Chapter 38: Dream?

A searing pain tore through his abdomen. Zhao Meiyou felt his consciousness rapidly slipping away. He struggled to turn his head, gazing toward Diao Chan’s eyes.

He wanted to say something, but in the end, he only managed a feeble smile. “…Diao Chan,” he called out.

Qian Duoduo’s figure dissolved in midair as the main unit thrummed violently, belching out a stench of burning circuits.

Don’t break now, Zhao Meiyou thought hazily. If I die, who’s going to fix him?

He tried to lift his arm, but it felt as heavy as a thousand pounds. That bastard Diao Chan must have coated the blade with something to numb his nerves.

What the hell. If you’re going to stab someone, at least make it quick. Still worried about me feeling pain at a time like this?

Before the darkness fully claimed him, Zhao Meiyou forced out one last sentence. “…If I die, close my eyes for me.”

He definitely couldn’t rest in peace otherwise.

…

Sentient beings in the southern continent—every arising thought, every impulse—was nothing but karma, nothing but sin.

His consciousness drifted between this shore and the next. In the haze, Zhao Meiyou heard the tolling of bells once more.

He snapped his eyes open.

Blinding sunlight pierced his vision, nearly bringing tears. It took Zhao Meiyou a long moment to steady his pounding heart. The aftershocks of the nightmare left him drenched in cold sweat, his uniform clinging stickily to his skin. Uniform—right, the uniform.

He was wearing an archaeologist’s uniform.

This was Site 000. A steam train had materialized out of nowhere and delivered them here. Qian Duoduo had taken the lead, shoving open the city gates—and then the dream had descended. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream at all. Who the hell knew what it was? Zhao Meiyou felt the first real signs of a mental breakdown creeping in. What was going on? Where the hell was he?

“Zhao Meiyou.” Someone called his name.

He looked up. It was Qian Duoduo.

The young man gazed at him, frowning slightly. “What’s wrong?”

Zhao Meiyou knew his face must look ghastly pale. Qian Duoduo reached out, his palm pressing against the nape of Zhao Meiyou’s neck. Then he leaned in, as if to kiss him. On reflex, Zhao Meiyou thrust out a hand, blocking the space between them.

Qian Duoduo paused, blinking. “Zhao Meiyou?”

“…Brother Qian,” Zhao Meiyou finally managed after a long pause. “Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

“Look around at the others.”

The people around them—the archaeologists gathered here by that mystery train—were all reacting just like Zhao Meiyou. Some muttered to themselves, others stood frozen in place like sleepwalkers, still half-lost in whatever visions gripped them. Most looked as if they’d been force-fed a torrent of alien memories: eyes bloodshot, some doubled over retching on the ground.

Zhao Meiyou knew the quantum field threshold could rattle the mind, so plenty of archaeologists seemed off-kilter. It was a natural defense mechanism—everyone coped in their own way.

But right now, almost everyone’s “off-kilter” symptoms matched perfectly.

In this chaos, Zhao Meiyou couldn’t help but wonder: Were the events in the Ancient Capital all just his imagination?

Buddha, Ancient Capital Research Institute, Antarctica, the Orion Arm war, the Great Catastrophe, the temple ruins, Grandma’s Bridge.

Site Law Number One: Sites are not dreams.

So, had everything in the quantum field threshold actually happened once upon a time?

Zhao Meiyou instinctively scanned the panicked crowd. Only one person stood out of place: Liu Qijue. His hands were stuffed in his uniform pockets, and he glanced around in bewilderment. “What the hell just happened? Where are we?”

“Jue… Noble Consort!” Zhao Meiyou hurried over and grabbed him. “You okay?”

“Zhao Meiyou?” Liu Qijue peered at him oddly. “Okay how?”

“Didn’t you feel anything?”

“Feel what?”

“Like a dream?” Zhao Meiyou probed cautiously. “The Ancient Capital?”

“Ancient Capital?” Liu Qijue’s expression was utter confusion. “What Ancient Capital? You alright, Zhao Meiyou?” He reached out and touched Zhao Meiyou’s forehead. “Did the mental shock give you a fever? Where’s your man?”

What was going on? Why hadn’t Liu Qijue reacted at all? As confusion swirled in Zhao Meiyou’s mind, someone approached him—an archaeologist he’d met once at The Lead Actor’s place during a party.

This guy didn’t look great either: face ashen like he’d had a heart attack, eyes glassy. But he was regaining his wits. He’d shed his uniform jacket, and his shirt was soaked through with sweat.

The man stared at him and said, “Dean.”

A buzz exploded in Zhao Meiyou’s head.

“What did you call me?”

The man hesitated, mouth opening and closing, but he steeled himself. “We met in the greenhouse before. Dean Zhao.”

It was like a secret handshake. “The king sent me to patrol the mountain?”

“…All drinks two hundred fifty.”

The buzzing in Zhao Meiyou’s skull intensified. He’d never heard those lyrics before—only the spoiled brats from the old Ancient Capital crew blasting them at that greenhouse rave.

But how many years ago was that?

As they stood there in stunned silence, another voice piped up uncertainly. “Dean Zhao?”

Zhao Meiyou whipped his head toward the crowd.

It hit him then. Among these strangers from the Metropolis, he recognized so many faces: the intern he’d chased off with his cigarette smoke, the female researcher who always called Diao Chan the “Noblewoman Dean,” top-tier elites, connections shoved in through back channels…

These were people from the old Ancient Capital Research Institute.

Some faces were less familiar. Zhao Meiyou drew a deep breath, forcing calm as buried memories bubbled up. His eyes landed on an archaeologist who’d been vomiting violently—the man had severe premature graying. That trait yanked a thread loose in Zhao Meiyou’s mind. He’d seen this guy before.

He was from the Antarctic Faction.

What kind of identity was an “archaeologist,” really?

Did everyone who could enter the quantum field threshold have ties to the past?

Zhao Meiyou’s thoughts snapped to that experiment—the Fusion Experiment. It involved quantum tech and consciousness transfer, using live human experimental subjects.

And just like that, a mad hypothesis seized him.

Were they still trapped in some massive experiment?

The idea clicked into place like a gear jolting a stalled machine. Zhao Meiyou’s mind flooded open, deluged by a torrent of memories—sharp as a blade flashing from its sheath, carving sheer cliffs around him.

He could only watch helplessly as the visions crashed down.

“Dean?” The archaeologist beside him jumped as Zhao Meiyou suddenly doubled over, clutching his head. Red liquid dripped to the ground—blood from his ears.

“Dean?!” The man’s face paled. Everyone here had seen this before: the prelude to a consciousness dissolving in the site.

“Out of the way.” Qian Duoduo strode forward.

He scooped Zhao Meiyou off the ground, but Zhao Meiyou was shaking uncontrollably, nearly slipping from his grasp. Blood now streamed from Zhao Meiyou’s eyes and nose. He clenched his teeth, enduring some unimaginable agony.

Qian Duoduo couldn’t bear it. He pried Zhao Meiyou’s jaw open and shoved his own wrist inside.

Zhao Meiyou bit down hard. Blood welled instantly, vessels rupturing, spraying out. The metallic tang seemed to jolt Zhao Meiyou awake for a split second. He struggled to release, choking, trying to speak—but Qian Duoduo surged forward, sealing his mouth with his own, forcing the blood back down his throat.

The nearby archaeologist gaped as they kissed—or rather, as Qian Duoduo pinned Zhao Meiyou in a bloody, fervent exchange, like they meant to devour each other.

“What’s going on with them?” Liu Qijue wandered over, startling at the sight. “Holy shit.” He shooed away the gawkers. “Should I conjure you two a bed or what?”

Zhao Meiyou couldn’t hear Liu Qijue at all. The mingling of saliva and blood forged a link between him and Qian Duoduo—like a tentacle slithering into his brain, slamming pause on the meat grinder of memories. He jerked back, staring at the blood-smeared face before him. “…Brother Qian.”

“Zhao Meiyou.” Qian Duoduo reached out, but then Zhao Meiyou said, “Qian Duoduo.”

The outstretched arm froze midair.

“No, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou backpedaled like he regretted it. “…Give me a minute.”

He needed a minute.

To sort through the sudden influx in his head.

Those extra memories, those images beyond the Ancient Capital days—who did they belong to?

Just moments ago, it was as if a massive storage drive had dumped into his brain without warning. He’d recalled things he’d never lived: Diao Chan, Liu Qijue, strangers, a Metropolis from God-knows-when.

Sites. Archaeologists.

His mind told him he hadn’t stumbled into this archaeologist gig recently, triggered by some girl’s 1999 CD player pulling him into a site. He’d been here before.

He’d met Qian Duoduo before.

Countless times.

Those memories were like countless “Zhao Meiyous” trapped in endless loops. In some lives, he was born in the Upper District to loving, educated parents. In others, abandoned at birth, dying anonymously in the rain. Some lives he reached middle age; others ended before adulthood. But aside from early childhood deaths, almost every life featured Diao Chan and Liu Qijue.

Hundreds, thousands of encounters: strangers or soulmates. In one fleeting glimpse, Zhao Meiyou saw the three of them fleeing down a highway in a car, pursued by a horde of Jurassic-era dinosaurs. They all died in the end—inside a site.

Yes, sites. In Zhao Meiyou’s countless lives, unless he died too young, they all led to the same path: brushing against a site for some reason, becoming an archaeologist.

Then meeting Qian Duoduo again.

Zhao Meiyou couldn’t tally how many loops he’d endured; trying might drive him insane. In nearly all those thousands of lives, he’d fallen for Qian Duoduo.

Nearly.

Excluding the ones where he died too soon.

In some lives, adulthood never came—struck down by congenital illness or freak accident. But before death, he always seemed to glimpse Qian Duoduo’s face.

The other man wore a mask as he yanked out Zhao Meiyou’s oxygen tube, fired a shot at him during a street brawl, and shoved him off a speeding train—his life seemed destined for only two kinds of death: either in a site or at Qian Duoduo’s hands.

What a grudge, Zhao Meiyou thought. Was this the legendary “if I can’t have it, I’ll destroy it”?

Even worse, in some of those lives, he had become an archaeologist, only to die by Qian Duoduo’s hand in the end.

Zhao Meiyou spoke up. “Brother Qian.”

Qian Duoduo stared at him, not daring to step closer. “…Zhao Meiyou.”

“Is it time?”

Are you going to kill me again?

They stood a single step apart, gazing into each other’s eyes as the sounds of wind and voices faded into the distance. The world seemed to stretch out infinitely around them.

After a long moment, Zhao Meiyou smiled faintly. “Brother Qian, can we go easy this time?”

Kill me or cut me up, do as you please.

Just… I’m scared of pain too.

The two of them fell silent, staring at each other wordlessly. Suddenly, Liu Qijue’s voice rang out from the crowd. “What are you two doing just standing here? Zhao Meiyou, you—” His words cut off abruptly. Liu Qijue gaped at them like he’d seen a ghost, then blurted out, “What the hell.”

“…Qian Duoduo, why are you crying? What did Zhao Meiyou do to you?”

It wasn’t the first time Zhao Meiyou had seen Qian Duoduo in tears. In the extra memories that had suddenly flooded his mind, Qian Duoduo had been by his side countless times right before death, his eyes filled with something like a raging storm.

Thus, the Buddha lowered its gaze, and a single tear fell.

Perhaps it was all just a dream. Zhao Meiyou didn’t have time for deeper reflection—he was far too preoccupied with everything that had happened in the Ancient Capital. Now here they were, standing in this pristine Research Institute, and he couldn’t tell if this was a quantum field threshold or reality itself. Qian Duoduo was undoubtedly the key; he had to know something. “Brother Qian, let’s make a deal,” Zhao Meiyou said. “Let’s talk.”

Qian Duoduo took a deep breath. “Talk about what?”

“Anything you want. You talk, I’ll listen.” As Zhao Meiyou spoke, he turned to Liu Qijue. “Give me some paper.”

Liu Qijue blinked. “…What for?”

“Are you blind?” Zhao Meiyou said. “I need to wipe my wife’s face.”

Liu Qijue activated Creation and handed him a huge roll of toilet paper. Zhao Meiyou was about to complain—after all this, you’re still messing with me? With all the types of tissue paper out there, you give me bathroom rolls?—when he took the paper and looked up. Suddenly, he spotted a figure in the distance amid the crowd.

The roll of paper slipped from his hand and hit the ground.

Liu Qijue jumped, startled. “Zhao Meiyou, where the hell are you going?”

Zhao Meiyou didn’t have time to reply. He bolted after the figure.

It was Diao Chan.

The memories of the Ancient Capital Research Institute were etched too deeply into his mind. Zhao Meiyou couldn’t be sure if they were hallucinations conjured by quantum field interference or genuine fragments of reality. He had a gut feeling that across countless cycles of reincarnation, he had always been tied to the sites and the archaeologists—and the root of both likely traced back to that Fusion Experiment conducted in Antarctica all those years ago.

If his guess was right, then the Ancient Capital Research Institute was where it all began.

Diao Chan had stabbed him right before he activated the quantum bomb. What happened after that?

If the archaeologists of today were the researchers from back then, were they all Experimental Subjects from the Fusion Experiment?

Why did almost everyone have memories of the Ancient Capital, while Liu Qijue remembered nothing?

How much did Qian Duoduo know? Was he in danger here?

Had Diao Chan really sealed himself away in Site S45 to lie low? What scheme had he set up? And why show up right now?

Zhao Meiyou chased after Diao Chan, sprinting through surroundings that felt eerily familiar—almost identical to the Ancient Capital Research Institute in his memories. There were the lab buildings, the greenhouse, the dorms, the cafeteria… Wutong trees lined the asphalt streets, their branches shading red-brick buildings with wooden windows, overgrown with green ivy on the walls.

Suddenly, he realized where Diao Chan was headed.

This road led to Experiment Field 2.

Aside from the archaeologists on this trip, the Ancient Capital seemed devoid of other life. The gates to Experiment Field 2 stood wide open, and Zhao Meiyou raced unimpeded all the way to the pool from back then. Diao Chan stood in the water, and the massive mainframe had risen from beneath the surface.

Zhao Meiyou’s footsteps faltered.

“Zhao Meiyou.” Diao Chan didn’t turn around, as if he’d known Zhao Meiyou was following. “Don’t be scared. No Qian Duoduo is going to pop out of there this time.”

Zhao Meiyou walked to the edge of the pool and cut straight to the point. “You’ve remembered everything about the Ancient Capital all along?”

“I remember bits and pieces—not the full picture,” Diao Chan replied. “It all came back to me after I got here.”

“How did you get here?”

“By train, obviously. That train passes through every site—no archaeologist would miss it.” Diao Chan continued, “You didn’t see me at first because I boarded ahead of you.”

“Were you hiding from me?”

“I stabbed you back here, didn’t I? Was I supposed to stick around and wait for you to remember and take revenge?”

“Then why reveal yourself now?”

“Because I do need you to remember everything.” Diao Chan answered patiently, then beckoned. “Come here, Zhao Meiyou.”

Zhao Meiyou didn’t budge. “What for? Gonna stab me again?”

“You got it.” Diao Chan actually nodded, then drew a knife from inside his uniform. “This time, I’ll aim for the heart. It’ll be quick—no pain like last time.”

For a split second, Zhao Meiyou thought Diao Chan had lost his mind, but the man’s expression was calm, utterly convinced. “You know, for archaeologists, a heart wound in a site isn’t fatal—the brain is. But you won’t even die from a head wound now. What’s a little stab?”

“I don’t know why you’re so casual about stabbing someone, but I do know that if taking this knife changes nothing, you wouldn’t be jumping through all these hoops.” Zhao Meiyou said. “If I’m right, this is the end of Site 000. Who knows what happens here? One stab, and I might actually die for good.”

“Even if I don’t kill you, Qian Duoduo will.” Diao Chan didn’t argue, just sighed. “Haven’t you remembered it all?”

“Bullshit. One is murder, the other’s a lover’s suicide. Not the same thing.”

“…” Diao Chan shook his head, unsurprised yet speechless. “I knew it’d be like this. Fine, whatever.”

Zhao Meiyou didn’t yet grasp what Diao Chan’s “whatever” implied when the machine beneath the water rose higher, revealing the quantum bomb he’d buried there all those years ago.

In this “Ancient Capital” conjured by Site 000, nothing was locked away.

Not even this bomb.

It all happened in an instant. Diao Chan glanced back at Zhao Meiyou, then decisively slapped the detonation button.

White light erupted, consuming everything in a flash. It wasn’t destruction by fire or brute force—like an electronic wipe, a rapid clip of components erased. Every subconscious impulse, every reflex, every hard-won memory and truth—from beginning to end, inside and out—gone with one keystroke. Clean slate. Reborn.

…

He didn’t know how much time passed before he faintly heard some noises.

A plastic door curtain rustled open. The air was thick with the mingled scents of talcum powder, floral lotion, mosquito coils, and braised meats, steaming hot and heavy. A woman’s voice chattered nearby, accompanied by the flick of a lighter igniting a cigarette. The ventilation was poor, stuffy like an old bathhouse but laced with a hint of cool relief.

“Doctor Zhao! Emergency!”

Zhao Meiyou jolted awake at the clatter of shuffling mahjong tiles.