Chapter 3: The Archaeologist

The leader of the masked men fell silent for a moment.

He turned around and nodded to his accomplices in confirmation. “This guy’s a lunatic.”

Zhao Meiyou’s stomach let out a loud gurgle.

The masked man paused again. “…Or maybe he’s just starving mad.”

“He’s pretty far gone.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Should we share some of his brains with him?”

No way, Zhao Meiyou thought. These assholes actually want to eat my brains?

Who’s the crazy one here?

He quickly recalled the last time the hospital had admitted someone with cannibalistic tendencies. It had been ages ago—what was it, the year of the monkey and the horse? Anyway, the attending physician hadn’t done much with the guy. The patient had tried to rape a nurse on his second day and got beaten into paralysis for it.

The doctor had slapped him with a diagnosis of “sleep-deprived rage disorder” and locked him in solitary for a week.

Zhao Meiyou had always thought that cannibal’s logic was pretty warped. Would anyone really want to fuck their food? Like putting Diao Chan and a cucumber sandwich under the covers for a nap? But who was topping who in that scenario?

In the instant Zhao Meiyou zoned out, the leader of the masked men scooped out his brain with a spoon in one go. Then one of the others popped open his own skull like the lid of a box.

He pulled out his own brain.

And swapped it into Zhao Meiyou’s head.

Finally, he ripped off his face mask.

Zhao Meiyou saw that the man now had a face identical to his own.

“He swapped your brain in, so he can take your face,” the leader explained helpfully. Then he rummaged in a box and pulled out a bunch of bottles and jars: mustard, tomato sauce, mayonnaise, strawberry jam.

The masked man held up the freshly extracted brain in front of Zhao Meiyou. “Which sauce do you want to dip it in?”

Zhao Meiyou blinked. “…No chili or cumin?”

The masked man looked disgusted. “People who eat spicy food are freaks!”

The other masked men chorused, “Freaks should be burned alive!”

Zhao Meiyou jerked his chin toward the guy who’d just swapped his brain. “He’s me now. Burn him.”

The man recoiled in horror. “I’m not! I don’t have it!”

Zhao Meiyou shot back, “Then give my brain back.”

“Here, take yours back.” And sure enough, the masked man jammed his own brain into Zhao Meiyou’s skull.

“I meant my original brain!” Zhao Meiyou snapped, furious.

“No way!” The man looked even more terrified. It was hard to tell who the hostage really was. “Your brain already deflowered my skull!”

“I can’t keep this up.” Zhao Meiyou had reached his limit. “You guys are all fucking insane, aren’t you?”

No point running—this was way too real. No one could think straight without a brain. He had to be dreaming. A dream even more absurd than Diao Chan hooking up with a cucumber sandwich.

In dreams, thought becomes reality. Sure enough, the next second he heard Diao Chan’s voice: “Zhao Meiyou!”

Zhao Meiyou whipped his head around. There he was, standing not far off by an open door. “Diao Chan, you finally showed up!” Zhao Meiyou bellowed. “Hope we didn’t interrupt your quality time with the cucumber!”

Diao Chan stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Then the sound of guns cocking filled the air as all the masked men around Zhao Meiyou raised their weapons.

If this is my dream, Zhao Meiyou thought, then dream—make their dicks fly out of the gun barrels!

The next second, shots rang out, and something flew from the muzzles. Flesh-colored things! Nice! Zhao Meiyou cheered inwardly and glanced sideways, eager to see the looks on their faces.

Instead, he heard a chorus of moans.

“Dreams are projections of the subconscious,” Zhao Meiyou muttered, his expression turning complicated. “…I really need to see a shrink. What kind of messed-up shit is in my head?”

The moans hadn’t even died down when a burst of real gunfire erupted from Diao Chan’s side—he was holding a gun too.

Unlike the fleshy projectiles from Zhao Meiyou’s side, Diao Chan’s shots were the real deal, and his aim was spot-on. The masked men’s heads exploded like fireworks.

“You okay?” Diao Chan hurried over and patted Zhao Meiyou’s face. “Zhao Meiyou? Xi Shi? Did they scare you stupid?”

Zhao Meiyou said, “Untie me first.”

Diao Chan looked surprised. “You forgot? Last time you were in solitary, you escaped a straitjacket in three seconds. You even won first place at the staff talent show with that trick!”

Zhao Meiyou groaned. “This is the 1999 antique version! The great-granddaddy of the restraints I’m used to!”

“Oh, right.” Diao Chan fiddled with it for a while before finally getting the leg straps off. “The upper body’s trickier—I can’t quite…”

“That’s enough.” Zhao Meiyou stood up, still strapped to the chair, and kicked straight at Diao Chan.

Diao Chan couldn’t dodge. He stared in disbelief. “Zhao Meiyou, have you finally lost it?”

Zhao Meiyou kicked him again. “You just fucking blew out my brain!”

Once he’d explained the whole ridiculous backstory, Diao Chan looked at him guiltily. “Sorry about that.”

“Whatever.” Zhao Meiyou sat back down. “If sorry fixed everything, why bother with a psych ward?”

Diao Chan eyed the puddle of red and white on the floor, hesitating. “Think we could clean this up and shove it back in?”

“Anything that hits the ground past three seconds is off-limits. Common knowledge.” Zhao Meiyou said, “How many seconds has it been already?”

“Good point.” Diao Chan nodded, squatting down to meet his eyes. “Sorry, Xi Shi.”

Zhao Meiyou clicked his tongue. “I said forget it—why apologize again?”

“Because I have to shoot you once more.” Diao Chan raised his gun to Zhao Meiyou’s head.

Zhao Meiyou blinked. “What?”

Before he could react, the gun went off. Blood sprayed.

In that final instant as his head exploded, Zhao Meiyou’s last thought was that getting shot in the face felt pretty damn thrilling—at least better than a chainsaw buzzing into his skull.

One felt like the runs, the other like being backed up.

When Zhao Meiyou woke up, his first words were, “I knew that bastard Diao Chan had been eyeing my good looks for ages.”

“We even had a bet going on your first words—whether you’d curse us out,” a voice said from nearby. “But even I didn’t guess this. Classic you.”

“Diao Chan?” Zhao Meiyou turned his head, his bones cracking with a series of sharp pops. His whole body felt like it’d been run over by a steamroller and pieced back together. “Fuck, what happened to me?”

“You tell me.”

Zhao Meiyou pondered for a moment, his face twisting into an indescribable expression. “I think I had one hell of a fucked-up dream.”

Diao Chan nodded. “Yeah.”

Zhao Meiyou suddenly looked up at him and tsked. “But judging by how my body’s reacting… you didn’t slip something from the pharmacy to knock me out and have your way with me, did you?”

Diao Chan froze. “Uh… what?!”

This is ridiculous, Zhao Meiyou thought, but how else to explain it? A whole night of cucumbers and dicks—it was exhausting. Had to be his brain reacting to some external stimulus. But if he’d actually hooked up with Diao Chan, there’d be a ton of complications ahead. Messy. Maybe he could help sort out the family estate, inherit the cash cow, and open a cucumber sandwich chain in the Lower District? What would that make him—discarded wife or rags-to-riches vixen?

Smooth move, Zhao Meiyou, he chided himself calmly. Already latching on.

“Zhao Meiyou, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but please act normal,” Diao Chan’s voice cut through like it was coming from billions of light-years away as Zhao Meiyou’s thoughts ran wild. “People are watching. This isn’t the lawless Lower District.”

Upper District? Zhao Meiyou jolted. No way—we meeting the in-laws already?

He’d noticed when he woke up: just him and Diao Chan in the room. So, surveillance. Zhao Meiyou watched as Diao Chan pulled out a remote. The right wall turned transparent, becoming a huge floor-to-ceiling window.

Bright light flooded in, sunlight stretching endlessly.

Zhao Meiyou gauged the view’s height and exchanged a glance with Diao Chan. No doubt about it—this was the Upper District, way up high, close to the nine-hundredth floor.

“Normally, the government’s specialist teams handle this, but given your situation, the declassification fell to me.” Diao Chan took a deep breath. “Zhao Meiyou, listen carefully.”

Zhao Meiyou caught the word: declassification. It meant unsealing top-secret files after their confidentiality period or divulging highly classified info.

“You weren’t dreaming before. All that stuff really happened.”

“Or rather, it’s quantum-state reality.”

“Beyond the linear time we experience, there are ‘floating’ uncertain small worlds. People with special constitutions can shuttle between our reality and those small worlds.”

Diao Chan pressed the remote, and a straight line appeared in midair, surrounded by scattered irregular blobs. He pointed to the line. “That’s our reality.” Then to the blobs. “Those are the small worlds.”

“We don’t know how these small worlds form or what causes them. From what we’ve explored so far, they resemble quantum field thresholds. Normal people can’t detect them at all, but special individuals can shuttle through with certain methods.”

“So my ‘dream’ was me stumbling into a quantum field threshold?” Zhao Meiyou caught on quick. “Pure coincidence, or am I one of the special ones?”

Diao Chan studied him and sighed. “The latter. You’re special.”

A moment later, several government agents in uniforms entered, carrying black briefcases. One opened his, and a holographic screen flickered to life showing everything Zhao Meiyou had “dreamed”—starting from Diao Chan’s arrival.

Looks like they equipped shuttlers with some kind of recorder.

Which meant the government couldn’t observe quantum field thresholds directly.

“Citizen Zhao Meiyou, you did stumble into a quantum field threshold, but we’ve confirmed you’re one of the special ones—and you might have a rare constitution.” The agent said, “You mentioned your brain got sawed open?”

Zhao Meiyou grunted. “Injuries from the quantum field threshold don’t carry over to reality?”

“Quite the opposite.” The agent adjusted his glasses. “Site Rule No. 1: Sites are not dreams.”

Diao Chan stood behind Zhao Meiyou, his left hand on his shoulder. “Everything in a quantum field threshold is fundamentally quantum-state. Some small worlds are as dramatic as dreams, but sites aren’t dreams. Best not to get hurt in one.”

Zhao Meiyou asked, “What happens if you do?”

“Quantum-state, unknown.” Diao Chan said. “Most times, no issue… but…”

“Site Rule No. 2.” The agent cut him off. “The brain cannot be injured.”

“This is why the government has determined that you possess a rare constitution,” the agent said, turning to Zhao Meiyou. “Brain injuries sustained inside a Site transfer equally to reality, but you’re the sole exception.”

“You’re the only person so far who damaged their brain in a Site and emerged without brain death.”

Zhao Meiyou tilted his head. “Coincidence, or do I really have some miraculous ability?”

“We don’t know yet,” the agent replied with a smile. “If you’re brave enough, you could get your head blown off again the next time you enter a Site. With enough test samples, we’ll have our answer.”

Right—headshot. Zhao Meiyou glanced at the floating screen, where footage played of Diao Chan blasting his face apart with a single shot.

What he hadn’t expected was how it escalated from there. Right after Diao Chan headshot him, the man promptly blew his own brains out in the very next second.

“By the looks of it, both our brains got blown to bits,” Zhao Meiyou said, pointing at the screen. “So why are we both perfectly fine right now?”

“Every archaeologist’s body undergoes specialized training and reinforcement, granting them a unique ability within Sites,” the agent explained. “Citizen Diao Chan’s ability is ‘Awakening.’ Entering and exiting Sites comes with conditions—leaving is usually the harder part, often requiring intricate procedures. But Citizen Diao Chan is different. He has a gun.”

The agent continued, “This gun is separated from his body through Quantum Mimicry and then reinforced. No matter which Site he enters, it’s always with him.”

“A headshot from that gun will wake you up, no matter where you are inside a Site.”

“I’m kinda lost here,” Zhao Meiyou said, looking over at Diao Chan. “‘Site’ and ‘archaeologist’—what’s that about?”

“Government code names for classified matters,” Diao Chan explained. “‘Site’ refers to the quantum field threshold, and ‘archaeologist’ means the special individuals who can enter it.”

Got it—bureaucratic jargon for the reports.

“With that, this declassification is concluded,” the agent said, clasping his hands and meeting Zhao Meiyou’s gaze levelly. “Citizen Zhao Meiyou, the government formally invites you to enlist today. Are you willing to join the ranks of archaeologists?”

“Four questions first,” Zhao Meiyou said, holding up four fingers. “Work hours, pay and benefits, personal freedom.”

The agent seemed prepared for this. He pulled a laminated document from his briefcase and handed it over.

It was a job contract. Zhao Meiyou quickly skimmed the dense list of terms.

Generous—very generous.

The agent watched him closely. “You can accept or decline. If you decline, another agent will wipe this memory from your mind.”

“Before that, one last question,” Zhao Meiyou said. He glanced back at Diao Chan, whose hand had rested on his shoulder from start to finish. “Diao Chan, when did you become an archaeologist?”

Diao Chan fell silent for a moment. “When I was very young.”

Zhao Meiyou sighed and patted his hand. “You poor little thing.”

He turned back to the agent. “Alright, I accept.”

“Then here’s your first job briefing.” True to form for the government, the transition from hiring to deployment was seamless. The agent produced another document. “Site A173, exploration at 95 percent. That’s your inaugural assignment.”

In the Metropolis, paper products were on the verge of obsolescence. Even hospitals in the lower levels, like those in the 33rd-layer district, issued prescriptions electronically. Paper documents were fragile and inconvenient to carry—reserved for only the most sensitive classified matters.

Zhao Meiyou flipped through the thick stack of files. “What’s the job?”

“Archaeologists typically explore Sites—that’s the mission,” the agent said. “Per Site Rule No. 3, unless something’s been reinforced through Quantum Mimicry, anything you try to bring in or out is a gamble.”

Zhao Meiyou frowned. “Didn’t get that. Plain English?”

“There’s prep work before entering a Site, but hardly anyone carries personal items,” Diao Chan interjected. “You might not be able to bring them in anyway. Same goes for exiting—whatever comes out with you is random.”

The agent nodded in agreement. “Site Rule No. 4 states that only non-living matter can be extracted from a Site.”

Zhao Meiyou turned to the document’s final page, where a bold red warning stamp dominated the header.

The agent regarded him with a meaningful expression.

“But lately, Site Rule No. 4 has been challenged.”

An archaeologist had brought a living person out of a Site.