53: Chapter 53 Self-Government Program

The third task—the Autonomy Plan—was the one Lin Mo had spent the longest time preparing for.

The night wind blew again. This gust was cooler than the last, carrying a scent that mixed metal and earth. He wrapped his rough cloth coat—given to him by the villagers and much warmer than the T-shirt he wore when he first crossed over—tighter around himself, its edges already frayed.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to write it. On the contrary, he knew exactly how to write it. To someone who had been a product manager, a complete governance plan for the four major systems—administration, economy, military, and judiciary—was essentially a massive PRD document: requirements analysis, system architecture, business processes, and risk assessment. He already had a complete framework in his head, but he spent a long time weighing every word.

Because once this proposal was submitted, it would no longer be his business alone. It would become an official Imperial document, to be archived, circulated, and discussed. More importantly, it would serve as formal evidence for Blackstone Town's request for autonomy. If the wording was too soft, it would be ignored. If it was too harsh, it would be seen as a provocation. Lin Mo was extremely restrained in his choice of words in this document—every sentence he wrote was stating a "status quo" rather than making a "demand." The word "autonomy" never appeared in the proposal; he used the term "Local Governance Framework."

When Alice walked into the Intelligence Center late one night, she found him asleep at the desk, the half-finished proposal spread out before him. The flame of the oil lamp had burned low, and the ink had congealed into a small, dry bead on the tip of his pen. She draped her own coat over his shoulders—her movements were light, as if afraid of disturbing something that might shatter at any moment. Then she sat opposite him and read the proposal from beginning to end.

She didn't wake him after she finished reading. She only pulled the coat up a bit and straightened the wick that was about to burn down to the lamp base.

When Lin Mo woke at dawn, he saw the coat and the cup of cold tea on the opposite table. He didn't ask who had placed them there. He simply took a sip of the cold tea and continued writing the proposal.

He calculated silently in his head: how many days of grain reserves were left, how much ammunition had been consumed, and how many people were needed for the next patrol. These numbers interlocked in his mind like gears, each one connected to three others—change one, and everything had to be recalculated.

He saw the coat and the cup of cold tea on the opposite table. He didn't ask who had placed them there. He simply took a sip of the cold tea and continued writing the proposal.

There was no ceremony on the day the draft was submitted. Lin Mo packed the final version of the document into a rigid file tube, sealed it, and handed it over to the communication ship sent by Cassius. The tube, carrying the fate of Blackstone Town, sailed through the Warp toward the Ultramarines fleet.

After Cassius's communication ship vanished into the starry sky, Lin Mo sat in the Archon's office for a long time until his tea had gone completely cold. A copy of the proposal lay open on his desk, and that line of small text remained in the corner of the third page: Informed Consent. He picked it up and placed it in the drawer, alongside the first flag of Blackstone Town.

An autonomy plan where the word "autonomy" never appeared,

with wording as restrained as a technical document.

The final draft of the autonomy plan was completed by candlelight. By the time Lin Mo reached the last page, dawn was breaking outside the window. He put down his pen and read the proposal from start to finish. The wording was restrained, the logic rigorous, and every sentence left room for maneuver—it was the version least likely to give anyone leverage against him. As he folded the proposal and put it into the file tube, his fingers paused at the seal. Once this tube was handed over, Blackstone Town would no longer be a forgotten corner. It would become a file to be archived, circulated, and discussed—for better or worse, there would be no turning back.

He sealed the tube and wrote a line on the cover: "Proposed Governance Framework for Blackstone Town." The word "autonomy" did not appear.

During the waiting period after submitting the autonomy plan, he did not stay idle. He used the time to do one thing—organize and archive all of Blackstone Town's past important documents. It wasn't just simple categorization; he established a numbering system. Every document was marked with a date, source, content, and security level. When Old Tom passed by the Intelligence Center and saw Lin Mo organizing the archives, he stood there for a moment and left without saying a word. He wasn't there to rush the plan—he just wanted to confirm Lin Mo was still alive. Once confirmed, he went back to work.

Wang Defu visited the Intelligence Center on the day the archive system was completed. He didn't come to see the archives—he stood at the door, glanced at the row of labeled folders, and asked, "This system—others will be able to understand it even if someone else takes over later, right?" Lin Mo said yes. Wang Defu nodded and turned to leave. There was much more meaning in those words than their literal sense—the old man was confirming that if one day Lin Mo was gone, this village would not stop functioning because of one person's disappearance.

In this universe, hope is a luxury. Not because it is rare, but because it is fragile—like a match burning in a sandstorm, liable to be extinguished at any moment. But he had discovered something interesting: when you gather many matches together and light them, they are not so easily snuffed out. Every person in Blackstone Town was one of those gathered matches. Pick any one of them individually, and they could be extinguished by the storms of Chaos in the next second. But when gathered together, the light and heat they emitted were enough to make the surrounding darkness retreat a few steps.

—Lin Mo's personal memo after submitting the Autonomy Plan

Late on the night the autonomy plan was submitted, Lin Mo wrote in the Intelligence Center for a long time. His wrist began to ache by the third hour—this body's endurance was significantly worse than it had been on Earth. He put down his pen and stretched his fingers, his gaze falling beside the cup of cold tea on the desk—there lay a neatly folded coat. Alice's coat.

He picked up the coat and looked at it for a while. The fabric was coarse, a linen woven in Blackstone Town, but it was folded very neatly—sleeves folded inward first, then three folds from the hem upward. This was the standard Imperial military folding method. Even when performing a gentle act like draping a coat, Alice's body still executed the standard movements drilled into her by the Empire.

He put the coat back where it was and continued writing. But his handwriting was steadier than before—not because his wrist no longer ached, but because the knowledge that someone cared enough to worry about him catching a cold in the middle of the night was itself warmer than any coat.

The day after the proposal was submitted, Alice conducted an experiment in the Medical Station unrelated to her primary duties—she tested the psionic resonance frequency of that Silver Ring. She had noticed before that the ring would automatically contract upon contact with her skin but hadn't studied it in depth. Today, she observed the microscopic changes during the contraction under a microscope—the golden patterns on the inner wall of the ring produced a faint psionic pulse the moment they touched her skin, its frequency synchronized with her heartbeat. This was no ornament. It was a psionic locking device—designed to be effective only for her. She turned off the microscope and put the ring back on. Her finger lingered on the surface of the ring for a moment, then she clenched her fist tightly. The ring felt cool—but it gave her finger a sense of security, as if it were being held.

As he closed his notebook, a poem surfaced in his mind—not from his own memory, but one of the countless fragments the golden figure had shoved into his brain one late night:

[May I win a heart that is true, never to part until our hair turns white.]

—Zhuo Wenjun, "Song of White Hair." He didn't know why the Emperor had placed this line of poetry alongside tactical data, but he had a vague sense that both were equally important to him.

The submission of the autonomy plan was an administrative act on the surface, but within Blackstone Town, it triggered a series of chain reactions. Most of the questions came from the new residents who had arrived within the last six months: "If the Empire really gives us the autonomy we need, does that mean we don't have to fear the Imperial tax collectors anymore?"

Lin Mo's answer to this question was: "The autonomy given by the Empire and the taxes collected by the Empire have always been two sides of the same coin. Accepting autonomy means we must also shoulder the responsibilities originally borne by the Empire—such as sector defense and border patrols."

This wasn't the answer everyone wanted to hear. Some had come to Blackstone Town specifically to "stop paying taxes to the Empire." When they discovered that "autonomy" did not equal "tax exemption," disappointment was inevitable.

Lin Mo didn't try to convince everyone. He simply had Wang Defu do one thing at the town meeting: list Blackstone Town's current expenses and explain where the money went, item by item.

When the townspeople saw the figure for "Universal Healthcare," the hall went silent. Many hadn't known before that the cost of their medical care in Blackstone Town was actually being paid for by the Town Hall.

"Autonomy," Lin Mo said amidst the silence, "doesn't mean 'not having to pay taxes to the Empire.' Autonomy means 'we decide where our taxes are used.'"

This sentence was recorded. It became a foundational statement in the future history of Blackstone Town's governance.

Moonlight shone through the porthole, falling exactly on her right ring finger. The Silver Ring shimmered with a very faint light in the moonbeams, and the golden patterns on its surface flowed slightly in the darkness—as if something were alive inside, breathing slowly.