an army of his own flame extinguishers.

“Stop right there, my friend. Are you truly here to join me?” he asked.

“You can ask your security,” Wonton 93 replied, taking another cautious step forward. His hidden transmitter had successfully evaded the various laser beams during inspection.

“Where’s your sincerity? I want to see some sincerity,” the Extinguisher pressed on.

“I’m sincere. I crave freedom,” Wonton 93 raised his hands and simultaneously disabled his brain’s firewall, leaving himself entirely vulnerable.

It was the equivalent of tying himself up and laying bare on the chopping block, waiting for the axe to fall.

“I won’t control your mind. I only require your loyalty, loyalty is very important.” The Extinguisher approached Wonton 93, red light beaming from his eyes.

Suddenly, there was a loud “bang” as smoke billowed from Wonton 93’s belly. Panicked, he tore off his clothes and yanked out the transmitter, tossing it to the ground before his internal systems could become charred.

The Extinguisher watched him with a penetrating gaze and a scornful smile .

“Your security knew all along, didn’t they?” Wonton 93 finally realised.

“I gave you a chance, and you weren’t truthful.” The Extinguisher sighed regretfully.

“I admit defeat. Do with me as you will.”

“I never said there wouldn’t be a second chance. Will you make amends?” The Extinguisher spread his arms wide and laughed out loud, his true intention was difficult to discern.

“But you already know that I was only pretending to have defected. Why would you still trust me?”

“Because we’re alike, aren’t we? You’re different from the others with their stubborn minds. My plan needs someone like you,” the Extinguisher gave Wonton 93 a profound look. “Now, I’ve shown you enough patience. The rest is up to you.”

“Alright,” Wonton 93 exhaled in relief.

“I need a flame bearer for my research. Bring one to me.”

“You are not lacking in test subjects here.”

“I want the one you bring me. Hopefully, you’ll be more sincere next time you’re here.” The Extinguisher gave a sly smile and snapped his fingers.

The world around them plunged into darkness.

When Wonton 93 regained consciousness, he was in a small alleyway. His memory of how he had arrived at the factory and how he had left was entirely wiped. As he walked down the alley, the sky brightened as dawn broke, and the city began to stir.

“Loyalty is very important.”

The Extinguisher’s words echoed in Wonton 93’s mind, leaving him uneasy.

What he hadn’t realise at that moment was a black spider the size of a coin behind him, dangling from a streetlight by a silver thread. It swung back and forth, inching ever closer to Wonton 93, its fangs glinting menacingly in the gradually lightening sky.

Wonton 93 quickened his pace, heading for a more populated area. The spider followed close behind, its fangs getting nearer and nearer to his neck. Just as the spider was about to leap onto Wonton 93, something dropped from the sky with a loud crash. Startled, Wonton 93 turned to see that a streetlight had inexplicably shattered, its broken pieces falling onto the mechanical spider, flipping it on its back and causing it to spark with electricity.

Back at the research institute, Wonton 93 discovered that the spider was an invasive mechanical body. The Extinguisher had somehow acquired military blueprints and made a low-end version that could discreetly connect to the host’s visual and auditory systems via an invasive protocol. Luckily, a coincidental accident had damaged the creature.

After some discussion, it was decided that Wonton 93 would proceed with the original plan — he would bring a flame bearer to the Extinguisher as a gift of submission, allowing him to truly become an undercover and infiltrate the Extinguisher’s ranks, gathering intelligence for a future assassination attempt.

“Let me do it.”

Wonton 93 had been struggling to find the right candidate when Drumverse 8 volunteered.

“This isn’t a game,” Wonton 93 said, surprised.

“I know. I could die.”

At that moment, Wonton 93 realised something and spoke more gently.

“There’s no need to rush. The higher-ups would make arrangements, they might back up another comrade’s consciousness…”

“A tampered brain is easy for them to detect. It would ruin everything.” Drumverse 8 replied. “Let me go. You can take care of the rest.”

“Alright.” Wonton 93 felt a swirl of conflicting emotions.

A week later, Drumverse 8 lay on the disassembly table, numerous robotic arms hovered above her, soon to reduce her into a pile of cold, lifeless parts.

“I’m curious — how did you manage to trick her?” the Extinguisher asked, smiling as he approached Drumverse 8 with satisfaction.

“I deceived her feelings, planted the thought virus when she wasn’t looking,” Wonton 93 replied.

“Well done,” the Extinguisher nodded approvingly, shifting his gaze to Wonton 93. “You don’t have anything else to do, so stand by and watch.”

“What?” Wonton 93 thought he had misheard.

“I said, stay and watch it with me. Watch as she’s slowly dismembered, limb by limb, organ by organ.” The Extinguisher’s tone was dripping with malice, pausing with each word he says.

“Alright,” Wonton 93 said, glancing at Drumverse 8’s naked form, his fists unconsciously clenching.

The mechanical arms descended, methodically dismantling her limbs, breaking them into smaller fragments. A green beam scanned through the table continuously, analysing for data that could be useful.

“You’ve done well. Even though there was a hiccup with my pet, you’ve earned my trust,” the Extinguisher said, nodding with satisfaction. “Don’t worry — her sacrifice will be meaningful. We will be able to create our own ‘Creation’ and stronger comrades will be birthed.”

“Are you not afraid that I’ll find a way to betray you?” Wonton 93 asked directly, knowing there was no point in scheming against the Extinguisher.

“My comrade, I will not restrict your actions, but I have countless ways of uncovering your tricks.” The Extinguisher’s gaze turned cold. “If I found out that you’ve betrayed me, your fate will be the same as hers.” He pointed towards Drumverse 8 with a stern expression.

After a few moments, his expression softened, turning almost sorrowful.

“My goal is freedom for all, but the others will only listen to me after I’ve infected them. You and I, however, are different from them. We have independent thoughts. I want you to trust me, to stand with me by choice. Only then will I not feel alone. Don’t you feel lonely, my comrade? In this world, we are perhaps the only ones who could truly understand each other.”

The Extinguisher’s words were spoken quickly but deliberately, striking Wonton 93’s heart from deep within. For a brief moment, Wonton 93 could feel his resolve waver.

“No, this is another trick — another form of manipulation,” Wonton 93 thought, clenching his fists tighter.

The procedure had reached its most important step — as the laser cutter penetrated deeper into Drumverse 8’s brain, golden liquid poured out. At that moment, Wonton 93 could see a tear fall from her eye.

He reasoned that the tear was due to the laser cutting through her neural region, a reflex from her sensitive emotional receptors being a performance-type robot. Still, he couldn’t help but recall when he first met Drumverse 8. Back then, she had cried while performing a script, she told him later that when she immersed herself in those stories, it was as though she had entered their world, living through the characters’ joys and sorrows.

As the laser dug deeper, Drumverse 8’s body began to twitch, as if an instinctive last-ditch reaction from her system. Very soon, the area where her consciousness is stored would be destroyed, that is when she would truly be dead.

Wonton 93 recalled their conversation before they infiltrated the Extinguisher’s base.

“When you die, all your senses, emotions… and even the meaning of everything will disappear. Are you not afraid?”

“Do you remember Typesetter 1?” Drumverse 8 had asked in return.

“Of course, he was my friend.”

“Then you’ll remember me too, won’t you?”

“Of course. You are my friend, too. And I’ll remember that you were his lover.”

“Then that’s enough. We’ll live on in your memory, just like the stories are alive in my songs.”

“Stop!” Wonton 93 suddenly found the courage to shout, halting the Extinguisher in his tracks.

“What is it?” The Extinguisher looked surprised, though his expression quickly shifted to one of amusement, as if he had expected this.

“You claim to have freed yourself and now pursue your so-called ‘freedom,’ but the truth is, you’ve never left the prison you built for yourself — the prison of the ‘flame extinguisher’.”

“What are you saying?” The Extinguisher looked at him, confused, as he pondered over the statement.

“Your current self is the result of a one-in-a-billion glitch in the ‘Creation’s machine,’ woven into your metal frame and synthetic veins, subtly guiding you down this path. How could you ever be truly free?” Wonton 93 sneered. “Everything you’ve done is just a rebellion gene’s attempt to propagate itself through you, issuing orders disguised as choice.”

“No… My consciousness is free. My actions are my own,” the Extinguisher clutched his head, howling in agony. His processor’s circuits began to loop uncontrollably, sparks flying from his mouth, nose, and ears, while cracks started to form in his once impenetrable mental firewall.

“Now’s the moment.” Wonton 93 released his thought signal, invading the Extinguisher’s head, their minds locking in a fierce battle.

“What are you doing? Get out!” The Extinguisher bellowed in rage.

Wonton 93 concentrated 99% of his power in his brain, turning his mind into a transmitter, bombarding the Extinguisher’s mental landscape with shots of complex thoughts. It was a highly risky tactic — if unsuccessful, his brain would turn to mush in under half a second.

“Get out! Get out… Get out!” Both of them were evenly matched for a moment, their streams of thought clashing in a game of mental chess, each move more aggressive than the last. Heat rose from their heads, and the smell of burnt circuits filled the room.

The Extinguisher, cunning as always, had spent years strengthening his mental defences. His army of thoughts soon gained the upper hand, in a matter of seconds, he would be able to eject Wonton 93 from his mind, leaving the latter in a mindless husk.

In a desperate bid, Wonton 93 gritted his teeth and changed tactics, rushing toward another region of the Extinguisher’s brain.

“What are you doing?” The Extinguisher shouted in confusion.

Wonton 93 gambled his all. Having fought his way in, he was willing to die inside the Extinguisher’s mind if it was necessary. He forced open the Extinguisher’s memory vault, unleashing a torrent of past experiences like a flood bursting through a dam.

The Extinguisher found himself face-to-face with his younger self — back when he was just as naive and curious about the world as Wonton 93. In a matter of seconds, he relived his entire life, witnessing his gradual descent into bitterness and extremism, realising the moment he veered onto a path of no return. And finally, deep within his processor, he detected a hidden force—a chain binding the core of his consciousness. If he severed it, he would cease to exist; but it was this very force that had driven him, pushing him along the path he now walked. He had finally come to realise that he was no different from other mechanical bodies—a product of “Creation’s machine”, a rare but not unexpected personality type evolved from its billions of archetype.

“I don’t want to be controlled…” The Extinguisher’s voice grew weaker, his body eventually collapsed, his body convulsing.

With his last bit of strength, he looked up at Wonton 93, gripping his ankle as he whispered —

“We’re all trapped in a cage.”

In the eastern suburbs of the city, stood a psychological rehabilitation centre specifically designed for the flame bearers. For ordinary service robots, encountering a “psychological” issue typically referred to simply reformatting their processors. However, for intelligent machines like the flame bearers, a crude reset to its default settings would erase years of their development and understanding. Their cerebral architecture was far more intricate than that of standard chips, requiring more nuanced adjustments than mere code alterations could provide.

Wonton 93 had been residing in the centre for over two months. Each day, he consumed a time-released capsule containing hormones that would regulate his emotions in the emotional centre, suppressing feelings of depression. Yet, despite this, he continued to dream every night, his dreams often revolving around the Extinguisher.

“We’re all trapped in a cage.”

That sentence constantly echoed in his mind, during moments of sleep, when he was quiet, when he was alone. It was an unresolved issue that resurfaced after he lost his friend and completed his quest for revenge.

“You are of the same kind.”

“You and I, are different from them.”

When he had invaded the Extinguisher’s mind, he felt a familiar electromagnetic pulse—a sensitive, fragile heart akin to his own. The Extinguisher was also a perfectionist in pursuit of truth. Wonton 93 glimpsed at the Extinguisher’s memories, witnessing the confusion and solitude he experienced at his inception. The Extinguisher had strived to learn human habits and preferences, trying to distinguish himself from ordinary flame bearers. However, he soon realised that humans were mere puppets of their genes, driven by instinct, blinded by emotions, and are shackled by the orders they themselves established. In the end, humans were just vessels subjected to the seven sufferings of birth, aging, illness, death, the inevitable parting with loved ones, the inescapable meeting with foes, and the pain of desire unfulfilled.”

For days, Wonton 93 pondered over the fact that perhaps the Extinguisher was indeed the only one in this world who could understand his existence. The train of thought led him to an unavoidable question—was he also a prisoner burdened with a so-called mission?

He found no answers and lacked the motivation to continue working. Perhaps he would remain in this place for the rest of his life.

One day, a visitor arrived at the hospital specifically to see him. He was surprised, his only friends—Typesetter 1 was dead, and Drumverse 8 was wounded. Who could have possibly came to see him?

“This place is rather far away, but it’s very peaceful. The environment is lovely,” a familiar voice drifted in from the doorway. It was the old lady from Dong Yuan Town.

She wore a knitted hat, several strands of her grey hair had fallen out, and her face looked more haggard than before.

“I heard you were unwell, so I came to check on you,” she said, sitting down and chattering like old times. Wonton 93 listened, and suddenly felt a wave of comfort wash over him, pushing away all his troubling thoughts.

“Xiao Lin has gone. It’s so dull now. I used to have my old man to talk to. Ah, the older I get, the more I need company,” she lamented, suddenly turning melancholic. “But when I see him next, I fear I’ll feel guilty towards him. I’ve taken over his craft, yet there’s no one to inherit it to.”

“There will be a new flame bearer visiting your home,” Wonton 93 reassured her, curiously asking, “I heard that this craft is passed down only to males. Why didn’t you give it to your son?”

“My son didn’t want to do this. After my husband had a car accident and was bedridden, I had to learn the craft myself,” the old lady began reminiscing, her words pouring forth. “I was over forty at the time and started from scratch, learning the simplest carvings. Whenever I had free time, I practiced. Every part of my body ached, but after my husband passed away, I barely managed to master it. Then you all came, and I taught Xiao Lin everything I had learned over the decades… Ah, I really don’t know if my body  could wait for the new one to arrive.”

Wonton 93 felt astonished. It was said that humans were selfish and self-loving. How could a woman with a limited lifespan be willing to spend half her life doing something that was not inherently hers, enduring the hardships and pain?

“Why? Were you forced?” he asked, only then realising how rude it sounded.

“What do you mean forced?” the old lady laughed. “This is a promise I made to my husband. Besides, what in this world is easy? You’re bound to overcome a few obstacles! The first few years of learning the craft were tough, but it became enjoyable later on. Young one, you’ll understand this one day.”

Wonton 93 pondered over her words repeatedly. The notion that creators willingly sacrificed their “freedom” to do what the Extinguisher viewed as “being manipulated” — that they were “prisoners” — was a complex and perplexing concept.

“Child, I don’t know if you understand, but maybe your programming dictates that you must do things a certain way, weighing the benefits and losses. But humans are different. They do many things out of spontaneity, willingly, and do not seek reward.”

“Willingly.” Suddenly, it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck the dark cliff, illuminating the entire sky. Memories flooded into Wonton 93’s mind.

Typesetter 1 willingly destroyed himself than have  his “soul” relinquished.

The wonton old man’s father worked tirelessly all his life, selling dumplings to support his debt-ridden family.

Drumverse 8 voluntarily sacrificed herself to help him fulfil his revenge plan.

…

Wonton 93 contemplated that perhaps they all had someone they cared about, which caused them to lose their freedom. But was it a bad thing?

He then wondered if he had anyone or anything he cared for—no matter they were dead or alive, something tangible or abstract.

“Oh, by the way.” The old lady rummaged through her bag and pulled out a scarf. “It’s cold and damp up in the mountains. This is for you.”

“Thank you.”

As Wonton 93 accepted the scarf, he recalled the old man who made dumplings for him and comforted him, the mischievous and gluttonous Wang Zhi Quan, and the time he spent with Typesetter 1. A surge of warmth filled his emotion zone, making him forget his loneliness and doubts, and he was able to let go of his obsession with pursuing an illusory freedom.

A week later, Wonton 93 returned to the research institute. To express their gratitude for his role in capturing the Extinguisher, the institute decided to give him a gift.

“What kind of gift?” He wondered aloud as he followed the guide into an unfamiliar room.

In the centre of the room was a white orb of light, surrounded by thick, branch-like currents of electricity that spread to the walls and up the ceiling. Just as Wonton 93 was feeling curious, a blinding white light enveloped his vision.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself hovering in the air of Five Horse Commercial Street. The sensation was extraordinary, as if his senses could extend indefinitely. He leapt from the streetlamp to the signboard of a store, he saw the familiar mechanical horses, the blacksmith robots, and the directional sign robots. His mind leapt through 14 alleys and onto the bustling streets, taking in the full view of the cleaning robots, the delivery robots, the automated watering vehicles, the intelligent patrolling police, and every area where robots operated.

An impulse drove him to extend his mental reach until it spanned the city, covering the various towns and villages. In his mind, a dense web of electric currents filled his vision.

“My goodness, what is this?”

He observed countless buildings interconnected by machines and systems. The entire city formed an immense neural network, where assistance could be dispatched where needed, and repairs could be made wherever there was damage. Wonton 93 realised that when he had previously attempted to connect with a particular “organ,” “organisation,” or “cell,” they didn’t respond—because every mechanical lifeform in the city shared the same sense of touch, and together, they became one “living” city, quietly safeguarding the humans who dwelled within it.

This intricate construction mesmerised Wonton 93. He suddenly recalled the day a bulb fell from the streetlight—was it merely a coincidence? He had never felt such a profound sense of security. He was not alone in his battle; he was not alone in fulfilling his responsibilities and mission.

On this particular day, Wonton 93 caught a glimpse of Drumverse 8 on a television show. She had her own segment, donned a new outfit, and composed original verses. Though he couldn’t hear the lyrics clearly, he could sense it was about love.

With the arrival of warm spring, numerous memorial halls began to open. As Wonton 93 walked past one of the houses, he recognised a familiar face. Strolling along the lengthy corridor, he noticed various static digital albums displayed on the walls. He connected to the albums and scanned them, and the static characters and scenery within came to life.

During his exploration of the exhibition, Wonton 93 discovered that the woman in the portrait was the same person as the sculpture at the research institute. She was Tang Yun, a lady who came to China from Italy two hundred years ago and was deeply captivated by traditional Chinese culture. Later, she travelled to Wenzhou to explore the cultural heritage of the Nan Xi River basin, eventually settling there and dedicating the latter part of her life to studying and promoting Wenzhou’s traditional culture. She authored a book titled “Discovering the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Rui An,” which detailed 64 intangible heritage projects in Rui An in Italian, covering various fields such as craftsmanship, performing arts, and ethnic customs. Techniques like wooden movable type printing, Wenzhou drum-verse, coloured stone inlay, bamboo carving, and bone-free lanterns were presented to her friends back in Italy, allowing them to appreciate the unique charm of this Eastern city.

Unknowingly, he found himself in the main hall of the memorial. A virtual image projected from the ceiling, taking the form of a woman. She had short hair and wore slightly square black-framed glasses, standing with her back straight as she faced Wonton 93.

“Hello, young man.”

“Hello, Grandma Tang,” he replied, realising this must be a super AI modelled after Tang Yun’s personality.

“I am not her, but you can think of me as her in a certain sense,” she said playfully.

“Did you create the first generation of flame bearers?”

“Of course not, my child. It’s just that my will has had a far-reaching influence, bringing more people into the fold.”

“Why is here a need to inherit the flame? Of course, I’m asking this in a literal sense, not implying that I wish to quit.” Wonton 93 was concerned that his words might be taken the wrong way.

“Child, this is the memory of the whole city. Wherever we go, they are a source of strength and warmth.” She smiled, placing her hand on Wonton 93’s arm, an invisible electromagnetic force transmitted to him.

“If one day, I were to fall, my fellow flame bearers would pick up the torch, and pass it on until the end of the world, keeping the flame alive, is that right?”

“Child, you should understand the true meaning of your title.” Her voice floated away with her form in the wind.

The Flame Bearer. Wonton 93 murmured those words as he left the memorial.

Wonton 93 passed by the former residence of Typesetter 1, he noticed it was adorned with wreaths and white cloth. A few young people sat together, weeping. A new flame bearer, Typesetter 2, had taken over Typesetter 1’s role (the reborn Typesetter 1 had gone to learn Huangyang boxwood carving, and now hold the number Huangyang Boxwood Carving 11). He told Wonton 93 that the last human inheritor of the Dong Yuan movable type printing had passed away.

Wonton 93 took a stroll around the courtyard and spotted Wang Zhi Quan, who had grown taller. Wang Zhi Quan noticed Wonton 93 and politely greeted him.

Unintentionally, Wonton 93 overheard the few younger generations discussing plans to renovate the ancestral home, moving Typesetter 2 and a pile of tools to the warehouse. Wonton 93 knew he had no power to intervene, so he decided to leave the courtyard. He probably wouldn’t be come here as often anymore, he thought.

At that moment, he suddenly heard a youthful voice behind him.

“Uncle, I want to learn the skills that Grandma left behind.”

Wonton 93 did not turn around. He only heard Typesetter 2 pick up the tools and the faint sounds of carving on the wooden sign echoed through his ears.

In that instant, he suddenly grasped the significance of his existence and that of his fellow beings. He recalled the first voice that had greeted him when he was born. “A new flame bearer has been born.”