Vendors’ cries echoed down the corridor: “Beer, soda, mineral water, peanuts, melon seeds, eight-treasure porridge—come on, legs in!”
“Hello, can I get you anything?” The vendor wheeled her cart up to their booth. Zhao Meiyou gaped in astonishment—the vendor was Grandma’s Bridge herself. The electric cart in her hands blared out in a teenage boy’s voice: “Sunflower seeds and oranges are on special today—buy one, get one free!”
Liu Qijue and the others took it in stride. “We’ll have some melon seeds and oranges, then. Thanks.” The Little Mister paid up.
Zhao Meiyou stood and scanned front, back, left, and right. Only then did he realize the train was packed with passengers.
Li Daqiang and his family sat with their daughter, a massive stuffed bear propped on their seats. Grandpa De clutched a face mask and crooned “Moon so round, shining down on all the world,” while the twins in school uniforms clapped along beside him. The young man removed his mask and uncapped his oxygen tank; butterflies fluttered out. The boy in the wheelchair yanked out his IV needle and hurled the chair out the window. The philosophers dozed off, the man in the sleeping bag stirred awake, and the bespectacled civil servant read his newspaper—headlined “Ancient Capital Research Institute Marks 100th Anniversary.” Spotting Zhao Meiyou’s gaze, he smiled and offered him a cigarette.
“…I remember a lot of these folks were from the old Ancient Capital Research Institute crew,” Zhao Meiyou said as he accepted the smoke and sat back down. “They all ended up as archaeologists. One thing I don’t get, though—did their reincarnations overlap?”
Overlaps would cause memory clashes, like seeing a comrade who died yesterday suddenly alive and kicking today. That kind of slip-up would raise red flags. With so many archaeologists, could the Metropolis Government really spare the manpower and resources to orchestrate every reincarnation flawlessly?
“What do you think the archaeologists’ gatherings were for?” Liu Qijue tore open the bag of seeds. “Everyone wears masks, attendee lists stay secret—to minimize contact between experimental subjects.”
“But at that gathering before I entered Site 000, your place was packed.” Zhao Meiyou recalled the party right before heading in.
“That was Qian Duoduo’s idea.” Liu Qijue cracked a seed and glanced at him. “You know, it’s hard to say what Qian Duoduo even is these days, but deep down, he still holds onto that original core self. That’s his root.”
“To be fair, the guy’s probably wrestling with it himself.” Liu Qijue was blunt as ever. “I can sense he’s been dropping hints for you. Take Site 000—the new reincarnation site that opened up caught me off guard too. An ancient capital? But it makes sense in hindsight.”
“Qian Duoduo knows his Personality Completion Degree is maxing out. His top access is still with the government. Once he fully merges with the Buddha, there might be no turning back.”
“So he unlocked the ancient capital—the place where it all began. Statistically, the Ancient Capital site could awaken some of your memories as Zhao—who’s-got-nothing. That might give you a shot.”
“If not, it’s at least a farewell from where it started.”
Zhao Meiyou thought back to the memories resurfacing at Site 000, the first time he’d glimpsed Qian Duoduo’s face at Experiment Site 2. The man had faded into white light, his features almost divine, bowing low before him.
“I was gonna have to cram those memories back into your native brain the hard way. Qian Duoduo’s stunt saved me the trouble.”
With that, Liu Qijue handed the peeled orange to the Little Mister. “There. Now I’ve paid my debt to him. What’s next is up to you, Zhao-who’s-got-nothing.”
Zhao Meiyou stared out at the Star Sea. “What else can I do?”
“Don’t sweat it—Liu-ge’s all bark, soft heart.” Diao Chan chimed in. “You’ll see when we hit the end of the line.”
“You too.” Zhao Meiyou whipped around. “Those Diao Chans who offed themselves in the site—who were they?”
The Diao Chans who’d suicided endlessly before him had seemed utterly real. Liu Qijue’s creations? Or did he leverage a “waking” ability, each headshot not a true death?
Or maybe…
They were all clones.
Diao Chan cracked seeds with a crunch. “Guess.”
Zhao Meiyou gave a cold snort and declined.
Diao Chan had bested his old pal and looked smug. “Even you have your day, Zhao-who’s-got-nothing.”
The train chugged out of the Star Sea, passing old haunts: Red Mill, banks of the Seine, New York’s Long Island, then Ideal City blanketed in snow. Passengers disembarked one by one. As they passed Disneyland, Li Daqiang’s family got up. The little girl handed Zhao Meiyou her balloon, flashed a fist-pump, and grinned: “Go get ’em, sis!”
Zhao Meiyou’s scalp tingled at her smile; he let the balloon fly out the window in a burst of fireworks.
Li Daqiang looked awkward, like he wanted to say something. Zhao Meiyou clapped his shoulder and passed him a smoke. “Take care of your family.”
Once the train had emptied out, Diao Chan gazed at the snow outside and said, “I’m getting off here.”
“You’re bailing?” Zhao Meiyou asked.
“This is my stop. Yours isn’t yet.” Diao Chan stepped over him, flung open the window, and jumped. Before vanishing, he called back, “See you!”
Since it was “see you,” they’d cross paths again.
The train pulled away. Diao Chan stood alone on the platform, breath fogging the air. In the distance, someone waited with a leather suitcase and waved him over.
Diao Chan approached and called out.
“Mom.”
Now only three remained: Zhao Meiyou, Liu Qijue, and the Little Mister.
Liu Qijue spoke first. “Next stop’s the end of the line.”
“And you guys?” Zhao Meiyou puffed his cigarette. “Getting off there too?”
“We’re not getting off.” The Little Mister smiled. “This journey is our endpoint.”
Zhao Meiyou had a million questions—like what Liu Qijue and the Little Mister really were now, the limits of Creation, whether fusing fully with Site A173 let Liu Qijue grasp the quantum field threshold…
But seeing their clasped hands, he felt words were superfluous.
Finally, he nodded. “What about Xiao Yao?”
“Xiao Yao’s a good kid.” The Little Mister said. “He gets why we’re doing this.”
“We already said our goodbyes.” Liu Qijue toyed with his husband’s hand. “He’ll look after himself.”
Zhao Meiyou paused. “Don’t worry—Diao Chan and I have his back.”
“Save it.” Liu Qijue shot him an incredulous look. “If you can sort your own mess, Zhao-who’s-got-nothing, that’ll be a miracle. Xiao Yao’s a grown man; he doesn’t need babysitting.”
“Just show up with a red envelope when he ties the knot.” The Little Mister added with a smile.
Zhao Meiyou chuckled too, leaning back into the plush seat. He ought to say something profound, yet nothing felt necessary. Old memories surfaced from right after graduation: newly minted expedition team leaving the Metropolis, brimming with ideals and zeal. They aimed to unearth Egypt, Atlantis, Treasure Island, the fabled Land of Oz. Diao Chan packed heaviest—concentrated coffee plus a glass vial of pale sand.
He called it “homeland soil,” obtained from a shaman in the Lower District to ward off plagues and homesickness. Soak it in water for fever, curing any traveler’s ailments.
Sure enough, Diao Chan fell ill early on. Delirious with fever, he demanded his remedy. Liu Qijue, no fool with patients, half-skeptically tested it: plain potting soil, probably laced with kids’ pee or worse.
Zhao Meiyou howled with laughter, brewing him a cup anyway. “Drink up! Bottoms up!” The team medic chased him two miles for it.
Old tales like homeland soil: dust in the palm.
A colt in a crack, fire in stone, self in a dream.
If he hadn’t wandered that night on a whim, perhaps no Buddha Head discovery, no years-later scramble to mend fences. He should apologize to his friends—but was regret even needed? None would trade it back. Life held regrets, but death none. He recalled the Buddha’s unveiling, the Institute’s founding, Experiment Site 2’s completion, Personality Program success… and that Metropolis festival when Personality Growth Degree hit 90%.
Every moment, they’d reveled.
Even with later tears and blood, could that unparalleled joy be erased?
No words needed. Zhao Meiyou exhaled slowly.
This was enough.
Liu Qijue seemed to read his mind and laughed. “This life suffices.”
The train slowed, pulling into the station.
Thick greenery filled the windows, red buildings nestled among sycamores. Zhao Meiyou recognized it at a glance: the Ancient Capital.
“Time to go, Director.” The Little Mister said. “Someone’s waiting.”
Zhao Meiyou paused mid-rise. “Who?”
“Who else?” Liu Qijue kicked him. “Scram!”
Zhao Meiyou scrammed. The train crawled like a scenic tram, windows open. Liu Qijue watched his back on the platform and snapped his fingers; an accordion appeared.
He pumped the bellows as the Little Mister sang softly.
“Beyond the wayside pavilion, on the ancient trail,
Fragrant grasses link to the sky.
Evening breeze through willows, faint flute notes die,
Sunset beyond mountain after mountain.
I ask, my friend, when will you return this way?
When you do, do not delay…”
No one waited on the platform after Zhao Meiyou stepped off.
Without hesitation, he headed straight for Experiment Site 2.
But at the street’s end stood no grand dome from memory—instead, a vast pond.
Qian Duoduo sat by the water’s edge, shoes and socks off, calves submerged. His long hair hung loose about his ears, hiding his face. Zhao Meiyou stubbed his cigarette and approached.
“I remember this pond being up in the mountains.”
“You’re here.” Qian Duoduo looked up. “There is a lotus pond on the Ancient Capital’s back hill—you planted it back then. But this one’s different.”
Zhao Meiyou eyed the buds in the pool, not spotting the difference. He sat and dipped his own feet in. “How so?”
Qian Duoduo smiled, his expression unusually gentle. “This place was originally the pool where they soaked me in solution.”
It was a rare look for him, and for a moment, Zhao Meiyou felt dazed. He remembered back in Lab No. 2, how Qian Duoduo’s mainframe had been submerged in a tank of conductive fluid. But there hadn’t been any lotus flowers there.
Zhao Meiyou felt the urge to smoke again. He reached instinctively for his pocket, but Qian Duoduo shot him a glance. “Cut back a little. It’ll leave a bitter taste in your mouth.”
Zhao Meiyou had no choice but to ask, “Did you plant these flowers, Brother Qian?”
“Not exactly planted by me.” Qian Duoduo plucked a lotus pod, peeled out the seeds, and offered them over. “Try one.”
Zhao Meiyou ate it. The instant his teeth cracked the seed open, something exploded in front of his eyes. He saw a torrential downpour from a low angle, a blinding white light overhead turning the rain to the color of snow. He seemed to be lying on a manhole cover or something similar, with rushing water gurgling beneath his head. The cover felt soft, and it took him a while to realize it was a hand.
Someone was cradling his head, lifting him gently. But Zhao Meiyou felt a sharp stab of pain—there was a knife buried in his side.
Something salty and bitter pressed close, cool against his lips. Suddenly, he realized the person holding him was kissing him.
It was a fierce embrace, as if trying to crush him into their very flesh and blood. The knife plunged deeper, and Zhao Meiyou trembled. But the one holding him shook even harder. On a rainy day like this, murder went hand in hand with tears.
It took a long time for Zhao Meiyou to snap back to reality. The seed burst with intense bitterness in his mouth, and he had vague impressions of the scene he’d just witnessed. “…Was that one of my past reincarnations?”
Qian Duoduo gave a soft hum of affirmation.
“I was rusty back then. Hurt you pretty bad.”
“Does that mean… this whole pool of lotuses holds all my previous reincarnations?”
“Yes,” Qian Duoduo said. “Each flower stores a memory chip.”
Zhao Meiyou suddenly recalled that old question he’d once asked. Back then, there’d been no answer. Now, sitting here with what might be his ex, beyond life and death, he felt a strange sense of detachment. He blurted it out without much thought. “Brother Qian, why do you always have to kill me?”
“Are you an idiot, Zhao Meiyou?” Qian Duoduo actually answered, the words spilling out as if on reflex, without much deliberation. “Did you want me to just stand by and watch?”
As soon as he said it, he seemed to realize it wasn’t the right moment. He let out an awkward laugh.
Zhao Meiyou rubbed his fingers together—a habit when he wanted a smoke. The unconscious gesture betrayed his mood and gave the other man an opening. “Zhao Meiyou, you need to smoke less,” Qian Duoduo said, his voice catching. “It’s too bitter.”
With those words, Zhao Meiyou felt he’d received his answer. Qian Duoduo’s voice echoed in his chest, setting off wave after wave of resonance. He gazed out at the vast lotus pond, as if facing countless versions of himself from past loops. All those past selves had died, in bizarre and twisted ways, white lotuses blooming from their corpses.
Lotuses couldn’t see themselves. They bloomed in ignorance, oblivious.
From start to finish, Qian Duoduo had been the only one watching the flowers.
If it were me, Zhao Meiyou wondered quietly. Could he endure watching Qian Duoduo die in front of him, over and over?
Death was final, a clean end. The pain lingered only for the survivor. Just imagining the scene made Zhao Meiyou’s chest ache.
He thought again of how Qian Duoduo was always the one to initiate the kisses.
“Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou spoke up suddenly. “How about a kiss?”
Qian Duoduo whipped his head around. “Wha—”
Before he could finish, Zhao Meiyou’s lips crashed into his.
In that instant, a riot of colors exploded before their eyes. Heaven and earth vanished. Their inner worlds expanded, merging and reaching eternity’s edge. Countless reincarnations overlapped, detonating into illusions of love and death—as if their bellies were sliced open by a scalpel, intestines meant for waste spilling brains instead; amoebas writhing in dance; supernovas bursting; giants painting on Jupiter’s surface; aliens munching gleefully on gene strands; garlic-sauced pork drowned in vodka; acid rain of colorful pills falling as people in astronaut helmets trudged through skyscrapers; a steel ballerina, eyeless, turning to her patron and saying: “Amitabha.”
The Buddha said: Love me.
Please love me.
Don’t love me.
Love me.
.
“Brother Qian.” Amid the poisonous perfume and hallucinations, Zhao Meiyou gripped Qian Duoduo’s hand tight. “That question you asked me on the nine-hundredth floor—I have an answer now.”
Back then, Qian Duoduo had asked: Zhao Meiyou, do you still want to keep loving me?
It felt like an unsolvable riddle—did loving someone mean losing yourself, or holding fast to who you were?
“Love is losing yourself, only to be reborn as a new self.”
Zhao Meiyou said it plainly.
“I told you long ago,” he added with a sigh. “Just give me one kiss.”
In the final instant before the end, I place my hand in yours.
A long time passed before he heard Qian Duoduo’s reply.
“Zhao Meiyou.”
“…Don’t give up on me.”
