Chapter 9: Sun and Iron Part 1

After the exploration mission at Site A173 wrapped up, New Year’s Eve arrived soon enough.

The 330th Layer District was home to mostly Easterners, so the holiday spirit ran thick. Back in his boyhood days, Zhao Meiyou had often gone door-to-door mooching dumplings from neighbors, who would all gather to play mahjong. Later, after he met Diao Chan, the young master from a fine family never quite fit into that chaotic courtyard bustle. So Zhao Meiyou had set aside New Year’s Eve just for the two of them, staying up late together to ring in the new year. Before he knew it, years had passed, and it had become their tradition.

Starting in the twelfth lunar month, the streets were decked out with simulated fireworks and electronic firecrackers. The corner store owners had pooled their cash for a God of Wealth program, and every day a holographic deity decked out in red rode through on horseback, flanked by two Good Fortune Boys banging gongs to clear the way. The streets glittered with golden light as kids trailed after the God of Wealth, scrambling for the ingots he dropped. In reality, those ingots were holographic illusions from the system that turned into store flyers when you grabbed them, but no one minded. It was all about the festive luck.

Zhao Meiyou enjoyed opera, and in the old tales, the Good Fortune Boys served under Guanyin Bodhisattva. He had no idea why this God of Wealth program had stuck the kids in front of Zhao Gongming’s horse—probably a glitch in the code.

This was the 25th century, after all. Many Eastern and Western folk customs and legends had faded into obscurity. The Upper District didn’t even celebrate Spring Festival, let alone Christmas, Vesak, or Eid. The Middle Layer District threw grand parties on Metropolis Founding Day. Only the Lower District clung to the oldest traces of civilization, filled with street parades, gongs and drums, incense smoke, roaring crowds, and offerings of fruit.

Even so, the “oldest” traditions in this sprawling Metropolis were still far removed from humanity’s true ancient roots. At least all the rituals had long since abandoned human sacrifice.

Zhao Meiyou rode the suspender elevator to the 330th Layer. This was the border between the Lower and Middle Layer Districts, lined with gang dens and rife with shady dealings. A grand gatehouse with green tiles and vermilion pillars marked the entrance.

New Year’s Eve was one of the quieter nights in the 330th Layer District. Beneath the gatehouse, an old woman was manning a street stall, her cart loaded with colorful plastic glasses. Zhao Meiyou walked over and handed her some money. “Granny, to Granny’s Tavern.”

Granny grinned wide, flashing a gold tooth, and passed him a dark red box.

Zhao Meiyou opened it to find a pair of contact lenses inside.

Only insiders knew that the 330th Layer District was really a “shadow city.”

If someone from the Middle Layer District came sightseeing, the vibrant, eerie gatehouse might be the only thrill that matched their fantasies. Everything inside would disappoint them—nothing but clean fast-food joints up to health codes, spotless ice rinks, and bars off-limits to minors. But buy a pair of “Eyes” at the entrance and pop them in, and the world transformed.

Zhao Meiyou slipped on the lenses. Behind the gatehouse, what had been an empty expanse sprouted neon billboards towering ten stories high. Insiders mockingly called them Scout Lamps, and they scrolled real-time win-loss tallies from every casino in the district.

His Eyes came with tiny nanomite vibrators linked to his eardrums. The silence in his ears exploded into clamor: dice rattling, lighter wheels flicking, glasses clinking, sizzling meat on hot griddles… A massive lion dancer roared past him, far more majestic than the holographic God of Wealth those store owners had scraped together. Real gold coins tumbled from its mane—actual gold, redeemable for chips at any casino.

If filters created illusions elsewhere, here in the 330th Layer, the nanomite filters of the Eyes revealed the street’s gritty truth. Zhao Meiyou brushed past all sorts of locals. Without the Eyes, they might have looked sharp and respectable; through the lenses, they were lecherous drunks groping simulated dames. A card cheat took a beating from a casino guard program’s fists, his face a swollen mess. To outsiders without Eyes, he just looked wasted, stumbling into thin air before face-planting into a trash bin.

Zhao Meiyou hadn’t been around in a while. Lately, money hadn’t been too tight, so he skipped the casinos and headed into a tavern.

The sign above the door read three simple characters: Granny’s Tavern.

In literature, “tavern” was less a noun than an adjective. In bourgeois novels, it hinted at illicit affairs. In wuxia tales, it conjured images of rogues and riffraff from all walks of life. It felt grander than a love hotel, more intimate than a convenience store. Under dim yellow lights, a jukebox played scratchy tape tunes. You could whisper sweet nothings by the window or plot murder in a back room.

Granny’s Tavern was just such a place.

“Hey, Brother Zhao!” As soon as Zhao Meiyou stepped inside, a sharp-eyed patron spotted him. Calls rang out one after another. “Brother Zhao’s here!” “Brother Zhao, over here!” “Hey, Zhao!” “Happy New Year, Brother Zhao!”

Someone sidled up. “Brother Zhao, it’s been ages. Got a job lined up—want in?” Another shoved him aside. “It’s New Year’s! You know Brother Zhao’s rule—no business on the holiday!” Then, lowering his voice to Zhao Meiyou: “When you betting big again, Brother Zhao? That haul from last time is still topping the Scout Lamp. Years now, and no one’s broken it!”

Zhao Meiyou smiled, chatted briefly with a few friends, exchanged greetings with the regulars, then asked, “Where’s Granny?”

A clack echoed from the abacus behind the counter, followed by a cool feminine voice. “Right here.”

Zhao Meiyou walked over with a grin. “Happy New Year.”

A woman in a qipao sat behind the counter, her classically Eastern features blooming like peaches yet frosty as ice. She glanced up at him, then returned to her accounts with a faint “Mm.”

Zhao Meiyou hadn’t dropped by to patronize the place in a while. He noticed a new upright tank beside the bar, its underwater scenery beautifully rendered and stocked with vibrant tropical fish. “Granny, what made you take up fishkeeping? What kind are they?”

Before he finished, a drunk stumbled into the Brain Tank. Zhao Meiyou lunged to intervene, but too late—the man bent over and hurled right into it.

Zhao Meiyou: “…”

“You don’t want to know.” The Landlady snapped her fingers. A cleaning bot promptly hauled the drunk outside and carted off the Brain Tank.

The woman finished her tally, set down the abacus, and stood. As she rose, her qipao shifted into a backless dance dress, her face morphing into golden-haired, blue-eyed allure, brimming with sultry charm as she smiled at Zhao Meiyou. “Well, well, what brings you to see me tonight?”

Her ample bosom pressed against his shoulder, her wink loaded with suggestion. “Tell me, after all these years, still no luck landing that Diao family heir? The guy’s loaded—why keep scraping by down here in the 330th Layer like a beggar…?”

Zhao Meiyou raised his hands in innocence. “Granny, come on, don’t tease.”

She huffed a laugh, called him hopeless, then suddenly shrank in height to the size of a doll-like girl. She held out her hand to him, bold as brass. “New Year’s money!”

Zhao Meiyou thought: You, a granny?

Granny was the Landlady of Granny’s Tavern—or whether she truly deserved the “lady” part was up for debate. Since the tavern opened, no one had ever glimpsed her true appearance or learned her real identity. The 330th Layer had its unspoken rules. Different Eyes showed different scenes, and some spots were Eyes-only. Granny’s Tavern was one such hidden realm.

No one outside the Eyes had ever seen the Landlady of Granny’s Tavern.

Not even the men and women she’d taken to bed. Her lovers had held private symposiums and discovered they’d all bedded entirely different bodies.

Zhao Meiyou handed the doll-girl her New Year’s money. When she demanded a hug, he bent down and hoisted her onto his shoulder. As their hair mingled, she whispered in his ear, “Diao Chan’s not here. There’s a stranger upstairs waiting for you.”

Few could enter Granny’s Tavern, and even fewer without Granny’s acquaintance. Zhao Meiyou kept his expression neutral, forcing the words through clenched teeth in a breathy hiss. “…Government?”

The girl giggled and pinched the back of his neck.

Zhao Meiyou made a circuit of the first-floor booths, gleaning no real intel. Spending New Year’s Eve at Granny’s Tavern was his tradition with Diao Chan. The 330th Layer boasted the Metropolis’s best fireworks show, and the tavern’s rooftop offered the prime vantage point.

The last time he’d seen Diao Chan was two weeks ago. The guy had some urgent exploration gig at a Site. Before Zhao Meiyou knew archaeologists existed, Diao Chan had vanished like this often. Zhao Meiyou’s wild guess back then was family drama at the Diao estate—most absurdly, Diao Chan would recount it all on return, like how his latest stepmom had pulled some nonsense, or that one time he plotted with her to take down the old man.

In hindsight, the bastard had missed his calling—not studying drama.

Zhao Meiyou pushed open the rooftop door. A man in shades stood by the railing, black trench coat, Dover Knot tie—the standard government getup.

The man got straight to it. “Citizen Zhao Meiyou, the government hereby conscripts you for a rescue op into Site S45.”

Site S45—Diao Chan’s main stomping grounds for digs.

Zhao Meiyou fished out a cigarette. “Diao Chan in trouble?”

“Citizen Diao Chan went missing five days ago. The government dispatched a rescue team immediately, but now the rescuers need rescuing.” The man handed over a file pouch. “Details on the mission.”

Zhao Meiyou took it and pulled out his lighter. “Why me?”

He wasn’t surprised they’d sent a prior rescue force—Diao Chan’s pedigree demanded it. Nor that they hadn’t tapped him first; he was green at Site delving. But if pro archaeologists couldn’t handle it, why drag him in?

“Two reasons,” the man said. “One, the rescue team needs your skills. Two, you’re listed as Citizen Diao Chan’s emergency contact.”