Chapter 6: Young Master Liu Part 1

That day in Site A173, they wandered through various eras for quite some time before The Lead Actor finally told Zhao Meiyou that his ability was “Creation.”

Archaeologists’ abilities had no upper limit, but how effectively they could be used depended on the compatibility between the ability user and the site. “Site A173 is my main exploration ground,” The Lead Actor explained. “My compatibility here is the highest, so my abilities get a boost too.”

Zhao Meiyou thought of the taxi that had appeared out of nowhere, and the mask The Lead Actor had clamped onto his face—both must have been manifestations of his power. “What if you’re in a site you’re not familiar with?”

“In the site where my compatibility is lowest, all I can create is a single strand of hair,” The Lead Actor said. “Most archaeologists pick a fixed site as their main exploration ground to gradually improve their compatibility there. Newbies like you get dragged around to check out the major representative sites to see which one syncs best with you, then you can settle on your main one.”

In the end, The Lead Actor told him that a tiny fraction of archaeologists could shuttle freely between sites, but that required real talent. Given Zhao Meiyou’s nerve damage, though, he might give it a shot. If he died, at least it’d be one less menace to society.

Zhao Meiyou’s exploration limit for Site A173 was one month. The Lead Actor brought him a few times at first, then just let him roam free. The site was unusually welcoming to humans, so accidents were rare.

Zhao Meiyou sat on the steps, gazing at the whales plummeting from the distant sky.

In other words, Li Daqiang’s disappearance had probably been his own doing.

He had reviewed Li Daqiang’s file: a middle-aged widower whose wife and child had died in an accident years ago. No hobbies, a life as bland as plain paper. In the Lower District on the thirty-third floor, people like him were among the most common missing persons—many of them suicides.

The Hospital had once treated a patient with three split personalities: a grandmother, a mother, and a granddaughter. They spent their days bickering over mother-in-law and daughter-in-law drama. At first, Zhao Meiyou figured the primary personality must be the father, but the lead doctor informed him it had never emerged. Instead, there was a fourth personality: the patient’s family dog.

A female dog, at that. The patient’s original gender was male, yet not a single one of the four personalities packed any heat.

So yeah, it was important for people to have hobbies. Otherwise, after losing your family, you had nothing to lean on mentally. Zhao Meiyou mulled this over as he pulled out a cigarette.

“I’ve told you how many times not to smoke when you’re in close contact with antiques.”

“Hey, Noble Consort, you showed up just in time.” Zhao Meiyou kept the cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit. “I was wondering how to get out of here.”

He was at the edge of the site’s known range now, where time and space were somewhat jumbled. In the distance stretched an endless sea, with whales constantly crashing down from the sky like enormous blue raindrops, whipping up massive tsunamis.

There should have been a downpour right now, but aside from the spray from the waves, the sky overhead was perfectly clear. Seawater soaked the abandoned city. Zhao Meiyou sat at the entrance to a cathedral, its steps half-submerged and overgrown with blue-purple coral.

The Lead Actor surveyed the surroundings, puzzled. “Only you, Zhao Meiyou. Most archaeologists couldn’t reach a place like this after a full year of exploring.”

“When I came in today, it was still the Renaissance,” Zhao Meiyou said. “I checked the library a few days ago—Italy in this era is supposed to be a sight to behold. I wanted to see if the Mona Lisa really was Da Vinci in person.”

“So how’d you end up here?”

“I got dizzy from all the spinning. Walking around, it felt like the sky was pressing down on my head the whole time, shoulders heavy as lead.” Zhao Meiyou admitted it. “Somehow I walked into this long hallway full of mirrors, and when I came out the other end, here I was.”

“You didn’t get dizzy from the sky—no one gets vertigo from looking at the sky. Staring up at it is human instinct, even if you live in the thirty-third floor’s Lower District.” The Lead Actor snorted. “You came down with Florence Syndrome.”

Florence Syndrome, also known as Stendhal Syndrome. Legend had it that the French writer Stendhal once visited Florence and, after taking in too many artistic masterpieces too quickly and densely, suffered heart palpitations, fainted, and even hallucinated.

It was a condition brought on by the sheer beauty of art, where overwhelming aesthetic overload scrambled the senses. Back when Italy still existed, local doctors frequently treated cases like this, mostly tourists.

The Lead Actor eyed Zhao Meiyou with genuine curiosity. “You actually came down with something like that.”

Zhao Meiyou’s response was to light his cigarette.

“This is the edge of the site’s known range,” The Lead Actor said, staring at a sculpture half-submerged in the seawater. “You’re getting close to the real timeline.”

“The real timeline?” Zhao Meiyou was caught off guard. “I figured space-time would be totally messed up by now.” He pointed to the horizon, where whales were still plummeting in a sporadic shower.

“It is disordered, but not completely.” The Lead Actor traced a semicircle with his hand through the air around them. “Inside the city limits, the fluctuations are still fairly stable.”

It was less a city now and more a ruin, the white marble weathered to dust. “This is post-destruction Italy,” The Lead Actor said.

The Orion Arm War, the Great Catastrophe, Earth’s desperate surgery—Europe had mostly sunk beneath the waves. The once-glorious nations had joined Atlantis in the annals of myth.

When Zhao Meiyou first arrived, he’d poked around the cathedral. He’d done some reading in the library lately; this had originally been the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. Vasari’s ceiling fresco was reduced to faint, mottled outlines of oil paint now. Jesus was nowhere to be seen, and in the spot where the cross had hung was a massive, rusted gold frame—whatever painting had been there was long gone.

Zhao Meiyou still couldn’t figure out how he’d reached post-apocalyptic Italy. Unlike The Lead Actor, he couldn’t freely hop through time and space in Site A173—that took high compatibility. After half a month exploring, he could only stick to a single time period.

The Lead Actor seemed to read his mind. “You’re not wearing your uniform.”

Zhao Meiyou glanced at his black trench coat. “I am, aren’t I?”

The Lead Actor nearly kicked him right into the water. “The full uniform—tie in a Dover Knot!”

An archaeologist’s uniform was a complete set, from the inside out. This guy was just draped in a trench coat over his usual sweat-stained undershirt and flip-flops. Thank goodness he hadn’t thrown on his apron this time.

“Even a human-friendly site like A173 isn’t absolutely safe,” The Lead Actor said, taking a deep breath. “If an archaeologist’s mental state exceeds the threshold, it’s easy to get lost in there. You just triggered Stendhal Syndrome, spiking your mental fluctuations, which scrambled the site’s space-time. If you don’t stabilize soon, it’ll swallow you whole. Zhao Meiyou, if you’re gonna die, don’t do it on my watch.”

Zhao Meiyou remembered now—when The Lead Actor had brought him the uniform before, he’d mentioned it was one of the few items guaranteed to work inside sites, stabilizing mental fluctuations. But he’d roamed so freely without incident that he’d clean forgotten.

Zhao Meiyou showed zero remorse, instead looking thoughtful. “What happens if you get swallowed?”

“Your consciousness dissolves, and you start thinking you’re a native of the site.”

Zhao Meiyou pondered that. “Sounds not so bad?”

This time, The Lead Actor actually kicked him in.

“You know, Noble Consort, I’ve always thought someone your size could move so nimbly—it’s seriously impressive.” Zhao Meiyou clambered out of the water, scratching his head. “Alright, let’s dance. I’ve got the night shift tonight.”

Dancing was how you got out of Site A173—a relatively safe method. Compared to getting your head blown off by Diao Chan, a tango was nothing.

The Lead Actor conjured a pair of high heels. Zhao Meiyou eyed them. “Why are they my size?”

“Because this venerable one’s here to bail your ass out.”

It had to be a tango, and a two-person tango at that—which was why Zhao Meiyou hadn’t been able to leave at first. Post-destruction Italy was nothing but ruins, without a soul in sight. If The Lead Actor hadn’t shown up soon, Zhao Meiyou might’ve started considering snagging a female whale for a cha-cha.

Speaking of whales, Zhao Meiyou rubbed his chin. “I can do the woman’s steps. Noble Consort, could you whip something up for me?”

“What a pain in the ass.” The Lead Actor sounded irritated. “Whip up what?”

Zhao Meiyou pointed to the whale-showering horizon, then to the endless blue sea. “Can you make a pot and boil this ocean dry? These whales are falling like dumplings—I haven’t eaten in ages.”

The Lead Actor: “…”

Zhao Meiyou helpfully added, “Sour soup ones.”

Back in reality, tonight Zhao Meiyou and Diao Chan were on night shift. He pushed open the emergency room door to find the man, predictably, munching a cucumber sandwich. “Alright, alright, I’m starting to get traumatized by your cucumbers.” Zhao Meiyou hauled in bags of groceries. “Fresh produce came into the synth market today—I just bought veggies. Hotpot tonight.”

Diao Chan held up his sandwich, clearly unconvinced. “We can’t do hotpot in the department.”

Zhao Meiyou slapped a slab of pork on the counter and snapped out a scalpel. “You eating or not?”

Diao Chan: “…Eating.”

The pot was a yin-yang split: clear broth on one side, spicy red oil on the other. Beef omasum blanched just right, dusted thick with sesame chili powder, wrapped around garlic paste and shrimp paste, then downed in one go. Zhao Meiyou hadn’t grabbed much meat in his rush, so the two pairs of chopsticks clashed fiercely in the pot. “Oh, right,” Diao Chan said between bites, not forgetting to ask, “You’ve been teaming up with Noble Consort for half a month now? How’s it going?”

“Don’t ask. We just had a scrap today.” Zhao Meiyou recounted the sour soup dumpling story.

Diao Chan nearly choked laughing. “Only now. Back in the day, old Noble Consort might’ve kneaded you into dumpling filling.”

Zhao Meiyou took a swig of ice-cold milk. “How do you mean?”

Diao Chan hadn’t been able to tell him about archaeologists before, and his rapport with The Lead Actor seemed distant. Now, though, plenty could be said outright. “Noble Consort volunteered to be your guide. It was supposed to be me, but I don’t vibe with Site A173 anymore. Didn’t expect him to step up—he hasn’t mentored anyone in years.”

“Noble Consort said I’m better than him,” Zhao Meiyou said. “His main site’s way too dangerous—no room for carrying newbies. So first, I clear his beginner village.”

Diao Chan looked surprised. “He really said that?”

“What.” Zhao Meiyou set down his milk cup. “Noble Consort can speak like a human when he isn’t suffering from indigestion.”

Diao Chan seemed reluctant to believe it. “He wasn’t like that before—I mean, before he came to the Lower District. Never heard him say anyone was stronger than him.”

“Damn, that cocky?”

“Xi Shi, there’s something you don’t know.” Diao Chan set down his chopsticks and spoke earnestly. “The Noble Consort may only be a few years older than us, but he’s already a seasoned archaeologist with plenty of credentials. His talent is exceptional, and he got into the field early. Among his peers from that year, calling him the strongest wouldn’t be an exaggeration.”

Back then, Diao Chan had just entered the profession, right in time for the archaeologists’ gathering that happened once every decade. The event was held on the 777th Layer. There were many rules for the assembly, and the first one was that attendees should ideally wear masks—not mandatory, but based on past events, those who revealed their identities often ended up dead from rival intrigue.

“You know that the 777th Layer is the entrance to Site A173,” Diao Chan continued. “On the day of the gathering, the Noble Consort had just finished an exploration mission. He must have stirred up quite a commotion inside the site because the quantum aftershock he created when he emerged nearly flipped an entire street.”

Diao Chan still remembered that scene vividly—the young man bursting out of the exit astride a massive dragon.

It was the iconic azure dragon from ancient Eastern myths, with whiskers and horns like fine jade glass. The youth, dressed in traditional Tang robes, laughed heartily as he ripped off his mask, his sleeve rolled up to reveal a strip of white silk.