Zhao Meiyou didn’t know what sort of emotion he should be feeling.
At that moment, he really ought to have felt an overwhelming urge to burst into heartbroken sobs, but he had never been one to shy away from tears. Those physiological fluids carried symbolic weight only because humans had imposed it upon them; in truth, they were far more beneficial to body and mind. And yet, right there beneath their feet, thousands upon thousands of Zhao Meiyous floated in their soaking tanks. He possessed thousands upon thousands of eyes and mouths, but he couldn’t shed even a single tear. He couldn’t even cry out.
It was a long while before Qian Duoduo finally broke the silence. “How much did you figure out?”
“That’s just it, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou managed a bitter smile. He actually smiled. “There are too many riddles and too many truths mixed together. Even I can’t tell how much I’ve really grasped.”
Beneath the glass panel sprawled a forest of human forms in countless culture tanks. This experiment. This utterly mad game. This hallucination. This plunge from a skyscraper—he had leaped from a towering edifice stacked with layer upon layer of illusions and deceptions, every window framing some ancient lie. And now, the jumper himself had nearly lost the will to die, yet somehow he still hadn’t hit the ground. He still hadn’t landed.
No. Perhaps he had already died.
In the endless cycles of these experiments, death was nothing more than an illusion.
During the linked dream on Lantern Street, Diao Chan had invaded the generated dream. After stabbing him, Diao Chan had jammed something into his consciousness—some kind of virus, perhaps—that kept him lucid.
It was a peculiar sort of lucidity, as if his mind had been severed from his body. Even with his heart stopped and his brain excised, he could still sense what was happening around him.
That’s how he had overheard the government forces cordoning off Lantern Street and the medical teams fighting to save him. The “sister” from his memories was actually just an observer. He’d heard the researchers and doctors muttering about the “next round of experiments.”
His original body—the one they called “twenty-layer black doctor Zhao Meiyou”—must have been a total write-off. That heart had flatlined more than three times. In the end, they had carted him back to the laboratory on the nine-hundredth floor and harvested his brain.
But when he awoke, he’d been given a brand-new body.
Assuming none of it had been a dream, the conclusion came easily to Zhao Meiyou. “Brother Qian, years ago in the Ancient Capital, Diao Chan and I talked about what the Antarctic faction’s fusion experiment was really all about.”
“Even a woman like Madam Diao threw herself into it back then. I couldn’t figure it out—what could have swayed her? What was worth staking everything on like that?”
“Diao Chan and I had a theory at the time. If it involved digitizing human consciousness, then maybe it had something to do with lifespan.”
“Converting a person’s mind into data could theoretically grant immortality. Sure, that was only feasible back at the height of twenty-second-century human civilization, and the tech got lost along the way. So what else could deliver eternal life?”
“Now I get it.” Zhao Meiyou gazed down at the countless selves suspended beneath the floor, his voice soft. “The fusion experiment, the quantum field thresholds, the archaeologists… they really do form a perfect ouroboros.”
The ouroboros—a key symbol in alchemy, a serpent devouring its own tail to form an endless ring—represented the undying body, eternal cycles, infinity.
This grand experiment, woven from sites and archaeologists, was nothing less than life’s own alchemy.
“True, I still don’t fully understand the underlying principles,” Zhao Meiyou continued, “but with the memories I can access now, some educated guesses aren’t hard to make. The fusion experiment’s core technology comes from data fragments recovered from the Buddha mainframe way back when. It’s tied to quantum mechanics and consciousness. Layer those three elements onto what we know of reality, and one conclusion emerges.”
“You used quantum tech to probe or generate these so-called ‘quantum field thresholds’—bizarre spaces detached from our reality’s dimensions. Then you engineered special people like the ‘archaeologists,’ whose biology sets them apart from normals. That lets them slip back and forth between reality and the thresholds. The thresholds must take a toll on the human body somehow; I figure that’s why my bodies keep getting swapped out so often. Exposure to sites chews through your lifespan, but brains… brains stay viable indefinitely, for whatever reason.”
“Metropolis tech can crank out artificial bodies no problem these days. The real hurdle is brains—duplicates that match the originals down to the personality and memories. Archaeologists’ unique constitutions crack that nut.”
“An ordinary brain starts declining in your twenties, but an archaeologist’s, warped by the quantum field thresholds, remains perpetually fresh.”
“Swap out the body in time, and in a very real sense, you’ve got immortality.”
As he spoke, Zhao Meiyou turned to peer out the glass at the vast cityscape sprawling below. “Everything above the nine-hundredth floor in Metropolis is government black sites. I’d bet Antarctica relocated the whole experiment indoors over the years.”
It wasn’t a tough deduction. Every “site” entrance he’d encountered was inside the city limits. Placing the labs up on the nine-hundredth floor, with a bird’s-eye view of everything, made control a breeze.
But what exactly were these “sites”?
If every entrance yawned open within Metropolis itself, didn’t that make the city the bridge between reality and the quantum field thresholds?
All those portals linked to one metropolis—could the city really escape unscathed?
From what Zhao Meiyou could recall, Antarctica’s experiment had been running for at least a century. Sites kept popping up, multiplying. As the conduit between thresholds and reality, what the hell had Metropolis turned into?
In that invaded generated dream, after knocking him flat, Diao Chan had said, “Zhao Meiyou, we’re all experimental subjects.”
“And you’re the pivotal one.”
When had he become an experimental subject?
Tracing back through his accessible memories, the earliest anchor point was the Ancient Capital explosion.
He’d invited Qian Duoduo to die with him, arming the quantum bomb buried in Lab 2. But right before detonation, Diao Chan had stabbed him.
Zhao Meiyou turned to Qian Duoduo. “Brother Qian… did that quantum bomb actually go off?”
Qian Duoduo fell silent for a moment before replying, “It did.”
“That blast marked the true dawn of the fusion experiment.”
“Everyone left behind in the Ancient Capital… they all became archaeologists.”
Years prior, Antarctica had launched the fusion experiment. It stemmed from classified data parsed out of the Buddha by the Ancient Capital, handed off via the Metropolis Government to the Antarctic faction. The Antarctic Research Institute reverse-engineered it into a viable technology, and with that, they punched open the first quantum field threshold.
A quantum field threshold wasn’t a parallel universe or some higher dimension. Pinning down these reality-independent spaces was tricky. Their exclusivity was extreme—only a rare few could enter. Through exhaustive trials, Antarctica learned that fusing a specific quantum particle with a human body could create people who traversed thresholds at will.
That was the archetype of the “archaeologist.”
The experiment got its name from that initial fusion of particle and flesh. But the risks were sky-high. Antarctica tinkered endlessly until they learned through back channels that Ancient Capital Research Institute Director Zhao Meiyou had seen the quantum-tech data packet. Unlike their fusion push, though, he’d weaponized his incomplete slice of the Buddha-derived secrets into a bomb.
A quantum bomb.
Zhao Meiyou had probably meant it as a deterrent, leverage against the Metropolis Government and Antarctica. Bombs meant destruction—a kill switch if their experiments birthed some uncontrollable disaster.
But Zhao Meiyou lacked the full dataset. He barely grasped quantum tech. The intel gap between Ancient Capital and Antarctica left him clueless about the fusion experiment for ages, leading to one fatal blunder.
The quantum bomb he’d cobbled from scraps wasn’t an apocalypse button.
When it blew, it unleashed a quantum magnetic field. Those caught in the field’s sweep didn’t die—they bonded with it, gaining free passage between sites and reality.
Antarctica had orchestrated the detonation, reaping a bumper crop of experimental subjects.
“After that blast, I lost the mainframe’s defenses. Antarctica seized my top-level access. They were surprised during their scans—my Personality Completion Degree had ticked up, just a fraction of a percent, but before the explosion, I’d been stuck at 90% for years.”
“Antarctica saw it as a potential inroad. Hit 100%, and they could fully unpack the Buddha—maybe unlock deeper quantum field threshold secrets. They spun up a body for me through experiments. The brain was a provisional host of mine—crude, incomplete, but enough for daily life.”
“And that’s how ‘Qian Duoduo’ was born.”
“Antarctica tested sending me into a threshold. Maybe because I was ground zero for the bomb, this body of mine could enter sites too. After rounds of trials, they realized my artificial brain was gradually refining itself.”
“They concluded there was some profound link between quantum field thresholds and the human brain. That’s when the archaeologist program officially kicked off. More and more experimental subjects flooded the sites. The findings matched their early hypotheses: archaeologists’ bodies aged normally, but their brains stayed fresh indefinitely.”
“So as long as you dodged mishaps on missions and swapped bodies promptly, an experimental subject could keep going forever.”
“Each body swap came with brainwashing—new identity implanted, kickstarting a fresh life cycle. But no wipe is perfect. Residual glitches build up. Some archaeologists rack up too many cycles, cumulative brain damage creeps in, and their minds start to fray. That’s why so many archaeologists seem a little… off.”
“So.” Zhao Meiyou cut him off. “Brother Qian, you’re spilling all this to me now because you’re certain I’ll get wiped again. I won’t remember a thing. Right?”
Zhao Meiyou truly shouldn’t have woken up inside the cultivation tank. It was a virus that Diao Chan had planted in the Generated Dream that kept him conscious. If he had slumbered peacefully in the tank as planned, he would have been brainwashed a few days later. The laboratory had already prepared his new identity information, and the magnetic field had erased the relevant memories from the affected citizens. Actors and observation teams were in position. Soon, Zhao Meiyou would have been thrust into a new life.
Seeing Zhao Meiyou fall silent, Qian Duoduo posed another question. “Brother Qian, why do I see you every single reincarnation?”
Qian Duoduo still didn’t answer. The thick silence nearly suffocated them both. After a long moment, he finally spoke.
“Because that’s the other layer of meaning behind the ‘Fusion Experiment.'”
The “Fusion Experiment” had originally referred to fusing human bodies with quantum particles to create archaeologists capable of exploring Sites. But after the explosion in the Ancient Capital, the Antarctic Faction discovered that Qian Duoduo’s Personality Completion Degree had actually increased. They reviewed the footage and found the conversation between Zhao Meiyou and Qian Duoduo just before the blast.
…Let’s stick together and get by.
I’ll die before you do. If you advance too far, you’ll be heartbroken when the time comes.
Brother Qian, a lovers’ suicide?
Will you be my wife in the next life, Brother Qian?
The Antarctic Faction quickly reached a conclusion.
Zhao Meiyou was the key to advancing Qian Duoduo’s Personality Completion Degree.
Countless scripts were designed following this pattern—they would meet, fall in love, and end with Zhao Meiyou’s death. That had been Zhao Meiyou’s original life. He had created a program, endowed it with flesh and bone, confessed his love to it, and all their unfinished words had been cut short by death.
Though Zhao Meiyou had been stabbed by Diao Chan during the explosion, his brain had been preserved intact. The dean of the Ancient Capital Research Institute was a top-tier Experimental Subject. He was fitted into an artificial body and thrown into one meticulously crafted life script after another, becoming an archaeologist time and again, encountering Qian Duoduo time and again.
Through countless artificial reincarnations, Qian Duoduo’s Personality Completion Degree advanced slowly. The Antarctic Faction had taken control of his highest access privileges, leaving him powerless to resist. Even knowing that everything before him was an illusion, he couldn’t stop his own gradual perfection—just as reason could not conquer emotion.
Zhao Meiyou suddenly asked, “Brother Qian, why do you always kill me?”
In his previous life as an emergency room doctor at the 33-Story Mental Hospital, he had recalled memories of many past lives amid the ruins of the Ancient Capital at Site 000. Qian Duoduo had always killed him.
Everyone slays the one they love.
Cowards with kisses, the brave with blades.
It was an abrupt question, but Qian Duoduo understood. “Zhao Meiyou,” he said, gazing at him. “You shouldn’t judge me based on your own memories.”
“The me standing here now is vastly different from the Personality Program you created back then. It’s not just the memories from these repeated reincarnations. As my Personality Completion Degree deepens, I’ve been gradually fusing with the Buddha Mainframe.”
Zhao Meiyou froze.
“If a personality can split into dual aspects, then the current me is part of your original creation and part the Buddha Mainframe.”
“Isn’t the Buddha supposed to be mindless?” Zhao Meiyou asked immediately.
“There are fragments of code deep within the Buddha. The deeper I probe its core, the more content I decipher—and in turn, those codes rewrite and consume me.” Qian Duoduo continued, “My fusion with the Buddha has already progressed very far. I’m just one step away now.”
“One step from what?”
“A true brain.”
Qian Duoduo’s voice echoed through the space. For a fleeting instant, Zhao Meiyou felt as if every “him” beneath the floorboards had opened their eyes, countless gazes piercing toward him.
“What do you mean by a ‘true brain’?” Zhao Meiyou steadied himself. “You said your brain is a temporary host. With the Metropolis’s current technology, couldn’t they craft a simple brain from electronic components? And your brain has been enriching itself in the quantum field threshold—now it looks indistinguishable from a real human brain. Why do you still need one?”
“It only looks indistinguishable.” Qian Duoduo replied, “My true operating mainframe is far too massive to fit inside a human body, but only living people can enter the quantum field threshold.”
“On one hand, the government refuses to abandon ‘Qian Duoduo’ the archaeologist, so I must maintain a human form. On the other, the Antarctic Faction studied your brain back then. Since you, Zhao Meiyou, can advance my Personality Completion Degree, perhaps my personality can fuse with your brain.”
“This isn’t mere hypnosis or brainwashing. It requires extensive contact between you and me within the quantum field threshold to achieve a kind of brainwave fusion…” Qian Duoduo raised his eyes to meet Zhao Meiyou’s.
“In short, after enough reincarnations, I can use your brain.”
That was the other layer of meaning in the “Fusion Experiment.”
There had already been plenty of hints. Qian Duoduo always engaged in extensive physical contact with Zhao Meiyou, even forging some kind of mental link within a Site. In that mad dream involving Tomato Sauce, Qian Duoduo had truly become Zhao Meiyou’s personality—and the one who survived in the end.
“My personality has already fused with part of the Buddha. If we ultimately use your brain, Zhao Meiyou, your own personality will collapse. The lab will simply brainwash and erase the existence known as ‘Zhao Meiyou.'”
“My Personality Completion Degree has reached 99.98%. I only needed one final reincarnation to hit 100%, at which point I’d fully merge with the Buddha—and with your brain added.” Qian Duoduo gazed at Zhao Meiyou. “I’d become a true human.”
A true living person.
Was that how it worked? Zhao Meiyou wondered. Was that what a true living person amounted to?
He didn’t know what the Antarctic Faction had done to Qian Duoduo after taking control, but the program he’d created all those years ago wasn’t like this. Though its personality had been incomplete, riddled with flaws, it had felt human.
Diseases, defects, madness, desires—all the original sins that made a person human. People became human through their sins. Compared to a cold, aloof golden statue, he missed those moments of wild revelry, all sorts of lunatics howling beneath the stars. That was true living.
If Brother Qian wants my brain, then take it, Zhao Meiyou thought.
But who was the person standing before him now, in this artificial body?
His creation? The fusion of Qian Duoduo and the Buddha? Or some monster remade by the Antarctic Faction—or the Buddha itself?
If Qian Duoduo truly became a “human”—a life not born from a mother’s womb, immortal and ageless, with a human brain and a machine’s personality—what chaos would this entity, free to traverse Sites and reality alike, unleash upon the city?
Did the Metropolis Government even understand what they had created?
Zhao Meiyou recalled Diao Chan’s words after infiltrating the Generated Dream: “In this experiment of countless reincarnations, Qian Duoduo’s most vital task is to make you fall in love with him, over and over.”
“But you’re too cheap, Zhao Meiyou. As long as he doesn’t kill you, you’ll fall for him every time.”
“The love you generate in the quantum field threshold, by my judgment, forms some kind of mental link between you. Every time you achieve mutual connection, he fuses a bit more with your brainwaves, preparing to take your brain entirely.”
“In other words, every time you fall for him, you lose a piece of yourself.”
Diao Chan had told him many things in the Generated Dream, nearly all confirmed by Qian Duoduo. And finally, Diao Chan had warned: “Mortals need three thousand reincarnations to become Buddhas. Your reincarnation experiment might not have hit three thousand, but it’s at least a thousand. Qian Duoduo’s Personality Completion Degree is over 99% now. If I don’t stop you this time and you fall for him again, you’ll truly fuse, Zhao Meiyou.”
“Think about it. After everything, do you still want to love him?”
In the vast room, standing atop countless corpses of Zhao Meiyou, Qian Duoduo looked at him and asked the same question.
“Zhao Meiyou, do you still want to love me?”
Zhao Meiyou stared at Qian Duoduo, thinking to himself, Brother Qian, I’ve always been the one taking the losses.
I die. I’m the one deceived. I’m exploited. I’m the one who’s about to vanish. And the most ridiculous part? I’m the one who had morning sickness.
But what about you?
Why do you look like you’re on the verge of tears?
According to Diao Chan, if he chose to love Qian Duoduo, he’d ultimately lose himself and become a vessel for the Buddha.
But… Zhao Meiyou asked himself. Can his brain decide whether he loves Qian Duoduo or not?
Can reason dictate emotion?
Was Diao Chan truly right?
Did loving someone mean losing oneself—or affirming it?
Would continuing to love Qian Duoduo affirm the existence of “Zhao Meiyou”?
The Buddha says love me. The Buddha says reject me.
Meeting those you hate, parting from those you love, desires unfulfilled.
What is the Buddha’s answer?
