Chương 478: 225.Three-Hundred Trillion Proposal 2

The instant I pulled the door open, the first thing I saw wasn't the corridor, and it wasn't the half-dead shipboard lighting of early morning. It was Jess. She was standing right at the door, breathing still a little ragged, shoulders rising and falling slightly, the hair on her forehead showing traces of being blown around, looking altogether like someone who'd just sprinted all the way down from the bridge and, along the way, burned herself as fuel for two rounds of gossip. I stared at her for two seconds.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Jess was smiling in a highly suspicious way. More precisely, she was smiling like someone who'd happened to find a lottery ticket on the street, scratched it open, and discovered a real win.

"I was just passing by, that's all." I almost shut the door in her face right there. Coming out of her mouth, a line like that was like a gravity bomb saying it was just passing through. Not one word of it deserved belief. She clearly knew I didn't believe her, so she didn't even keep up the pretense for long. Her gaze dropped and stuck to the page in my hand. I knew that look well; it belonged to Jess's particular brand of dangerous instinct.

The moment she saw somebody holding a secret, a scandal, a secret romance, Seitokai data, or a mixture of all four, she'd slide in automatically, like a stray cat spotting something that moved.

"What's this?" She asked and had already leaned her head in. I meant to pull the page back, but I was half a beat late. Her eyes swept the first two lines, the smile hadn't had time to leave her face, and the next second it froze in midair.

"Three hundred trillion?" This time it wasn't a suspicious, low-voiced probe. It was the genuine article — a voice-cracking shout that nearly lifted the corridor ceiling off. I gave a start and backhanded the page down low.

"Don't yell like that!"

"No, wait — three hundred trillion?" She grabbed my wrist, wearing the expression of someone who'd just been told breakfast didn't come with pancakes, it came with a warship.

"Does your Seitokai use units like that even in its dreams now?"

"That's only the surface." I lowered my voice, glanced left and right first to confirm nobody had drifted over to eavesdrop, then gritted my teeth and added one more line.

"Maki isn't going to hand out cash directly." Jess blinked.

"What do you mean?" I looked at her and suddenly felt this was probably today's first test question. If even Jess could understand it within three sentences, then the few hundred second-years in the mess hall — just woken up, just washed their faces, just about to charge off to the artificial beach — probably still had hope. So I asked her, point-blank:"Use your own brain and think. If you suddenly came into a trillion right now, would you still attend a military academy?" She blanked for two seconds.

Then three more. And then that face, which had been full of get-rich fantasies, actually did slowly surface an expression of "ah, so that's it."

"... No." She answered perfectly honestly.

"I'd probably go buy an island first, then build a completely unnecessary house, then hire a whole squad of people whose only job is to fetch me drinks."

"Good. At least you know you'd rot." I nodded. But Jess immediately looked up again — and for once it wasn't to argue, but because she'd actually given it some thought.

"Then what if I suddenly needed money for an emergency? Like a family member in critical condition, or somebody hospitalized, or something that really has to be paid for right away?" I looked at her. This time I didn't snipe back. Because that was the core of the problem. And it was precisely because things like that happen that Maki hadn't just written a slogan saying "nobody withdraw money carelessly" — she'd forced the entire skeleton into shape in advance.

"That's exactly why I need to go explain it clearly to them." I folded the page up again, my knuckles tightening without my noticing.

"Otherwise, before this afternoon, there'll be three hundred versions of a get-rich plan on this ship, plus four hundred conspiracy theories." Jess looked at me, then at the page, and finally broke into a grin.

"All right."

"All right what?"

"I'm coming with you." She was smiling like someone settling in for a show — but not only for the show.

"How could I possibly miss a scene like this?" I sighed and didn't refuse. Even if I refused, she'd almost certainly follow along on her own. Rather than let her ricochet around like a runaway marble, it was safer to keep her in sight. Apart from those still on duty at their posts, practically the entire second year had turned up.

The mess hall was normally just a place to eat, but today it had been forcibly squeezed into a temporary assembly chamber by the sheer absurdity of "this is supposed to be a school trip, so why are we facing property-system design before breakfast?" The dining tables had been dragged aside, the seating wasn't fully orderly, but the crowd had naturally gathered itself into a half-circle.

Some were holding hot drinks they hadn't finished, some wore jackets that had obviously been thrown on in a hurry, and some still had damp hair — clearly they'd heard the news and poured in straight from corridors, bathrooms, rooms, and stairwells. Lan stood closer to the front. The moment she saw me, she glanced at the page in my hand, then at Jess behind me, and the "so it turned out exactly like this" in her eyes almost materialized into subtitles.

"Everyone's about here." She said quietly. I nodded and swept my gaze across the whole mess hall. In that instant, I understood why Maki always stood so steadily. Not because she was born liking to press people down. It's because when several hundred pairs of eyes turn on you at once, if you don't nail yourself down first, the next second you'll be swept away by their emotions. Holding the microphone, I stepped straight up onto a dining table. The wooden board under my feet wobbled slightly.

The moment my line of sight rose, I even had the illusion that I wasn't about to give a briefing but to launch some kind of pre-breakfast coup. Wonderful. XO, acting spokesperson, and tabletop revolutionary leader. My résumé is looking less and less like something that could be submitted normally. I took a deep breath.

"Everyone, quiet down for a moment." The buzzing conversation below sank slowly, as if someone had cut it down the middle with a knife. It didn't go completely silent right away. It was that kind of hush where several hundred people all try to cut their voices at once, and a little residue still remains — chair legs scraping, cups clinking softly, someone coughing, someone forcing a "hey, wait" back down their throat. And precisely because of that, it felt more real. I opened the page.

"Today's artificial beach opening proceeds as scheduled. I'll read the opening address on the President's behalf. The content is the formal statement she drafted last night."

"The conclusion first."

"Assets related to Asgard will not be distributed in a one-time, even split." The moment the words landed, it was as if a red-hot iron had been dropped in below. The commotion didn't explode; it shot out in all directions at once. Someone gasped, someone's brow furrowed on the spot, someone immediately turned to exchange looks with a neighbor, and someone's lips even moved — only to force the first protest back down because I was still standing up there. I ignored it.

Whatever was written on the page, that's what I read.

"In other words, there will be no plan to liquidate the assets outright and hand out cash per head." This time the murmuring got a little louder. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Someone in the back even muttered "figures," a tone mixing disappointment with the expected, sounding like they'd already held a funeral for their daydream. I kept going.

"There are three reasons."

"First: the approach that looks fairest is usually also the one most likely to create new unfairness in the shortest time." After that line, the air in the room visibly halted. Because even if everyone still wanted to argue, their heads had already started generating images on their own. Some people would hold on to it, some wouldn't; some would be lured away by their families, some would be circled by relatives; some would grow up overnight, and some would be written off overnight.

That's what's frightening about her. Her words aren't necessarily gentle, but they're usually accurate.

"Second: a one-time distribution, before the external risks are lifted, would first split the entire second year into individuals each going their own way." This time, even a few of the most defiant faces in the front row quieted slightly.

"Third: it would degrade Asgard from common assets into a cash machine." The mess hall finally went quiet. Not because everyone had been persuaded. But because that line was too hard to refute. At least at a moment like this, it was hard to refute it in front of everyone. I looked at the page and kept reading.

"Therefore, the direction adopted here is not direct distribution, but an institutional plan of joint holding, long-term benefit, and concentrated protection."

"The specific structure is as follows."

"First: a joint holding entity will be established, tentatively named the Second-Year Joint Holding Company." The moment that landed, eyebrows went up. Some eyes widened. And someone on the spot wore the pained expression of "how did we suddenly get to corporate law before breakfast?" Jess stood off to the side with her arms crossed, barely able to hold her mouth still. She wasn't mocking me. She was enjoying watching the whole room get slapped awake from a distance by a single sheet of paper from Maki.

The expression was extremely punchable, and yet perfectly apt. I pretended not to see it.

"Second: the entire second year will become joint beneficiary shareholders, but the relevant equity and beneficiary rights will be locked into a trust structure. During the lock-up period, they may not be privately sold, mortgaged, transferred, pledged, or split and disposed of." This time what came up from below wasn't commotion, but a very uniform blankness. That expression was easy to read.

It was roughly "I seem to have heard a lot of words, and I know they're probably important put together, but for the moment I still don't know what they intend to do to my life."

"Third: a portion will be carved out of the total assets to establish a public-purpose fund, for medical care, psychological recovery, emergency relief, educational support, maintenance of public facilities, and necessary aftermath expenses." By the time I got here, the gazes that had been about to lose focus visibly pulled back. That's how people are. Abstract systems can wait.

But the moment you hear injury, emergency, medical care, support, a lot of things suddenly stop being concepts and become you, a classmate, a family member — or even the possibility of someone who almost really didn't come back yesterday.

"Fourth: the remaining assets will be managed, operated, and invested on conservative principles. Holding costs, maintenance costs, legal risk reserves, and operational safety will be handled first; only then will the monthly distributable cash flow be determined." This time a boy in the front row sat up straighter without meaning to. From the back came a barely suppressed "monthly," immediately followed by an elbow from the person beside them.

I was very clear in my own head that this was the most brilliant and also the most vicious part of the whole document. She hadn't taken the candy away entirely. She'd merely changed the candy from "choke it down all at once today" to "eat it alive from now on."

"The core of this plan is not to make anyone rich overnight."

"It's to keep everyone inside the same community — still having a share, still benefiting, and not being picked apart one by one by outside forces because of short-term impulse." Once those lines were read out, a strange quiet settled over the mess hall. As if everyone was still digesting, but no longer as eager to blow up on the spot as at the start.

Some of the pushback had been suppressed — not because it had vanished, but because for the moment they couldn't find an angle pretty enough, or defensible enough, to object from.

"In other words."

"What all of you get in the future will not be a giant check big enough to blow up your own life."

"It will be a stable, sustained, institutionally protected long-term stake." After that line, I saw Lan exhale very softly. As if she knew that, at least up to here, the situation was still within controllable range.

"Once more." I looked down at the last few lines on the page.

"Asgard is not a bonus."

"She is the base that the second year holds in common." The moment that line landed, the whole mess hall really did feel nailed into place. Not because it was ornate. Quite the opposite: because it was too straight. Straight like a nail that isn't pretty at all but can pin an entire sheet of cloth to the wall. The later sections — oversight mechanisms, class representatives, financial disclosure, formal decision procedures — I read through as written.

Below, some frowned, some nodded, and some had clearly started working out in their heads what shape this whole apparatus would eventually bend their lives into. Until the last line fell.

"There is only one thing to discuss."

"How to make sure everyone who survived today still has a share afterward."

"End of statement." I set the page down. Below, nothing exploded immediately, and nobody applauded immediately. First came blankness. Several hundred people going blank for a few seconds at once is actually a spectacular sight. It was like the entire mess hall had been tossed together into some giant thinking tank and was slowly bubbling.

Looking at them, I suddenly felt I'd better add one more cut while I had the chance — otherwise, ten seconds from now, the room would automatically split into fifty versions of understanding. So I slapped the page aside.

"All right. I know that after hearing that, about half of you are thinking, what's the difference between this and not paying out at all? And the other half are thinking, what's a trust — can you eat it?" This time, someone finally laughed. Not many, but enough. That atmosphere of near-suffocation from being pounded by institution after institution finally cracked open into a gap you could breathe through.

"So here's the plain-language version." I looked around the room.

"First: it's not one payout each, and then everyone goes home to be explosives." That line worked well. Because a burst of unstoppable laughter came up right away, and even a few of the most sour-faced people twitched at the corner of the mouth. Someone slapped the shoulder of the classmate beside them hard, as if silently admitting: yeah — you, and you, getting figures like that would in all probability rot you out.

"Second: it's not that you don't have a share."

"On the contrary. Every one of you has a share." The moment that landed, the room went noticeably quieter and more attentive. That's the most magical thing about money. As long as you make "you're not getting nothing at all" clear first, everyone suddenly becomes willing to listen to even the most complicated system for two more minutes. I kept going, breaking the whole structure down into bites they could swallow.

When I got to "get it today, sell it tomorrow," "next week get a hot head and trade your own future for a sports car or a bankruptcy," someone below even laughed guiltily, clearly thinking they could absolutely do exactly that. When I got to "the lock isn't confiscation, it's to stop someone from getting taught how the world works before they're of age — or just as they come of age," a very real silence mixed into the laughter. Because everyone understood. Not everyone understood trusts.

But everyone understood that the world is really good at teaching people how it works.

"So what you'll actually get is not a one-time windfall."

"It's something that comes in steadily every month — and not something only a few people get to touch." A girl in the front row immediately repeated "every month" under her breath, her eyes visibly brightening, as if her brain had switched from capital-shock mode to life-planning mode. That was good. Compared with going crazy overnight, being able to start imagining "stable" meant they'd at least moved a centimeter closer to the adult world.

"Simply put." I lifted the microphone a little higher.

"It's not that you won't be given anything."

"It's that you won't be taken apart by money first." This time the mess hall's reaction wasn't just laughter. There was nodding too. A lot of it. Scattered, but it was definitely there. Further on, I added the last line:"An even distribution is very fair."

"An even collapse is very fair too." This time even Lan turned her head aside, as if holding back a laugh. I knew that line sounded exactly like something Maki would write. Cold, direct, venomous, and accurate. Read out by me, the effect was a bit like stabbing the knife in on her behalf and then handing everyone a bandage.

"So we picked the more troublesome approach — one that, when you look back in five years, will make you more inclined to thank us than to strangle us."

"That's the current version." The moment I finished, the room stirred up again, as expected. And this time it wasn't simple dissatisfaction — it had gone fully into the living-human state of "all right, so now I have thirty-seven specific questions." That's harder to deal with than a plain blow-up, but also more gratifying. Because it meant they didn't just want to flip the table; they genuinely wanted to understand.

The problem is that the more people there are, the more questions roll out all over the floor like spilled beads.

"If my family—""So how long is the lock-up period—""Who runs the joint holding company—""The monthly distribution criteria—""Who audits the public fund—""What if someone drops out—""If the Federation side—" I raised a hand and pressed down three times in a row.

"A moment, please." The moment my voice pressed down, the room finally paused for half a beat. I said, quite honestly:"If you all express yourselves like this, I can't respond to it in one go." I paused.

"I'm not a multi-threaded AI." The mess hall went quiet first, and the next second the laughter blew wide open. That kind of laughter is good. Not mockery, but the laughter of finally finding an outlet — "yeah, we really did say too much just now." Even a few of the people who'd been frowning couldn't help laughing. Seizing the opening, I set the box I'd prepared onto the table. The wooden box landed on the tabletop with a solid, muffled thud. Every gaze in the room followed it.

"Write down what you want to ask and put it in." I patted the lid.

"We'll collect it in three days and give a unified reply." The moment that landed, a faint, subtle disappointment came up from below — someone had probably expected to wring out the full version of the answer on the spot today. But right after, that disappointment was pressed down by a more practical feeling. Three days. Not a brush-off, not a delay until everyone forgets, but a postponement with a clear deadline. In the language of Seitokai governance, that already counted as fairly humane.

I looked at that crowd still digesting systems, digesting the future, digesting the fact that they probably wouldn't get rich overnight but in all likelihood wouldn't end up with nothing either — and it struck me that if I didn't steer the crowd away now, they'd soon start a second round of collective in-brain IPO presentations. So I raised a hand and pointed straight toward the direction outside the mess hall that led to the recreation district.

"Now." I said.

"Go enjoy your damn artificial beach!" For one instant, I really thought that line might be too crude. It wasn't. Not at all. Below went quiet for half a second, and then, as if something had been lit all at once, the cheering went up like thunder. Not because my speech had been so great, but because they'd finally been given a legal, reasonable escape hatch — one that matched youthful instinct perfectly. Systems are heavy. Three hundred trillion is heavy. Community, trust, fund, oversight mechanisms — all heavy.

But the artificial beach is light. So in that moment, the air in the entire mess hall loosened almost visibly. People started clapping, people whistled, people walked out laughing, and some were already discussing on the spot which row of lounge chairs to grab first.

Standing on the table, looking at this crowd of second-years who a moment ago had looked ready to collectively overthrow the system and the next second could be successfully redirected by an artificial beach, I thought: human beings really are a species that's very hard to manage precisely, and very easy to temporarily soothe. Jess looked up at me from the edge of the table, her eyes full of that light that only comes on when she witnesses an unexpectedly famous scene.

"You know what?" She grinned at me.

"Just now you looked exactly like a people's leader about to lead everyone to storm the Governor-General's Office." I jumped down from the table and gave her a look.

"Then you'd better be glad that today I only told everyone to go to the beach." Lan walked over, a little helplessness still not fully gone from her face, though the corner of her mouth was indeed holding down a smile.

"Not bad." She said.

"At least there was no riot."

"Not now doesn't mean not in three hours." I folded the page up again and tucked it into my pocket.

"Once they've played, sunned themselves, and cooled down — that's when round two starts." Lan nodded, clearly well aware that this was only temporary flood diversion, not a cure. Jess put a hand on my shoulder, as if preparing to give me a thoroughly unconstructive morale boost.

"That line of yours, though — 'I'm not a multi-threaded AI' — I'm going to remember that for a long time."

"You'd better put that in the suggestion box, not into merch."

"Too late. I've already worked out the slogan."

"Hands off, you." She laughed even more happily. I stopped paying her attention and turned to look at the crowd outside the mess hall, gradually surging toward the artificial beach. A bright direction, a noisy direction, a direction where, for the moment, there was no need to think about equity lock-ups and collective trusts. And in my pocket, that page still lay quietly. The paper wasn't thick.

But its weight was heavy, as if the whole second year's fate for the next several years had been folded first into a single page of early morning. Maki was probably still lying in my bed catching up on sleep right now. Sleeping with an utterly innocent face, as if this whole commotion had nothing to do with her. But I knew perfectly well that today's opening address that wasn't an opening address — from the first line to the last — had her bones in it.

I'd only borrowed her knife and, while I was at it, translated it for all my classmates into a language they could survive listening to. At that thought, I suddenly felt a bit like laughing. The position of Vice President, frankly, is probably just the Seitokai President's shock absorber, translator, emergency exit, and pinch-hitting microphone. As for whether I did it well— Judging by that thunder of cheers just now, it at least proved one thing.

Besides running for my life on a warship, nearly getting steamed through in a sauna, and finishing off Maki's opponents for her in meetings, I might genuinely have unlocked some strange passive skill. Agitating crowds. That ability sounds dangerous. But honestly, aboard Asgard, it might be more practical than math.