Chapter 34

Chapter 34: Changle's Festival of Wandering Gods

Zhao Meiyou didn’t come to Megalopolis by accident—today was the Festival of Wandering Gods on the 330th floor.

The 330th floor sits between the Lower and Middle Districts, packed with casinos and black markets. The bloodier the business, the more desperate the prayers. Their Wandering Gods Festival is a spectacle. Unlike the Lower District’s holographic deities, here the gods are all traditional paper effigies, with banners, orders, painted floats, and spirit plaques. The parade starts before dawn and winds through the streets until nightfall.

Zhao Meiyou once heard a joke: folks in the Lower District might not get up at dawn for a gang fight or a hit job, but when it’s time to welcome the gods, they’ll stay up all night, bright-eyed.

They left the theater at three in the morning. In front of the rainbow archway, two giant drums had just finished a round, and firecrackers erupted, painting the world blood-red.

A pack of kids in opera masks dashed through the confetti of red paper. The gong rang. Out strode a priest with long brows and a flowing beard, kindly-faced, holding a green bamboo whip and a wine jug.

Zhao Meiyou covered his ears. “That’s the Marshal who clears the way. Don’t block him or he’ll whip you!”

The casinos pray for fortune, so the God of Wealth comes first. There’s Chai Rong from the south, Bi Gan from the east, Wang Gong from the center, Guan Yu from the west, and Zhao Gongming from the north. Each one in dragon robes and armor, standing on gold ingots, carried on eight-man palanquins stacked high with treasure bowls—hurling gold dust in great waves.

They didn’t sprinkle it—they flung it. The 330th floor had money to burn, and their generosity was wild. Liu Qijue was too close and got doused head to toe. People grabbed at his sleeves to snatch some luck, and in the chaos, even the young master lost a shoe. Liu Qijue barely escaped, glaring at Zhao Meiyou, who was doubled over with laughter. Over the drums, he shouted, “Why the hell does the God of Wealth have neon tubes on his head?!”

Liu Qijue didn’t know much about Lower District folk beliefs, but even he could tell tech and gods didn’t mix. The deity’s gold crown was bristling with glowing tubes, painted face wild and garish—he couldn’t tell if this was an official god or some back-alley spirit.

“Who cares!” Zhao Meiyou yelled back. “This is high-tech cultivation!”

Civilization had risen and fallen since the 22nd century, leaving only embers to rekindle. Now, faith in Megalopolis was a melting pot—north, south, east, west, all jumbled together. Lost legends patched with new tales. In less than an hour, they’d seen every god and ghost imaginable: worshipping the Jade Emperor, dancing with Zhong Kui, the heroes of Liangshan in a raucous parade. Diao Chan, sharp-eyed, even spotted a Madonna in a monk’s robe and muttered, bewildered, “How did she get mixed in here?”

Liu Qijue was reading an e-comic from a street vendor, munching sunflower seeds. “Says here, after heaven and earth returned to chaos, all the gods gathered together. Guanyin and the Virgin Mary became sworn sisters—now they’re family.”

“It’s a festival, the more the merrier!” someone chimed in. “Otherwise, you’d be short a player for mahjong!”

No sooner had he finished than another parade of gods approached. At the front, a spirit medium in a black mask scattered golden joss paper, shouting, “Heaven and earth, all souls walk together!”

“Gods and ghosts fare no better than men. Sixty years of regret, a hundred more of freedom—”

Diao Chan had heard joss paper was for the dead, but now it was gilded, so maybe it counted as lucky. Just like Megalopolis—above, the celestial palaces; below, the endless abyss. Gods above, ghosts below, but in the end, it was all just people living together.

“What the hell?” This time Zhao Meiyou was startled. “Why is there a wedding sedan? Who’s getting married now?”

They turned to look. Two lines of drummers led the way, and behind them, sure enough, was a wedding sedan. “That can’t be real,” Liu Qijue said, eyeing the groom on horseback. “That’s a paper dummy.”

It was—a paper figure of a young man, pale-faced, red-lipped, in a crisp new tunic with a red silk flower pinned to his chest.

All the gods and ghosts were played by people, but when it came to humans, they used paper. “Interesting,” Zhao Meiyou said, tapping on his terminal to scan remotely. As the sedan drew near, he spoke up, “There’s a living person inside.”

Diao Chan’s mind went elsewhere. “Is this some kind of tourist attraction? Take a ride in a wedding sedan?”

“I doubt it,” Zhao Meiyou replied. “The bride isn’t a girl, and his mouth is sewn shut.”

“Not a girl?” The young master blanched. “And why is his mouth sewn up?”

“It’s a boy, maybe eleven or twelve.” Zhao Meiyou sounded calm, not shaken like the young master. “I’ve heard of this. Some clinics on the 330th floor do organ trafficking. Some buyers are superstitious—since the organs aren’t theirs, they get anxious, so they parade them through the festival to ward off bad luck.”

Liu Qijue stared at the gaudy parade. “Aren’t gods supposed to punish evil and reward good? Aren’t they afraid of retribution?”

“Sin on one hand, prayer on the other. Keeps the balance.” Zhao Meiyou shrugged. “Same as Diao Chan pulling all-nighters while doing face masks.”

“Enough, you two.” Diao Chan cut in. “So are we doing something or not?”

“Do what?”

“Save him!” Diao Chan snapped. “Your young master’s right here—aren’t you even going to pretend to care?”

“No need to pretend,” the young master waved his hands. “I get it. We can’t save him.”

The 330th floor was a gray zone, even the Megalopolis government kept out. On a normal day, they might have had some sway, but this time they were lying low. Drawing attention was the last thing they needed.

The city was messy enough already. No need to add fuel to the fire.

Diao Chan nudged Zhao Meiyou. “Say something.”

“Normally I’d have a better plan, but we can’t stay here long, we can’t—” Zhao Meiyou’s words veered off course. “But since we ran into this, maybe it’s fate.”

All things arise from chance. He lit a cigarette and looked at Liu Qijue. “Why not put on a show?”

Liu Qijue looked completely unfazed. “Fine, let’s do it.”

Zhao Meiyou grinned. “Hehehehe.”

Liu Qijue snorted. “Heh.”

They stood under the red lanterns, sharing a secret grin. Among the gods and ghosts, the two of them looked like demons ready to eat children—just the sort who deserved to be exorcised.

Diao Chan got goosebumps from their laughter, grabbed the young master, and started edging away. “Deputy Director? What’s going on?”

“They’re about to stir up trouble,” Diao Chan said, clearly speaking from experience. “It’s going to get wild. Let’s get out of the way.”

The red wedding sedan moved slowly down the street. Drums thundered, long banquet tables lined the roadside, offerings of pig’s head and wine set out. The parade gods were towering and stately—people inside had to walk on stilts, lurching like giant puppets, their long sleeves brushing lanterns and scattering sparks, setting the whole street aglow.

At the end of the street, a bronze basin blazed with fire, yellow paper tossed in nonstop.

A crash of drums, and the lead general—plumed and holding a tasseled ball—leapt out. The flames in the basin soared several feet high. The blue-faced general spun and vaulted over the fire, followed by a line of giant gods, each meters tall, easily stepping over the flames. But suddenly, one of the painted effigies buckled at the waist and lurched forward.

The effigies were top-heavy, jeweled crowns wobbling. The collision set off a domino effect—one after another toppled forward, all the way to the front. The lead god lost his balance, landed squarely in the flames, and his ornate frame caught fire. Flames shot up to his forehead, and a string of firecrackers exploded, turning him into a burning pyre in the night.

The giant effigy blazed like a rocket, and the crowd shrieked and scattered in panic.

Zhao Meiyou tossed his firecrackers aside and barked into his terminal, “It’s done, move now! This chaos won’t last—fire trucks are right behind us!”

A few minutes earlier, Zhao Meiyou had scanned the whole parade with his terminal and found that many of the gods were just mechanical puppets—no one inside.

That made things easy. He hacked the parade’s remote controls, staged a spectacular distraction, and gave Liu Qijue cover to grab the boy.

“Zhao Meiyou, you didn’t finish the hack!” Liu Qijue’s voice crackled through. “The sedan’s surrounded by combat mechs—shit, weren’t these things banned? Hurry up! I can’t hold them off forever!”

“On it, on it, on it!” Zhao Meiyou’s fingers flew over his terminal. “Damn, this firewall’s tough. Last time I cracked something this good was stealing Diao Chan’s porn in college—done!”

The “groom” blocking Liu Qijue suddenly slumped, but before he could relax, it sprang up again, flailing its arms in a manic dance.

The drummers nearby changed their tune, and the spirit medium at the front shrieked out a new melody, singing like a goblin—

“The king sent me to patrol the hills, catch a monk for dinner—”

“Wrong track, wrong track—accidentally loaded the late-night dance playlist.” Zhao Meiyou started to switch it, then shrugged. “Whatever, keep playing, keep dancing—drinks are two-fifty for everyone!”

“Dance my ass! Zhao Meiyou, did you sneak off to those rich kids’ clubs again, claiming it was overtime?!” Liu Qijue dashed past, a boy slung over his shoulder. “Move! The casino thugs are coming!”

Every man for himself—Liu Qijue ran like hell, stuffing a bundle of red cloth into Zhao Meiyou’s arms as he passed. Surveillance was everywhere, and their commotion had set off all the casinos. Here, killing was as common as slicing melons, and with their backgrounds, if they got caught, no amount of talking would save them.

One of the thugs, half-blind, saw Liu Qijue pass the red bundle and decided Zhao Meiyou was carrying the “bride.” He charged. Zhao Meiyou was still flailing around when bullets started flying—he hit the ground and scrambled for cover.

They split up, with Zhao Meiyou drawing off most of the heat. Luckily, he knew the 330th floor inside out—ducking through alleys and crawlspaces, he finally lost most of the pursuers. He dropped down from a warehouse roof, about to catch his breath, when a voice barked behind him, “Don’t move.”

A gun pressed into his back. He raised his hands. The thug—whoever he worked for—pulled out a comm and said, “Got him. Bring the car.”

Not thirty seconds later, a fire truck with red lights blazing roared up. Somehow, Zhao Meiyou had hacked so many systems that even the siren was playing “The king sent me to patrol the hills,” blasting through the street. He was still puzzling over his casino connections when the music made him freeze—then he ducked fast.

A high-pressure water cannon swung out from the truck. Diao Chan gripped the valve, roaring, “Zhao Meiyou, just how many shifts have you skipped on me?!”

Everyone in the old city knew Director Zhao was always “working late.” Liu Qijue thought it was for overtime pay, Diao Chan thought it was for show. Usually, he was the only one burning the midnight oil in the lab—Zhao Meiyou had long since vanished to who knew where.

Now the truth was out—he’d been clubbing all along.

The water cannon blasted the thugs away. The deputy director, nearly crazed, swung the nozzle around and unleashed on everyone. “Zhao Meiyou, how are you ever going to pay me back—”

Then Diao Chan was yanked back inside, and the fire truck thundered down the street. As it passed, Liu Qijue reached out and hauled Zhao Meiyou aboard.

The young master was driving, wide-eyed at Diao Chan’s meltdown. “Director, are you alright?”

Zhao Meiyou sprawled on the floor, arms and legs splayed. “It’s nothing. Diao Chan’s on his period—don’t mind him.”

“P-period?”

“You wouldn’t understand a lady’s life.” Zhao Meiyou rolled up. “This truck’s too obvious. We need another way to the Middle District.”

Diao Chan had known Zhao Meiyou and Liu Qijue would go off-script, so he’d stolen a fire truck and trailed them at a distance. When the casino thugs reported catching Zhao Meiyou on the radio, he swooped in for the rescue.

Diao Chan kicked Zhao Meiyou back down. “Change your clothes first.”

To blend in, Zhao Meiyou was still wearing the bright red wedding robe Liu Qijue had handed him.

The rescued boy was huddled naked in the corner. Liu Qijue said, “I checked him—no external injuries. Don’t touch the stitches on his mouth. We’ll deal with it once we’re safe.”

Zhao Meiyou wrung the water from his wedding robe, squatted near the boy, gave him a quick once-over, and nodded. “Alright. Any ideas for getting out?”

“Nope,” Liu Qijue said flatly. “It’s on you, hero.”

Zhao Meiyou looked at Diao Chan, who opened his mouth. Zhao Meiyou waved him off. “Don’t even think about it, young master. Not doing that tadpole-finds-mom act this time.”

“Idiot,” Diao Chan rolled his eyes. “Then it’s all you.”

Zhao Meiyou scratched his head, feeling stuck, and pulled out his terminal to improvise. Suddenly, the young master called from the driver’s seat, “Director, I think we’re blocked.”

Zhao Meiyou opened the compartment. Above them, a bright yellow light shone—a hovercar floated overhead.

He hadn’t been back to Megalopolis in years, but he recognized the sign on the hovercar—a common sight in the city, running between levels. It was an M-brand fast food truck, the sides plastered with golden fried chicken.

Inside, it was empty.

They exchanged glances. As if sensing their hesitation, the door creaked open. Zhao Meiyou saw a closet behind the counter, filled with red-and-yellow uniforms and hover-skates. He thought for a moment. “Let’s switch rides.”

They boarded. Zhao Meiyou stuffed the boy in a cupboard, stayed in his own clothes, and crouched behind the counter. Liu Qijue glanced at him, said nothing, and draped a red bridal veil over his head.

If they were stopped, Zhao Meiyou could pass for the boy. With their skills, survival was never the problem.

The M-brand food truck had clearance between levels—usually, just scan the plate and go. But today, after all the chaos, the checkpoints were manned. Casinos sent their accountants to inspect every vehicle. When it was their turn, an old man in tortoiseshell glasses squinted at the three women in uniform, then waved them through.

The hovercar climbed to the 400th floor. Diao Chan let out a breath. Liu Qijue pulled two burgers from his chest pocket, took a huge bite. “Too much mayo.”

Unlike the raucous Lower District, the Middle District was quiet. Sky trains glided by in silence. A private car pulled up nearby, and the office worker inside grinned. “Hey, gorgeous! Give me a combo.”

Liu Qijue ignored him. Diao Chan couldn’t cook, and the young master fumbled with the soda. In the end, Zhao Meiyou crawled out from under the counter, whipped up a meal in the back, and handed it over. The office worker took the bag, puzzled. “Where’s the red bean pie?”

Liu Qijue crunched his lettuce, dead-eyed. “Sold out.”

Maybe it was the way Liu Qijue tore into his food, but the worker didn’t argue. He left his change and drove off.

Diao Chan quickly hung a “Closed” sign on the window, yanked Zhao Meiyou out from under the counter. “You know how to use this machine? Make me a coffee.”

“Lay off the coffee.” Zhao Meiyou dug out a tea bag and poured hot water. “Milk? Sugar?”

Diao Chan sighed and took the cup. “Just tea.”

The festival had started at dawn. Now, morning broke, rain falling. Holographic birds and fish drifted past the street. Bars had just closed; cleaning bots emptied bottles into the alley’s recycling bins, already overflowing with colored cans and a wilted bouquet of roses.

A garbage truck landed from above, robotic arms dumping the bins into its hold. The doors swung open for a moment, revealing the city’s trash—fast food boxes, plastic mannequins, rotting fish, a dead cat, and a broken phone booth. Zhao Meiyou fiddled with the truck’s radio, tuning to an obscure channel. Guitar chords drifted out. Diao Chan recognized it—a retro station they’d listened to in school, always playing pre-22nd-century tracks, probably sourced from the black market.

Zhao Meiyou propped his feet on the counter, lit a Marlboro, and hummed along: “Welcome to the Hotel California.”

Dawn crept in. He sat in the fast food truck, cigarette dangling, still in his red wedding robe. “Hotel California” drifted through the air, mixing with the scent of salty cola, stale fried chicken, and sharp Marlboro smoke. No one spoke. They all gazed out at the towering city—his long-lost home.

After a while, someone said, “This city is beautiful.”

“No shit,” Zhao Meiyou replied. “It’s my hometown—” He broke off, turning to Diao Chan. “Was that you just now?”

Diao Chan shook his head. Liu Qijue and the young master hadn’t spoken either. Zhao Meiyou opened the cupboard—the boy inside was fast asleep.

“Was it the radio?” Diao Chan asked.

Zhao Meiyou waved it off, a suspicion forming. He pulled out his terminal and saw that the personality program had finally finished processing samples and was ready to communicate. He refreshed and rebooted. Suddenly, a boy’s voice—one none of them had heard before—spoke from the speakers.

The program cleared its throat. “Hello, everyone.”

Liu Qijue leaned in. “You got enough samples this time?”

“There were so many samples in Megalopolis, it took me a while to process them all,” the program replied.

Diao Chan turned to Zhao Meiyou, who took a deep breath. “Query personality maturity.”

“My development is nearly 90% complete,” the program said. “The last 10% will take some time. But I tested connecting to Megalopolis’s core servers—no problem. I should be able to interface with the Buddha’s core data soon.”

Zhao Meiyou froze. He knew what it meant to access the city’s core. “So—you drove this car here?”

“That’s right.” The program chuckled—a boy’s voice on the cusp of manhood. “What, you wanted me to watch you get caught?”

“Holy shit.” Liu Qijue slapped Zhao Meiyou on the back. “You’re a genius, Zhao Meiyou.”

Zhao Meiyou nearly toppled over. Years of work, and finally, a breakthrough. He smiled as a bit of ash dropped from his lips onto the terminal screen.

He brushed it off, and a voice came from his fingertips. “Zhao Meiyou.”

It was the first time the program had addressed him so formally. Zhao Meiyou knew it was truly complete now—no more games. He cleared his throat. “I’m listening. What is it?”

“You should give me a name.”

“That’s easy,” Zhao Meiyou answered without thinking. “Name you Prosperity—Wangcai.”

“That’s awful,” Diao Chan said. “Pick another one!”

“What else, then?” Zhao Meiyou sighed. “How about Mimi?”

“You think it’s a cat?”

“Fine, Duoduo. The more the merrier.” Zhao Meiyou made the call. “That’s it. Not changing it.”

Liu Qijue raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to point out how common “Duoduo” was for dogs.

“What about a surname?” The program sounded patient, not offended. “Should I take yours—Zhao?”

“Let me think…” Zhao Meiyou paused. “Surname Qian—Money. That way our names balance each other out.”

He said it with a wink and a grin.

“In the Hundred Family Surnames, Zhao’s not first—Money comes first.”