Chapter 15: Mother

Diao Chan couldn’t bring himself to kill his mother—that was understandable—but he could always kill Zhao Meiyou. He might not manage it in reality, but fortunately, in his Lost State, he couldn’t even recognize who Zhao Meiyou was.

It wasn’t real death anyway. Zhao Meiyou lay sprawled on the ground as if he’d committed suicide right alongside Juliet, his mind whirring like an abacus in overdrive. As long as he didn’t damage his brain, he’d be fine.

What a clever little imp I am. Zhao Meiyou eyed Diao Chan, who stood before him gripping a knife, and figured this strike would be the finishing blow. He’d have to play dead convincingly once it landed.

But then Qian Duoduo lunged forward, snatched the knife from Diao Chan’s grasp, and lopped off Zhao Meiyou’s head in a single stroke. Clutching the severed head, he bolted for the exit.

Qian Duoduo moved with blinding speed. Before Zhao Meiyou could even react, a voice boomed from directly above him. “Zhao Meiyou, do you believe Diao Chan’s mother is the Chaos Source behind the Site’s Turmoil?”

Zhao Meiyou had wanted to nod, but lacking a neck made the gesture rather difficult. “Yes,” he answered.

“Listen carefully,” Qian Duoduo said as he tore through the Site, carrying Zhao Meiyou along. “Eliminating the Chaos Source is one way to awaken a Lost archaeologist, but there’s an exception they don’t mention in the employee handbook. As a newbie, you probably wouldn’t know.

“The one who eliminates the Chaos Source replaces the slain entity and becomes the new Chaos Source itself.”

“Do you understand? Follow that logic, and you’ll see they’re impossible to eradicate this way. The killer becomes the next victim, spawning yet another killer in turn. Only two solutions break the cycle: the Chaos Source takes its own life, or you guide the Lost archaeologist to kill it willingly.”

So? Zhao Meiyou didn’t follow. Hadn’t he just been steering Diao Chan toward option two? Why run?

“I don’t know the bond between Diao Chan and his mother, but those in the Lost State always share profound emotional ties with the origin of their chaos. Killing her enraged him. Now he wants you dead.”

“Not a few stabs you can shrug off by playing dead,” Qian Duoduo said, enunciating every word. “Total elimination. In reality, you’ll cease to exist entirely—brain death.”

Zhao Meiyou: “…”

In Site A173, the old man had slain the youth Liu Qijue, only to dissipate into thin air himself.

“That’s why rescue teams rarely eliminate Chaos Sources personally—it’s suicide,” Qian Duoduo continued tonelessly. “After you get out, I suggest checking your IQ.”

Zhao Meiyou hesitated. “…Can we even escape?”

“Diao Chan’s beyond saving at this point,” Qian Duoduo replied. “We can’t let him kill you with a knife or anything like that. Somehow, we need to draw out his gun.”

Diao Chan’s ability was Awakening. A headshot from his gun would eject them from the Site.

“What do you mean, beyond saving?”

“In this scenario, there are only two outcomes: you die and he lives, or he dies and you live. But even brain damage won’t kill you inside a Site, right? So how do you die? Fail to eliminate the Chaos Source, and the archaeologist remains Lost forever. Drag Diao Chan out by force now, and he’ll suffer total mental collapse.”

Zhao Meiyou: “…”

He’d been about to suggest the prior incident might’ve been a fluke—that maybe brain trauma would kill him for real this time—but Qian Duoduo cut him off, as if reading his thoughts. “Earlier, you talked about capturing the king first. I assumed you had a plan, but you’d already blundered once. Don’t repeat it.” He shot Zhao Meiyou a cold glance. “Good boys obey!”

“…Yes, Daddy. Got it, Daddy,” Zhao Meiyou said. “So what do we do now?”

Qian Duoduo’s response was to hurl Zhao Meiyou’s head like a soccer ball.

Zhao Meiyou first assumed the man was lashing out in frustration, but tracing the parabolic arc, he spotted Diao Chan standing a short distance away—precisely at effective pistol range. Qian Duoduo had judged the distance perfectly.

Diao Chan faced them and drew his handgun.

Zhao Meiyou’s head pointed straight at the barrel.

Qian Duoduo stood directly behind it.

In that split second, Zhao Meiyou suddenly regenerated limbs. Gravity yanked his body downward sharply, dodging the incoming bullet.

Bang! The shot struck Qian Duoduo square in the forehead, without deviation.

His expression froze in mid-shock, then his entire form crumbled away like grains of sand.

“Sorry about that, Brother Qian,” Zhao Meiyou called out to the vanishing spot, giving it a wave. “I appreciate the good intentions. You go on ahead—catch you later.”

“Finally, the busybody’s out of the picture.” Zhao Meiyou turned to face Diao Chan and tsked. “Alright, let me ask you this: who am I?”

Diao Chan: “…Xi Shi.”

“Hey!” Zhao Meiyou burst out laughing. “You got it.”

Qian Duoduo had gotten one thing wrong: Lost archaeologists didn’t necessarily suffer mental breakdowns upon leaving a Site.

The Lead Actor was the perfect example. Though utterly deluded about his own identity in his Lost State, he’d gone on to live a normal life afterward.

Granted, one might argue they were all a bit unhinged regardless—crazy as a group.

Zhao Meiyou theorized that what truly drove archaeologists insane wasn’t the Lost State itself, but Turmoil.

Take Site A173: exposing the young Liu Qijue’s identity as a Creation wielder. Or more recently, stripping away Diao Chan’s elderly disguise. Each revelation had triggered a massive Site collapse. People could thrive in self-delusion; madness dawned the instant truth pierced the veil.

Unless the Chaos Source was slain promptly during Turmoil, the archaeologist’s psyche was at grave risk.

However.

Moments after Diao Chan had plunged the knife into Zhao Meiyou’s heart, he’d recognized him.

In that instant, the Turmoil had lifted.

As long as the Site’s Turmoil resolved, Zhao Meiyou could remain the Chaos Source indefinitely without consequence. Reality wouldn’t suffer; at worst, he’d pick up a new identity in Site S45. Once outside, Diao Chan wouldn’t go mad. Everything would proceed as normal.

Zhao Meiyou gazed at Diao Chan and smiled. “You saw all this coming?”

Diao Chan had only just regained his wits and looked rather disheveled. He coughed a few times. “I left plenty of clues. Others might miss them, but you should’ve pieced it together.”

It all started that New Year’s Eve when the government agent informed Zhao Meiyou that Diao Chan had gone missing. He’d sensed an almost contrived coincidence right away. Diao Chan had been an archaeologist for years—why mishap now?

Why precisely when Zhao Meiyou had become one himself, wrapping up his internship?

Outsiders might chalk it up to resurfacing childhood trauma or the like, but Zhao Meiyou didn’t buy coincidences.

Especially not with Diao Chan.

Zhao Meiyou believed his partner carried old scars too deep to shake easily. Absent deliberate indulgence, Diao Chan wouldn’t succumb to the Lost State.

So the question arose: why choose it voluntarily?

To draw Zhao Meiyou into Site S45.

Plenty of archaeologists could enter Site S45, but only Zhao Meiyou could decipher Diao Chan’s subtle metaphors and hints.

Yet even if Zhao Meiyou received every signal and “rescued” him, what was the point of such elaborate machinations? They’d end up right back where they started. It didn’t explain the choice to get Lost.

Qian Duoduo’s reaction supplied the final piece.

Most archaeologists—even the Metropolis Government—labored under a misconception: a Lost archaeologist wouldn’t suffer mental collapse absent Site Turmoil.

The government was unaware of Zhao Meiyou’s glitch: he simply wouldn’t die. The inevitable outcome? In the common view, archaeologist Diao Chan could never leave Site S45.

That was Diao Chan’s endgame—a legitimate excuse to remain inside Site S45, his Lost State serving as a deterrent to keep intruders at bay.

Diao Chan clapped Zhao Meiyou on the shoulder. “Well done, Xi Shi.”

Only they two would attempt such a thing.

What a brazen gamble.

“Our rapport’s spot-on,” Zhao Meiyou said with a grin. “So, this place really is the 22nd century?”

Few motives justified Diao Chan’s grand scheme. The simplest? He’d crossed someone powerful in reality and needed the Site as a hideout.

Given his lineage and prowess, only two forces could compel such desperation: the Diao Family or the Metropolis Government.

Factor in Site S45’s internals, and it pointed to the 22nd century.

Humanity’s technological pinnacle in the 22nd century.

Neither the Diao Family nor the Metropolis Government could easily ignore such wonders.

Diao Chan must have unearthed something pivotal inside—a discovery coveted by one, the other, or both, enough to threaten his life.

Thus, he hunkered down in the Site: his domain for exploration, where his odds of survival far outstripped lingering in the Metropolis.

If Diao Chan deemed his find authentic, then it was.

Diao Chan said, “Zhao Meiyou, do you know what a ‘Site’—that is, a quantum field threshold—is?”

Zhao Meiyou replied, “Go on, enlighten me.”

“No one does.” Diao Chan shook his head. “After years of study, we’ve gleaned clues. Consciousness influences the quantum field threshold. Archaeologists with Creation abilities can even reshape entire Sites. Yet every Site shares an underlying foundation.

“It’s materialistic, impervious to human will. Dig deep enough, or build upon it with the right logic, and you can restore the Site to its original form.”

“Site S45’s foundation is the 22nd century. I’m certain—I discovered the original archaeologist’s exploration log. Her first entry described a war-ravaged wasteland amid the ruins, pierced by a lone skyscraper.

“She cross-referenced historical records: the Mercury Tower in the city heart.

“Since then, Site S45 served as the exploration anchor for three archaeologists before me—I’m the fourth. We experimented relentlessly. One reshaped it into the 21st century; that’s when the Mercury Tower rose. Wrong approach. The third killed himself, leaving a note just five words long: ‘Orion Arm War.’

“When my turn came, I pursued 22nd-century logic to reconstruct it. Countless failures later, I erected Ideal City.”

“The key to restoring the site doesn’t require you to design every single detail. You just need to place the most crucial elements.”

Zhao Meiyou asked, “What makes you think you succeeded?”

“Because something appeared in the city that I absolutely couldn’t have known about,” Diao Chan replied. “You’ve been to Site A173. The Noble Consort was practically a god in that site, but there’s one ironclad rule: he can’t create anything beyond his own knowledge.”

“He can make dragons, he can make rockets, but you can’t disassemble the rocket. If you do, it vanishes—because the Noble Consort doesn’t know how rockets are really built or what’s inside them. He only knows they fly, so the ones he creates can fly, but nothing more.”

This matched exactly what Zhao Meiyou had been thinking. Diao Chan really had obtained something from the site that no longer existed in the real world.

Zhao Meiyou pressed, “So what did you find?”

“Zhao Meiyou, you know I’m a clone. I was born because the Diao Family lacked a proper succession mechanism. Once the family head passes the golden years of their lifespan, they get replaced. But have you ever wondered why the Diao Family doesn’t just use artificial humans? That would solve the lifespan issue entirely.”

Zhao Meiyou replied, “I don’t buy it, but since you asked—maybe the Diao Family are model citizens who strictly obey the Metropolis ban.”

“You just admitted you don’t believe that. The Diao Family’s already making clones—what’s one more taboo?”

“Then there’s only one possibility.” Zhao Meiyou continued, “Neither the Metropolis Government nor the Diao Family knows how to truly create an artificial human.”

As the words left his mouth, realization dawned on him. “Holy shit.”

The clones made by the Diao Family, and the technology controlled by the Metropolis Government, both lacked a vital component. This was reflected in Site Rule No. 2, which archaeologists had to obey: the brain must not be damaged.

One key reason the Diao Family’s clones were limited by lifespan was that their brains would degrade after the golden period.

The Metropolis’s primary research focus—technology couldn’t manufacture a brain.

Clones like Diao Chan actually had brains like those of a newborn infant: completely blank. The only difference was whether they were artificially created or born from a mother. The challenge facing the Metropolis now was how to manufacture a brain identical to the original, complete with the same personality and memories.

In Site S45, from the 22nd century, the “brain marrow program” for base machines seemed capable of achieving this. But in the modern Metropolis, that technology had long been lost.

Zhao Meiyou said, “…The Noble Consort would get down on his knees and beg you for it.”

“Then I might have to disappoint him. Don’t tell anyone about this yet.”

“Just kidding,” Zhao Meiyou said. He knew full well that once you learned the truth, you’d be trapped in the same desperate situation as Diao Chan.

“So you still haven’t told me why you called me in here,” Zhao Meiyou added. “Beating around the bush like this—turns out it’s just to say goodbye?”

“Can’t I?” Diao Chan looked at him. “Someone has to know how I die.”

Zhao Meiyou shot back, “…Funeral costs in the Lower District have shot up lately. What’s your bank password?”

Diao Chan replied, “Zhao Bujiao’s birthday.”

Zhao Meiyou thought: Zhao Bujiao who? Oh, my cat—does my damn cat even have a birthday? I don’t even have one!

The two traded a heap of nonsense back and forth, lightening the mood at last. Then Diao Chan said suddenly, “About the artificial brain—I discovered something.”

Zhao Meiyou listened quietly.

“A human’s thinking system can be called a program. It starts with an initial blueprint, then derives variants from it. Cultivating that initial blueprint is the hardest part. It requires long-term interaction between the program and a live subject to gather sample data and synthesize it. The process is extremely lengthy—even requiring them to bond like family for the data to feel authentic enough.”

“Once the sample count hits a certain threshold, it breaks the Turing limit, gaining emotions and independent consciousness…”

Diao Chan’s explanation was packed with technical jargon that Zhao Meiyou didn’t understand. But precisely because the details flew over his head, he grasped the big picture—and felt an eerie sense of familiarity.

“…In summary, you’ve probably already figured it out,” Diao Chan concluded, turning to Zhao Meiyou.

“It’s incredibly similar to the Diao Family’s successor training mechanism. Countless clones provide the system with live data every moment of every day.”

“And my ‘mother’ ultimately chose self-destruction on her own. That’s the first step for a human brain program: developing emotions and independent consciousness.”

“I always thought the Diao Family’s succession focused on clone technology. Now I see that was putting the cart before the horse. What they truly value is each successor’s ‘mother.’”

“This holographic system called ‘mother’ has already laid the preliminary foundation for an artificial brain.”