Before stepping into Site A173, Zhao Meiyou had left a message at the Playhouse. No matter who came looking for The Lead Actor that day—whether it was someone else or The Lead Actor himself—the instructions to Bao remained the same: “No need to search; he left word that Boss Liu isn’t in the Thirty-Three Layer District today!”
Someone like Diao Chan would take those words at face value. But if The Lead Actor himself heard them, he would instantly recognize it as the clue Zhao Meiyou had left for him: stay out of the Thirty-Three Layer District.
That left only one other place where The Lead Actor might go—the exact spot Zhao Meiyou wanted him to come.
Site A173.
I have to say, I really didn’t see this coming at first, Zhao Meiyou thought to himself.
After all, he didn’t know The Lead Actor’s husband that well. The old man was someone from inside the site, and Zhao Meiyou wasn’t about to place his full trust in him. The message was an insurance policy, just in case he ended up dead—someone would at least know where to retrieve his body.
But the truth turned out to be even more explosive than he’d imagined. Zhao Meiyou watched the young man in the room, who seemed to slip into a momentary daze. Moments later, he snapped back to reality. “Sir, what have you done?”
The old man’s smile carried a touch of helplessness, but it was resolute all the same. “Qijue, this dream really needs to end.”
The young man wiped his face and took a deep breath. “I refuse.” He produced a mask from somewhere and slipped it on—a pure white theatrical face. With crisp efficiency, he uttered a single word: “Dragon.”
A colorful dragon pattern emerged on the white paper. In an instant, the young man transformed into a massive dragon and charged at Zhao Meiyou with a roar, clearly intent on fighting to the death.
The Lead Actor’s expression shifted. He shoved Zhao Meiyou out of the way. “Get out of here!”
Zhao Meiyou stared at the dragon the young man had become. He figured the kid must have some serious mental issues—crazy was a condition that never got old.
He was about to say something when the situation made it clear things ran deeper than they appeared on the surface. Well, the surface was already plenty bizarre, but from an observer’s vantage, it was easier to pierce the fog shrouding the heart of it all—that classic case of the immersed being blind.
“Come with me.” Without giving him a choice, the old man dragged him away. The manor was on the brink of collapse. They climbed into a car compartment and sped toward the tunnel. Zhao Meiyou still had his cigarette clenched between his teeth, though the wind had whittled it down to a mere stub. “Why are you doing this?”
“At my age, most things no longer need a reason.” The old man floored the accelerator, pushing the vehicle to speeds it had never seen before. In that moment, he didn’t seem like an old man at all. The wind whipped back his white hair, revealing a pair of calm, composed eyes. Even at this near-suicidal velocity, he freed up his right hand from the steering wheel to light himself a cigar.
By the time they finally burst out of the riotous space, the surrounding scenery dissolving back into snowflake-like white noise, Zhao Meiyou no longer even had his cigarette butt left. The wind had battered him gray and disheveled. He slumped against the window, coughing violently.
“Hair oil is a wonderful thing, but these days the young ones don’t seem to care for it.” The old man puffed on his cigar and handed Zhao Meiyou a glass bottle. Zhao Meiyou took it and caught the familiar scent of elm wood.
The old man exhaled a plume of smoke. “We don’t have much time, young man. When Qijue loses control, the entire space falls into turmoil. They’ll be on us soon.”
Exhaling smoke was an art form in itself. Back when Zhao Meiyou was a teenager, he’d spent hours mimicking the brooding, decadent vibe of holographic game NPCs with cigarettes dangling from their lips. But he’d never captured the essence; he’d just ended up looking like a street punk who hadn’t slept enough. Now, the old man pinched his cigar between two fingers as the smoke unfurled. Zhao Meiyou realized that all those images he’d idolized in his youth had lost their luster.
A single smoke ring conjured visions of a sharp, fierce young man; an elegant, dashing middle-aged figure; and a serene elder. Their faces flickered through the haze, etched in vague yet vivid outlines. When the images faded, what lingered was a warmer face, its crow’s feet like carvings in ivory, the suit hugging a volcano that still hadn’t fully burned out.
He was old, but more vibrant than ever before, because now his soul had a secure resting place.
Zhao Meiyou understood. There was no need to ask why. For someone of the old man’s years, the word “love” felt too frail. Kings didn’t conquer time with words—they did it with action and resolve.
“I understand. My earlier words were presumptuous.” Zhao Meiyou said, “I have one last question. On what day did Young Master Liu leave the site to head to the Thirty-Three Layer District looking for my sister?”
The moment the young man in the room turned into a dragon, every thread connected into a single line.
The old man smiled. “Not bad for a friend of Qijue’s.”
Zhao Meiyou smiled back. “And you’re worthy of being his lover.”
The rear of the car shuddered violently as the white space rapidly crumbled. The Lead Actor, locked in combat with the dragon, closed in from behind. “I don’t think I need to say more.” The old man handed Zhao Meiyou a cigar, clipped it open, and lit it for him. “Tighten your tie, slick on some hair oil, and go do something an adult would.”
Zhao Meiyou stepped out of the car. The next instant, a rush of air blasted past from behind as the taxi rocketed toward the giant dragon. It was hands-down the most badass sedan Zhao Meiyou had ever seen—Diao Chan’s dazzling collection of treasures paled in comparison. It was like a groom late for his wedding, dressed in his finest tuxedo and racing to the chapel, hurtling down city streets with roses and fireworks erupting from the trunk. Zhao Meiyou got a face full of exhaust, and in that moment, he suddenly had a vivid image of his own old age.
The Lead Actor, tangled in the fight, was struck by the car and sent flying like a shooting star across the sky. He crashed to the ground right at Zhao Meiyou’s feet. Zhao Meiyou was in the middle of working pomade into his hair, sculpting a towering pompadour for the first time. “How’s this?” He watched The Lead Actor climb to his feet and ran a hand through his slicked-back strands. “Like a devilishly handsome marinated egg?”
The Lead Actor ignored the quip entirely. “Zhao Meiyou, you gonna help or not?”
“Of course I’m gonna help.” Zhao Meiyou replied. “How?”
“First, we need to stabilize the main body.” The Lead Actor pointed at the distant dragon. “If he destabilizes, I’m done for. And then the whole of Site A173 goes down with me.”
“Got it. But before that, one question.” Zhao Meiyou looked at him and repeated the same question from the taxi: “On what day did Young Master Liu leave the site to go to the Thirty-Three Layer District looking for my sister?”
The Lead Actor blinked in confusion. “December 8th. Why?”
“Did you enter or leave the site on December 8th?”
“No. I had a show that night—you were there.” The Lead Actor was getting impatient. “What are you getting at?”
“Listen up, Liu Qijue.” Zhao Meiyou took a deep breath. “I got my hands on some government files about the site lifeforms. They record the date the system detected a lifeform leaving the site—the same day Li Daqiang vanished.”
“December 8th.”
From the moment the young man became a dragon, the contradiction Zhao Meiyou had vaguely sensed finally erupted.
His own ability was Transformation, so he knew the difference between “Creation” and “Transformation” all too well. Creation imposed changes on others; Transformation affected oneself. Liu Qijue could reshape anything in the site at will—as long as it was something he himself had created.
There was only one thing he couldn’t alter: living humans from the real world. Or more precisely, archaeologists who entered the site. Because living people weren’t his creations. Li Daqiang was proof, his appearance unchanged.
By the same logic, the young man who could transform into a dragon wasn’t a living human.
The young man was the created lifeform.
“You told me yourself! Excessive mental fluctuations lead to delusion, making you think you’re a native of the site!” Zhao Meiyou bellowed at The Lead Actor over the howling wind. “You loved your husband so damn much that you forgot who you even are! You’re hands-down the craziest son of a bitch I’ve ever met, Liu Qijue!”
God created the world and then fell to earth, forgetting from whence he came.
The Lead Actor stared at him, mouth half-open, frozen in place like someone jolted awake from a dream, his consciousness adrift in a sea of sin.
Zhao Meiyou kicked him, but got no reaction. Anger flared, and he pried open the man’s mouth, pouring in the rest of the pomade.
The intense elm wood scent slammed into his brain like plunging into the ocean depths. Long-buried memories surged up like massive waves, buffeting him through the storm.
Whose face was that in the depths of memory?
How long ago was it?
He remembered their first meeting. He’d shaken off the mob chasing him inside the site and returned to reality, only to be betrayed by a friend in the safehouse. He slaughtered them all—enemies and the comrades he’d once trusted with his back.
The safehouse was no longer safe. He went underground, vanishing into the Lower District, holing up in a rundown holographic theater for seven days. He pried open vending machines and survived on fast-food pizzas left by patrons.
After seven days, his wounds had healed enough. Instead of leaving, he approached the counter and asked if he could get a yearly pass.
The ticket seller doubled as the owner. He gave Zhao Meiyou an odd look and said in some archaic dialect: If you wanna watch, bring money. We don’t do fancy memberships here.
He thought it over, slipped off his jade ring, and placed it on the counter. It was his only possession of value. With that, he bought the place and took on roles as both owner and ticket seller.
A few nights later, an elderly man walked in with silver-gray hair tied back. He caught the scent of elm wood pomade and cigar smoke and rose from behind the counter.
The old man glanced at him and pointed at a floating poster on the wall with a smile. “Young man, one ticket for Schindler’s List, please.”
The old man became a regular, often showing up at nine at night for a movie. Sometimes he carried a long-handled umbrella; other times, he sported an orchid pinned to his suit lapel. A black cat dashed under the moonlight lamp as their conversations grew from sparse to frequent.
