Chapter 45: Theseus’s Ship

Although he had retreated several steps in advance, Diao Chan was still splattered full in the face by the exploding goldfish.

He had no choice but to dodge left and right, enduring repeated slaps to the face from the flying fish along the way. Only when the Brain Tank finally stabilized did he wipe the water from his face. “Zhao Meiyou, hear me out.”

“Go explain yourself to Liu Qijue!” Zhao Meiyou now resembled a menopausal woman with wildly imbalanced hormones. “Every damn one of you is a master at screwing people over!”

“He’s too agitated right now,” Diao Chan said, glancing at Xiao Yao. “Did Liu leave any countermeasures for a situation like this? Can you give him a shot or something?”

Xiao Yao was sprawled on the ground, scooping up fish. He looked up, pondered for a moment, and replied, “Dean, do you want to know the Vice Dean’s current physical condition?”

The words instantly silenced Zhao Meiyou.

A goldfish plopped back onto the water’s surface with a soft splash.

“Holy shit,” Diao Chan blurted out in remarkably oblivious surprise. “Am I that handy?”

“Shut up,” Zhao Meiyou said coldly. “Get to the point.”

Xiao Yao smiled and walked behind the bar to wash his hands. Amid the rush of running water, Diao Chan let out a sigh. “All right, here’s the deal. Zhao Meiyou, you should still have the memories from your previous reincarnation cycle, right? I remember Liu restoring your original brain back then. Now the link between the two brains is fully connected, so you ought to have access to the memories from that Creation brain in your head.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Zhao Meiyou confirmed. “But what exactly do you mean by ‘link’? Does that other brain remember everything I’m going through right now?”

“No way—how could it? We’d basically be plotting out loud right in front of Qian Duoduo.” Diao Chan waved the idea away. “The link is built on the foundation of the mental imprint. It only activates during imprint impacts, and there are other conditions only Liu’s Creation can meet… I’ll send you the paper later.” He checked his watch. “Business first.”

“Since you retained those memories from the previous cycle, you should already know this: I’m actually a clone.”

The Diao Family’s physiology seemed fundamentally incompatible with quantum technology. Neither Madam Diao nor Diao Chan had survived the early stages of the Fusion Experiments.

Yet the Antarctic Faction refused to abandon these two Experimental Subjects. They established a separate division dedicated to developing the “Brain Marrow Program.”

The Brain Marrow Program represented the pinnacle of 22nd-century brain technology. Zhao Meiyou had once witnessed “Gene-Humans” and “Base-Mech Humans”—two types of Artificial Humans—at Site S45’s Ideal City. The key difference lay in their brains: Gene-Humans retained their mothers’ original brains, while Base-Mech Humans were entirely industrially manufactured, with brains powered by the Brain Marrow Program.

Built on bioelectronic engineering and neurology, the Brain Marrow Program was a fully synthetic mechanical brain.

By the time the Metropolis was founded, however, the technology had been lost to history. “Science cannot create a brain” had become something of a curse, prompting countless attempts by the Metropolis Government to revive it. The Antarctic Faction’s side project, beyond the Fusion Experiments, aimed to reconstruct it through Sites.

Thus, a “Diao Family” entirely devoted to the experimental protocol was born.

Countless clones provided the system with live data around the clock.

A holographic system named “Mother” gradually constructed an Artificial Brain.

“The blueprint for the Diao Family clones is indeed me, though they derived many variations from samples of my life,” Diao Chan explained. “That’s why some clones don’t look or act much like the original ‘Diao Chan.'”

Zhao Meiyou asked, “So who are you now? A clone? Or the original Diao Chan?”

“The original Diao Chan—the Vice Dean of the Ancient Capital Research Institute that you knew—is long dead,” Diao Chan said, scratching his head. “He stabbed you that year and immediately suffered a mental breakdown. He didn’t last long after that; declared brain-dead despite resuscitation efforts.”

Xiao Yao continued washing his hands, the steady rush of water echoing through Granny’s Tavern.

“But the Antarctic Faction—now known as the Nine Hundredth Floor—saw value in exploiting that original Diao Chan. So they cloned his body and produced a horde of copies, tossing them into this ‘Diao Family’ game. If you want a physical definition of who I am, then… I’m just one of that horde.”

“However many times you looped through the Fusion Experiments is how long the Diao Family game has run. Over that endless process, the Nine Hundredth Floor discovered—likely influenced by the original Diao Chan—that some clones developed unique constitutions. They could enter Sites and become archaeologists.”

Unlike ordinary archaeologists, clone Diao Chans didn’t retain their brains and swap bodies after a loop. They were scrapped outright, with fresh batches replicated. A new “him” emerged after every cycle.

What the Nine Hundredth Floor never realized was that successive generations of “archaeologist Diao Chans” caused their brains to absorb quantum aftereffects. Subsequent clones inherited fragments of memory.

It started as disjointed dreams, then layers upon layers accumulated—until Liu Qijue found one particular clone Diao Chan.

“It took Father and Dad a long time to find the Vice Dean,” Xiao Yao interjected. “There were just so many copies of him, with huge variations in appearance and personality. They waited ages for one that most resembled the original Vice Dean.”

That resemblance wasn’t coincidental. Through generations of memory inheritance in replicated brains, the Diao Chan they found had largely restored the original’s true self.

“That’s the Diao Chan you knew, Zhao Meiyou.”

“The archaeologist with the ‘Awakening’ ability.”

In that thirty-third-layer loop, the down-and-out boy entered the Pork Shop late at night. Old acquaintances who were no longer old shared a pot of dumplings, reuniting in their youth.

“…You’re not him?” Zhao Meiyou asked.

“Let me finish,” Diao Chan said, raising a hand. “That loop was the most authentic one—every experience matched real-time duration. As a kid, I often dreamed of the Ancient Capital, but I couldn’t make out the faces around me.”

“Not until I met Liu at the assembly.”

He still remembered the scene vividly: a boy riding a massive dragon burst from the exit.

It was the iconic azure dragon from ancient Eastern myths, with jade-glazed whiskers and horns. The boy in Tang-style robes laughed as he ripped off his mask, revealing a strip of white silk rolled up at his cuffs.

Standing atop the dragon’s head, the boy leaned down, eyebrow arched. “You’re Diao Chan?”

“Liu took me through Site S45 personally. I quickly made Ideal City my main stomping ground—it’s where you can reconstruct genuine Brain Marrow Programs.”

Zhao Meiyou blinked in surprise. “You actually pulled off the Brain Marrow Program?”

“Don’t underestimate your Vice Dean,” Diao Chan replied. “Why else would I hole up in Site S45? Though part of it was playing matchmaker for you and Qian Duoduo.”

“That little mister…” Zhao Meiyou’s first thought was why not save Xiao Yao—then realization dawned.

Because the true Liu Qijue had long since dissolved into the Site.

And there was a paradox here.

Zhao Meiyou posed the question again. “Diao Chan, who the hell are you really?”

“You’re too soft-hearted, Zhao Meiyou,” Diao Chan said with a chuckle. “Asking who I am while still calling me Diao Chan.”

“Don’t change the subject, you bastard,” Zhao Meiyou snapped impatiently. “Answer me.”

“Fine, fine,” Diao Chan conceded. “My body’s a fresh Artificial Human shell, but you can think of my brain as the original Diao Chan’s.”

Zhao Meiyou pressed, “What does that mean?”

“Brain Marrow Program,” Diao Chan said. “It overcomes the flaws of cloned brains. Normal clones copy tissue but can’t inherit the original’s memories or personality. The Brain Marrow Program can.”

“I inherited everything from Ancient Capital’s Vice Dean Diao Chan: memories, personality, thought patterns, logic chains—you name it. Normally, the program couldn’t be that precise after so many iterations, but quantum aftereffects filled in the gaps. Liu filled me in on the truths, too. So now, you can consider my brain 100% complete.”

The Diao Chan sitting in Granny’s Tavern was, in essence, Theseus’s Ship.

He had an exact replica of the original Diao Chan’s body and brain. Every memory, trait, and emotion copied perfectly. He was even more complete than the original Vice Dean of the Ancient Capital Research Institute, thanks to the memories of countless loops afterward.

He remembered that rainy night at the Pork Shop, meeting the boy whose mother was a dancer. They were accomplices in the same murder, went to university together, wove colossal lies at Site S45—and their old rapport remained unchanged.

Could you call him Diao Chan?

Could you say he wasn’t?

“Vice Dean,” Xiao Yao said, “Father and Dad both said you’re Diao Chan.”

Diao Chan nodded with a smile and glanced at the Brain Tank. “What do you say, Zhao Meiyou?”

A goldfish swam past the water plants, blowing a stream of bubbles.

“…What can I even say?” Zhao Meiyou’s voice was flat. “I’m just a brain in a tank—not qualified to ponder such philosophical riddles.”

“But thanks anyway.” He paused, then added, “For the long way around.”

From swapping his brain at Site A173 to Site 000, the epic script had unfolded with such grandeur. Even as the protagonist who’d been played for a fool, he couldn’t help but applaud.

“You’d better thank us,” Diao Chan said. “In a way, we did it to set you up with Qian Duoduo. Only once his Personality Completion Degree hits 100% can he claim your brain.”

He sounded a bit wistful. “Matchmaking’s a tough gig these days.”

Seeing that Zhao Meiyou had stabilized, Xiao Yao said, “Dean.”

Zhao Meiyou replied, “What?”

Xiao Yao’s face practically screamed, Can we get to the real work now? “Time’s short. We need to replicate the imprinting process ASAP for the backlash.”

“…Fine,” Zhao Meiyou said. “But I have two demands.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“First, fish out the fish from the Brain Tank. Otherwise, none of them will survive what’s coming.”

“Second, drain the tank and refill it entirely with booze—Hennessy mixed with vodka, as strong as it gets. Don’t hold back.”

Zhao Meiyou clearly wanted to drown himself in booze and call it quits, but reality had other plans. “You wish it were that easy,” Diao Chan said, cradling the Brain Tank as he stepped into the elevator. “If you get drunk, the shock to your brain will lose its edge. If it doesn’t hit hard enough, I’ll have to die a whole lot more times. Act like a human for once, Zhao Meiyou.”

“Be reasonable—who started this mess first?” Zhao Meiyou shot back. “And where the hell are you headed? So picky even about offing yourself?”

“Of course it has to be done right. Suicide is an art.” Diao Chan strolled to the edge of the platform. “You know, you should’ve been here before.”

This was the 777th Layer.

The entrance to Site A173.

“Can’t exactly croak in the Metropolis—disposing of the body would be a nightmare.” Diao Chan patted the Brain Tank. “Let’s roll. Brother Liu’s waiting.”

“Hold up, Diao Chan—tell me exactly how many times you’re planning to die… Shit!”

Diao Chan didn’t wait for him to finish. He leaped right off the platform.

Once inside the site, Zhao Meiyou realized he had a body again. His reflection in the glass door showed an adult face. He glanced around and found himself in the Pork Shop, with heavy rain pounding the street outside. He sat across from his teenage self and Diao Chan, while dumplings bubbled in the pot.

What the hell was going on? Zhao Meiyou blanked out for a second. Time and space felt all jumbled here. The setup looked just like the day he first met Diao Chan, but why was he an adult? And was this Diao Chan even real?

Diao Chan sat quietly across the table. Zhao Meiyou fished out a dumpling on instinct and popped it in his mouth to test if it was done. Mumbling around it, he said, “You want some vinegar or chili…”

Before the words were out, the kid across from him yanked out a gun faster than lightning and blew his own head clean off. Brains splattered across Zhao Meiyou’s face and hair.

Zhao Meiyou didn’t even register what happened, but his brain did—hitting him with a wave of searing agony. He hurled straight into the pot.

He felt like his stomach acid was coming up next, tears and snot smeared everywhere. When he finally caught his breath and looked up to speak, the scene shifted again.

Now he was in his old university dorm, practicing piano on the balcony. Diao Chan sat on the other end of the bench, wearing a young man’s face. “Zhao Meiyou, your fingering’s all wrong. Don’t use the pads of your fingers, or your knuckles will warp over time…”

Zhao Meiyou had only learned one piece back in uni. The sheet music on the terminal read Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.

“Zhao Meiyou, what’re you spacing out for?” Diao Chan caught his drift. “You practicing or what?”

Zhao Meiyou parroted their old script without thinking. “Nah, don’t wanna. Could be doing something useful with the time.”

Diao Chan wouldn’t drop it. “Just this one. You have to nail this piece.”

“And if I straight-up can’t?”

“Then I’ll die.” Diao Chan drew the gun. “Like this.”

The gunshot rang out. Red-and-white brains painted the keys.

“…”

Zhao Meiyou puked his guts out again.

When he lifted his head next, the scene flipped once more—to university days, but earlier this time, before all his repeat years. He ducked a kick from Liu Qijue downstairs and yelled up at the dorm window. “Diao Chan! Do a flip! Show it to our Jue Jue!”

Diao Chan upstairs grinned down at them, laughing along.

The sun blazed bright. The young man pulled his gun and squeezed the trigger.

Bang—

Gunshots rang out.

Gunshots rang out again. And again. Without end. The scenes blurred faster, the pulls of the trigger coming quicker. Zhao Meiyou half-wondered if Diao Chan was packing a Chicago typewriter instead of a pistol—the bangs pounding like a symphony’s drumline. For one hallucinatory instant—or maybe it was real—he saw a grand theater packed with a poised conductor wielding his baton. First movement, adagio! First violinist blows his brains out! Second violinist follows! Cadenza! Drummers blast each other! Magnificent—now the climax! All the flutists fire at once! And for the grand finale! Behold! The conductor draws his own gun! On this gore-soaked stage, with every musician dead—Diao Chans all—it’s only right he fires the last shot, closing the symphony! Bravo!

He lost count of how many times Diao Chan died in front of him. After countless rounds, Zhao Meiyou had nothing left to puke. The stabbing pain in his brain dulled to numbness as the site’s scenes whipped by: hammers crashing, curtains falling. In his haze, he caught the final image amid the mad slaughter symphony—a mountain of Diao Chan’s piled corpses, flesh and blood spraying everywhere.

…

Some time later, someone shook him. “Zhao Meiyou? Zhao Meiyou? Zhao Meiyou?” A bottle of something liquid poured into his mouth. “Snap out of it. You okay? How you feeling?”

Zhao Meiyou struggled to focus his vision. Calmly, he said, “I think I’ve gone insane.”

“Insane means enlightened.” Someone chuckled beside him. “No good deeds sown day after day, only killing and arson my delight. Suddenly the golden chains snap loose, jade locks shatter here outright. Qiantang River’s tide rolls in with fury’s roar—today I know that I am I.”

“What the hell… okay, I get it.” Zhao Meiyou rubbed his temples, then clocked how familiar that laugh was. He bolted upright. “Holy shit?!”

“Easy there, Zhao Meiyou—don’t puke again.” Diao Chan yanked him back down into his seat. “Train’s about to depart. Buckle up.”

They were on a train now—an antique steam locomotive. The car held rows of long benches upholstered in green velvet, with fold-out low tables draped in crisp white cloths bearing blooming red tea roses.

A breeze fluttered the gauzy curtains. Outside the window stretched the vast Star Sea.

This was the Rum Tunnel.

Zhao Meiyou gaped, wedged in a four-seater booth. Diao Chan sat beside him; across the table were Little Mister and Liu Qijue. All four wore the standard lab coats of the Ancient Capital Research Institute.

“You actually fried your brain?” Liu Qijue arched a brow at him. “Come on, Zhao Meiyou—this is nothing.”

Zhao Meiyou stared at Diao Chan, his voice dreamy. “Where the hell are we right now?” Heaven?

“No more gunshots. Relax.” Diao Chan clapped his shoulder. “You’ve had enough shocks. Now it’s reward time. Technically, we’re still in Site A173—but you know Brother Liu’s abilities. Turning it into the Rum Tunnel? Piece of cake.”

Zhao Meiyou eyed Liu Qijue and Little Mister “So you guys are really…”

“Yes and no.” Liu Qijue gripped Little Mister’s hand and flashed a grin. “We’ve fully merged with Site A173.”

“You can think of me as Liu Qijue,” Little Mister said, pointing at a massive star outside. “Or think of that star as me.”

The Star Sea brimmed with as much vast death as it did life.

“You earned this, Zhao Meiyou.” Liu Qijue handed him a cup of salted cola. Fried chicken and Marlboro cigarettes had appeared on the table. “We’ve got a ways to the end of the line. Take a breather.”

Zhao Meiyou hesitated. “Where’s the final stop?”

Liu Qijue shoved the cola can into his hand. “Relax—no one’s dying.”

Zhao Meiyou cracked it open dubiously. The fizz exploded in his face. Laughter erupted from Liu Qijue, filling the car.

He let the soda drip down his neck, soaking in. That was Liu Qijue’s laugh—no mistaking it. Diao Chan laughed too. Little Mister laughed. It felt like the old days in the Ancient Capital—or even before, when the Expedition Team carved through the barren continent. Kids fresh from school chased crushes relentlessly, young masters chugged coffee till their stomachs cramped, and the team captain—a flaky genius half the time—dreamed big of saving humanity, with endless smokes to burn.

The train let out a long, mournful whistle. Wheels clattered over the tracks.

All aboard.