In the year 2026, on a Tuesday afternoon where the very air in the laboratory seemed to have congealed into a thick, stagnant broth of unwashed beakers and failed expectations, the digital firmament did not merely crack—it underwent a total, irreversible structural collapse. At that precise moment, amidst the rhythmic, soul-crushing hum of the centrifuges and the silent desperation of graduate students staring at corrupted datasets, a notification manifested on the glowing screens of every lab member, cold and indifferent yet carrying the ontological weight of a dying star: Keritial has left the group. In the grand timeline of 2026, this was not a mere departure; it was a localized apocalypse. It was the precise cybernetic reincarnation of the legendary moment when Zhanlian Technology—that bastion of high-intensity, brain-rotting, abstract chaos—decided to hit the "Delete Account" button on Bilibili and ascend into the ether of 404 errors and broken links. This was not just an exit; it was a grand, deconstructive performance of "Cyber Nirvana."To understand the magnitude of this loss in 2026, one must first understand what Keritial represented within the suffocatingly rigid ecosystem of our lab. Keritial was our very own Zhanlian Technology. If Zhanlian’s videos were a frantic, low-resolution explosion of post-modern irony that dismantled the very fabric of the internet, then Keritial’s presence in the group chat was a daily, non-stop demolition of academic boredom. While the rest of us were drowning in the gray sea of "Received" and "Yes, Professor" and "Attached is the revised draft," Keritial was the glitch in the matrix. He was the one who would drop a meme so pixelated it looked like it had been dragged through the trenches of the early 2000s, or a cryptic, one-line summary of a complex protein structure that somehow managed to be both scientifically accurate and profoundly insulting to the laws of logic. He didn't just participate in the chat; he distorted it. He turned a professional communication channel into a gallery of the "Abstract," much like how Zhanlian turned a video platform into a fever dream of surrealist editing.The ritual of Keritial’s departure in 2026 was performed with the surgical, cold-blooded precision of a legendary uploader purging their entire channel. There was no "Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure" or "I’ll miss you guys." Such sentiments are for the "normies," the people who still believe in the permanence of digital connections. No, Keritial left with the same chaotic energy that defined a Zhanlian Technology "Final Upload." It was a sudden, violent transition from "Member" to "Stranger." One moment, his avatar was there—a silent witness to our collective misery—and the next, it was gone, leaving behind a silence so loud it practically had its own IP address. We stared at our phones in the dim light of the 2026 lab, feeling the same gut-wrenching void a Bilibili user feels when they navigate to a favorite creator’s page only to be met with the sterile, gray tombstone that reads: “This account has been deactivated.”The impact on the lab’s 2026 social order was catastrophic. Before this Great Disconnection, the group chat was a vibrant, if slightly unhinged, ecosystem. Keritial acted as our "spiritual nitrogen pump," injecting bursts of pure, unfiltered absurdity into the veins of our research. He had a unique, Zhanlian-esque talent for capturing the most depressing, mold-ridden corners of the breakroom or the most spectacular equipment failures and elevating them into high-art photography through the lens of utter nihilism. But with one click of the "Exit Group" button, that entire layer of our reality was unceremoniously de-platformed. The group chat immediately regressed into a "Document Dispatch Station." It became a sterile wasteland where people only talk about "reagents" and "deadlines" and "safety protocols." The soul of the server had been unsubscribed. The "Abstract" energy—that sticky, wonderful, chaotic frequency—had been wiped from the hard drive of our daily lives.

In the year 2026, on a Tuesday afternoon where the very air in the laboratory seemed to have congealed into a thick, stagnant broth of unwashed beakers and failed expectations, the digital firmament did not merely crack—it underwent a total, irreversible structural collapse. At that precise moment, amidst the rhythmic, soul-crushing hum of the centrifuges and the silent desperation of graduate students staring at corrupted datasets, a notification manifested on the glowing screens of every lab member, cold and indifferent yet carrying the ontological weight of a dying star: Keritial has left the group. In the grand timeline of 2026, this was not a mere departure; it was a localized apocalypse. It was the precise cybernetic reincarnation of the legendary moment when Zhanlian Technology—that bastion of high-intensity, brain-rotting, abstract chaos—decided to hit the "Delete Account" button on Bilibili and ascend into the ether of 404 errors and broken links. This was not just an exit; it was a grand, deconstructive performance of "Cyber Nirvana."
To understand the magnitude of this loss in 2026, one must first understand what Keritial represented within the suffocatingly rigid ecosystem of our lab. Keritial was our very own Zhanlian Technology. If Zhanlian’s videos were a frantic, low-resolution explosion of post-modern irony that dismantled the very fabric of the internet, then Keritial’s presence in the group chat was a daily, non-stop demolition of academic boredom. While the rest of us were drowning in the gray sea of "Received" and "Yes, Professor" and "Attached is the revised draft," Keritial was the glitch in the matrix. He was the one who would drop a meme so pixelated it looked like it had been dragged through the trenches of the early 2000s, or a cryptic, one-line summary of a complex protein structure that somehow managed to be both scientifically accurate and profoundly insulting to the laws of logic. He didn't just participate in the chat; he distorted it. He turned a professional communication channel into a gallery of the "Abstract," much like how Zhanlian turned a video platform into a fever dream of surrealist editing.
The ritual of Keritial’s departure in 2026 was performed with the surgical, cold-blooded precision of a legendary uploader purging their entire channel. There was no "Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure" or "I’ll miss you guys." Such sentiments are for the "normies," the people who still believe in the permanence of digital connections. No, Keritial left with the same chaotic energy that defined a Zhanlian Technology "Final Upload." It was a sudden, violent transition from "Member" to "Stranger." One moment, his avatar was there—a silent witness to our collective misery—and the next, it was gone, leaving behind a silence so loud it practically had its own IP address. We stared at our phones in the dim light of the 2026 lab, feeling the same gut-wrenching void a Bilibili user feels when they navigate to a favorite creator’s page only to be met with the sterile, gray tombstone that reads: “This account has been deactivated.”
The impact on the lab’s 2026 social order was catastrophic. Before this Great Disconnection, the group chat was a vibrant, if slightly unhinged, ecosystem. Keritial acted as our "spiritual nitrogen pump," injecting bursts of pure, unfiltered absurdity into the veins of our research. He had a unique, Zhanlian-esque talent for capturing the most depressing, mold-ridden corners of the breakroom or the most spectacular equipment failures and elevating them into high-art photography through the lens of utter nihilism. But with one click of the "Exit Group" button, that entire layer of our reality was unceremoniously de-platformed. The group chat immediately regressed into a "Document Dispatch Station." It became a sterile wasteland where people only talk about "reagents" and "deadlines" and "safety protocols." The soul of the server had been unsubscribed. The "Abstract" energy—that sticky, wonderful, chaotic frequency—had been wiped from the hard drive of our daily lives.