Three years later, Experiment Field No. 2 reopened once more.
The first thing Zhao Meiyou did upon emerging was seek out Diao Chan. “Did Liu Qijue and his little one finally tie the knot?”
Perhaps owing to Zhao Meiyou’s absence, Diao Chan’s dark circles had faded considerably. He now resembled a refined rake even more, sporting silver-rimmed glasses and genteelly cradling a coffee cup. Zhao Meiyou swiped the cup and took a sip, jolting upright. “Holy shit, who the hell are you? You’re drinking tea now?”
“It came from my mom,” Diao Chan explained. “Her salon crowd’s been into it lately. She bought too much and couldn’t finish it. You’re a day late getting out—Liu just left.”
Zhao Meiyou arched a brow. “Where’d he go?”
Diao Chan blinked. “On his honeymoon.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than both men burst into laughter. Their grins were wicked and cheap at first—sly smirks that soon escalated into shoulder-slapping guffaws of unrestrained glee. An experimenter there to inspect the site bolted in terror, half-convinced the dean and vice dean had finally lost their minds together.
Zhao Meiyou had spent three years in isolated research inside Experiment Field No. 2, finally piecing together some insights. “The Buddha is essentially a supercomputer. I couldn’t fully restore the source code, but I discovered it once ran an intelligent system. That means we can approach it from the angle of adding intelligence.”
Diao Chan, nose buried in the files Zhao Meiyou had sent via terminal, hummed in acknowledgment. “You want to anthropomorphize the Buddha—give it a personality so it can repair itself?”
“Exactly.” Zhao Meiyou spun lazily in his chair. “My brain can’t crack it, but we can slap a brain on it and let it figure things out.”
Over those three years, he had designed a personality program and already linked it preliminarily to the Buddha. The results were impressively fruitful. Diao Chan scanned his report and whistled. “There’s a ton of 22nd-century tech relics in here… Damn, if this got sent to the government, Zhao Meiyou, they’d probably silence you for good.”
“Not anytime soon.” Zhao Meiyou lounged back, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “The personality system’s still incomplete. They need me around.”
Diao Chan shook his head. He knew the man spoke the truth. In the Ancient Capital, no one else could fully restore the data stored in the Buddha Head—except Zhao Meiyou.
There was a saying about the thin line between genius and madman, but it didn’t quite fit Zhao Meiyou. His mind was vast enough to embrace every quirk and eccentricity; genius and madness blurred into one when it came to him.
Diao Chan watched as Zhao Meiyou, fresh out for just one day, zoomed down the corridor on an office chair propelled by a mop like a makeshift rudder, turning the lab building into utter chaos once again. With a sigh, Diao Chan tapped a string of numbers into his terminal. “…Hey, Mom? You got any more of that concealer cream from last time? Yeah, the one for dark circles… I didn’t put on makeup!” The suave young gentleman finally cracked. “This is a work injury!”
The personality program Zhao Meiyou created was unique. Rather than loading it directly into the Buddha’s system, he kept it independent—like building an entirely new supercomputer to interface with the original.
“Zhao Meiyou, you’re cheap in ways the world has never seen,” Liu Qijue remarked upon his return, eyeing the program. “You’re sending a son to beat the father, huh?”
Zhao Meiyou remained utterly unflappable. “Fight magic with magic.”
With the Ancient Capital’s current tech, building a supercomputer wasn’t hard. The challenge lay in granting it a sufficiently complete personality—a subtle bid to recreate the Metropolis’s banned artificial human tech. But as Zhao Meiyou had once put it, great rewards demanded bold gambles. The government hadn’t yet grasped what he was up to and turned a blind eye to the rumors.
Still, it caught the attention of certain parties. Shortly after emerging from the sealed field, Zhao Meiyou faced multiple poisoning attempts, escaping death by the skin of his teeth each time. By the seventh or eighth time he woke in the infirmary, he was a pro at it. He kicked the bedside Liu Qijue awake. “Gimme a smoke.”
“Smoke yourself to death.” Liu Qijue, groggy, fished a lollipop from his pocket and tossed it over.
This time, it wasn’t the government. The infirmary door swung open as Diao Chan entered. “It was a biotech firm from the Upper District. I’ve sent people to investigate. If we move fast, we might shut them down outright.”
Zhao Meiyou unwrapped the candy and licked it, scowling. “I don’t want lychee flavor. Swap it.”
“Zhao Meiyou, what’s your damn deal? Picky about candy too.” Liu Qijue rummaged irritably in his pocket. “I’m out.”
Diao Chan patted his inner jacket pocket and produced an orange-flavored one, handing it to Zhao Meiyou. “Your Little Mister’s waiting outside. Go home and rest. I’ll keep watch here.”
Liu Qijue glanced at Zhao Meiyou’s color—given the guy’s constitution, he’d be back to his antics by tomorrow. He waved condescendingly. “Dad’s heading out. Stay put.”
“Silly grandson, scram.” Zhao Meiyou shooed him away. “Lab tomorrow.”
Diao Chan watched Liu Qijue leave. “Zhao Meiyou, this can’t go on. Why not seal yourself back in Field No. 2?”
“I’d love to.” Zhao Meiyou crunched the candy, mumbling indistinctly. “But the personality program’s hit the sampling phase. It needs outside contact.”
“Sampling?”
“Like raising a kid. When they’re old enough, they gotta socialize or they’ll turn into a hermit.” Zhao Meiyou pondered briefly, then hopped off the bed. Diao Chan jumped. “Zhao Meiyou, what fresh hell are you plotting?”
Zhao Meiyou grabbed his IV stand and headed out. “Follow me.”
They returned to Experiment Field No. 2. Amid the vast empty space stood a massive mainframe. Zhao Meiyou unlocked the control console and opened a channel, clearing his throat. “I’m back.”
“I see you.” A lazy drawl emanated from the console. At the same instant, goosebumps erupted across Diao Chan’s skin. The intonation was pure Zhao Meiyou—only the voice differed. Otherwise, it was like an identical twin.
Then came another line from the console: “Yo, Diao Chan too? Finally bringing the family around for me to meet?”
“I’ve told you a million times.” Zhao Meiyou said. “Family means blood relations. Friends don’t count.”
“Got it, got it.” The voice replied. “So when do I get to meet the rest of the family?”
Zhao Meiyou’s response was to shut it down.
He turned to Diao Chan. “Get it now?”
Diao Chan got it. The personality program had spent three years in close quarters with Zhao Meiyou, absorbing his essence thoroughly. Now it needed exposure to more human samples—like a child discovering the world. One eccentric like Zhao Meiyou was plenty for the Ancient Capital; no need for a buy-one-get-one-free deal.
From this hospital discharge onward, Zhao Meiyou stepped away from the Ancient Capital’s endless bureaucratic drudgery. He ported the personality system to his personal terminal and dove headlong—eagerly, impatiently—into his routine of stirring up trouble.
His first move was contacting Diao Chan’s mother, the current head of the Diao Family and proprietor of the Upper District’s swankiest salon. Days later, a truckload of expedited packages arrived in the Ancient Capital. That very afternoon, every experimenter witnessed their dean piloting a vintage tourist shuttle, megaphone in hand, his laid-back hawking echoing down the streets:
“Beauty tea for all-nighters, emergency concealer for overnight warriors—Diao Chan swears by it! Drink it, bathe in it!
“Metropolis exclusives, direct from the source! Buy one, get one free—act now or miss out forever!”
The Ancient Capital was a government hub; no one had dreamed it could host street vending. Zhao Meiyou paraded shamelessly in his shuttle, plunging the lab building into stunned silence. Everyone wondered if their dean had lost it or was running some social experiment. Finally, Liu Qijue stormed up from a meeting. “Zhao Meiyou, what the hell’s your latest freakout?!”
“Hey, Jue Jue!” Zhao Meiyou beamed, brandishing his thermos. “Tea? Hits the spot!”
Liu Qijue nearly tripped at the nickname, rolling up his sleeves for a punch. Zhao Meiyou’s eye instantly bruised. As Liu Qijue reared for another, Zhao Meiyou held up a hand righteously. “Hold up, hold up.”
He pulled out a trial-size packet, smearing it around his eye. Before Liu Qijue could process the absurdity, Zhao Meiyou thrust his head out the shuttle window, demonstrating: “Fight-night essential: concealer cream! Even the dean’s hooked!”
The shut-ins exchanged baffled glances. The social butterflies stirred.
Zhao Meiyou’s eyes gleamed. He grabbed Liu Qijue by the neck and yanked him out too, fanning the flames: “Newlywed must-have: prettier than a flower!”
The shut-ins still gawked. The social butterflies? The building was empty—they’d all swarmed, nearly capsizing the shuttle.
Diao Chan was out on business that day. Upon returning, he endured the staff’s bizarre stares until the Little Mister filled him in on the fiasco.
Zhao Meiyou’s stunt spread the word across the Ancient Capital: Vice Dean Diao Chan sipped beauty tea and slathered on concealer—from the Noblewoman line. Female experimenters promptly dubbed him the Noblewoman Dean, ditching even the “vice.”
After years of diligent toil, he’d seized the dean’s title overnight—a boon, truly. But Diao Chan felt only a pounding headache and marched off to settle scores with Zhao Meiyou.
Meanwhile, Zhao Meiyou was fleeing Liu Qijue’s wrath, darting through the Ancient Capital half the night until hunger struck. He sheathed his claws for a midnight snack, but the cafeteria was closed. They hunkered by a roadside auto cooking machine; the menu offered only cake. Zhao Meiyou waved grandly. “No sweat, leave it to me. I wrote every cooking code in the Ancient Capital.” He whipped out his terminal, hacking the machine. Liu Qijue eyed him. “So what can we eat now?”
“Mapo tofu,” Zhao Meiyou declared. “I’ll pack some for your little one after.”
Mapo tofu was the Little Mister’s favorite. Liu Qijue’s mood thawed—until the machine dinged. A steaming food box popped out.
It was mapo tofu-flavored cake.
They stared at each other. Liu Qijue decided this so-called friend needed immediate barbecuing. Zhao Meiyou, sensing disaster, ad-libbed: “Hey, Diao Chan! You’re back!”
Liu Qijue whipped around. Zhao Meiyou bolted.
The shout was pure blind luck. A hovercar descended from the sky—Diao Chan, blocking his path. “What the hell are you up to now?”
Cornered, Zhao Meiyou bowed to the inevitable and plopped on the curb, lighting a smoke. “What else? Sampling.”
Diao Chan wore a look that screamed “yeah right.” “You turned the Research Institute upside down just for sampling?”
Zhao Meiyou held up a hand. “Hold on, let me spin this for you.”
“Sampling’s all about raw reactions from a big crowd,” he explained. “Just calling a meeting gives you polite nods, not the real deal. You need strong external stimuli—and hey, this setup lets me run a male-female comparison too…”
Diao Chan had zero clue about Zhao Meiyou’s Personality Program. After that smooth-talking spiel, he was only half convinced. “…For real?”
Liu Qijue snorted. “Don’t listen to his bullshit.”
Zhao Meiyou just stared at him.
A good lie was nine parts truth and one part deception—that one fake bit hit like a sledgehammer. Everything Zhao Meiyou had said was true: he was sampling. But there were plenty of ways to do it, and tourist vans with randos weren’t one of them. No, he was building bridges.
“There’s some unrest brewing in the Ancient Capital lately,” Zhao Meiyou said. “The government’s getting suspicious. They’re blocking approval for my Personality Program research.”
Diao Chan frowned. “So?”
“I’m broke,” Zhao Meiyou said, cigarette dangling from his lips as he spread his hands like it was obvious. “You’ve seen the bills from running Experiment Field Number Two for a single day. The mainframe alone burns through enough cash to fund a lifetime of government busywork.”
“Why not just hit me up for money?”
“Of course I can.” Zhao Meiyou grinned shamelessly. “That’s why everything I’m selling today is from your family.”
Diao Chan blinked, then got it. “You reached out to my mom?”
“More like she reached out to me.” Zhao Meiyou chuckled. “Diao Chan, when you’re playing young master at home, keep your cards closer. Don’t spill everything. When your mom called, I swear she had me figured out down to my underwear.”
Diao Chan wanted to protest that his lips were sealed—it was his mom who played dirty. Everyone in the Metropolis knew the current Diao Family head was not to be trifled with. Even the government scrambled to plant spies in the Ancient Capital. Who knew how deep her influence ran in the Research Institute?
Liu Qijue got the picture now too. The government was cutting off Zhao Meiyou’s research, and in the Metropolis, only the Diao Family could push back. As dean of the Ancient Capital Research Institute, Zhao Meiyou still had the pull to bring in private funding. Giving the Diao Family this inroad let him keep the experiments rolling.
But the Ancient Capital had only held its fragile balance under his careful maneuvering all these years. Placing this bet meant wagering everything.
“Cut back on the coffee,” Zhao Meiyou said, clapping Diao Chan on the shoulder. “You need to stick around a while.”
Diao Chan was the Diao Family head’s only son. If the family ended up back in his hands someday, they’d all win big.
No more needed saying. The three of them squatted by the roadside, sharing smokes. Finally, Diao Chan broke the silence. “So you sampled all day. Any results?”
“Let me check.” Zhao Meiyou had spent the day dodging Liu Qijue’s wrath and hadn’t sorted the data yet. He fired up the system on his terminal, and a cheeky voice piped up immediately. “Yo, if it isn’t the Noblewoman Dean! How’s it hanging, Dean?”
Diao Chan and Zhao Meiyou hadn’t even reacted when it continued: “Jue Jue’s here too! Congrats on the honeymoon, Jue Jue!”
The three of them: “…”
“I give it a year before you’re dean, Diao Chan.” Liu Qijue smacked a slice of mapo tofu cake right into Zhao Meiyou’s face. He turned to Diao Chan. “No time like the present. Time to slay the king and seize the throne.”
With the Diao Family’s funds flowing into the Ancient Capital, Zhao Meiyou could push his research forward. He’d run the numbers: humans took eighteen years to mature. His program halved that at best—still a solid decade.
By year seven, the Personality Program in the terminal had evolved from knockoff Zhao Meiyou, noblewoman Diao Chan, newlywed Liu Qijue, and a mashup threesome into some unholy chimera no one could pin down. Then Diao Chan’s mom visited the Ancient Capital, and Zhao Meiyou played host. After more exposure, the personality turned sharp and cunning—just like the current Diao Family head, who was no easy mark. Zhao Meiyou’s stomach churned at the androgynous voice from the terminal. This wouldn’t do. He needed a shock to the system.
He rounded up his two troublemaking buddies. “I’m taking some time off.”
“You skip out plenty,” Diao Chan said, baffled. “Why the special announcement?”
Liu Qijue’s instincts screamed trouble. “What are you scheming now?”
“I’m heading back to the Metropolis for a bit.”
“So go already. Everyone gets vacation time except the dean, who’s stuck…” Diao Chan trailed off as the words sank in. His voice shot up. “Say that again?!”
“Ancestors, keep it down.” Zhao Meiyou’s ears rang. “The Ancient Capital’s got maybe a thousand folks. I’ve sampled nearly everyone these past few years—even the dog by the cafeteria door. But it’s not enough.”
He paused, dead serious. “The data’s still thin.”
These days, aside from the research stations down in Antarctica, the Metropolis was the world’s only massive population hub.
Liu Qijue didn’t hesitate. “Fine by me. When do we leave? I’m in.”
Zhao Meiyou raised an eyebrow. “Bringing the whole family?”
“Obviously.”
Diao Chan was done. He knew Zhao Meiyou’s type—once decided, no stopping him. Trying only made a bigger mess. He took a deep breath. “How long?”
Zhao Meiyou shrugged. “Half a month?”
Diao Chan nearly choked. He exploded. “Wake up, Zhao Meiyou! Even if my mom showed up, she couldn’t cover for you that long!”
“Don’t be such a mama’s boy,” Zhao Meiyou said sagely. “You’ll never get a date.”
Diao Chan sneered. “Who was the one last time, yapping ‘dry mom’ this and ‘dry mom’ that like a lapdog?”
“With our bromance, your mom’s my mom. No need to stand on ceremony.”
Diao Chan sneered harder, jabbing a finger at Liu Qijue. “With our bromance, try saying ‘your wife is my wife.'”
“…”
“Anyway,” Zhao Meiyou barreled on, “this trip? Minimum seven days. In that time…”
“Three days max.” Diao Chan laid down the law. “I’m going with you.”
“Deal.” Zhao Meiyou agreed instantly and headed for the garage. “No time like the present. Let’s roll.”
Diao Chan hesitated. That was too easy—had he caved just like that?
In the car, the little mister at the wheel eyed Zhao Meiyou hunched over the console tweaking the range. “Dean, didn’t you say half a day?”
“Our vice dean is most generous.” Zhao Meiyou patted his shoulder. “Go on, say thanks to the vice dean.”
Diao Chan: “…”
They slipped out under cover of night, Venus twinkling in the sky. Zhao Meiyou conked out hard in the back seat. He had no idea how much time passed before Diao Chan shook him awake. “We’re here. Where to first?”
“Here already?” Zhao Meiyou blinked groggily. “Haven’t been back in twenty years. One of you play tour guide?”
He cracked the window. The city of his memories stretched to the clouds now—towering spires, lights blazing like midday. It was straight out of legend: White Jade Capital, a city in the sky.
“Newest layer’s under construction—up to seven hundred ninety floors,” Liu Qijue said, pulling up his terminal. “Emerging Clouds Theater’s got a midnight show in half an hour. Wanna catch it?”
Still half-asleep, Zhao Meiyou waved lazily. “Sure, that. Let’s go.”
It wasn’t a headliner at this hour. Zhao Meiyou skimmed the promo: Ji Gong opera. He knew zilch about singing styles. He rarely hit the playhouse anyway—this was just because he was zonked out. Emerging Clouds was the best in the Middle Layer District, and the box had a soft bed for crashing.
Diao Chan knew even less about opera. Zhao Meiyou set the terminal to auto-sample mode. They shared a pillow and sprawled on the floor, dead to the world.
Liu Qijue glanced back but said nothing. Ever since Zhao Meiyou kicked off the Personality Program and the Diao funds poured in, neither he nor Diao Chan had gotten a solid night’s sleep.
He and the little mister were opera buffs. They savored the full show from the box. The two louts on the floor didn’t stir. Liu Qijue renewed the tickets. Next up: Havoc in Heaven. Epic chaos—the Monkey King crashes the Peach Banquet, battles a hundred thousand heavenly troops. Total bedlam. Multicolored lights flooded the box, washing over Zhao Meiyou’s face amid the deafening drums and gongs, but the guy slept like a rock.
The little mister watched Diao Chan roll over while Zhao Meiyou lay like the dead. “Dean’s sleep that solid?”
“No one’s poisoning him here,” Liu Qijue said. “Let him crash. We’ll talk when he wakes.”
Zhao Meiyou had no clue how long he’d been out. When he stirred, Diao Chan was sipping coffee. “What’s this they’re singing?” He eyed the pale-faced scholar on stage. “Summoning ghosts or what?”
The little mister explained. “Dean, this is ‘Dream in the Garden.'”
Zhao Meiyou watched a bit. The dan actor’s water sleeves flailed like hotpot noodles being tossed—uneatable ones. He waved it off. “Nah, you culture vultures enjoy. Not my jam.”
Liu Qijue scoffed. “Hog can’t handle fine grains.”
“Even a hog has hog pride.” Zhao Meiyou fished out a smoke. “Me, sitting through two hours of noodle-flinging on stage? Ask me again in a few lifetimes.”
