Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Home

As a psychiatric hospital emergency doctor, Zhao Meiyou could very well understand the headliner’s actions. In fact, one could call it quite creative—a full score for imagination.

Swapping the brain of an isotopic counterpart with that of a real person might pose some ethical loopholes and delve into a realm of philosophy—when the brain is successfully replaced, who truly survives? Is it the counterpart or the original? And what determines the soul—mind or body?

But these were Zhao Meiyou’s musings. Once a patient was discharged, their life was no longer his concern; nor was it his place to comment on others’ choices. If the headliner could truly attain what he sought, all Zhao Meiyou, as a friend, would do was claim a drink from him.

As long as he didn’t end up dead.

An adult could want it all—so long as they didn’t lose the bride and the army along the way.

Zhao Meiyou sorted through his thoughts and found his own perspective rather intriguing—he believed he was showing goodwill to his friend, maintaining a neutral stance while waiting for the right moment to step in and help. But what was his true starting point? Was it really about ensuring the headliner achieved his desires?

Nonsense. It was just that he’d feel sorrow if his friend died.

And he didn’t want to feel sorrow.

If there were no sorrow, then whether the person lived or died would mean nothing to him.

So, indeed, self-interest was the fundamental driving force behind human behaviour. Zhao Meiyou reached this conclusion and instantly felt refreshed, his brain dancing wildly as if in a nightclub. The coffee Diao Chan bought had always been insanely effective—he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. After pondering for a moment, he decided to strike while the iron was hot, sprinting up to Level 777’s high platform and leaping off in a grand, eagle-spread dive.

The balloon burst with a “pop,” and he found himself seated amidst the bright red audience seats.

Lions leapt through rings of fire, aerial acrobats showered golden confetti, fireworks burst into orange dust and indigo-blue flames, while dwarves, giants, snake women, clowns, and mad scientists danced on the sandy stage. Darts punctured spinning targets, elephants paraded into the ring, and a flurry of white birds took flight from the magician’s top hat. “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Greatest Show!”

Zhao Meiyou couldn’t discern the era—this world seemed like a sprawling circus, an amusement park with no end in sight. Exiting the tent, he wandered for a long time down streets hung with strings of coloured lights. The scenery shifted from Victorian haunted houses to roller coasters and drop towers born of the Third Technological Revolution. The crowd's attire was a kaleidoscope of eras and styles: women with peonies pinned in their hair, nobles in hunting robes, missionaries, Western noblewomen, punk girls, and hip-hop kids. The children, likely celebrating Halloween, wore eerily vibrant skeleton costumes, some clutching plaster heads in their arms.

Zhao Meiyou had stepped in hoping to test his luck, see if he might stumble upon that elderly taxi driver. But now, as he scanned the teeming streets, all he could see was chaos in motion—griffins tearing past with four-wheeled carriages in tow, flying carpets drifting lazily overhead, broomsticks, paper planes, fire wheels, a compartment from the Hogwarts Express, and even a car streaking across the moon's face, unmistakably the time-travelling DMC-12 from Back to the Future.

In short, the place seemed to be a gathering ground for the world's wildest imaginings. Finding a plain, ordinary taxi here felt like an impossible dream.

“Well, when in Rome,” Zhao Meiyou thought to himself. His knack for adapting kicked in quickly, and soon he found himself engrossed in an old-school arcade. Retro game halls like this were a rarity in Megalopolis, even in the Lower District. The popular crowd had long since moved on to neural-linked immersive dreamscapes, or at the very least, holographic entertainment.

As a result, Zhao Meiyou—whose gaming experience was limited to holographics—found himself thoroughly trounced by these retro machines. The kids refused to team up with him, and even transforming into a dashing, handsome man failed to charm them—prepubescent boys only cared about Ultraman. Zhao Meiyou had never seen Ultraman before but tried to morph into one based on their descriptions; they immediately dismissed his Taro Ultraman as a knockoff because he was missing his signature horn.

Downgraded to the bottom rung of the gaming hierarchy, Zhao Meiyou was left with no choice but to retreat to the claw machine.

Fortunately, his claw machine skills weren’t half bad. A little girl, after watching him for a moment, tugged at his sleeve. “Auntie, can you help me get the March Hare?”

“Call me something else, and I’ll get it for you,” Zhao Meiyou said, his eyes fixed on the claw inside the glass.

The little girl thought it over, then decisively declared, “Hag!”

Zhao Meiyou’s hand slipped, and the toy tumbled into the chute with a thud. “Here you go, little shrew.”

“I wanted the March Hare. This is the Red Queen,” the little girl complained, unimpressed.

“Crazy hags only catch Red Queens,” Zhao Meiyou quipped.

The little girl stared at him for a moment, then, with a sharp crack, twisted off the Red Queen’s head. One, two, three—she sucked in a breath and let out a wailing cry.

By the time the girl’s father finally arrived, he was greeted by a bizarre scene: a calm, unmoving woman and a shrieking child standing amid a battlefield of decapitated doll heads, with a mountain of Red Queen torsos piling up in a shopping basket.

“Dou Dou!” The man rushed forward. “You’re causing trouble again!” He turned hastily to Zhao Meiyou, bowing in apology. “I’m so sorry, miss. My daughter doesn’t know any better—I’ll be sure to talk to her when we get home…”

“It’s fine,” Zhao Meiyou said, yanking the joystick. “Your daughter’s got quite the voice.”

The little girl, whose crying had been all noise and no tears, dropped her act the moment her father arrived. She dusted herself off and addressed Zhao Meiyou. “Big sister, your hearing’s not bad either.”

Zhao Meiyou smiled, plucking out a March Hare and handing it to her. “Drink more water when you get home.”

The father nudged the little girl. “Say thank you.”

"Thank you, Auntie," said the little girl.

Zhao Meiyou：“……”

The little girl was quite the odd one, leaving Zhao Meiyou caught between laughter and exasperation. He glanced up at her father and started to say, "Your daughter is really something..." but stopped midway through.

The man hastily corrected the child, "Dou Dou, you should call her 'Big Sister'!"

"It’s fine, it’s crowded here—just keep an eye on her so she doesn’t get lost," said Zhao Meiyou, waving it off before turning back to focus on winning a toy from the claw machine.

The man thanked him and led the little girl away. Not far off, a woman—presumably the girl’s mother—waited for them, holding three sticks of cotton candy. It seemed she’d intended one for each of them, but she’d already eaten more than half herself. The girl shrieked in protest, rushing over to snatch the candy from her. Laughing, the mother held it out of reach, teasing her as they both bounced and played.

What a family, thought Zhao Meiyou.

Zhao Meiyou inserted a coin and began twisting the joystick, the claw inside the machine wobbling unevenly under his control—his attention wasn’t really on the game. Instead, he was watching the reflection of the family of three in the glass.

The man was Li Daqiang, the archaeologist who had gone missing in Ruin A173.

The woman and girl were undoubtedly his wife and daughter—both long dead in reality.

What was going on? Could it be that Li Daqiang’s ability was also Creation? No, that didn’t make sense; he distinctly remembered the man’s ability being something else... Lost in thought, Zhao Meiyou’s hand slipped, and the claw dropped the toy with a loud “clack.”

Hearing the sound, the little girl turned her head. Her grin stretched wide, almost unnervingly so, like the Cheshire Cat.

"Daddy, he’s a fake," she said.

In the next moment, Li Daqiang seemed to materialise out of thin air behind him.

A sharp, searing pain surged through him. Dazed, Zhao Meiyou looked down to see the blade’s tip protruding from his abdomen.

This was Li Daqiang’s ability: "Shift."

Zhao Meiyou couldn’t remember the last time he’d run this hard—not even that time old Mr. De had threatened to castrate him was this nerve-racking. It seemed Li Daqiang had some sort of control over the ruin itself. A horde of creatures was now hunting him down, turning his escape into something straight out of Jurassic Park. No matter what he shifted into—be it the Big Bad Wolf, Ursula, or Tarzan—they kept finding him. In his panic, his facial features distorted uncontrollably; catching a glance of himself in a roadside funhouse mirror, he stumbled at the repulsive sight. He had THREE fucking breasts now.

What was with Li Daqiang’s ruthlessness? Did the government owe him money, or had some colleague slept with his wife? Or was it that Zhao Meiyou wasn’t the only one trying to track down Li Daqiang, and someone else wanted him dead—so he’d decided to strike first?

As he ran, Zhao Meiyou threw up his hands and shouted, "Li Daqiang! I’m not here to kill you! Let’s talk!"

Li Daqiang was more unshaken than a scorned wife abandoned by her cheating husband.

Zhao Meiyou was desperate. Zhao Meiyou wanted to give up. Zhao Meiyou couldn’t afford to give up. Li Daqiang’s teleportation ability could collapse the distance of space and time in the blink of an eye—getting cornered meant certain doom. So Zhao Meiyou had no choice but to dart and weave through the chaos of the crowd. That first strike had skewered him clean through, then dragged sideways, leaving his intestines spilling out in a grotesque cascade. There was no time for first aid—so long as his brain wasn’t hit, he figured he’d survive. He tied the mess into a makeshift knot, shoved it back inside, and kept running.

Honestly, the knife work was just as skilled as his own when butchering pigs. If he weren’t the victim, he might have even complimented the craftsmanship.

That’s right—I’m a butcher, a slaughterer. Why should I be the one running? Zhao Meiyou stopped dead in his tracks. Damn it, I’ll fight him!

He recalled what the headliner had once said: excessive emotional fluctuations could cause an archaeologist to lose themselves within a ruin. That’s exactly what was happening now. His emotions had taken control, unwittingly casting him as the hunted in this cruel script.

Snapping back to awareness, Zhao Meiyou readied himself to attack. Just then, a car hurtled through the air, slamming into him and sending him flying. In the next instant, the car collided with the ground in a fiery explosion. Amidst the deafening shockwave, someone grabbed his hand and dragged him away at a sprint. After a moment, the chaos receded into the distance, and Zhao Meiyou finally got a good look at his rescuer.

The old man had silver hair slicked neatly back, his posture straight as a blade. He was none other than the headliner’s husband.

The old man led him to a building within an amusement park. Just as Zhao Meiyou opened his mouth to speak, the man patted him lightly on the shoulder, murmured something softly, and then shoved him inside.

“This place isn’t safe. You need to get out first.”

The door slammed shut behind him. Inside, it was a labyrinth of mirrors.

The old man’s words echoed in Zhao Meiyou’s ears. After a brief pause, he realised why he had been brought here.

He extended his arms, mimicking an embrace. Through the refracted light, two mirrored figures appeared, facing each other. Humming softly, Zhao Meiyou completed a tango.

This place was indeed different from Ruin A173—its details were much cruder. In the previous ruin, a partnered tango was required to escape, but now both mirrored figures danced the lead. As the final note fell, a familiar sensation of detachment descended from above.

When he opened his eyes again, it was beneath the night sky of Megalopolis Level 777.

The next day, Zhao Meiyou unexpectedly submitted a leave request to the psychiatric hospital, citing his reason as a workplace injury.

Diao Chan was somewhat surprised when he saw the leave request. Injuries sustained in the ruin didn’t carry over to the real world, and archaeologists’ usual occupational hazard was psychological trauma. But Zhao Meiyou was, as his name suggested, utterly heartless—he’d sleep like the dead even if someone had just died next to him. So why was he asking for leave? Could it be that the Disease Butcher had gotten into another street brawl?

Zhao Meiyou wasn’t home. Diao Chan asked around in the neighbourhood, but nothing had happened the previous night. He went to the theatre next, only to be told by the caretaker, “No need to look for him. Left a message—Boss Liu isn’t in Level 33 today!”

If the headliner wasn’t in Level 33, then he must have gone into the ruin.

He leapt down from Level 777, vanishing into the clouds. Quantum magnetic fields shimmered past him, and when he opened his eyes, the familiar feel of velvet upholstery met his hands. Outside the car window, the scenery blurred by in fleeting glimpses.

The elderly driver gave him a warm smile and handed over a cigar. “You’ve arrived.”

“You’ve changed your brand of cigars? Last time in Paris, weren’t you smoking Havanas?”

“That’s right. I reread Verne a few days ago.” The old man’s voice was calm and even. “This is a gold-leaf cigar made from seaweed, just like Captain Nemo’s.”

The puncher snipped the cigar, its crisp sound cutting through the silence in the car. Moments later, smoke began to drift lazily through the cabin. “No need to roll down the window,” the old man said. “The blend of seaweed and elmwood oil isn’t unpleasant.”

Outside, the scenery had turned into a vast, featureless white—like the static and snow of an old television without a signal. “Where are we going?”

“To the edge of time and space. My home.” The old man’s smile was serene. “It’s been so long since I left. I think it’s time to return.”

The taxi emerged from the tunnel, revealing an ancient manor by the lakeside. It seemed a heavy rain had just passed; the air was thick with a heady blend of honey, citrus, ambergris, and manure. On the slopes, vineyards lay half-hidden in the mist.

They passed through an arched gate and entered the house through the side yard. “Come on, the garden’s too damp at this hour.” The old man stepped out of the car. “I believe the kitchen still has some cinnamon and oranges. We could brew a pot of mulled wine.”

They walked through a linoleum-floored hallway, and it seemed someone was in the room at the end. “You’re back?” The kitchen door swung open to reveal a barefoot youth chewing on an apple. When he saw them, he froze for a moment, then his voice shot up sharply: “Sir, why did you bring him here?”

“He is you,” the old man sighed. “Qijue, you’ll have to accept that eventually.”

“I know he’s me—I created him with my own hands!” The boy snatched up a paring knife and drove it forcefully into the apple. “His purpose is to live in the real world in my place! He’s not supposed to show up in the ruin or show up here in the manor!”

If someone were to peer down into the room right now, they would see three figures standing on either side of the dining table: a youth, an old man, and a rotund young man. If the observer knew more about their identities, they would realise that the boy and the fat man shared the same identity: Liu Qijue.

Here stood Young Master Liu in his youth, and the portly, thick-eared headliner.

Diao Chan once remarked that Liu Qijue, in his time, could wield "Creation" to an unimaginable degree. The scene before Zhao Meiyou now stood as ironclad proof of that claim.

Young Master Liu had created the headliner to live in reality in his stead.

"I didn’t mean to intrude, and I’m well aware of my place," the headliner said, casting a glance at the old man beside him. "I came to tell you—he’s barely holding on in the real world."

The boy fell silent, only to murmur after a moment, "…That’s your duty."

The headliner didn’t budge, stepping forward with sudden force. "Are you planning to stay immersed here forever? Running from reality?" He snatched a bottle of red wine from the table. "How is this any different from drowning yourself in drunken dreams?”

"I don’t need you to tell me that! I created you!" The boy also stepped forward, staring him down with reddened eyes. "I brought you into being… I brought you into being for this very reason." He shut his eyes tightly for a brief moment. "I can’t just watch him go—I can’t do it."

The headliner stared at him, their strikingly similar eyes locked in a silent clash. After a tense beat, the older figure turned and smashed the wine bottle against the edge of the table. Wine splattered, shards scattering across the floor.

The boy’s hands trembled. After a pause, he wiped the corner of his eyes.

"One more thing," the headliner said, standing by the window with his back turned. "Yesterday, Zhao Meiyou caused quite a commotion after entering the ruin. Did you know?"

"I know," the boy replied, his bare feet stepping into the vivid crimson wine pooling on the floor. A shard of glass cut into his sole. The old man sighed softly, quickly pulling out gauze and iodine.

The youth perched on the table, watching as the old man disinfected the wound and wrapped it in bandages. His tone finally steadied. "You need to get even fatter."

"If I get any fatter, I’ll be fucking dead," the headliner retorted, turning around.

"Don’t make me repeat myself," the boy said. "You’re a quantum creation from the ruin. You were never meant to exist in the real world. Even with my power stabilising your form, it only works if your body absorbs as much material from the real world as possible—carbohydrates, fat, even diseases. The larger your volume, the better. Otherwise, one day, you might just dissolve on the spot."

The boy seemed to realise something, his gaze sharpening with a flicker of interest as he looked at the headliner. "You’re becoming more and more like a real person."

The headliner stared back, his expression impassive.

"Your state of mind has always been unnervingly calm—so calm you don’t seem like a living person. But that makes sense. You are my creation, but you are also me. The real world ought to fill you with despair." As he spoke, the boy extended his hand toward the old man, their palms meeting. "But recently, your mental state began to fluctuate. Signs of quantum dissolution even appeared, and the government noticed your presence. It took me a long time to figure out why."

"Because you started caring about reality," the boy said, glancing at him. "That lunatic Zhao Meiyou—you've come to think of him as a friend, haven’t you? And so, you’ve begun to feel joy and sorrow."

"Why are you bringing up Zhao Meiyou?" Headliner suddenly realised something. "The kidnappers from 1999—that was your doing?"

"I sought out a little girl and planted a suggestion in her mind. If Zhao Meiyou didn’t have the talent of an archaeologist, he never would have been hooked in." The boy shrugged. "Don’t look at me like that; I’m helping you. If Zhao Meiyou is completely consumed by the ruin, he’ll become your true companion... He can stay with you forever—whether it be the quantum domain or the span of your lifetimes, nothing will ever separate you."

Before Headliner could respond, the boy continued, "Or is there something Zhao Meiyou cares about? Like Li Daqiang. I could transfer some control of the ruin to him. As long as he stays in the ruin, he could have everything he desires. That way, he could stay with you forever."

"Why do you want him to stay with me forever?" Headliner finally spoke. "What right do I have to keep him in the ruin with me?"

The boy looked puzzled. "Aren’t you two friends?"

"Would you go so far for a friend?"

"Why not?" The boy seemed even more perplexed. "If I had a friend like that before I met Sir, I’d be willing. What’s left to cling to in Megalopolis, anyway?"

Headliner suddenly found himself at a loss for words and decided to change topics. "You mentioned transferring control of the ruin."

"That’s right. If Zhao Meiyou is willing, and if he’s especially fond of Megalopolis, I could build a Megalopolis inside Ruin A173 and give him control over it," the boy said. "His control of the ruin might be a bit crude, but that’s fine. If any problems arise, you can always come find me at the manor."

"You’re saying you’d build a Megalopolis?" Headliner asked.

"Didn’t you say earlier that Zhao Meiyou is quite fond of Megalopolis?" The boy snapped his fingers as he spoke. The room vanished abruptly, and everything in the manor was erased as though wiped clean by an invisible hand. Then, gathering a wisp of air in his palm, he moulded it into existence. Ahead, a neon-lit street materialised out of nothingness.

That was the streetscape of Level 33.

The highest form of "Creation"—genesis. The creation of a world.

Just as Jehovah created the universe in seven days, everything within the ruin—the matter, even living beings—could be created. It was as if he wielded the authority of a god.

Thus, Ruin A173 holds deep affinity for humanity, for it is humanity itself that brought it into being.

The boy waved his hand once more, and everything crumbled like sand. With the snap of his fingers, they were back in the manor’s room again.

“Consider it?” The boy turned to the headliner. “Let Zhao Meiyou become part of the ruin.”

The old man sighed. “Qijue.”

“Sir.” The boy gripped his hand tightly, not turning back.

The strikingly handsome boy and the bloated adult stood in sharp contrast within the room—a tension palpable, something on the verge of spilling over. The headliner parted his lips, about to speak: “You…”

The next second, the door to the room was flung open. “Zhao Meiyou, what the hell was that message you left me at the theatre? What do you mean Boss Liu isn’t in Level 33 today? How the hell do I not know I’m not here?”

The air froze in an instant.

The one who barged in—a stout man—was none other than the headliner himself.

Now there were four people in the room—three Liu Qijues and one old man. The “headliner” by the window stretched lazily, then let out a sudden laugh.

The rotund body began to shift, slimming down and elongating until it returned to the original figure of Zhao Meiyou, who pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

The night before, during the chaos of the mad circus, the old man had saved him, bringing him to the mirror maze. Before leaving, he spoke a single sentence.

“Tomorrow, come find me in the guise of Qijue.”

“I will show you the whole truth.”