I'm doing engineering in the instance.

Chapter 59 Non-utilitarian Compromise

The road leading to Yuan City is a dirt road.

It wasn't wide; it was just right for two people to walk side by side. Old Zhao walked in front, with Engineer Li next to him, and Xie Chengzhou half a step behind them. The sound of their footsteps on the dry sand was fine and evenly distributed—the kind of sound that you could easily miss if you weren't paying attention, but was hard to ignore if you were.

Old Zhao's thermos hung from his waist, swaying gently with his steps. There was no sound of water. The hot water was gone, and the thermos was empty. An empty thermos doesn't make a sound when it's bumped; there's only the occasional slight metallic clinking between the lid and the body—a faint, dry sound, completely different from the sound of hot water sloshing inside.

There was a faint smell of moisture in the air, a faint smell of concrete and damp soil mixed together. It clung to my clothes, not strong, but very noticeable on this dry dirt road, forming a strange mixture with the fine dust kicked up under my feet—the smell of the dam replica. It slowly dissipated after a few steps.

Li walked beside Lao Zhao with a steady, unhurried gait—the kind of stride that comes from walking many construction sites, solid and grounded. He occasionally twitched his left fingers, checking that he could still feel the muscle—a gesture you repeatedly make after a repair, not out of worry, but out of habit. His right shoulder was still slightly lower than his left, the muscles not fully relaxed, but it was better than before—a noticeable improvement.

Xie Chengzhou clenched his right hand.

The tingling sensation is still there, but it's a little lighter than before, like a slow recovery process is underway. It's not a complete reset, but a gradual decrease; it's the kind of state where you know it's getting better, but it's not quite over yet.

He glanced down at his wrist.

There was nothing there. The water level numbers were gone, the skin was clean, the same skin he saw every day in reality, without any markings or numbers. He knew it was gone, knew it only existed in dungeons, but he still glanced at it—a habit he'd developed after spending so much time in dungeons, a habit he wasn't even aware of. He looked, confirmed it wasn't there, and then continued on his way.

The morning light was low-angled, slanting in from the east, casting long, thin shadows of the three people across the dirt road to their left—the kind of shadows only seen in open areas. Unobstructed and unrefracted, the light was clean, unlike the filtered light from concrete and moisture in the dungeon; it was real outdoor light, unique to this time, this place, and this angle.

He opened the memo and found the last page.

"Feng Bo: Ore, Chalcocite, Non-local geological background, Artificial cutting marks, Expansion joint, Someone put it in, Related to the third set of footprints, Passed the level by carrying non-prop items: First time, Result: To be verified."

He paused after that line, then wrote:

My judgment: I agree. Reason: I can't explain it.

He paused his pen there, looking at the line of text.

It's hard to explain.

He worked on construction sites for twelve years, making hundreds of decisions, big and small, and he could clearly explain the reasons for each one—the load calculation was this, the specifications required this, the risk factor was this, so the conclusion was this. He was not used to making decisions without clear reasons, because unclear reasons meant insufficient evidence, insufficient evidence meant unreliable conclusions, and unreliable conclusions meant there was no way to review the situation if something went wrong.

This isn't just a professional requirement; it's a mindset he developed after spending so much time on construction sites. It's ingrained, permeating not only engineering decisions but all decisions—he knows which route is the shortest, which restaurant's wait time is acceptable, and under what circumstances answering a phone call results in less loss than not answering. This isn't obsessive-compulsive disorder; it's an engineer's occupational hazard, the automatic logic that develops after twelve years in an environment that demands evidence at every step.

But he just said "okay," explaining that he "couldn't explain it clearly."

He flipped back to the memo and mentally went through the logic chain that preceded his decision to say "okay".

Step 1: Feng Bo said, "But this is evidence." He did not accept this reason—evidence needs to be seen by someone to be considered evidence. Whether it will still exist after being taken out is an unknown variable, and it is unknown who will see it. This reason itself is incomplete.

Step Two: Feng Bo said, "If we don't bring it, it will definitely be gone." He couldn't find a flaw in this logic—the cost of not bringing it is certain, while the risk of bringing it is uncertain. Choosing the one with the smaller cost between two uncertainties is reasonable. He accepted this step.

He accepted this step, but hasn't said "okay" yet.

He paused there, thinking of something else: sometimes on a construction site, you know there's a problem with a structure, but you have no data, no calculations, only a feeling, a feeling that comes from staring at that structure for a long time. In such situations, you have two choices: ignore it, or record it. He always chose to record it because the cost of ignoring it was certain, while the cost of recording it was controllable. This isn't about caution; it's basic engineer logic—you can't pretend the problem doesn't exist just because you don't have data; you can only admit you don't know and then write down that "ignorance."

Feng Bo chose the same logic. He didn't know if the ore would still be there after he took it out, but he knew it would definitely be gone if he didn't take it out, so he chose to take it out, turning this "unknown" into a verifiable variable.

He understood this step.

But he still didn't say "okay".

He stopped there, paused for a while, and then glanced at Feng Bo's cuff.

That trace of light gray mineral powder.

The third time they came in, they found ore but didn't take it out. They went back to prepare cutting tools. The fourth time they came in, they went specifically to retrieve it.

He said "okay" after seeing the trace of powder.

He laid out this chain of logic in his mind and looked at it for a while.

Both the first and second steps involved data and verifiable logic, which he accepted, but he didn't say "okay." The moment he said "okay," he wasn't looking at the data, but at the trace of powder, and the behavior behind that trace—this person believed this matter was important enough that it was worth coming twice, first to discover it, and second to take it away.

This is not data.

This is his judgment of a person.

He weighed the discovery in his mind, feeling its weight.

In the past, he made decisions based on data, standards, risk factors, and things that could be written into reports. This time, his basis was a trace of powder, his judgment of a person's way of doing things, the criterion that "this person takes what he considers important seriously," and this criterion could not be quantified, could not be written into reports, and could not be reviewed.

In his memo, he wrote: "Cause analysis: ① The uncertainty comes without the cost, but with the risk—reasonable. ② Feng Bo's behavior pattern: the third discovery, the fourth special trip to collect it—the behavioral logic of researchers collecting evidence. ③ The final trigger point: the powder trace on the cuff."

He paused, then wrote another line below:

"① and ② are utilitarian reasons, which can be quantified. ③ is a judgment about people, which cannot be quantified. The actual decision is triggered by ③."

He stared at the line of text for a while.

Triggered by ③.

After twelve years of working on the project, this was the first time he wrote in a memo that it was "triggered by judgments about people."

On the road ahead, Old Zhao stepped on a stone, his steps faltered slightly, then he continued walking without looking back. Engineer Li's strides remained steady, even and firm. Neither of them spoke; the sounds of their footsteps blended together, a soft, rustling sound, the only noise along the way.

Xie Chengzhou flipped the memo back to that line.

My judgment: I agree. Reason: I can't explain it.

He looked at it for a while, but neither changed nor deleted it.

It wasn't that he didn't know, but rather that he knew but couldn't articulate it—he knew the trigger was the powder on his cuff, that the powder represented Feng Bo's attitude towards the matter, and that he was persuaded by that attitude. He knew the whole chain, but the final link wasn't data; it was his judgment of another person, a judgment he couldn't articulate clearly in his usual language.

The engineer wrote in the report, "The load is too high, and reinforcement is recommended," not "I think this column is trying to hold up."

But sometimes when he's at a construction site, looking at a pillar, he gets a certain feeling.

He recalled a project in Southeast Asia, an industrial plant. All structural calculations were satisfactory, concrete strength met standards, and reinforcement ratios were within specifications—there were no data-related issues. However, he stared at one particular column for a long time, unable to pinpoint what was wrong; he just had a feeling, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He ultimately requested that a tie bar be added to that column, not in the original design, which he added himself, citing "preventative reinforcement." But the real reason was that inexplicable feeling.

The engineer in charge of the structural calculations at the time was surnamed Lin, a local in his thirties, who had been working in structural engineering for nearly twenty years. He always carried a red ballpoint pen, and the drawings were covered with his annotations. He asked Xie Chengzhou why he needed to add it, and Xie Chengzhou said it was for preventative reinforcement. Engineer Lin looked up at him—not with a questioning look, but with a look that seemed to be waiting for more information. After waiting for two seconds and not getting any, he looked down and drew the tie bar on the drawing with a red ballpoint pen, the lines were very steady, he marked the cross-sectional dimensions and reinforcement details, and wrote the words "Engineer Xie's request: Preventative" before continuing to look at the drawings.

Xie Chengzhou stood next to him, looking at those six words.

"Thank you for your work - preventative measures".

It wasn't a "design change," nor was it a "client's instruction," but rather "Engineer Xie's request." Engineer Lin wrote it this way to record something on the drawings: the source of this reinforcement was Xie Chengzhou—not calculations, not specifications, but Xie Chengzhou himself. He was documenting the origin of this tie bar, and also documenting Xie Chengzhou's involvement.

He didn't say anything more, and Xie Chengzhou didn't explain either. On construction sites, sometimes experience reaches a conclusion before data does; those who have worked there for many years understand this—they may not understand it, but they respect it. Engineer Lin has seen too many decisions in his life that "have no data to back them up but ultimately prove to be correct." He won't reject a judgment just because he can't explain the reasons clearly; he simply writes it down, clearly stating the source with a red marker, and then continues looking at the diagrams.

Later, a minor earthquake struck the area. Although the magnitude was small, the pillar was located in a weak zone in the direction of the epicenter. The other pillars were fine, and that pillar was also fine, but monitoring data of the cracks in that pillar showed that the lateral force it experienced was 18 percent higher than expected.

He didn't know what would have happened without that stretcher; maybe nothing would have happened, maybe something would have. He didn't know. But he wrote it down, in his memo, within his own framework, noting: "Feeling: Sometimes faster than data. Not more accurate than data, but faster. Data is after the fact; feeling is in the moment."

He never included this in any report, but he never forgot it.

That time it was a judgment about the structure; this time it's a judgment about people.

Both share a common trigger: neither is data, but rather a feeling that arises after staring at something for a long time. The difference lies in the structure. The structure remains constant, and your feeling can be verified afterward, ultimately leading to an answer. People change; your judgment of someone may not be verifiable, nor may it necessarily have a definitive answer.

He suppressed this distinction in his mind for a moment.

The uncertainty is higher. But he still said "okay".

His only way of dealing with uncertainty in engineering is through documentation. It's not about eliminating it, but acknowledging its existence, giving it a place, labeling its source, trigger point, and areas awaiting verification. This isn't about solving it, it's about managing it—you can't pretend a problem doesn't exist just because you don't have an answer; you can only turn "I don't know" into a labeled variable, let it stay there, and wait for subsequent information to fill in or refute it.

This time, he used the same method. He didn't know if Feng Bo's judgment was ultimately correct, whether the ore was still there after it was taken out, or what "someone is using the instance to do something" ultimately referred to, but he recorded all these "unknowns" in his memo, noting the source and the trigger point. This was all he could do, and all he was used to doing.

This time he made a note of it and then said "okay".

The entrance to Yuan City is ahead. The temperature has changed in the place where the light has changed. It's like the temperature difference when you enter a space from the outside. It's not big, but you can feel it. It's the kind of change that your skin feels first and then your brain reacts to.

Old Zhao and Engineer Li continued walking without stopping.

Xie Chengzhou paused for a moment before entering.

He glanced back in the direction he had come from. An open field, a dirt road in the distance, and beyond that, the foundation—now out of sight, too far to see, only a vast expanse of ground and the light of the horizon. But he knew it was there, knew the inscription on the foundation was "Site #004 · Completed," knew that in that copy he had repaired a crack with mortar and waterstops, knew that construction had changed the rules, knew that conclusion was now real, one he had personally verified.

None of those can be brought out.

But they are there.

The first thing he learned on the construction site was: the scene doesn't lie. If you go there, you see it, you touch it, you step on it, that scene will forever remain in your judgment system, it won't disappear, no matter if the data is lost or the records are deleted later. He went to that dam, he repaired that crack, he saw the rules change, these are real, not because there are documents to prove it, but because he was there, his hands were there, his judgment was there.

He flipped to the end of the memo and, below the line "Reason: Unclear," added one last line:

"This is the first time. Recorded."

Then he closed the memo and went inside.