Chapter 1

Chapter 1: A Dream?

“Doctor Zhao! Emergency!”

was jolted awake by the sound of shuffling tiles.

He’d dozed off in the butcher shop. Through the plastic curtain, a group of aunties was in the thick of a mahjong game. Baby powder, mosquito coils, , and the scent of spiced meat mingled in the heat, steaming into a stifling haze. The women’s pale flesh, strained against polyester fabric, gleamed with sweat that had nowhere to escape. They puffed desperately on their paper cigarettes—thin rolls of peppermint and tobacco wrapped in dried shrimp leaves—which sent a faint, misplaced coolness clinging to the tiled walls, like the damp mugginess of an old public bathhouse. Beads of moisture dotted the enamel tiles.

“Doctor Zhao!” A young intern burst in, fresh-faced and clearly rattled by something he’d just witnessed. “Could you hurry? The kid in the ER is bleeding all over the place! If you take another moment, I think his mother might tear the emergency room apart!”

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming.” Still groggy from sleep, Zhao Meiyou swung his legs off the chair and realised one of his shoes was missing. He bent down to search for it. “Auntie, how many times have I told you? Stop taking my shoes!”

He threw a pointed glance at the head of the mahjong table, where one of the women, nail polish half-chipped off her left big toe, was shamelessly wearing his bright red flip-flop.

"What’s the big deal? Bathhouse slippers never come in pairs!" she declared, waving her hand so forcefully that the ‘One Bamboo’ tile nearly hit his face. ", if you’ve got two shoes, just take them and go!" She kicked out a random high heel from under the table—it wasn’t even hers—sending it skidding across the floor. It was a right shoe.

"Auntie, I’m missing the left one…" Zhao Meiyou started to protest, but she cut him off, busy drawing her next tile. "Stop dawdling and get going! Cut me two jin of minced pork later, and come over tonight for dumplings!"

Scratching his head, Zhao Meiyou replied, "Alright, alright. Just make sure you draw the East Wind tile soon." With that, he lifted the curtain and stepped out, only for her angry shout to follow: "You little brat, peeking at my tiles!" A chopstick whizzed through the air after him.

"I’ll be at your place for dinner!" he yelled, ducking to avoid the flying chopstick. Wearing one high heel and one flip-flop, he hobbled away, his steps uneven.

Zhao Meiyou, emergency department doctor at the Psychiatric Hospital on Level 33 of the Megalopolis. The hospital, located in the Lower District, was the only government-affiliated medical facility within a hundred-floor radius. With subsidies keeping it afloat, it had operated for decades, earning a reputation as a time-honoured institution.

With medical resources scarce in the Lower District, the ER functioned almost as a separate entity from the psychiatric hospital. Doctors there were like jack-of-all-trades, handling everything from broken bones to childbirth. They doubled as the hospital’s security, stepping in to capture runaway patients. On top of that, many took on side gigs to make ends meet. Take Zhao Meiyou, for example—part-time butcher at a pork shop. He had a smidge of veterinary skills, his knife work was impeccable, offering an all-inclusive service to pigs, from cradle to grave.

Thanks to his good looks and unmatched knife skills, he’d earned the nicknames “Pork Shop Xi Shi” and “Disease Butcher.”

When Zhao Meiyou stepped into the emergency room, he was greeted by a piercing wail, the kind that clawed at the air and refused to let go. “Oh, my Cuihua! What a tragic death!” The cries came from the very child the interns had described—covered in blood and clutching the clinic chair like it was a lifeline, as though he'd just lost a wife or mother.

“, you’ve finally turned up!” A doctor nearby, his patience clearly worn thin, threw up his hands. “And who in the world is this Cuihua? I’ve spent half the day trying to talk sense into this kid, but he won’t let go. His mum just left, said she’d leave him here to wait for you…”

“Cuihua is the synthetic pig he’s been raising for three months,” Zhao Meiyou replied, barely lifting an eyelid.

The doctor blinked. “...What?”

“Let go, kid.” With deft fingers, Zhao Meiyou pinched a nerve in the boy’s arm, yanking him free of the chair with the ease of plucking up a stray cat. He set him upright, eyeing him from head to toe. “Let’s see. This morning, you ran ten miles clutching that pig of yours. I ran so hard to catch you that I lost a shoe. Not even the couple who eloped with stolen money were as quick as you—so, twisted your ankle, huh?”

The boy looked up at the man before him—pale as a ghost, dark circles under his eyes like ink stains, one foot in a flip-flop and the other in a high heel, wearing a butcher’s apron under his white coat. He let out another wail, louder this time: “The grudge of a slain pig cannot be reconciled!”

The doctor on the sidelines could only stare.

The boy’s sobs were deafening, but Zhao Meiyou seemed entirely unfazed. He crouched, prodded the bruised spots on the boy’s calf, and asked if they hurt. Finally, he nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, nothing serious. Tell your mum to make you some nourishing soup for the next few days.”

“...Soup?” The boy’s tears halted mid-flow, his eyes blinking with curiosity. “Does it have meat?”

Zhao Meiyou hummed a confirmation. “Like cures like. We’ll use Cuihua to nourish you.”

The boy froze.

“Cry again, and I’ll put that leg straight into surgery.” Zhao Meiyou pulled a bone saw from the cupboard, dragging its steel blade across a metal edge with a grating sound. He grinned. “See the blood dripping off this saw? Used it just this morning to carve up Cuihua.”

The boy’s fresh sobs lodged in his throat, his face flushing red as if his tail had been stepped on.

The doctor couldn’t stand by any longer. “Alright, alright, that’s no way to scare a kid... Come on, let Uncle clean you up. Look at all this blood…” He led the boy out, returning a moment later with a plastic-wrapped cucumber sandwich in hand. “It’s just a twisted ankle. Rest up at home for a few days and he’ll be fine.”

Zhao Meiyou, cigarette dangling from his lips, searched for a lighter. “, you’re twenty-six and calling yourself an uncle?”

“No smoking in the clinic!” Diao Chan’s voice shot up an octave.

Zhao Meiyou chuckled. “Just one.”

“Not even one!”

Reluctantly, Zhao Meiyou tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

Diao Chan sighed, watching him with a mix of exasperation and resignation as he unwrapped the sandwich. Around here, meal breaks were a race against the clock. “What did you do this time? How’d you scare that kid so bad he’s covered in blood?”

“That blood’s all pig blood,” Zhao Meiyou tutted. “This morning, they brought in a live pig for slaughter. Halfway through, that little rascal barged in, snatched it up, and bolted. Not even a robber’s that bold. He didn’t even grab the whole thing—tore off half the hind leg and left a trail of blood all the way out. Anyone who didn’t know better would think I’d cursed him or something. His parents were the ones who decided to slaughter the pig, but no, he doesn’t throw a fit at home. Instead, he comes here to make a scene.”

“Alright, alright, enough.” Diao Chan rubbed his temples, Zhao Meiyou’s storytelling giving him a headache. “The storytelling theatre opens tonight. If you’re itching to talk, buy yourself a ticket and go perform. Don’t waste your banter on me.”

“A young master from the Upper District like you coming down to Level 33 to 'experience life'? I’ve got to show hospitality.” Zhao Meiyou grinned. “Storytelling theatres are a Lower District speciality, especially the ones here on Level Thirty-Three. Their performers have the most soulful voices.”

“Zhao Meiyou, how many sunflower seeds have you eaten today? Why’s your mouth running like this—” Before Diao Chan could finish, an intern burst into the emergency ward. “Dr. Zhao Meiyou, come quick! Patient 211 has escaped again!”

Zhao Meiyou patted Diao Chan on the shoulder and slipped out the door. “Here we go, here we go. What’s the show today for 211?”

As he spoke, a lighter appeared between his fingers. Just as he lit a cigarette, a thunderous voice roared from behind the door: “Zhao Meiyou, you’ve filched my lighter again! Smoking is prohibited in the hospital!”

Before Zhao Meiyou could respond, a commotion erupted at the far end of the corridor. A swarm of people surged forward, led by an old man brandishing an enamel tea flask high above his head with all the authority of a steeple crushing a demon. He bellowed at Zhao Meiyou: “Ho! If I call you, dare you answer?”

A gaggle of caretakers scurried after him. “Old Mr. De, please stop causing trouble!” “How about we go back and fight cockroaches instead?” “Turn around—your granddaughter’s come to visit you!”

But the old man was oblivious to their cries. His glare stayed fixed on Zhao Meiyou, and he repeated the challenge: “If I call you, dare you answer?”

Diao Chan peeked out from behind the door. “What’s all this about now?”

“Room 211, Old Mr. De, the resident drama king,” Zhao Meiyou said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Looks like today’s script is about the Silver Horn King.”

Within moments, Old Mr. De was nearly upon him, still shouting the same line: “If I call you, dare you answer?” Zhao Meiyou replayed the scene in his head and decided to play along. “Of course I dare. Go on, call me.”

"Zhe Xingsun!"

“Here, Old Master, I’m listening.”

“Ha! You filthy monkey, your time has come!” The old man let out a sinister laugh as he unscrewed the cap of his flask. “Behold my Purple Gold Gourd—today it’ll send you to your grave!”

Quick as a flash, Zhao Meiyou grabbed an enamel mug and held it under the flask’s spout.

With a slosh and splatter, the mug filled to the brim with hot-and-sour soup.

“Have a taste,” Zhao Meiyou said as he filled another mug and passed the first to Diao Chan. “Old Mr. De’s hot-and-sour soup is the best—plenty of meat. Just right to go with your precious sandwich.”

The two of them, an old man and a young one, stood in the doorway like schoolboys, sharing the entire flask of soup. Zhao Meiyou handed the last mug to Old Mr. De and launched into his next line: “Monster! You won’t escape! Take this from me, Sun Wukong!”

The old man took the mug, downed it in one gulp, wiped his mouth, stroked his beard, and sang out in a theatrical cadence: “Ah-ha! What fine soup! Tomorrow, I’ll drink again!”

Zhao Meiyou clinked his mug against the old man’s. “Tomorrow, then. Take care on your way.”

With great gravitas, Old Mr. De shot him a look, clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled leisurely back to his room.

“I don’t think you need to head to a storyteller’s stage,” Diao Chan said, shaking his head in amazement. “You’ve got all the theatrics you need, right here.”

“Old Mr. De used to be the headliner at the Chuyun Theatre on the 460th floor,” Zhao Meiyou explained. “Though it was only in the Middle District, he was still a big deal in the business. Now he gets to perform every day without charging admission—a perk of working here, I’d say.”

Diao Chan froze for a moment. Chuyun was the best in the Middle District. Surely their actors would receive pensions.

It was as if Zhao Meiyou could read his thoughts. He chuckled. “You’ve got a kind heart, young master.”

After his usual rounds, Zhao Meiyou clocked out for the day. Since Diao Chan had joined the hospital, the workload had eased, allowing Zhao Meiyou to focus on his side hustle as a butcher to make ends meet. Back at his shop, the aunties who played mahjong there had already packed up. He weighed a piece of pork haunch, diced it finely into minced meat, wrapped it in wax paper, then fetched a jar of pickled vegetables from the storeroom, ready to crash someone’s dinner in proper style.

The aunt he planned to freeload from lived on the 27th floor. Usually, it took ages to queue for the elevator in the Lower District. The lifts there hadn’t been upgraded since the days when the megalopolis was first built, still running on early electrical systems; during power outages, they even had to be operated manually. Zhao Meiyou pondered this for a moment. The minced meat wouldn’t keep long. Without further thought, he borrowed an umbrella from the repair shop, opened it, and leapt off the upper floor.

He landed softly on a windowsill, where a green awning sheltered a row of sunflowers. They weren’t the real kind, of course—just electronic replicas. The Lower District rarely saw sunlight; real plants didn’t stand a chance. The window creaked open, and a little girl poked her head out, staring at him without a word.

“Little princess,” Zhao Meiyou said, recalling an old film they had watched together a few days ago. He mimicked the gentlemanly bow from the movie. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Mum’s making soup,” the girl replied, evidently pleased with his gesture. She stepped aside to let him in. Zhao Meiyou leapt into the room—her room, which was actually an old, abandoned camper suspended mid-air. The whole structure shivered at his movement.

“How’s your fish doing?” Zhao Meiyou asked, stepping over to the fish tank on the table. “Think it’s ready to eat yet?”

She glanced at him. “I’m raising piranhas.”

“Electronic, too?”

“Exactly. So no, you can’t eat them. Stop getting ideas.”

“Little princess, you’re bound to be a queen someday.” Zhao Meiyou raised his hands in mock surrender and headed to the kitchen. “Auntie, I brought the minced meat—and some pickled cabbage for the stuffing…”

“All you had to bring was your appetite, what’s with the extras!” The woman didn’t bother with pleasantries. She opened a jar and scooped out the pickled cabbage. “Oh, this smells just right—tangy, crisp, and appetising!”

Zhao Meiyou rolled up his sleeves in a hurry. “Let me help you with that.”

Pickled cabbage dumplings stuffed with pork and crispy lard dregs, paired with dipping sauce made from garlic, crushed chilli, and aged vinegar. Four cold side dishes—spicy pickled eggplant, fresh lettuce stems, tofu ribbons in chilli oil, and soy-pickled cucumbers. The leftover dumpling broth seasoned with dried shrimp and seaweed. And finally, a steaming tray of beef patties.

After eating their fill, Zhao Meiyou stood at the sink washing dishes, pausing now and then to hold his overly full stomach. With a wistful sigh, he muttered, “Life doesn’t get better than this.”

The woman’s voice came from outside the kitchen. “Xi Shi, you done with the dishes yet? We’re playing cards tonight. Take your out for a walk—and don’t go eating junk!”

“Got it, Auntie!” Zhao Meiyou called back, shaking water from his hands as he stepped out of the kitchen. The little girl was waiting just outside. “Craving anything else? How about some opera? We can grab grilled skewers after the evening show.”

The girl gave him a once-over. “I think you need some digestive capsules.”

“Opera’s good for digestion. Or maybe a comedy show? Last time, a monologue act listed off dish names—it had me hungry again right after dinner.”

The girl thought for a moment, then said suddenly, “Brother.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Have you ever met your dad?”

“What’s got you asking that all of a sudden?” Zhao Meiyou crouched down to meet her gaze. “Did someone say something to you?”

“The crazy fortune-teller on the street told me I’m just like you—we don’t have dads.”

“I have a dad, he’s just unreliable. Knocked up my mum and then disappeared. She gave me his surname just to demand child support.” Zhao Meiyou waved his hands furiously. “Don’t take that fortune-teller seriously. He’s an escaped patient from our hospital—like we’d get any decent folks in my line of work.”

He added as an afterthought, “Except your big brother Diao Chan, of course.”

“So, have you ever seen your dad?”

Zhao Meiyou paused, then admitted, “No.”

The girl stared at him for a moment, as if making up her mind, then climbed the camper’s slide to the top. A moment later, she slid back down, holding a box Zhao Meiyou had never seen before.

Watching her fiddle with it, Zhao Meiyou asked, “What’s that?”

“Brother, listen to me.” The little girl climbed onto his knee, settling herself there. She looked into his eyes with utmost seriousness and said, “It’s not that we don’t have a father. When the system was programmed, they simply left him out.”

“You’ve been reading fantasy literature lately, haven’t you? The works from the 20th and 21st centuries are pretty good in that genre. But even on the black market, digital copies from those two centuries are rare. I’ll transcribe one for you later…”

“Brother.” The little girl cut him off mid-sentence.

“I’m being serious. This isn’t the real world. We’re inside a massive virtual simulation.”

As she finished speaking, she raised the object in her hand, holding it up to Zhao Meiyou.

Zhao Meiyou examined it for a moment before realising he’d seen something like it before—in a black-market auction catalogue. But that had been an ancient listing, and these things had been out of production for centuries. There was no way it could still be in such pristine condition.

Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment. “Did you have someone at a repair shop make this for you?”

“I'm not interested in mechanical stuff, Brother,” the little girl replied. “I brought this in from the real world.”

It was a brand-new disc player.

Its surface gleamed like liquid mercury, with the manufacturing year laser-etched on the back.

They were living in the 25th century now.

And the year on that disc player was 1999.