Deep within Osiris' workshop, research on the remains of the legendary Netrunner, Rache Bartmoss, was progressing systematically.
Bionic tentacles performed precise operations under cold light, scanning, sampling, and analyzing. The entire process was efficient, calm, and devoid of any emotional color, as if handling a complex antique mechanism.
A servo-skull hovered silently, recording every set of data, gradually dissecting the physiological secrets of a giant of the era.
At the same time, in the simple corner outside the workshop allocated to David, another completely different kind of "dissection" was simultaneously unfolding.
Here, there were no cold machines, but there were equally strict rules and an unquestionable test of will.
David Martinez sat on a worn-out sofa, his body focused in a relaxed yet tense posture.
A servo-skull specifically tasked with teaching him floated before him, its bony mandible opening and closing rhythmically, continuously outputting a long and tedious binary language stream composed of two basic syllables: "di" and "da."
Concurrently, a torrent of data transmitted by the servo-skull surged directly into David's brain through a cable connected to the interface at the back of his neck, without reservation.
David felt his consciousness being forcibly crammed into a turbulent river of pure information.
Countless "0s" and "1s" were no longer abstract symbols but had transformed into substantive pulse signals with a distinct sense of presence, washing over his mind in waves.
He felt a slight throbbing in his temples, as if the physical space of his brain was being forcibly filled and expanded by these external, rigorously structured data.
It was a peculiar sensation of overload, as if a previously empty brain was suddenly crammed full, and still being violently stuffed, attempting to stretch his head larger.
More crucially, according to the protocol set by Osiris, all of David's auxiliary implants, translation cyberware, and even the most basic neural processing enhancement functions were forcibly shut down.
There was no preprocessor to filter and translate for him, no memory to share the storage burden.
He had to rely on his unenhanced, purely native biological brain to directly comprehend, remember, and attempt to recite this cold language designed for machine logic.
Every "di" and "da" required him to capture, analyze, and assign meaning with his most fundamental attention.
This process stripped away all technological assistance, reducing learning to its most primitive and arduous mental struggle.
"Syllable interval error. The second '1' in the sequence '010011' is misspelled," the servo-skull prompted in a steady synthesized voice.
Before its voice faded, a strong, instantaneous electric shock sensation, piercing through his entire cerebral cortex, suddenly erupted!
This sensation was not a sharp sting; it was more like a strong jolt of electricity, as if being forcibly "cleansed" by a high-voltage current, making every nerve ending in David's body scream. His mind went blank instantly, his body trembled violently uncontrollably for a moment, and a short gasp escaped his throat.
"Repeat the current sequence," the servo-skull calmly began playing the code again.
David blinked hard, shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering numbness and buzzing noise in his brain.
He took a deep breath and refocused.
The electric shock was indeed intense, bringing an extremely strong discomfort. Each time, he felt as if he was about to lose control of his body.
But it came and went quickly, and as the servo-skull had initially told him—it would not cause any substantial neural damage, only leave an incredibly clear memory: You were wrong.
He knew this was not torture, but discipline, an efficiency-driven teaching tool.
Osiris', or rather, the Adeptus Mechanicus' method, was simple and direct: errors must be pointed out immediately and remembered in an impressive way.
Initially, these "di-da" sounds seemed like meaningless noise to him, more obscure and difficult to understand than any language or code he had encountered at Arasaka Academy.
He needed to rely on pure biological brainpower to distinguish different logical units from this seemingly chaotic rhythm and associate them with specific concepts and instructions.
Time and again, errors, and time and again, learning accompanied by intense electric shocks, made this process full of physiological resistance.
The thought of giving up had not been absent.
When his brain was exhausted from continuous high-intensity operation and intermittent electric shocks, when frustration piled up, the temptation to disconnect was immense.
David's gaze always involuntarily turned to the temporary cubicle not far away.
Inside the cubicle, his mother, Gloria, lay on a makeshift medical bed.
Medication kept her mostly unconscious.
Her face was pale, and her breathing was so shallow that the rise and fall of her chest were almost imperceptible.
The woman who once could walk briskly on the street carrying a cyberware case now found it difficult even to lift her hand.
Sometimes she would wake up, her eyes empty as she stared at the ceiling.
But when her gaze caught sight of David outside the door, her listless eyes would suddenly gain focus.
Her gaze lingered on his tense face from studying, on his forehead where his hair was damp with sweat.
Her fingers would tremble slightly on the bedsheet, as if trying to grasp something.
Her lips parted slightly, seemingly wanting to speak, but no sound came out.
Finally, it could only turn into a tear, slowly sliding down the corner of her eye.
This sight made David's stomach clench, and his heart felt as if something had squeezed it.
Every time he saw his mother like this, he could clearly feel the weight on his shoulders.
This made him more uncomfortable than any electric shock, but it also had more power than any encouragement.
He could not give up.
He even felt that this suffering was necessary.
Maine and the others said this was a rare opportunity, but David did not care about opportunities.
He had only one simple thought in his mind: learn this knowledge, cure his mother.
Osiris' conditions were clear: one year to learn everything he needed to, then personally treat his mother.
In return, he would work for Osiris for two hundred years.
If he failed, he dared not contemplate the consequences.
Whenever he encountered difficulties in learning, whenever the discomfort of the electric shock made him want to retreat, he only needed to glance at that cubicle to find a reason to continue.
His mother's silent tears were more effective than any spur.
He knew he had to succeed; there was no other choice.
Every electric shock from the servo-skull reminded him of the cost and urgency of this goal.
He could not tolerate any slackness or carelessness from himself.
One day in the future, when he stood beside his mother, preparing for that decisive treatment, any small error originating from today could lead to irreversible regret.
He had to ensure that every syllable, every logical sequence he learned was accurate and deeply ingrained.