Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Ideal City

Zhao Meiyou wasn’t exactly skilled at the delicate art of dismantling machinery. He was a butcher; give him a wrench and it might as well have been a kitchen knife. As a result, the scene inside the cabin was particularly gruesome: severed limbs strewn haphazardly like the aftermath of some mechanical slaughter. Following Qian Duoduo’s instructions, he managed to extract a chip from the wrist, the heart, the abdominal cavity, and the calf.

All that was left of Qian Duoduo was his head, perched on the control console, lips moving faintly. “Put them back together.”

Zhao Meiyou obeyed. He found a port on the console, inserted the chips, and watched as the screen lit up with a blue progress bar, slowly decoding the data.

After that, Zhao Meiyou painstakingly reassembled the abdominal cavity, hoping to restore at least partial mobility to the artificial human. Qian Duoduo, dragging half a torso and a single left arm, retrieved a mechanical kit and began piecing himself back together, one slow step at a time.

During the wait as the data loaded, the cabin fell into an uneasy silence. After a moment, Zhao Meiyou scratched his face. “Qian-ge, can’t you just, I don’t know, shift back by yourself?”

“I could,” Qian Duoduo replied, a screw clamped between his teeth. “But artificial human limbs require high-precision transformation. It consumes too much energy. There’s a tough fight ahead—we need to conserve strength.”

Zhao Meiyou was deeply curious about Qian Duoduo’s ability to “borrow cigarettes,” though now wasn’t the time to ask. He turned his gaze out the window. He had to admit the late-22nd-century landscape was vastly different from the fragmented records in the Megalopolis archives. He’d expected a city smothered in smog and heavy light pollution, where violence ran rampant in the streets, living spaces were crammed into labyrinthine high-rise clusters or sewers, and pills being washed away by the rain.

And, of course, artificial humans and space colonization.

“It’s on autopilot mode right now,” Qian Duoduo said, pressing a button on the console. “The night view outside is just an automated display. You’ll need to disable the scenic setting to see the real thing.”

The indicator light flickered on, and it was as if ripples of water glided across the cabin windows. The real world emerged.

It was a city draped in snow.

The snow fell heavily, yet it brought not a trace of somberness or chill. Instead, it exuded a sense of purity. Buildings towered into the clouds, their geometric lines simple yet monumental, like awe-inspiring relics from another world. Some even resembled pyramids. Above a plaza reminiscent of the Athenian Acropolis stretched a network of aerial streets—straight, translucent, like crystal veins. Sleek flying cars and streamlined airships landed at intervals. The buildings themselves gleamed with materials of white marble, liquid mercury, polished alloys, and bronze. It was near impossible to imagine any trace of pollution here. Everything was pristine, orderly—a utopia in the snow.

Zhao Meiyou: “Oh.”

In the distance, a beam of light flickered, like a searchlight sweeping from a lighthouse. Zhao Meiyou focused on the cabin window, adjusted the fixed point, then zoomed in. The source of the light was a building, its design strikingly unique—shaped like the barrel of a gun, its exterior clad in copper-hued glass. Yet what drew his attention wasn’t the building itself. By Megalopolis standards, its height was merely average. What he noticed was the firefighting crew, floating mid-air in astronaut-like suits.

What truly startled Zhao Meiyou, however, was that—if his eyes weren’t deceiving him—the entire building was encased inside a massive glass box.

It resembled a display case for specimens, or the standalone glass cabinets in a museum—only magnified to an unimaginable scale. By Zhao Meiyou’s rough estimation, the glass box surrounding the building stood at least four hundred meters tall.

"That's a 'display case,' designed specifically to protect historical buildings," Qian Duoduo's voice came through. "That structure is nearly two hundred years old. Its original name was the Mercury City Tower."

No wonder Zhao Meiyou felt like the surroundings resembled the 21st century when he first entered the ruin.

"We just escaped from there. The airship shattered the glass casing. The temperature, humidity, and neutron radiation inside the 'display case' are all kept at constant levels. What you saw were the restoration teams," Qian Duoduo explained, gesturing toward the astronauts Zhao Meiyou had mistaken for firefighters.

He tapped a few times on the control panel. "Here’s some information about Ideal City. You can take a look."

"Ideal City?" Zhao Meiyou read the name aloud.

Qian Duoduo brought up a document. "This place was once called Moscow."

In the distant 20th century, during the Soviet era, the city saw a proliferation of modernist and futurist architecture. These structures, constructed predominantly of concrete, steel, and glass, loomed majestic and grand. They exuded a utopian allure and a space-age fantastical aesthetic, complemented by colossal sculptures symbolizing authoritarian power—like the Palace of the Soviets, the Yekaterinburg Circus, and the Institute for Robotics and Cybernetics. Many iconic landmarks were born during this period.

Against the backdrop of monumental heavy industry, the ethereal dreams of space and the sharp edges of modernism converged to construct the somber yet romantic Soviet dream.

By the late 22nd century, the Ideal City was built upon the ruins of this once-fractured epic. Yet, it was more elegant, more pristine, like a crystalline tube from the Atomic Age. Everything was powered by clean energy. The chaos of neon-lit nights, the pollution of fossil fuels, and the oppressive cycles of war were all kept securely outside its walls.

It was like a brave new world.

Zhao Meiyou tried to recall the descriptions from Huxley's book and asked, "You’re not using the Bokanovsky process to screen fetuses here, are you?"

"This is Diao Chan's primary exploration site. I don’t come here often," Qian Duoduo replied evasively as he reassembled his upper body. "How much do you know about the 22nd century?"

"Not much," Zhao Meiyou admitted. "History wasn’t my major in university."

Qian Duoduo threw out a prompt. "The first two clauses of the Megalopolis Prohibition."

Zhao Meiyou caught on. "Artificial human technology and space colonization reached their peak at the end of the 22nd century."

"Exactly—could you hand me my leg, please? Thanks." Qian Duoduo took a left leg from Zhao Meiyou, rewrapping the exposed fiber-optic veins with insulating tape. "I’ve been here a few days longer than you, and in that time, I’ve figured something out. In the 22nd century—or at least the version of the 22nd century presented in Ruin S45," he corrected himself, "artificial human technology actually comes in many forms."

This was a blind spot in Zhao Meiyou's knowledge. He gestured politely, inviting Qian Duoduo to elaborate.

Qian Duoduo spared him a long lecture. "The two main types: bionic humans and mechanical humans."

A soft "beep" sounded from the control panel as the data parsing completed. Skimming through the file, Qian Duoduo extracted a diagram and slid it over. It split the screen in front of Zhao Meiyou, displaying anatomical cross-sections of two human figures.

“The primary difference between bionic and mechanical humans lies in whether the brain remains in its original state,” Qian Duoduo explained. “At this stage, most artificial humans replace their organic bodies with bionic systems to extend their lifespan. The distinction is that bionic humans are born naturally from a biological mother, preserving their original brain, while mechanical humans are entirely industrially manufactured, their brains replaced with neural software.”

Zhao Meiyou asked, “Reason versus emotion?”

“That’s one difference, yes,” Qian Duoduo nodded. “But there are others. For instance, neural software can be hacked. Bionic humans, on the other hand, typically have shorter lifespans, as the original brain’s viable period is only about twenty years.”

“What about cloned brains?” Zhao Meiyou asked, his knowledge of neuroscience bolstered thanks to Liu Qijue. “If the original brain were cloned and replaced when its viable period ended, wouldn’t GM humans also achieve immortality?”

“Cloned brains can only replicate structure. Memory and cognitive logic are shaped by environmental factors and cannot be duplicated,” Qian Duoduo replied, pulling out a file. “Here’s a typical case: a bionic human whose brain was replaced with a cloned one regressed to an infantile behavioral state. By the time they completed another growth cycle, they were no longer the same person they had been before the brain replacement.”

Zhao Meiyou caught Qian Duoduo’s choice of words. “You called them a ‘person’?”

“Yes, and that’s a concept I’ve only recently come to understand,” Qian Duoduo said as he adjusted his left leg and attempted to stand. Zhao Meiyou quickly moved to help, and Qian Duoduo steadied himself with a hand on his shoulder. “The 22nd-century understanding of ‘artificial humans’ is vastly different from what we consider common knowledge today.”

Due to technological regression and the policy of technical isolation imposed by the Megalopolis, modern understanding of artificial humans was rudimentary at best. For instance, Zhao Meiyou only knew that artificial humans were synthetic beings not born from a biological mother, that their physical capabilities were generally superior to those of ordinary humans, and that they were closely tied to space colonization.

Beyond that, he couldn’t articulate much more.

“When I first arrived, I thought like you—that this was a brave new world where humanity was stratified by class, and artificial humans were naturally the enslaved class,” Qian Duoduo said, steadying himself and meeting Zhao Meiyou’s gaze. “But once you understand the existence of bionic and mechanical humans, you start to ask a different question: aren’t bionic humans, with their original brains, still human? And aren’t mechanical humans, with neural software that makes them more rational and perceptive, the very embodiment of human evolution?”

“What, then, is the essence of humanity? Is it the flesh born of a mother’s womb? Or the brain that has evolved over 200,000 years?”

“What is it that truly defines the soul?”

After hearing this, Zhao Meiyou instinctively responded, “Isn’t the brain superior to the body?”

“Don’t underestimate the body born of a mother,” Qian Duoduo said. “When a mother carries a child, she wields the same power as a god—the power to create life. DNA is the blueprint for life, and the genetic chains within the human body, if linked end to end, would stretch far beyond the solar system. In other words, the womb has the power to birth a universe.”

Spare me, I was just scraping by for credits back in university, Zhao Meiyou thought to himself. Is this guy some kind of swindler, or one of those academic types?

If someone had tried to drag him into this kind of logical debate back in school, he would’ve punched them outright.

Qian Duoduo turned around and began assembling the final piece of his right leg. “I haven’t fully figured out the class divisions in Ideal City yet, but I’ve come across some intel. Recently, the city’s authorities are after a test subject—she’s been causing significant chaos within the city.”

Zhao Meiyou asked, “What kind of test subject?”

“The data I stole isn’t complete.” Qian Duoduo slid the remaining documents over to him. On the screen was a woman.

“She’s an artificial human. There are signs of modification in her abdominal cavity,” Qian Duoduo said, pointing to the woman’s lower stomach. “But it’s still unclear whether she’s bionic or mechanical.”

“If artificial humans can be used as test subjects in Ideal City, we might be able to draw one conclusion,” Qian Duoduo said. “At least one group—either the bionic or the mechanical humans—is being subjugated here.”

Qian Duoduo finished repairing his right leg. The cabin had remained quiet the entire time. He turned to Zhao Meiyou and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Zhao Meiyou stayed silent for a long moment before saying, “I know this woman.”

“In the real world, she’s Diao Chan’s mother.”

Zhao Meiyou first met Diao Chan on a rainy night when he was sixteen.

At the time, Zhao Meiyou hadn’t yet started working part-time at the butcher shop, though he was already a regular there. Every month, he paid the owner a small fee to use the shop’s massive meat grinder. That night, the rain was torrential, its drumming drowning out the hum of the refrigeration units. He was crouched by the sink washing his hands when the plastic curtain was suddenly flung aside with a crackling sound, like knives slicing through a thunderclap.

The boy who stormed in wore a black mask. His eyes were fierce and defiant, but not savage. One glance was all Zhao Meiyou needed to see that this kid was from the Upper District. Even in desperation, he carried himself with a veneer of dignity. His leather shoes were soaked with mud, but if he took them off and cleaned them up, they could still fetch a decent price on the black market.

Zhao Meiyou averted his gaze, turned off the faucet, and said lazily, “The meat’s all sold out. If you want to buy something, come back tomorrow…”

Before he could finish his sentence, another group of people charged into the shop. The leader went straight for the boy, trying to pin him to the ground. But the boy suddenly grabbed a boning knife from the counter and thrust it forward—white steel going in, red streaking out. The two sides broke into an all-out brawl.

Zhao Meiyou finished washing his hands, observing that the boy seemed to have been trained in some form of self-defense. His moves were precise, the kind of polished techniques a young master might be taught. But even so, two fists couldn’t fend off four attackers, and no hero could take on a crowd alone. It wasn’t long before the boy started losing ground.

Once Zhao Meiyou had enjoyed the show long enough, he finally spoke: “What’s your surname?”

The boy froze for a moment, giving his attackers an opening. They grabbed his hair and forced him to his knees. As if realizing something, he spat out a few words: “…Diao. My surname is Diao.”

The surname “Diao” wasn’t common. The group that had barged in hesitated for a moment. Zhao Meiyou yawned and said, “If you’re going to beat him to death, at least drag him outside first. If someone important from the Middle District comes sniffing around, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

The man leading the group narrowed his eyes at Zhao Meiyou before breaking into a grin. “Nah, your old man still hasn’t paid off his gambling debts. How about doing us a favor? We’ll knock a bit off what he owes.”

"Don't. My father's debts are his to repay—they have nothing to do with me," Zhao Meiyou said, waving his hand dismissively. From under the counter, he pulled out a jumble of bottles and jars, the kind that held soy sauce, vinegar, and other condiments. "I've made dumplings today. Why not stay and have a bite?"

The man’s expression darkened suddenly. He spat on the floor and turned away, leaving with his entourage in tow.

Zhao Meiyou pulled the metal shutter down, sealing the pounding rain outside. He nudged the boy sprawled on the floor with his foot and asked, "If your surname’s Diao, why didn't you say so earlier?"

The boy coughed, dark streaks of blood seeping through the fabric of his mask. His voice was hoarse. "I don't like that name."

"Idiot." Zhao Meiyou looked at him as if he were a fool. "It's precisely the things you don't like that you can throw around freely. The things you cherish? You’d never dare to show them to others."

The boy seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he slowly stood, meeting Zhao Meiyou’s gaze head-on. "Do you take jobs?"

In the Lower District, a butcher shop could deal in far more than just meat.

"I'm tired today. If you’ve got business, come back tomorrow," Zhao Meiyou replied as he lit the stove. He really had made dumplings—crafted by his own hands, with thin skins and generous fillings. He dropped them into boiling water, and soon, an unusual, tantalizing aroma began to fill the room.

The boy sniffed the air. Zhao Meiyou glanced at him and suddenly chuckled. "No one around here is willing to eat with me. How about you keep me company for a meal?"

The boy shot him a look. "Why?"

Zhao Meiyou shrugged. "You heard what those guys said earlier. My mom was a showgirl at a casino. No one wants to eat with me."

"Son of a showgirl." Four words that conjured up countless sordid images. The boy studied Zhao Meiyou, whose face only lent more credibility to the claim.

The water came to a vigorous boil. Dumplings needed three rounds of boiling water to cook just right. As the dumplings swirled in the pot, Zhao Meiyou mixed dipping sauces and held a freshly cooked one out to the boy. "Try it?"

The boy hesitated, then pulled down his mask.

"Well?" Zhao Meiyou asked, grinning.

"Not bad." The boy coughed lightly. "Got any water?"

Zhao Meiyou poured him a bowl of dumpling soup. "Soup from the same pot as the dumplings. Drink slowly, it’s hot."

The boy was unmistakably from the Upper District—he even drank water with a certain refinement. When the drenched little puppy finally began to regain some composure, Zhao Meiyou leaned on the counter, satisfied. "Alright, what kind of business are you looking to do?"

In the cabin, Qian Duoduo paused mid-motion as he worked on installing a prosthetic leg. "What did Diao Chan want from you the first time you two met?"

Zhao Meiyou instinctively reached for a cigarette, only to find his pocket empty.

Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers and handed him a pack of Marlboros along with a box of matches.

"Thanks." Zhao Meiyou lit a cigarette, took a drag, and after a moment, he spoke.

"He wanted me to kill his mother."

On that rainy night in the butcher shop, sixteen-year-old Zhao Meiyou nodded calmly. He ladled himself a bowl of dumplings and said as he ate, "Alright. I’ll come up with a plan and give you a quote."

His composure was unnerving. The boy stared at him for a moment before blurting out, "When I first came down here, I went to some brokers for a price. At first, they acted all professional, but the moment they heard my surname was Diao, they all asked why I wanted to do this."

"That’s because you haven’t gone deep enough." Zhao Meiyou spoke around a mouthful of food. "Past the hundredth level, you could hire someone to kill yourself, and no one would even ask why."

"But if you insist, I’ll play along." Zhao Meiyou set down his chopsticks. "So, young master, tell me—why do you want someone to kill your mother?"

The boy pulled his mask back up. "I'd like to ask why you're so unbothered."

Zhao Meiyou tossed him a flirtatious look, shoved another dumpling into his hand, and grinned.

"Because you ate my dad with me."

Inside the cabin, Qian Duoduo clicked the final joint into place and stood up. "Is Diao Chan's mother still alive in the real world?"

Zhao Meiyou crushed his cigarette against the ashtray. "She passed away."

"I see." Qian Duoduo nodded and walked straight up to him. Zhao Meiyou hurriedly took off his coat and draped it over the artificial human's shoulders. "My orders are to rescue Diao Chan. Beyond that, I won't ask any questions."

Their eyes met. The artificial human's face was too damaged to repair—one side exposed a tangle of circuit boards, while the other was smooth and delicate as porcelain.

Zhao Meiyou said, "Got it, Qian-ge. Understood, Qian-ge."

"We're going somewhere next."

Qian Duoduo stepped closer, and this time they were practically touching. Zhao Meiyou had the fleeting illusion of the artificial human's breath, soft as a butterfly's wings, fluttering out of its chest, forming words that whispered in his ear. He paused before speaking. "…Where are we going?"

"Your 'transformation' ability is still in its early stages, but we don't have time to ease into it. Feel me." Qian Duoduo clasped Zhao Meiyou's hand. With a sharp click, he unlatched his synthetic skin, guiding Zhao Meiyou's hand into his chest. There was no warmth, no flesh—only cold, sleek metal bones.

"This is the stomach, made of plastic and metal, containing synthetic digestive fluids. The ribs—the frame is foldable blades, ready to unfold for counterattacks in emergencies. The liver, its core ducts connect to the tear glands, so any alcohol entering the body is expelled as tears…"

He guided his hand down, from the inside of his thigh to his ankle. The artificial human's lower limbs housed an entire arsenal of concealed blades, hidden beneath skin as smooth and white as porcelain. Qian Duoduo opened the casing, letting Zhao Meiyou feel the edges of the blades, snugly fitted against the delicate outer layer. When the casing closed, the silver seams shimmered like the sheen of silk stockings.

Zhao Meiyou stared at Qian Duoduo. The artificial human's hands and feet were icy, his lashes lowered, gaze calm and distant, voice falling softly like snowflakes, carving rivers beneath a frozen tundra.

With a soft "click," Zhao Meiyou snapped out of his trance. Qian Duoduo had already stepped back, holding a cigarette between his lips. He lit it with a flick of his fingers, then passed it to Zhao Meiyou's mouth.

The cigarette's overwhelming tobacco scent was sharp and bitter, the flavor capsule bursting with intensity. Zhao Meiyou snapped back to full awareness in an instant. There was definitely something extra in this smoke. His mind sharpened—

"Close your eyes," Qian Duoduo said, pressing a finger against Zhao Meiyou's chest. "Picture the body I just showed you—from the organs to the skin. Then, imagine it all applied to yourself."

The nicotine danced through his nerves. Zhao Meiyou had no choice but to shut his eyes. In his mind, only Qian Duoduo's voice remained, and he obeyed instinctively.

In the next moment, his ability activated.

He had successfully transformed into an artificial human.

As Qian Duoduo had explained, Zhao Meiyou’s “transformation” was still in its infancy. During that desperate chase at the amusement park, he had panicked and accidentally manifested three chests. Becoming an artificial human demanded extraordinary skill, as it wasn’t merely a surface-level change. The transformation had to penetrate down to the organs and intricately folded skeletal structures. For novices who dared to attempt it recklessly, they might just end up becoming a puddle of slime.

But Qian Duoduo was clearly a remarkable teacher.

“Well done.” Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers, covering the two artificial bodies with clothing. “As you can see, I stole classified data on the experimental subjects from the Mercury Tower. This information is highly sensitive, and those responsible will undoubtedly hunt down whoever took it. I left behind a few tantalizing clues. To figure out just how much we know, they won’t kill us outright.”

“They’ll take us straight to their lair,” Zhao Meiyou interjected. “A reverse sting operation.”

“Exactly.” Qian Duoduo nodded. “And now, they’re here.”

The skylight above the airship was suddenly wrenched open with brute force. A group of black-clad individuals armed to the teeth descended into the cabin. Zhao Meiyou glanced at them, his eyes swiftly overlaying a digital interface that displayed detailed information about each figure. Every single one of them was an artificial human.

Forewarned by Qian Duoduo, the two offered little resistance. After being captured, a metal helmet was clamped onto Zhao Meiyou’s head, completely cutting off his vision.

When the helmet was removed, the sky was gone. Above him stretched a platinum-hued baroque dome, adorned with mosaics.

His lung data indicated lower atmospheric pressure—this place was likely underground. As his eyes scanned the surroundings, they automatically synthesized a complete internal map of the building in his vision. Yet, access to the relevant details was locked, leaving him unable to deduce where he was.

Fortunately, thanks to the journey on Ruin A173, Zhao Meiyou didn’t need to search the database. His human memory told him exactly where they were—or rather, where they once were.

This was the Moscow Metro.

But this place had likely been abandoned for ages. In the Ideal City, architectural designs strove to reach for the skies, leaving the subterranean spaces neglected. The opulent industrial aesthetic of the Soviet era had faded into obscurity. A train pulled into the station, and their captors shoved them into the carriage before sealing the doors shut.

Zhao Meiyou glanced around. The carriage lacked the usual seating arrangements and resembled an office instead.

Qian Duoduo approached. Just as Zhao Meiyou was about to speak, a hand clamped over his mouth. Qian Duoduo pulled a wire from his spine, its end shaped like an earbud, and inserted it into Zhao Meiyou’s ear.

“Don’t speak.” Qian Duoduo’s lips didn’t move; his voice seemed to resonate directly from his chest, transmitted through the wire into Zhao Meiyou’s mind. “Whatever you want to say, just think it. I’ll hear you.”

Zhao Meiyou: “This is the Moscow Metro station.”

“That was centuries ago. It seems someone has repurposed this place into a laboratory.” Before Qian Duoduo could finish speaking, a sudden burst of bright light flooded in from the window—they must have arrived at a station.

But there were no passengers waiting to board. The walls of the station were clad in black-and-white marble, lined with streamlined laboratory benches. Precision instruments hummed softly, while people in lab coats moved back and forth. The room was filled with numerous glass tanks, each containing pale, fleshy forms suspended in liquid.

The train car didn’t stop, roaring forward as it rushed past. Zhao Meiyou’s eyes managed to catch only fragments of data—too little to draw any conclusions. Almost immediately, the train pulled into another platform, revealing yet another laboratory. Station after station, laboratory after laboratory, the cycle repeated endlessly. In the midst of it, Zhao Meiyou turned to look at Qian Duoduo.

The unmarred side of Qian Duoduo’s face blinked once.

“...Did you notice?”

“...Yes.”

The relentless collection of data allowed them to refine their model, until at last, they arrived at the same conclusion.

In every laboratory, the staff moving back and forth were all artificial humans.

And those bodies floating in the tanks—no, they should be called flesh—were all naturally born humans, nurtured by wombs.

In this laboratory, repurposed from an abandoned subway station, humans were the subject of experimentation.

While hypothesizing the societal structure of the Ideal City, they had fallen into a habitual line of thinking—perhaps it was the innate arrogance of human beings.

God created humans, and humans created technology—how could creations not serve their creators?

But the Ideal City was the exact opposite.

Here, artificial humans enslaved humanity.