Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Young Master Liu

On that day in Ruin A173, they wandered through the echoes of different eras for quite some time. Finally, the headliner of the theater told Zhao Meiyou that his ability was called "Creation."

An archaeologist's abilities have no upper limit, but their effectiveness depends on the compatibility between the user and the ruin. "Ruin A173 is my primary ground for exploration. My compatibility with this place is the highest, so my ability is amplified here," the headliner explained.

Zhao Meiyou thought of the taxi that had materialised out of thin air, and the mask the headliner wore over his face—both, no doubt, products of his ability. "What happens if you're in a ruin you're unfamiliar with?" he asked.

"In the ruin with my lowest compatibility, I can barely produce a single strand of hair," the headliner replied. "Most archaeologists choose a fixed ruin as their primary ground, so they can gradually improve their compatibility. Newcomers like you are typically guided through a series of representative ruins to see which one suits you best. Once you know, you can settle on your primary ground."

The headliner finally mentioned that only a rare few archaeologists could traverse freely between ruins, and such a feat required innate talent. "But given your level of recklessness, Zhao Meiyou, you might as well try. If you end up dead, at least you'll be ridding the world of a nuisance."

Zhao Meiyou had a month to explore Ruin A173. The headliner accompanied him a few times at first, but eventually let him wander freely. Ruin A173 was remarkably benign toward humans, and barely any accidents occurred there.

Zhao Meiyou sat on the steps, watching a whale plummet from the distant sky.

In other words, Li Daqiang's disappearance was very likely self-orchestrated.

He had reviewed Li Daqiang's file: a middle-aged widower whose wife and child had died in an accident years ago. With no hobbies, his life was as dull as blank paper. In Level 33, people like him were the most common disappearances, often suicides.

The psychiatric hospital had once admitted a patient with three split personalities: a grandmother, a mother, and a granddaughter, who spent every day locked in domestic quarrels with one another. Initially, Zhao Meiyou assumed the primary personality would be the father, but the attending doctor revealed that personality had never surfaced. Instead, there was one more—a dog they had once kept as a pet.

It was a female dog. The patient’s biological gender was clearly male, yet none of the four personalities had a dick.

This just proved how important it was for people to have hobbies—otherwise, solitude left them with no mental anchor. Zhao Meiyou mused on this as he pulled out a cigarette.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Don't smoke near antiques."

"Ah, Guifei, you're here." Zhao Meiyou held the cigarette in his mouth, unlit. "You're just in time. I was wondering how to get out of here."

He stood now at the edges of ruin’s known expanse, where time and space frayed at their seams. In the distance stretched an endless ocean, and whales plummeted from the sky like immense blue raindrops, each descent birthing titanic waves.

There should have been a downpour at this moment, but instead, the sky hung wide and clear overhead, save for the sea spray erupting all around. The ocean had swallowed the abandoned city; Zhao Meiyou sat at the doorway of a church, its steps half-eaten by saltwater, blue and violet corals threading their tendrils through the stone.

The headliner surveyed the surroundings, his expression touched with wonder. “Not bad, Zhao Meiyou. Most archaeologists wouldn’t be able to reach this place even after a year’s worth of searching.”

“When I got here earlier today, it was still the Renaissance,” Zhao Meiyou replied. “I checked the library a few days ago—apparently, Italy during that era was something to behold. I wanted to see if the Mona Lisa really is Da Vinci himself.”

“How did you end up here, then?”

“I got a bit dizzy,” Zhao Meiyou admitted. “I could feel the sky above my head, and my shoulders felt unbearably heavy. Somehow, I wandered into this corridor lined with mirrors, and when I came out the other end, I found myself here.”

“You didn’t get dizzy from the sky. Nobody gets dizzy just from looking at the sky. It’s human instinct to gaze upward, even in a place like Level 33,” the headliner scoffed. “You’re suffering from Florence Syndrome.”

Florence Syndrome, also known as Stendhal Syndrome. It’s said that the French writer Stendhal once visited Florence and, overwhelmed by the sheer concentration of artistic masterpieces, suffered heart palpitations, fainting spells, and even hallucinations.

It’s a condition born of beauty—when too much aesthetic brilliance triggers cognitive disarray. Back when Italy still stood firm on the Earth, local doctors frequently treated such patients, most of them tourists.

The headliner looked at Zhao Meiyou with some amusement. “Didn’t think you’d come down with something like that.”

Zhao Meiyou’s answer was to light a cigarette.

“This is the edge of the known ruin,” the headliner said, gazing at a statue half-drowned in the water. “We’re almost brushing the current timeline.”

“The current timeline?” Zhao Meiyou sounded surprised. “I thought time and space were completely messed up here.” He gestured at the horizon, where whales still crashed down like scattered rain.

“It’s disordered, yes, but not entirely,” the headliner explained, drawing a half-circle in the air around them. “Inside the city limits, the temporal flux remains relatively stable.”

To call it a city would be generous—it was more a ruin now. The white marble had eroded to ash. “This is Italy, post-destruction,” the headliner said.

The Orion War. The Great Cataclysm. Earth’s brutal reckoning. Nearly all of Europe sank beneath the waves, its once-glorious nations joining Atlantis to exist only in the records of mythology.

When Zhao Meiyou first stepped inside, he circled the church, letting his eyes sweep across the remnants of grandeur. He had spent a fair bit of time at the library recently, poring over documents. This had once been the Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral. Vasari's frescoes on the dome had faded to little more than mottled outlines of oil paint, Jesus himself seemingly vanished. Where the cross once hung, there was now a massive, rusted golden frame, the original painting obscured beyond recognition.

Zhao Meiyou didn’t quite understand how he had ended up in post-apocalyptic Italy. Unlike the headliner, he couldn’t flit through time and space within Ruin A173 at will—that kind of seamless navigation was reserved for archaeologists with extraordinarily high compatibility. Over the past half-month of exploration, he had been tethered to a single timeline, with no ability to shift between moments.

The headliner seemed to catch on to Zhao Meiyou’s confusion. “You’re not wearing your uniform.”

Zhao Meiyou glanced down at his black trench coat. “But I am?”

The headliner nearly kicked him off his feet. “The full uniform, man. With your tie in a Dover knot!”

The archaeologist’s uniform was supposed to be a complete ensemble, meticulously put together from inside out. Yet here Zhao Meiyou stood, draped in just a trench coat, underneath which he wore his eternal combination: a tank top and a pair of flip-flops. At least, thank the heavens, he hadn’t paired it with an apron this time.

“Even a ruin like A173, which is highly compatible with humans, isn’t completely safe,” the headliner said, drawing a deep breath. “If an archaeologist’s mental fluctuations exceed the threshold, it’s all too easy to get lost in the ruin. You just had a Stendhal syndrome episode, causing your mental waves to spike, which threw the ruin’s timeline into disarray. If you don’t stabilise soon, you’ll be swallowed whole. Stupid Zhao, if you must die, don’t do it in a place I’m working at.”

Zhao Meiyou vaguely recalled the headliner mentioning something about the uniform when it was handed to him before—apparently, it was one of the few items that could be brought into a ruin, designed specifically to stabilise mental fluctuations. But he’d had been fooling around in the ruin for so long without incident that he’d just forgotten about it.

Not the slightest trace of remorse showed on his face. Instead, he tilted his head thoughtfully. “What happens if I get swallowed?”

“Your consciousness dissolves. You’ll come to believe you’re one of the ruin’s natives.”

Zhao pondered it for a moment. “Doesn’t sound too bad, actually.”

This time, the headliner truly kicked him down.

“You know, Guifei, I’ve always found it impressive how agile you are, considering your build,” Zhao Meiyou remarked as he hauled himself out of the water, scratching his head. “Alright, let’s just get this dance over with—I’ve got the night shift tonight.”

Dancing was the way out of Ruin A173—a standard, low-risk procedure for safe entry and exit. Compared to the visceral thrill of getting your head blown off by Diao Chan, a quick tango was nothing at all.

The headliner conjured a pair of high heels. Zhao Meiyou glanced at them. “Why are they in my size?”

“Because I’m the one saving your sorry ass.”

It had to be a tango, and not just any tango—a duet. This was why Zhao Meiyou couldn’t leave in the first place. Post-apocalyptic Italy offered nothing but ruins. There wasn’t a soul in sight. If the headliner didn’t show up soon, Zhao Meiyou was about ready to fish out a female whale just to have a cha-cha partner.

Zhao Meiyou scratched his chin and mused, “I can lead or follow, doesn't matter. Guifei, think you could conjure up something for me?”

“You’re full of crap, you know that?” the headliner replied impatiently. “What do you want now?”

Pointing first to the distant skyline where whales seemed to rain down, then to the endless blue sea, Zhao Meiyou said, “Think you could create a pot and boil up the ocean? Those tumbling whales look like dumplings, and I’ve been starving for ages.”

The headliner: “...”

Quick to add, Zhao Meiyou clarified, “And make it sour soup, yeah?”

Back in reality, Zhao Meiyou and Diao Chan were on night shift. As Zhao Meiyou pushed open the doors to the emergency ward, sure enough, there was Diao Chan again, munching on a cucumber sandwich. “Alright, enough already. I’m about to develop a trauma over your bloody cucumbers.” Zhao Meiyou juggled several bags in his hands. “The market restocked today—I picked up some groceries. We’re having hot pot tonight.”

Diao Chan held up his sandwich, clearly unimpressed. “You know we’re not allowed to have hot pot in the ward.”

Zhao Meiyou slapped a slab of pork onto the table, pulled out a scalpel, and said, “You eating or not?”

Diao Chan: “...I’ating.”

It was a yuan yang style hotpot, where two different soups were offered. Half of the hotpot was clear broth, and the half spicy red oil. Tripe dipped into the bubbling pot was dusted liberally with sesame and chilli powder, then wrapped in a blend of garlic and shrimp paste for one perfect bite. Zhao Meiyou had rushed over and only brought a small amount of meat, so the two pairs of chopsticks clashed constantly over the pot. “By the way,” Diao Chan asked between bites, “you’ve been working with Guifei for two weeks now, yeah? How’s that going?”

“Don’t even start. We just had a fight today,” Zhao Meiyou groaned, recounting the tale of the sour soup dumplings.

Diao Chan nearly spat out his food laughing. “Good thing it’s now and not back in the day. Old Guifei would’ve probably minced you up and used you as dumpling filling.”

Zhao Meiyou sipped his cold milk. “What do you mean?”

There was a time when Diao Chan couldn’t discuss archaeologist matters with him, and his relationship with the headliner seemed neither close nor distant. But now, many things could finally be said openly. “Guifei volunteered to be your guide. Originally, it should’ve been me, but I’m no longer suited for Ruin A173. I didn’t expect him to step up—he hasn’t taken anyone under his wing in years.”

“Guifei said you’re better than him. Your main ruin’s a hell of a lot more dangerous, so you can’t bring me there to show off and carry me,” Zhao Meiyou replied. “So for now, it’s off to his newbie village first.”

Diao Chan looked slightly surprised. “Did Guifei really say that?”

“What, surprised?” Zhao Meiyou set down his glass of milk. “Guifei’s capable of speaking like a normal human when he’s not suffering from indigestion.”

Diao Chan seemed unconvinced. “That doesn’t sound like him—at least not the Guifei from before he came to the Lower District. I never heard him admit that anyone was better than him.”

“Damn. He’s got his nose in the air, huh?”

“Xi Shi, there’s something you might not know.” Diao Chan set his chopsticks down and spoke earnestly. “Guifei is only a few years older than us, but he’s already a highly accomplished archaeologist. He’s incredibly talented and started young. Among his peers from that generation, calling him the strongest wouldn’t be an exaggeration.”

Back then, Diao Chan had just entered the field, arriving in time for the once-a-decade archaeologists’ gathering, which was held at Level 777. The event had many rules, the first being that attendees were advised to wear masks. While not mandatory, past gatherings had shown that revealing one’s identity often led to falling victim to professional rivalries.

“You know Level 777—it’s the entrance to Ruin A173,” Diao Chan said. “On the day of the gathering, Guifei had just completed an exploration mission. No one knows what kind of ruckus he stirred up inside the ruin, but the quantum aftershocks he unleashed nearly toppled an entire street when he emerged.”

He would never forget the scene—a young man bursting out of the exit astride a dragon.

It was the iconic azure dragon of ancient Eastern mythology, with jade-like whiskers and crystalline horns. The boy, dressed in Tang Dynasty robes, laughed as he tore off his mask, the white silk of his sleeve rolled up just enough to catch the light.

“Guifei’s ability is ‘Creation.’ It’s not a rare ability, but the way he wields it is beyond imagination,” Diao Chan explained. “That azure dragon? He created it. Though it dissolved into nothing shortly after bursting out of the ruin, he was the first to summon a dragon within a ruin and even bring it into the real world.”

At the gathering that day, he was one of the few who dared to remove his mask, and it only made him the centre of everyone’s admiration.

“Guifei was undeniably powerful, no question about it. Back then, he had more admirers than there were patients in the whole hospital wing,” Diao Chan said. “Do you still remember what he used to look like?”

“I think I do, vaguely.” Zhao Meiyou pulled an image from the depths of his memory and clicked his tongue. “Time really is a butcher’s cleaver, isn’t it?”

Zhao Meiyou had known the headliner for quite some time, and honestly, he couldn’t reconcile the man he knew now with the beautiful youth Diao Chan described.

“Guifei and I were never particularly close. He was so much stronger than I was back then, so we rarely had the chance to work together,” Diao Chan mused, lost momentarily in his memories. “Xi Shi, do you remember how we first met?”

“Yup. It was a rainy day,” Zhao Meiyou said. "The shopkeeper next door thought I’d picked up a drowned dog."

Diao Chan didn’t argue with his description, just sighed. “Honestly, I’d just escaped from a ruin back then, and then I ran into... well, let’s just say I was scared out of my wits.”

Zhao Meiyou paused, the tripe pinched between his chopsticks. He slid it onto Diao Chan’s plate instead. “That explains it.”

“Most rookie archaeologists have a mentor to guide them, but I wasn’t so lucky. Not long after I started, my master had an accident during an expedition and died in the line of duty. If you can even call it that for an archaeologist.”

“My situation was rather tricky. A lot of archaeologists are superstitious; they think a student like me is bad luck, so most avoided taking me on. But I found a letter my master had left behind. He said if anything ever happened to him, I should go find Young Master Liu.”

Young Master Liu. It took Zhao Meiyou a good moment to realise who he meant. The theatre headliner’s real name was Liu Qijue.

“At the time, Guifei was one of the few archaeologists willing to take on a student like me. He was strong and didn’t care about such things.” Diao Chan paused before continuing, “But it wasn’t long before we ran into trouble again.”

Trouble between archaeologists was common. The boy who removed his mask at the gathering couldn’t escape the curse. Archaeologists have their own unspoken rules, and Megalopolis law doesn’t apply inside the ruins. At the very least, it’s all too easy for someone who dies in a ruin to pass off as an accidental death.

“I didn’t have a gun back then. When we were surrounded, in the final moment, he threw me out. After that, I didn’t hear anything about him for a long time.”

There was a brief silence. Zhao Meiyou dumped a large block of instant noodles into the pot, the sound of his loud slurping filling the room.

Diao Chan rubbed his face and ate the tripe Zhao Meiyou had put on his plate. “Later, I heard that he got injured in the ruins. He’d injured his head. His abilities were greatly weakened, and after that, he rarely made an appearance. When I saw him again, it was here.”

Zhao Meiyou asked, “You never thought about going to see him?”

“I did, at first,” Diao Chan said. “But then I heard he had someone he loved and planned to live a quiet life. So I figured I shouldn’t disturb him.”

This turn of events was something Zhao Meiyou truly hadn’t expected—he choked, the noodles nearly spraying out of his nose. “Guifei? Someone he loves?”

“You didn’t know?” This time, it was Diao Chan’s turn to be surprised, though a moment later, he calmed again. “I guess that’s fair.”

Zhao Meiyou felt that indulging his curiosity too much now would make him seem heartless, but he still couldn’t help himself. Scratching his face awkwardly, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Hey, hey, hey, who’s he into?”

Zhao Meiyou was the spitting image of a nosy old lady. The only thing he was missing was a handful of sunflower seeds snacks to complete the picture. Diao Chan was appalled and amused by his behaviour. “Zhao Meiyou, where’s your heart, man?”

“Right here,” Zhao Meiyou replied, swirling a stick of chicken hearts in his hot pot. “Go on.”

“I don’t know the details,” said Diao Chan. “I just heard Guifei fell for an older gentleman—much older. Basically, it’s one of those May-December romances.”

This time, Zhao Meiyou didn’t show much of a reaction. “Then why did Guifei come to Level 33? Did his husband pass away?” If so, his binge-eating disorder would be much harder to treat.

Diao Chan sighed. “I don’t know.”

Since Diao Chan didn’t have an answer, Zhao Meiyou didn’t press further. Not every rock needs to surface—too many of them, and the ships would sink. Instead, his thoughts drifted to another matter: the headliner’s bulimia.

When the headliner was first admitted, it was little more than a formality. A few token consultations, and the attending doctor couldn’t get a word out of him, letting the issue trail off unresolved. But judging by the steadily increasing doses of medication, there was no doubt his body was deteriorating.

Emotional wounds demand emotional remedies. After hearing Diao Chan’s recollections, Zhao Meiyou couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be a breakthrough. Yet, he hesitated—uninvited kindness often stems from arrogance, and not everyone needs saving.

Lately, Zhao Meiyou had been catching up on history and literature. One book, an old twentieth-century classic called Love in the Time of Cholera, caught his attention. The opening was intriguing: Amour, who died amidst the scent of bitter almonds, chose to end his life on his sixtieth birthday to stop himself from ageing. His secret lover accepted his death serenely, neither condemning nor stopping him despite the act’s defiance of conventional morality. They were deeply in love yet fiercely independent. She even regarded his choice with respect and blessing, and when he passed, she simply continued living her own life.

Critics from centuries past had called this scene “a possibility of love between souls.” A coincidental metaphor, perhaps, but it felt like fate was whispering to Zhao Meiyou not to interfere.

But I’m not Guifei’s lover; I’m his brother, Zhao Meiyou thought. As his brother, could I just stand by and watch him destroy himself?

That night, Zhao Meiyou was on the night shift again. Diao Chan wasn’t around, and he was engrossed in some hefty tome of medical cases penned by a certain Dr. Mar-something. The words scrolled across the floating screen while the protagonist fucked his umpteenth woman. Dizzy from trying to keep track of the tangled cast, Zhao Meiyou switched the text to visual mode. The room instantly came alive. His language library consisted of some twenty languages, and a cacophony of diverse moans erupted.

Zhao Meiyou, drowsy from boredom, eventually slumped over the desk and fell asleep. When he woke up, there was someone standing nearby, sneakingly reaching for the terminal tucked under his arm.

"Hey, old Mr. De," Zhao Meiyou yawned lazily, "I’ve got world classics here. The porn in these aren’t entertaining. If you’re having trouble sleeping, I could head down to Level 20’s Yihong House and fetch you a companion, you know?"

Old Mr. De glared at him. "You brat, sleeping so lightly—watch out, you’ll go bald early."

"It’s not that I’m a light sleeper. You’re making enough noise to wake the dead," Zhao Meiyou retorted, tapping the terminal. "So, which one caught your eye?"

"The one sleeping with the male protagonist just now," Old Mr. De said, his eyes darting shiftily. "She seemed decent enough."

"Ariza’s got 623 women in this book. Which one are you talking about? Or do you want all of them?" Zhao Meiyou chuckled. "Even Jia Baoyu’s courtyard didn’t have that many girls."

Old Mr. De was rendered speechless by the jab, fixing him with a long glare before muttering, "You brat, take care of your health."

Still laughing, Zhao Meiyou waved dismissively. "Didn’t you notice I was bored to tears and dozed off?" Rising from his seat, he added, "How about we go stretch our legs, the two of us?" The old man was a light sleeper, and during night shifts, Zhao Meiyou often joined him for midnight snacks or an early-morning session of Baduanjin on the rooftop at four.

"Forget it," Old Mr. De sighed deeply. "The theatre’s hosting a song-and-dance show tonight. Liu won’t take the stage, so there’s no point going out."

Only then did Zhao Meiyou realise: old Mr. De, like the headliner, was an old-school opera performer. Singers often had their quirks, and with so many theatre folk around, Zhao Meiyou had never made the connection between the two. "You know Guifei?"

"Of course!" Old Mr. De huffed, his moustache bristling. "He and his lover used to cheer for me at Chuyun Theatre all the time!"

Chuyun Theatre, the finest venue in the Middle District. Zhao Meiyou pressed further, "So you know his husband?"

"Well, well, you little rascal. Say a word and you run with it," Old Mr. De grumbled, though a smug grin crept onto his face. "Back in the day, they were my biggest fans—short of inviting me to their wedding as the best man." As he spoke, he pulled out his terminal and rummaged through its memory, finally producing a photograph.

It was a group photo of three people, not a hologram version, likely taken backstage somewhere. In it stood a bearded opera overlord, a grinning youth, and a distinguished old man in a suit. Zhao Meiyou’s gaze lingered on the elder—his tortoiseshell glasses, the kindly, earnest expression of an elder, and the hat he’d removed, held respectfully against his chest.

Perfect, Zhao Meiyou thought. He stared at the man in the photo.

Guifei, oh Guifei, it’s not that I’m desperate to save your neck—this deal just landed itself right on my doorstep.

To hell with Amour. I’m not your lover, so why must I wholly understand and respect your suicidal antics? Yearn for it or not, I won’t stand by and watch you die.

Zhao Meiyou had seen the old gentleman in the photograph before, and the memory of him was vivid, almost sharp.

It was the driver of that bright yellow taxi—the one from the first time he ventured into Ruin A173.

That night in Paris, on the heights of Montmartre, outside the Moulin Rouge. The taxi idled beneath a gas lamp, its interior thick with the mingling scents of cigars and elmwood hair pomade. Headliner had swung the door open and slid right into the passenger seat.

Old Mr. De gazed at the photograph and murmured a line, slow and deliberate: “Birth, aging, sickness, and death are nature’s course; even seas will one day yield to mulberry fields.”

Zhao Meiyou hesitated briefly, choosing his words before asking, “When did Guifei’s husband pass away?”

Old Mr. De shot him a curious look. “I know you don’t get along with Brother Liu, but there’s no need to go cursing the man.”

For heaven’s sake, I’m practically one step away from calling him Dad, Zhao Meiyou thought to himself, but aloud he asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean?” Old Mr. De’s reply came out in a tangle of words. “His partner is still alive.”

After seeing old Mr. De off, Zhao Meiyou made himself a cup of coffee.

His sleep quality was annoyingly excellent. Now, at two in the morning, without an exceptionally strong coffee, he’d fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He took a sip—the coffee was bought by Diao Chan, bitter beyond reason.

He leaned against the window, lighting a cigarette.

Zhao Meiyou realised he had fallen into a mental trap. The tales Diao Chan had shared, along with headliner’s binge-eating disorder, had led him to subconsciously frame it all as a cliche love story of grief-stricken lovers separated by life and death. But Mr. De had told him headliner’s husband was still alive.

At the time, Zhao Meiyou had asked, “Then why is Guifei acting so crazy?”

“Sometimes living can be worse than dying,” Mr. De had said with the air of someone speaking from experience. He tapped his temple. “Alive, sure, but this part’s not working.”

A common enough case of a stroke in old age—failed resuscitation leading to a prolonged slumber.

Even in the 25th century, the human brain remained Megalopolis’s most challenging frontier. Skin, limbs, organs, even genes could all be cultivated and replaced. The brain was the one exception. Technology could not replicate it.

Even archaeologists had to abide by this principle. The second rule of the ruins: the brain must not be harmed.

So what was headliner doing in Ruin A173, creating an exact replica of his husband? For remembrance? Zhao Meiyou clicked his tongue. He didn’t see headliner as the type.

That left him with only one possibility.

Zhao Meiyou crushed the cigarette stub against the windowsill.

Technology cannot create a brain, but the headliner’s power was "Creation."

Diao Chan once said that Young Master Liu, in those days, was strong enough to charge into reality astride a dragon.

He intended to forge an identical counterpart within the ruins, then bring the other’s brain into reality—to awaken his lover lost in his endless dream.