Chapter 32

Chapter 32: Ancient Capital

The instant the doors opened, a wave of sound crashed over everyone, as thunderous and overwhelming as a great bell, nearly knocking them to the ground.

No one could say what the sound was. It was like static on a radio, laced with the clack of wooden fish, chanting, a jumble of zzzzt, zzzzt, om mani padme hum, tinkling, knocking, namo Amitabha, clang, zzzzt, zzzzt, the voices of all beings in Jambudvipa.

Zhao Meiyou forced his eyes open against the torrent of noise and saw Qian Duoduo standing between the gates, hit by the full force but utterly still.

In the shifting light, the figure bowed his head, motionless as a statue carved from jade.

It felt as if an invisible hand pressed gently over his eyes, soft but absolute, submerging him in darkness.

And then, he lost consciousness.

……

He was dreaming again.

No, that wasn’t right. He rarely dreamed—almost never.

So what he saw in dreams—was it a dream, or something that had really happened?

……

“Zhao Meiyou!” Someone slapped his shoulder. “What are you spacing out for? Watch your step or you’ll fall.”

“Huh? Oh.” Zhao Meiyou snapped back to himself and glanced down. “Shit, how did we end up here?”

“You’re the one who said there was something up here and dragged me out in the middle of the night,” Liu Qijue said, giving him a look. “How many nights have you pulled in the lab? Careful or you’ll fry your brain.”

Right, that had been his idea. Zhao Meiyou rubbed his forehead.

Megalopolis had stood for fifty years. Now, the government was pushing outward, city by city, sending out elite survey teams like theirs. The pressure from above was crushing—this mission had to produce results. But finding relics from before the war wasn’t so easy. The last team had dug up dinosaur fossils but not a trace of human civilization.

Stone, not the grand works of humankind, was what endured.

“Leaving camp in the middle of the night is a serious violation,” Liu Qijue said, squinting at the cluster of lights below. Their team was well-equipped; the camp almost looked like a small town. “You ever think what’ll happen if someone catches us?”

“What’s there to do? We’ve been out here two years. If we come back empty-handed, the government will have my hide.” Zhao Meiyou waved him off. “Come on, let’s get moving. I’ve got two packs of Marlboros stashed—smoke’s on me when we get back.”

Their team had been roaming the southern hemisphere for over two years. At first, everyone was diligent, but there was nothing out here but wasteland. It was like putting archaeologists in a fish tank—no matter how serious they were, sooner or later they’d end up drifting with the seaweed.

Then, about half a month ago, they reached a range of mountains. Zhao Meiyou spent several nights in the lab, poring over the samples and data the surveyors had brought. He decided to postpone the next scheduled site and, in the middle of the night, dragged Liu Qijue up the mountain with him.

“The team already decided yesterday—there’s nothing on this mountain.” Both of them wore survey gear, climbing like a pair of grumbling monks. “Or are you saying that new guy they parachuted in is up to something?”

“There are problems, sure. Plenty of suspicious people in this team—one more won’t make a difference.” Zhao Meiyou adjusted his hat. “What worries me is these surveyors don’t like to get their hands dirty. They just run the scanners and call it a day. They could be missing something.”

“You really think people can beat machines, Zhao Meiyou?”

“Of course.” Zhao Meiyou grinned. “If you’re digging up your ancestors, you’d better do it yourself. Otherwise, they’ll die of anger all over again.”

“What you dig up might not be your ancestors. Could be an artificial human,” Liu Qijue snorted.

“The ban’s been in place for decades. Officially, artificial humans and space tech are forbidden. Who knows what the higher-ups are really doing, though. Anyway, let’s hope we don’t dig up any artificial humans—guys like us, no power, no connections, we’d be cannon fodder.”

“Actually, scratch that.” Zhao Meiyou suddenly grinned. “I’d be cannon fodder. You’ve got your little sweetheart—how’s that going? Still the same old chase, or has he finally given in?”

“Zhao Meiyou, can’t you buy something useful at the black market? What’s the point of reading romance novels from centuries ago?”

“What’s wrong with romance novels? They’re the secret weapon for team bonding.” Zhao Meiyou said righteously. “Everyone in the squad except you has asked me for copies.”

Liu Qijue kicked at him. “You’re the reason our survey progress is in the toilet!”

Normally, Zhao Meiyou would dodge easily—they bickered all the time—but it was too dark. He missed his step and tumbled down the slope.

“Shit!” Liu Qijue’s voice echoed from above. “Zhao Meiyou, you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Zhao Meiyou brushed off the dirt. “Drop the tow line and—” His voice cut off.

A floating lamp drifted down, its screen displaying Liu Qijue’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I think there’s a path here,” Zhao Meiyou said, scanning his surroundings. “You keep going straight up. I’ll circle around from here. We’ll meet at the top.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Liu Qijue sounded doubtful. “You’re not ditching me to sneak back to bed, are you?”

“Sleep? No one’s waiting in my bed. You want me to go back and stare at Diao Chan all night? The coffee in his lab is practically a biohazard. Get moving.”

Liu Qijue cursed, then cut the call. He must have started climbing again.

The path Zhao Meiyou found wasn’t really a trail—just a washed-out gully, slick and steep. He had to scramble up on hands and knees, the floating lamp scanning and lighting the way.

It was late, the air heavy with dew. The ecosystem here hadn’t recovered; even the insects were silent. After a grueling climb, Zhao Meiyou gave his channel code to the lamp and asked it to play a recording. “Read me a story.”

The screen loaded, then began: “…Moonlight fills the window. In the hush between turning and tossing, all is silent. Suddenly, the wind roars, and the temple gates burst open…”

From Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio—“The Mountain Demon.”

It was deep night. Alone in the deserted mountains, Zhao Meiyou listened as the synthetic voice spun its eerie old tales—ghosts wearing human skins, mountain gods demanding sacrifice, a bridal sedan at the crossroads, a landlord’s new concubine drowned in a well, a fox-faced youth brewing wine from well water, always hearing a woman singing when drunk.

Zhao Meiyou listened, absorbed, as the synthetic voice began to sing. The song was broken, like a bad signal—he couldn’t make out the words. He tapped the lamp, and the screen suddenly went black.

What the hell? Did it break?

He picked up the lamp, searching for a signal. Somewhere along the way, the song flickered back on, faint and intermittent.

He took another step, and the singing vanished.

He tested the area and realized the song acted like a guide—it only played in one direction. The path was steep; he struggled up, finally planting his foot on a slab of stone.

It landed with a sharp tap.

The mud and gravel vanished. He was standing on a mountain road.

A real road, carved by human hands.

He seemed to be halfway up the mountain. The steps were crumbling, stretching into the unknown. The lamp’s song steadied, melody clear now, though the words remained elusive. Zhao Meiyou paused, certain he’d never heard this tune before.

There was definitely something on this mountain.

He knew the smart move was to turn back, wait for the team to prepare, and return together. But he didn’t know what lay at the end of this path. The survey team was crawling with government spies; one wrong move could set off a chain reaction. If he got a handle on things first, he’d be better prepared.

Besides, Liu Qijue was climbing too. If they both ended up on the same path, at least they’d have each other’s backs.

Zhao Meiyou weighed the risks and rewards. Without hesitation, he chose the path with the highest risk—and the greatest payoff—and kept climbing.

There seemed to be miasma in the mountain air, maybe even a magnetic field—his floating lamp started to glitch. Zhao Meiyou pulled out a portable analyzer, tested the haze, and was surprised by the result.

It was sandalwood.

There was almost no sandalwood left in Megalopolis. Zhao Meiyou had heard of it in the Lower District—a rare wood, used for incense, its finest oil called “liquid gold.” Even on the 330th floor of the black market, it was nearly impossible to find.

Could there be a wild sandalwood grove on this mountain? If word got out, the government might kill them all just to keep it secret.

But he’d forgotten something. Sandalwood had many uses—not just for health.

For example, worship.

He walked on, not knowing how long, until he saw a lake deep in the forest.

The music was coming from the water.

He’d spent most of the night climbing. Now, dawn was near, the woods dim and gray. Zhao Meiyou circled the lake, thought for a moment, then switched his suit to dive mode and slipped into the water.

He left the lamp on shore. Underwater, the music sharpened, clear as a bell. Zhao Meiyou had heard gongs and drums in the Lower District’s festivals, but this melody was ancient. The water was murky at first, but as he dove deeper, he saw something like a bronze mirror, cradled in the arms of a heavenly maiden. He reached out and wiped it clean.

Moonlight rose from nowhere, fell into the lake, and reflected off the bronze mirror, illuminating the depths.

First he saw lotus blossoms. The melody flowed like water; flowers and current brushed past him.

He stood on the lakebed, surrounded by broken walls and ruins, sculptures furred with moss.

It was a sunken temple complex, buried beneath the lake.

The music was coming from here. Zhao Meiyou gazed at the statues—celestial musicians offering song to the Buddha, their joy eternal. The sculptures stretched away underwater, leading toward the brightest pool of moonlight—

He saw a golden Buddha.

For some reason, the statue was broken, only the head left, half-buried in silt. Its long, elegant eyes gazed at Zhao Meiyou—beautiful and solemn.

A thousand years since the lotus left its homeland; after rain, the scent of blood still carries iron.

At dawn, Zhao Meiyou stumbled back to camp, looking like he’d crawled through mud. Diao Chan knocked on the shower door, coffee in hand. “You look worse than after a week of all-nighters in the lab. Where the hell were you?”

No answer. Zhao Meiyou took a cold shower, toweling off as he walked out. “Meeting in three minutes.”

“I was born to babysit you two.” Diao Chan shook his head, tapping out a notice on his terminal. “What’s the agenda?”

“There’s something on the mountain,” Zhao Meiyou said. “Team’s setting up camp. Notify Megalopolis government—S-class file.”

Diao Chan froze. Every government report had a code; S-class was the highest. Zhao Meiyou’s words meant a major discovery.

Zhao Meiyou took his coffee and sipped. “We might be here for a long time.”

Diao Chan sighed and took a drink. “How long is ‘a long time’?”

“Hard to say.” Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment. “Long enough for Liu Qijue and his kid to celebrate their golden anniversary here.”

He stopped mid-sentence, realizing he’d left Liu Qijue on the mountain.

He, Diao Chan, and Liu Qijue had been classmates, joined the government after graduation, and ended up on the same survey team. They were thick as thieves—and all still single, despite having decent prospects. Diao Chan was born rich, played the gentleman, and somehow managed to look both scandalous and spotless at once. Zhao Meiyou was erratic but sometimes reliable. Only Liu Qijue seemed remotely normal.

There was a kid on their team who hadn’t even graduated yet, hopelessly smitten with Liu Qijue, as if he’d been fed some ancient love potion. The survey team was really just a bunch of dirt diggers—two years of backbreaking work in the wilderness, and now, finally, a little romance had sprouted from the cracks. Zhao Meiyou and Diao Chan found it endlessly entertaining.

After the meeting, Zhao Meiyou did the kid a favor and sent him to fetch Liu Qijue. Sure enough, as soon as Liu Qijue got back to camp, he came after Zhao Meiyou. “You bastard, I spent the whole night freezing my ass off up there!”

“Wake up, it’s not even northwest wind season.” Zhao Meiyou dodged him. “You’re still this pissed after a night in the cold? Seriously, Liu Qijue, you need someone to take the edge off.”

“Idiots, both of you.” Diao Chan sipped his coffee and dragged the kid away. “Don’t bother. They won’t stop till it’s time to eat.”

The government approved their request quickly, allowing the camp to set up at the base of the mountain, coordinates 29753. Zhao Meiyou worked overtime for a year before he finally figured out what the ruins beneath the lake really were.

The mountain road was rebuilt, the lake drained, and sculptures were hauled down by floating cranes. Diao Chan and Zhao Meiyou rode a skycar above the site, watching as a new town took shape below. “The government’s building a new research institute here?”

“That’s right. It’ll be huge.” Zhao Meiyou lit a cigarette and unrolled the blueprints. “Big as a city, at least.”

Diao Chan studied the plans. “They’re investing serious money.”

“High stakes, high reward.” Zhao Meiyou looked into the distance as a crane’s massive claw lifted the last statue from the lakebed.

As it broke the surface, the Buddha’s head shone with golden light.

After a year of analysis, Zhao Meiyou concluded that the Buddha statue was likely a 22nd-century supercomputer. If they could decode the data inside, the results would be priceless.

Diao Chan brewed a fresh cup of coffee, only for Zhao Meiyou to snatch it away. “Enough. Your caffeine addiction’s going to kill you. We’re stuck here for years—you’d better get healthy.”

“Quit smoking first, then lecture me.” Diao Chan squinted at the golden Buddha hovering in the air. “Have they named the new institute yet?”

“They have.” Zhao Meiyou flicked his cigarette into the coffee, earning a smack on the back of the head from Diao Chan.

“It’s called ‘Ancient Capital.’”

Winter faded into spring. Dawn clung to the mountains, pale and blue as a fish’s belly. In Megalopolis, there were no real seasons—or rather, seasons cost money. The Upper District’s climate system could conjure spring, summer, autumn, and winter in an hour if you could pay. The survey team had wandered from pole to equator and back again, finding more wasteland than life. After years in Ancient Capital, Zhao Meiyou finally understood what the poets meant by “spring rain on the rising tide.”

Ancient Capital was all red-brick buildings, covered in ivy. In summer, green and red tumbled over each other, buildings spreading from the mountain’s foot in every direction. At first, the campus was only a few miles wide; now, it seemed ready to swallow the whole mountain. Their work had gone smoothly these past years. The data inside the Buddha was nearly impossible to crack, but the temples held plenty of other clues—enough to keep the government satisfied.

“Knew I’d find you here.”

A skycar landed overhead. Diao Chan stepped out, carrying a paper umbrella. “The people at Lab 2 have been looking for you all night. You left your comm behind—can’t get enough of climbing, huh?”

“Guess I’m hooked.” Zhao Meiyou stood at the summit, surrounded by some kind of bamboo or grass. “What’s up?”

“Government sent someone—they want to see Lab 2’s progress.” Diao Chan handed him the umbrella. “Also, the Antarctic research station sent some gifts. They want to trade for wine and some datura seeds.”

“Wine’s easy. What do they want seeds for?” Zhao Meiyou asked. “You think datura will grow on ice?”

“Rumor is, one of their surveyors went mad scanning the ice. Kept muttering about seeing datura patterns before he died.”

“What the hell are they doing down there? How many have lost it this year?” Zhao Meiyou clicked his tongue. “What did they send?”

“A pile of ancient ice. Dug up from four thousand meters below. Supposed to be perfect for infusing wine.”

“All right.” Zhao Meiyou rolled up his sleeves and dug a jar of wine out from under the bamboo. Diao Chan watched him. “What are you up to?”

“They sent the murder weapon—would be rude to refuse.” Zhao Meiyou hefted the jar. “Come on. Let’s treat the government bigwigs to some good wine. The sooner they drink, the sooner they lose their minds.”

Sure enough, the government commissioners who drank the wine went mad. Ancient Capital and the Antarctic station blamed each other until the whole thing fizzled out. One day, Zhao Meiyou, exhausted, dumped the ice into his bathtub for a soak. Nothing happened to him at all.

His friends had their own theories. Liu Qijue said he was a disaster destined to last a thousand years. Diao Chan called it fighting poison with poison.

In Ancient Capital’s seventh year, the workshops fired a batch of blue tiles to roof the new red buildings. The method had been found in the ruins; some tiles even came out glazed, pure as glass.

The institute’s staff kept growing—no longer the original team of less than a hundred. There were government appointees and Upper District’s well-connected. Zhao Meiyou assigned the useless ones to office jobs, releasing a batch of “new discoveries” every month—mostly old recipes for wine, incense, tea, and music. Some rich kid even built a greenhouse miles from the core lab, just to keep the connections out of trouble.

The old mountain lake was long since drained. Zhao Meiyou dug a new pond, brought in fresh water, and planted lotus seeds. Then he found Diao Chan and Liu Qijue. “I’m sealing off Lab 2. I won’t be out for a while.”

Lab 2 was the highest-security lab in Ancient Capital. All the staff were Zhao Meiyou’s direct reports, including Diao Chan and Liu Qijue.

There was only one thing in the lab’s core: the Buddha statue they’d salvaged from the lake.

“You’re finally starting that project?” Liu Qijue asked. He knew Zhao Meiyou had been working on something for years—something tied to decoding the Buddha.

Zhao Meiyou nodded.

“When will it be done?” Diao Chan asked.

Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment. “When the lotuses bloom.”

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A thousand years since the lotus left its homeland; after rain, the scent of blood still carries iron. —Li He, “Song of the False Dragon”