Chapter 6: Young Master Liu Part 2

“The Noble Consort’s ability is ‘Creation.’ It’s not a rare power, but he pushes it to unimaginable levels,” Diao Chan explained. “That azure dragon was his handiwork. Though it dissipated quickly in reality after emerging from the site, he was the first to create a dragon inside one and even manage to bring it out into the real world.”

At that gathering, the youth was one of the few bold enough to remove his mask, but that didn’t stop everyone from fawning over him.

“The Noble Consort is the real deal, no doubt about it. Back then, he had more admirers than patients in the inpatient ward,” Diao Chan said. “Do you remember what he used to look like?”

“I do have some impression.” Zhao Meiyou dredged up a face from his memories and clicked his tongue. “Time is a butcher’s knife, huh.”

Zhao Meiyou had known The Lead Actor for a while now, but it was hard to connect him to the handsome youth Diao Chan was describing.

“I wasn’t really close to the Noble Consort,” Diao Chan admitted, lost in recollection for a moment. “He was way ahead of me back then, so we rarely had chances to team up. Xi Shi, do you remember how we first met?”

“I do. It was a rainy day,” Zhao Meiyou replied. “The boss next door even thought I’d picked up a drowned rat.”

Diao Chan didn’t argue with the description. He just sighed. “I’d only recently escaped from a site at that point, and then I ran smack into… well, I froze up in shock.”

Zhao Meiyou paused with his chopsticks holding a piece of tripe, then dropped it onto Diao Chan’s plate. “No wonder.”

“Most new archaeologists have a mentor to guide them, but I wasn’t so lucky. My master died in an accident not long after during an exploration… if you can even call it dying in the line of duty for archaeologists.”

“My situation was tricky. A lot of archaeologists are superstitious and see apprentices like me as bad luck, so most wouldn’t take me on. But I found a letter my master had left behind. He said that if anything happened to him, I should go find Young Master Liu.”

Young Master Liu. It took Zhao Meiyou a moment to realize who he meant. The Lead Actor’s family name was Liu—his real name, Liu Qijue.

“At the time, the Noble Consort was one of the few archaeologists willing to take on a apprentice like me. He was strong and didn’t care about that stuff.” Diao Chan paused, then continued, “But it wasn’t long before we ran into trouble again.”

It was the usual rival sabotage. The youth who had dared to unmask at the gathering couldn’t escape that curse after all. Archaeologists had their own code of conduct, and the laws of the Metropolis didn’t apply inside the sites. At least, it was easy to pass off deaths in the sites as accidents.

“I didn’t have my gun yet. At the final moment when we were surrounded, he threw me out. After that, I didn’t hear any news about him for a long time.”

A moment of silence followed. Zhao Meiyou dumped a big pack of instant noodles into a bowl, filling the room with the sounds of slurping and gulping.

Diao Chan rubbed his face and ate the tripe Zhao Meiyou had given him. “Later, I heard he’d injured his brain in the site, which severely weakened his abilities. After that, he rarely showed his face. The next time we met was here.”

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

“I did at first,” Diao Chan said. “But then I heard he’d found the love of his life and wanted to live a quiet life, so I figured I shouldn’t disturb him.”

That was a twist Zhao Meiyou hadn’t seen coming. He choked on his noodles, nearly spraying them out his nose. “The Noble Consort? Love of his life?”

“You didn’t know?” Now it was Diao Chan’s turn to be surprised, though he calmed down quickly. “Makes sense.”

Zhao Meiyou felt like being too nosy right now would make him seem heartless. He scratched his cheek, embarrassed yet unable to resist. Leaning in, he whispered, “Hey, hey, who does he like?”

It was the tone of a classic gossipy busybody, just short of cracking open some melon seeds. Diao Chan couldn’t help but laugh and groan at the sight. “Zhao Meiyou, can you grow a brain or something?”

“Fine, fine.” Zhao Meiyou fished out a skewer of chicken hearts. “Please continue.”

“I’m not entirely clear on the details,” Diao Chan said. “I just know the Noble Consort fell for a much older gentleman. Pretty much a May-December romance.”

Zhao Meiyou didn’t react much this time. “So why did the Noble Consort end up in the 33rd Layer District? Did his husband pass away?” That would explain the binge eating disorder, at least.

Diao Chan sighed. “I don’t know.”

Since Diao Chan didn’t know, Zhao Meiyou didn’t press further. Not every rock needed to surface, or too many ships would sink. His mind turned to something else—The Lead Actor’s nervous binge eating disorder.

When The Lead Actor was admitted, it was little more than a formality. There were a few perfunctory consultations, but the attending physician got nothing out of him and let it drop. Still, from the steadily increasing medication doses, it was clear The Lead Actor’s body was deteriorating.

Heart ailments required medicine from the heart. After hearing Diao Chan’s recollections, Zhao Meiyou took the matter to heart. He saw it as a potential breakthrough, but he wasn’t sure if he should act on it—imposing kindness on others unasked often stemmed from arrogance. Not everyone needed saving.

Lately, Zhao Meiyou had been cramming history and literature. Among them was a twentieth-century classic called Love in the Time of Cholera. The opening was intriguing: Amour died amid the scent of bitter almonds, choosing suicide on his sixtieth birthday to avoid further aging. His secret lover accepted his death without reproach or interference for defying conventional morality. They loved each other deeply while remaining independent; she even respected and blessed his choice. After he was gone, she would continue living her life.

Commentators from centuries ago called that plot “one possibility of soul-deep love.” An uncanny metaphor, as if fate were warning Zhao Meiyou not to meddle.

But I’m not the Noble Consort’s lover—I’m his brother. As a brother, could Zhao Meiyou really stand by and watch him court death?

That night was Zhao Meiyou’s shift. With Diao Chan absent, he was in the emergency room gnawing through that massive tome of patient stories by that Marques guy. Text scrolled across the hovering screen as the protagonist bedded yet another woman—goodness knew how many. Dazed by the parade, Zhao Meiyou switched it to visual mode. Now it was really something; his language library had twenty options, and suddenly the room echoed with moans in every tongue imaginable.

Zhao Meiyou grew drowsy watching and eventually passed out facedown on the desk. When he woke, someone was lurking suspiciously beside him, furtively reaching for the terminal pinned under his arm.

“I say, Grandpa De.” Zhao Meiyou yawned. “This is world literature here—erotica from classics isn’t your speed. If you’re having trouble sleeping, should I call you an escort from Layer 20’s Joyful Red Courtyard?”

Grandpa De glared at him. “You brat, sleeping that lightly will make your hair fall out.”

“It’s not that I sleep lightly—your fumbling would wake a pig rooting around.” Zhao Meiyou tapped the terminal. “Which one caught your eye?”

“That one who was cuddling the male lead just now.” Grandpa De rolled his eyes. “She looks pretty good.”

“Ariza has 623 women in this book. Which one do you mean? Or do you want them all?” Zhao Meiyou chuckled. “Even Jia Baoyu’s courtyard didn’t have that many girls.”

Grandpa De was stumped, glaring at him for a long moment before muttering, “Watch your health, kid.”

Zhao Meiyou waved him off with a grin. “Didn’t you see I fell asleep reading it?” He stood up. “How about we two old guys take a stroll?” The elderly man slept lightly; during night shifts, Zhao Meiyou often kept him company for late-night snacks, heading to the rooftop at four a.m. for Eight Brocades exercises.

“Oh well—” Grandpa De let out a drawn-out sigh. “The playhouse is doing a song-and-dance show tonight, and with Liu-ge offstage, there’s no point going out.”

Only then did Zhao Meiyou remember: Grandpa De and The Lead Actor both walked the path of old male roles. Opera singers often lost themselves in their art, and there were plenty from the Pear Garden Troupe here. He’d never really connected the two. “You know the Noble Consort?”

“Obviously!” Grandpa De blew out his mustache in outrage. “He and his lover used to prop me up plenty at Emerging Clouds!”

Emerging Clouds Theater—the best playhouse in the Middle Layer District. Zhao Meiyou pressed, “You know his husband?”

“Hey, you brat, say two words and you start climbing the ladder.” Grandpa De shook his head smugly. “Back in the day, they were my top fans—didn’t even invite me as best man to their wedding banquet.” He pulled out his own terminal, rummaging through the storage card for ages before finding a photo.

It was a group shot of three, not holographic, taken somewhere backstage. There was the bearded overlord, the grinning youth, and the elderly man in a suit. Zhao Meiyou’s gaze locked on the old man, who wore tortoiseshell glasses with the kindly warmth of an elder, holding his formal hat over his chest after doffing it.

Jackpot. Zhao Meiyou stared at the man in the photo. The Noble Consort, this isn’t me forcing a rescue—opportunity just walked through the door.

To hell with Amour. I’m not your lover, expected to fully understand and respect your death wish. Love it or die, but I can’t watch you go.

Zhao Meiyou had met this old gentleman from the photo before—even remembered him vividly.

This was the driver of that bright yellow taxi during his first venture into Lab A173.

That night in Paris, at Montmartre Hill in front of the Red Mill. The cab idled under the gas lamps, the interior thick with cigar smoke and elmwood pomade. The Lead Actor flung open the door and slid directly into the front passenger seat.

Grandpa De gazed at the photo and intoned an operatic line leisurely: “Birth, old age, sickness, and death are but the norm; even the seas turn to mulberry fields in time.”

Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment, then asked carefully, “When did the Noble Consort’s husband pass away?”

Grandpa De gave him an odd look. “I know you and Liu-ge don’t get along, but no need to curse him like that.”

Heaven and earth be my witness, Zhao Meiyou was this close to calling the man Daddy. He grumbled inwardly. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do you mean, what?” Grandpa De rattled off, words tumbling out in a rapid-fire blur. “Little Liu’s spouse is still alive.”

After seeing Grandpa De off, Zhao Meiyou brewed himself a cup of coffee.

His sleep was so sound that at two in the morning, without extra-strong coffee, he would crash right away. He took a sip. The coffee was the kind Diao Chan had bought—bitter beyond words.

He leaned against the window and lit a cigarette.

Zhao Meiyou hadn’t realized he had fallen into a mental rut. Diao Chan’s stories of the past, combined with The Lead Actor’s Binge Eating Disorder, had led him to subconsciously assume this was some clichéd tale of star-crossed lovers, pining away in eternal separation by life and death. Yet Grandpa De had just told him that The Lead Actor’s husband was still alive.

At the time, Zhao Meiyou had asked, “Then why is Noble Consort going off the rails for no reason?”

“Sometimes living hurts more than dying,” Grandpa De had replied, speaking with the weight of hard-earned experience as he tapped his temple. “The body’s still kicking, but this part? No good anymore.”

It was a common stroke among the elderly. Resuscitation had failed, plunging the victim into a long, unbroken sleep.

Even in the 25th century, the human brain remained one of the Metropolis’s top research priorities. Skin, limbs, organs—even genes—could be cultured and replaced. The brain alone stood as the irreplaceable exception. No technology could fabricate one.

Archaeologists, too, had to abide by this principle. Site Rule No. 2: The brain must not be damaged.

So what was The Lead Actor doing in Site A173, creating a duplicate body identical to his husband? Mourning through reminders of the lost love? Zhao Meiyou tsked. He didn’t peg The Lead Actor as the sentimental type.

That left only one possibility.

Zhao Meiyou stubbed out his cigarette butt on the windowsill.

Technology couldn’t manufacture brains, but The Lead Actor’s ability was Creation.

Diao Chan had mentioned how Young Master Liu, back in the day, had even charged into reality astride a dragon.

This was it: The Lead Actor intended to craft an exact duplicate body inside the Site, then transplant his lover’s brain from reality into it—to awaken the one trapped in endless slumber.