Dead friends, not poor Daoists—Liu Qijue bolted like lightning. As he blew by Zhao Meiyou, he stuffed a big bundle of red cloth into his arms. The 330th floor was blanketed in surveillance; their stunt was too loud, rousing every casino. Here, death was cheap as chopping veggies, and their identities were dicey. Caught, no amount of explaining would save them.
One blind thug spotted Liu Qijue shoving the red bundle at Zhao Meiyou and figured they were partners, that Zhao was clutching the bride. He pivoted and charged. Zhao Meiyou was still goofing around with wild dances when bullets whizzed his way the next second. He hit the dirt and scrambled off.
They split into two groups, with Zhao Meiyou drawing a major share of the firepower. Fortunately, he knew the 330th layer like the back of his hand. He darted through back alleys and squeezed through dog holes until he’d finally shaken off most of his pursuers. He flipped down from the roof of a warehouse, just about to catch his breath, when a voice suddenly barked from behind him, “Don’t move.”
A gun barrel pressed against his back, forcing Zhao Meiyou to raise his hands in surrender. He couldn’t tell which casino the thug belonged to, but the guy pulled out a communicator and said, “I’ve got one. Bring the car around.”
Less than half a minute later, a fire truck rolled up with its red lights flashing, barreling toward them aggressively. God only knew how many remote ports Zhao Meiyou had hacked—even the siren was blasting “The King Calls Me to Patrol the Mountains,” the sound effects rattling the whole street.
Zhao Meiyou was still mulling over his tangled web of connections with the big casinos when he heard it. He froze for a split second, then ducked his head sharply.
A high-pressure water hose snaked out from the truck’s compartment. Diao Chan clutched the valve, bellowing, “Zhao Meiyou, how many shifts have you fucking skipped behind my back?!”
Everyone in the Ancient Capital knew Director Zhao pulled all-nighters all the time. Liu Qijue had figured it was for the overtime pay, while Diao Chan thought it was just for show—after all, he was usually the only one grinding away through the night in the lab while Zhao Meiyou had long since slipped off to wash up and crash somewhere.
Now the truth was out: the guy had been off clubbing.
A massive jet of water instantly blasted the thug away. The Vice Dean, teetering on the edge of sanity, swung the nozzle around for indiscriminate fire. “Zhao Meiyou, how the hell are you gonna make up for what you owe me—”
Diao Chan was yanked back inside. The fire truck rumbled past the curbside, and as it went by Zhao Meiyou, Liu Qijue reached out and hauled him into the compartment.
The little mister gripped the wheel up front. It was his first time seeing Diao Chan go full berserk, and he was still rattled. “Director, you alright?”
Zhao Meiyou sprawled on the floor, limbs akimbo. “I’m fine. Diao Chan’s on his period lately—don’t hold it against him.”
“His… period?”
“You wouldn’t get a lady’s life.” Zhao Meiyou rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. “This truck’s way too obvious. We need a different plan to hit the Middle Layer District.”
Diao Chan had known Zhao Meiyou and Liu Qijue would screw things up eventually. He’d commandeered a fire truck ahead of time and trailed them from afar. When the casino goon’s comms crackled over the truck’s channel announcing Zhao Meiyou’s capture, he’d rushed in for the intercept.
Diao Chan kicked out a leg, tripping Zhao Meiyou right back onto the floor. “Change your damn clothes first.”
To throw off pursuit, Zhao Meiyou was decked out in the outfit Liu Qijue had shoved at him: a bright red wedding suit.
The boy they’d rescued had already been stripped bare. He huddled naked in a corner of the compartment. Liu Qijue said, “I checked him over—no major wounds. Don’t touch the stitches on his mouth until we’re clear.”
Zhao Meiyou wrung out the water from his wedding suit and squatted nearby for a quick look. He nodded. “Alright. You guys got any plan to get us out?”
“Nope.” Liu Qijue’s reply was blunt. “You’re the hero here.”
Zhao Meiyou glanced at Diao Chan. Diao Chan started to open his mouth, but Zhao Meiyou waved him off. “No dice, Young Master. Think of something else—this time, no ‘little tadpole looking for mama.'”
“Idiot.” Diao Chan rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’re up.”
Zhao Meiyou scratched his head, sensing trouble. He pulled out his terminal, gearing up for a flash of inspiration, when the little mister called from the driver’s seat, “Director, looks like we’re blocked.”
Zhao Meiyou cracked open the compartment door. Up above, a bright yellow light shone down—a hover van floating right overhead.
He hadn’t been back to the Metropolis in years, but he still recognized the logo. Those vans were common, zipping between layers—M Fast Food delivery trucks, decked out with shiny golden fried chicken decals.
The vehicle was empty.
The group exchanged looks. As if sensing their hesitation, the door hissed open. Zhao Meiyou spotted a wardrobe behind the counter stocked with red-and-yellow uniforms and hover skates. He thought for a second. “Let’s go. Switch rides.”
They piled in. Zhao Meiyou stuffed the boy into the cabinet and crouched behind the counter without changing, though Liu Qijue shot him a look, said nothing, and just plopped the red veil over his head.
Save a life, go all the way—if the truck got inspected, Zhao Meiyou could at least buy the boy some cover with his identity. With their skills, survival wasn’t the issue.
M Fast Food trucks had direct access between layers; checkpoints scanned the license plate and waved them through. But they’d kicked up too much chaos today—the barriers were manned, and casino accountants were checking every vehicle. When their turn came, the old man in the tortoiseshell glasses eyed the three “ladies” in uniform, squinted for a moment, then waved them on.
The hover truck climbed to around the 400th layer. Diao Chan let out a breath. Liu Qijue fished two burgers from his chest pocket and took a huge bite. “Too much mayo.”
Unlike the bustle of the Lower District, the Middle Layer District was eerily quiet. Aerial trains glided silently past. A private car pulled up alongside, and the driver—a commuter eyeing the truck—grinned. “Hey, beauties! Gimme a combo meal.”
Liu Qijue ignored him. Diao Chan couldn’t cook, and the little mister fumbled with a Coke. In the end, Zhao Meiyou crawled out from under the counter and whipped up a combo in the rear storage compartment. The commuter took the paper bag, puzzled. “No red bean pie?”
Liu Qijue crunched on raw lettuce, staring him down expressionlessly. “Sold out.”
Something in his chewing—gnashing teeth, bloodthirsty vibe—must’ve spooked the guy. The commuter dropped his change and scrammed.
Diao Chan slapped a “Closed” sign on the window and yanked Zhao Meiyou out from sneaking red bean pies. “You know how to use the food machine? Make me a coffee.”
“Ease up on the coffee.” Zhao Meiyou rummaged a red tea bag from the cabinet and steeped it in hot water. “Milk and sugar?”
Diao Chan sighed and took the cup. “Black’s fine.”
The Wandering Gods Festival kicked off at midnight, and dawn had broken now, with rain on the way. Holographic birds and fish schools swam past the streets. Bars had just shuttered; auto-sweepers dumped empty bottles into rear alleys’ recycling bins, overflowing with colorful cans and a wilted bouquet of roses.
Soon, a garbage truck descended from the upper streets. Mechanical claws upended the bin into the rear hold—a quick glimpse revealing the city’s refuse: fast food boxes, plastic mannequins, rotting fish guts, a dead cat, and a busted phone booth. Zhao Meiyou tinkered with the truck’s radio. He tuned to an obscure channel, and guitar strings filled the air. Diao Chan recognized it—the retro station from their school days, spinning 22nd-century throwbacks. The DJ had connections, scoring black market vinyl.
Zhao Meiyou propped his legs on the counter, lit a Marlboro, and hummed along softly: “Welcome to the Hotel California.”
Daylight crept in. He lounged there, cigarette dangling, clad in his bright red wedding suit amid the truck’s confines. Hotel California hung in the air, mingling with salty Coke fizz, stale fried chicken grease, and harsh tobacco smoke. No one spoke; they all gazed out at the towering cityscape—Zhao Meiyou’s long-lost hometown.
After a while, someone murmured, “This city is beautiful.”
“No shit,” Zhao Meiyou said. “It’s my old stomping grounds…” Midway, he turned to Diao Chan. “Was that you?”
Diao Chan shook his head. Neither Liu Qijue nor the little mister had spoken. Zhao Meiyou opened the cabinet—the boy inside was fast asleep.
“Radio DJ?” Diao Chan asked.
Zhao Meiyou waved it off. He’d guessed right. He checked his terminal; the personality program, having finally processed the samples, was back online. He refreshed and rebooted. Then a new male voice echoed through the compartment—one none of them had heard before.
The program cleared its throat. “Hello, everyone.”
Liu Qijue leaned in instantly. “Sample set enough this time?”
“Too many viable samples in the Metropolis. Took time to sift the data,” it replied.
Diao Chan whipped toward Zhao Meiyou, who took a deep breath. “Query personality growth degree.”
“My development’s at nearly 90%,” the program said. “The last 10% might take more time, but I tested linking to the Metropolis’s base host—no issues. I should be able to interface with Buddha’s core data preliminarily.”
Zhao Meiyou blinked. He knew exactly what hooking into the Metropolis host implied. “So… you drove this truck here?”
“Correct.” A light chuckle came from the program—a boy’s voice shifting toward manhood. “Was I supposed to watch you get nabbed?”
“Holy shit.” Liu Qijue slapped Zhao Meiyou’s shoulder. “Badass, Zhao Meiyou.”
Zhao Meiyou nearly toppled from the hit. Years of round-the-clock work had finally paid off. He grinned, ash flaking from his cigarette onto the terminal screen.
He brushed it away, and a voice murmured from his fingertips: “Zhao Meiyou.”
It was the first time the personality program had called him so formally. Zhao Meiyou knew it was fully matured now—no more reckless antics. He cleared his throat. “Listening. What’s up?”
“You should give me a name.”
“Easy.” Zhao Meiyou didn’t miss a beat. “Patch the gaps—call you Prosperity.”
“Fuck off, that’s awful,” Diao Chan said. “Pick another!”
“What then?” Zhao Meiyou threw up his hands. “Kitty?”
“You raising a cat?”
“Then Duoduo—more the merrier.” Zhao Meiyou slammed the decision. “Done deal. No take-backs.”
Liu Qijue arched a brow but didn’t point out how common Duoduo was for dogs.
“Surname?” The program didn’t sound mad—patient, even. “Zhao like you?”
“Lemme think…” Zhao Meiyou pondered. “Qian. Perfect symmetry with mine.”
He winked as he said it.
“No Zhao in the Hundred Family Surnames—it opens with Qian.”
