Chapter 31: Night Ship on the White River

Grandma’s Bridge cradled the young artificial human in her arms, singing songs for a long time inside the spaceship.

Earth vanished completely beyond the porthole, along with the solar system, the Orion Arm, the Milky Way galaxy… The spaceship plunged into the depths of the Star Sea, into regions humanity had never named.

Only when the singing finally faded did the statue-still forms of the youth and maiden begin to dissolve. At the same moment, the spaceship shattered into a million fragments, scattering like stardust into the vast cosmos.

Zhao Meiyou and Qian Duoduo had watched the entire scene. After a long silence, Zhao Meiyou spoke. “Looks like it’s over.”

Qian Duoduo gave a soft hum in response.

Zhao Meiyou craved a smoke. He patted his pants pocket. “Brother Qian, can you conjure up a pack of Marlboros?”

Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers. A tray materialized before them, bearing McDonald’s fried chicken, salty cola, and Marlboro cigarettes. Zhao Meiyou drew out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He was just about to light it when he suddenly turned his head toward Qian Duoduo and leaned forward.

He pulled the other man into an embrace.

Qian Duoduo paused for a moment, then slowly wrapped his arms around Zhao Meiyou’s back and gave it a gentle pat.

“No rush,” Qian Duoduo said. “We haven’t fully explored Site 000 yet, but you can have your smoke first.”

Zhao Meiyou knew full well that everything they had just witnessed was merely a quantum remnant within the site—less interactive, even, than a real holographic game.

The first of the Site Laws: Sites are not dreams.

Zhao Meiyou couldn’t tell if the reality displayed within the site had ever truly happened. He had seen the so-called truth of the Orion Arm War in Site S45, but it was much like his own mad dash through that endless loop of tomato sauce. In the quantum-constructed Three Thousand Worlds, the line between calm and madness was razor-thin—or rather, they devoured each other, leaving even the self in ruins.

One could not think too much. Common sense was the greatest obstacle, rationality the spark of insanity. The tree of knowledge was not the tree of life. All appearances were illusory. To escape the delirium, one could only act on instinct.

Instinct.

Compared to the more rational Diao Chan or the Lead Actor, Zhao Meiyou’s primary driving force was undoubtedly instinct.

Love and hate, greed and anger and delusion, following the heart’s desire.

Humans spent their lives seeking to transcend instinct, disciplining the self. Yet in the face of the overwhelming unknown, instinct offered the greatest protection.

Like right now. Zhao Meiyou sensed that his mental state was off and promptly turned to Qian Duoduo, his gaze intense.

Qian Duoduo blinked. “…What’s wrong?”

“Brother Qian,” Zhao Meiyou said solemnly, “can I kiss you?”

Qian Duoduo let out a sudden chuckle. He plucked the cigarette from Zhao Meiyou’s mouth, lit it between his own lips, took a drag, and then leaned in close. He captured Zhao Meiyou’s lips in a fierce kiss.

The menthol burst exploded between them. As their lips and tongues intertwined, they shared a puff of spicy secondhand smoke amid the intense minty aroma.

Nicotine brought calm. Zhao Meiyou surveyed their surroundings. The youth and maiden had vanished entirely. Most of the spaceship’s structure had disintegrated, leaving it a battered ruin—like a vessel that had exhausted its fuel and drifted through space for a century.

He and Qian Duoduo sat in the control room. Half the outer wall had cracked open. By all rights, they were in a vacuum, yet neither felt any difficulty breathing.

They perched on the edge of the shattered wall, sharing the fried chicken and salty cola. Zhao Meiyou finished his cigarette and suddenly said, “Brother Qian, when we left the Butterfly Madam Site, I had a dream.”

Qian Duoduo hummed in acknowledgment. “I remember.”

“In the dream, I heard singing,” Zhao Meiyou continued. “A melody I’d never encountered before.”

“It’s nothing,” Qian Duoduo replied. He divided the fried chicken, giving half to Zhao Meiyou, and wiped the grease from his hands with Zhao Meiyou’s tie. “Dreams are one of the site aftereffects. The scenes in them are usually things you’ve never heard of. You’ll get used to it.”

Zhao Meiyou paused for a moment. “At first, I thought the singing was just my imagination.”

“But then the young artificial human next to Grandma’s Bridge sang that song. The melody was identical to what I’d heard in my dream.”

Qian Duoduo’s movements stilled. “Which one?”

Zhao Meiyou replied, “Grandma’s Bridge.”

In that dream amid the waters, he had worn an unknown kasaya robe as he ventured into the deep mountains. In the lake, he had seen countless instruments, petals erupting from the pipes of an organ, playing lost melodies.

Qian Duoduo seemed to freeze for a second. Then he reached for Zhao Meiyou’s belt. Zhao Meiyou quickly raised his hands and stubbed out his cigarette on the control panel. “Brother Qian, what are you doing?”

“I’m worried you might be showing signs of dissolution,” Qian Duoduo explained. “If an archaeologist’s consciousness merges too deeply with the quantum field threshold, the site externalizes scenes from their memories.”

“Not necessarily,” Zhao Meiyou said. He checked his mental state—it felt fine. No urge to streak naked through loops of tomato sauce, no impulse to call his brothers “mother.” He loved Qian Duoduo. Yeah, perfectly normal.

“To be safe, let’s deepen the link,” Qian Duoduo said. He straddled Zhao Meiyou, undid the hair tie, and let his long hair cascade down like silk, enveloping them both. He pressed his forehead to Zhao Meiyou’s. “Feel me.”

Ever since Site S86, Zhao Meiyou and Qian Duoduo had never done this under normal circumstances. Being hunted, false pregnancy, endless escape loops. The one somewhat normal time had been in The Lead Actor’s safehouse bathtub. The goldfish Qian Duoduo had bought were all dead. The simulated sunlight looked like white mites. They had thrashed about in the electrode-connected solution, turning the place upside down. The Lead Actor had kicked the door from outside. When cleaning up afterward, he had shaken his head at Zhao Meiyou with an indescribable look and said, “Zhao Meiyou, you’re something else.”

Zhao Meiyou figured he was pretty impressive himself. Whether making love in the depths of space or winning Qian Duoduo’s heart, he hadn’t met many archaeologists, but all of them regarded Qian Duoduo with respect or wariness, as if the man were some ethereal jade untouched by mortal dust. Only Zhao Meiyou knew how wild Qian Duoduo truly was—especially in bed, with a wicked streak. Midway through sometimes, he’d borrow Zhao Meiyou’s ability to shift into a female form, straining even the tailored suit against those curves.

Serene virtue and violent allure. Ethereal divinity and slutty depravity.

Their bodies entwined in ecstasy. In this love ruled purely by instinct, both rationality and madness ceased to exist, leaving only unadulterated warmth, like the sun itself.

Some time later, Qian Duoduo lit a cigarette, his voice still breathless. “…Should be fine now.”

“I’m really okay, Brother Qian,” Zhao Meiyou said, snatching the cigarette. It suddenly dawned on him—had Qian Duoduo’s talk of “bodily linking to check mental states” just been an excuse?

It was a stretch, but given his lover’s tendency to go from sane to god-slaying berserk, it wasn’t impossible.

Zhao Meiyou considered calling him out but chickened out. He decided to keep the suspicion to himself.

Qian Duoduo, bare-legged, paced the remnants of the disintegrating control room. After a moment’s thought, he said, “This control room didn’t survive by accident. It’s likely a clue for delving deeper into the site.”

Since entering Site 000, aside from the bizarre museum and this ages-old tale of joy and sorrow, they hadn’t faced any true life-or-death peril. Zhao Meiyou’s brief entrapment in the tomato sauce loop didn’t count in Qian Duoduo’s eyes—amusing at worst, less dangerous than some S-class sites.

Yet Site 000 was rated the highest tier for a reason.

Which meant the real danger was still to come.

Qian Duoduo circled the control room once more, his gaze locking onto the console. The ship’s main body had decomposed; the console should have been dead. Yet a blue glow now flickered across its screen.

He approached the control panel and studied it intently before pressing a few keys.

Zhao Meiyou suddenly noticed that as Qian Duoduo activated the controls, the stars outside the ship began to shift.

What was happening?

“Don’t talk to me yet,” Qian Duoduo said. He had clearly sensed the anomaly too. His mind focused utterly, as if some quantum impulse in the ether guided his brainwaves, directing his rapid inputs on the panel. The stars outside wheeled and spun like manipulated points of light, flickering in and out, gradually converging around the ship to form a grand galaxy.

The flowing galaxy enveloped them, sheathing the ship. From Zhao Meiyou’s view, it resembled walls of liquid metal extending from both ends—an endless corridor of mercury.

Then the liquid solidified. The silver ceased to flow. It looked like…

Mirrors.

A deep, endless Mirror Corridor.

Zhao Meiyou felt an uncanny familiarity with the scene. Of course—the Mirror Corridor. Since becoming an archaeologist, it had appeared in nearly every site. In Site A173—or rather, Lab A173—he had traversed one to reach the site’s edge. In Site S45, deep beneath Ideal City, a moving subway car had transformed into a mirror passageway. In Site S86, they had passed through one to a changing room…

And the Rum Tunnel.

Zhao Meiyou recalled how the Rum Tunnel, during high-speed site transitions, dove into a wormhole-like space where lights and shadows shifted like a mirrored hallway.

How exactly was the Rum Tunnel made?

What did a “mirror corridor” signify amid the connections between countless sites?

As Zhao Meiyou’s mind raced, Qian Duoduo withdrew his hands. Zhao Meiyou opened his mouth to ask how he was, but a thunderous rumble echoed through the mirror corridor. They both heard the shrill blast of a train whistle.

The sound of a train pulling into a station.

Zhao Meiyou didn’t hesitate. He strode forward, yanking Qian Duoduo behind him, only to be buffeted by the gale from the incoming cars.

In this realm forged of mercury, a real train had arrived.

The locomotive ground to a halt. Its doors slid open, and steps extended automatically, forming a black-hole invitation right before Zhao Meiyou.

Zhao Meiyou turned to meet Qian Duoduo’s eyes. They both saw the mix of shock and uncertainty in the other’s gaze.

A breeze swept through, parting gauzy curtains.

It was an antique steam train. Its smokestack belched whistles as it ran. Inside the cars, long benches lined up with green velvet cushions. A low table protruded from the side, draped in spotless white cloth adorned with blooming camellia flowers.

From structure to decor, it matched the trains in the Rum Tunnel exactly.

Zhao Meiyou’s lips moved in a silent question, his eyes conveying: Brother Qian, shall we board?

Qian Duoduo pulled out a cigarette and tossed it into the car. Aside from the faint sound of it landing, the train gave no reaction.

Qian Duoduo’s lips pressed into a thin line. At last, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

They took seats on the bench. The whistle blew again, and the train lurched into motion.

They sped through the mirror corridor, the scenery on either side blurring into a field of silvery white. Qian Duoduo was clearly lost in thought. After a moment, he spoke up. “The Rum Tunnel was built using the abilities of a few archaeologists: ‘Splicing,’ ‘Leap,’ and ‘Acceleration.’ Splicing linked up the various sites, Leap constructed the tunnel itself, and Acceleration compressed the quantum time flow between them.”

“How did you come up with the idea for this tunnel, Brother Qian?” Zhao Meiyou asked.

“The method came from the Mountain-Sea Notes,” Qian Duoduo replied. “I got my hands on a fragment of one chapter. It recorded the vision of a late archaeologist, with the train blueprints attached as notes at the end.”

Before Zhao Meiyou could respond, he added, “…That fragment was delivered to me through channels from the Metropolis Government.”

If that was the case, there were far too many angles to exploit.

Even whether that “late archaeologist” had ever truly existed was up for grabs.

Qian Duoduo clearly grasped this as well. He let out a sigh so faint it was almost inaudible.

The wind whipped his long hair into disarray. Zhao Meiyou watched for a moment before gently brushing it aside. “Don’t push yourself so hard, Brother Qian.”

“When I take action, I don’t usually think about fallback plans,” Qian Duoduo said, lifting his gaze to meet Zhao Meiyou’s. “Not before I met you.”

“So, light at the end of the tunnel, huh?” Zhao Meiyou grinned. “I figure this train won’t chug along until we kick the bucket. Let’s see where the end of the line is first.”

“How do you know it won’t just keep going forever?”

The unambitious Zhao Meiyou had few desires in life, and fate had already lavished gifts upon him a thousandfold over. No matter what lay ahead—be it mountains of knives or seas of fire—nothing could scare him anymore.

“Even to the end of time works for me,” Zhao Meiyou said, flashing his trademark roguish deadbeat grin. “Worst case, it’s a lovers’ suicide for us.”

That really would make it perfect.

Call it pity or luck, but Zhao Meiyou had nailed it for once. The train rumbled through the long passage for what felt like ages before gradually slowing to a halt—and truly stopping.

The car door opened onto a platform, indistinguishable from any other in the world. Neither of them sensed any danger. They stepped off to find the passage exit just ahead, flickering with a pinpoint of white light.

“Let’s go, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou took Qian Duoduo’s hand, his expression as carefree as if they were heading out for a picnic.

They approached the exit, and the white light swallowed them both. Suddenly, Zhao Meiyou heard bells tolling—

Ancient bells ringing slow and steady.

Amid a rising clamor of voices.

Beyond the passage stretched a vast open expanse, crowded with people—most in sharp suits or archaeologist uniforms. Bewilderment clouded their eyes to varying degrees. Some murmured to each other, others scanned their surroundings, a few dozed against companions, and one sat cross-legged on the ground, idly pumping out a tune on a hand accordion.

In the distance, Zhao Meiyou spotted what looked like the gate to an ancient city. A bell tower loomed nearby, and more people kept streaming out of the passage. Each toll of the bell seemed to herald another unknown train pulling in. Then Zhao Meiyou’s gaze snagged—he spotted The Lead Actor.

“Zhao Meiyou?” Liu Qijue had seen him too. He strode forward, voice low. “What the hell? Weren’t you headed to Site 000?”

“Yeah.” Zhao Meiyou nodded toward Qian Duoduo at his side. “But halfway there, this train just appeared. We got off and wound up here. You?”

“I was poking around in Lab A173,” The Lead Actor said. “Then bam—a train shows up out of nowhere.”

Qian Duoduo had his eyes shut at the moment. Suddenly, he spoke. “I’m hearing the same story from others. Matches ours exactly—sudden trains popping up in sites.”

“This ever happened before?” Zhao Meiyou asked.

“No chance,” The Lead Actor replied. Clearly a first for him too.

They quickly ran into more familiar faces from that gathering: the civil servant, the twins, the guy lugging an oxygen tank, and the one on the wheelchair hooked to an IV. Everyone shared the same confusion. “Why are archaeologists from every site showing up in one spot?”

This wasn’t some planned archaeologists’ convention. The sharp ones had already masked up.

Qian Duoduo scanned the crowd. “Looks like nearly every archaeologist is here.”

A flicker of unease stirred in Zhao Meiyou. If that was true, where was Diao Chan?

Before he could move, a shout rang out from the throng: “That’s Qian Duoduo!”

“And Young Master Liu!”

Unless they were kindred spirits, archaeologists rarely broadcast their identities. Now every eye locked onto Qian Duoduo and Liu Qijue. “Mr. Qian,” an elder stepped forward to ask. “Any idea what’s going on?”

“Don’t stand out,” Qian Duoduo murmured to Zhao Meiyou. “Let me handle it.”

The crowd’s positions were clearly divided. Zhao Meiyou took a quick count—around two hundred people, likely every archaeologist in the Metropolis. They clustered in small and large groups, everyone masked except the leaders.

The Lead Actor stood beside Zhao Meiyou, hands jammed in his pockets, rocking his usual cocky swagger.

Qian Duoduo stepped into the center and pulled out his cigarette case.

“We all got shipped here by train,” he said, eyeing the elder who’d spoken first. “That’s the sum total of what we know.”

“I heard Mr. Qian’s on the government’s most-wanted list lately,” the elder said, eyeing him dubiously. “That true?”

The Lead Actor bellowed back: “And? Who the fuck’s volunteering to play hero for the government?”

Plenty of lunatics among the archaeologists, but not a single fool. With no clue which site they were in, nobody was dumb enough to pick a fight with Qian Duoduo now.

From Zhao Meiyou’s vantage, he watched the group leaders huddle up briefly. Then the elder bowed to Qian Duoduo—and the others followed suit.

Qian Duoduo began passing out smokes.

“What’s the deal?” Zhao Meiyou nudged The Lead Actor.

“Your man’s about to put on a show,” The Lead Actor said. He’d clearly seen this play out before. “Unwritten rule with archaeologists: facing the unknown, Qian takes point. Cost is everyone loans him their abilities.”

He grabbed Zhao Meiyou with quick reflexes. “Don’t charge in like an idiot. Qian Duoduo’s power ain’t a joke—on him it’s showmanship; on you, it’s a death wish.”

“Easy for you to say,” Zhao Meiyou hissed. “He’s not your boyfriend!”

“That’s exactly why—because he’s your guy,” The Lead Actor said coolly. “You’ve gotta trust him most.”

“…”

“Get used to it,” The Lead Actor said, clapping his shoulder. “Don’t end up like me, only getting it after Mr. was gone.”

Qian Duoduo finished handing out the cigarettes and started forward, but he paused, doubled back, pretended to brief The Lead Actor—and slipped him a smoke on the sly.

“This one’s ‘Grafting,’” Qian Duoduo whispered. “I’ve already taken a drag.”

“Not bad—you’re finally learning to watch your back,” The Lead Actor said, pocketing it with genuine surprise.

If Qian Duoduo took heavy damage, that cig would let the whole crowd share the load.

Zhao Meiyou lunged to snatch it, but The Lead Actor slapped his hand away. “Cool it, moron. That’s no way to play suicide-by-proxy.”

Back in the real world, Zhao Meiyou would’ve rolled up his sleeves and thrown down without a second thought—his skills could always leave him breathing. But stuck in a site as a greenhorn, with The Lead Actor leagues ahead? No contest.

Couldn’t risk collateral on allies amid the unknown either. Zhao Meiyou tsked and watched Qian Duoduo stride toward the massive ancient city gate.

He clenched his fist tight.

Qian Duoduo reached out. With what seemed like minimal effort, the enormous gate creaked open.

The bells tolled long.