Zhao Meiyou pocketed the smoke and lighter, then nodded. “Lead the way.”
The chopper ferried them to a museum in the Upper District. Zhao Meiyou had frequented it during school, even scheming a heist for one of its famed diamonds. He’d sold the plan to a Lower District syndicate, who planned to silence him until Diao Chan’s name surfaced. They grumbled and delivered the payout via armored truck to the campus. The driver was a real pro—cursed nonstop for half an hour outside the dorm without catching breath. His thesis boiled down to one line: Zhao Meiyou, you thousand-knife lunatic.
He and Diao Chan had been in high spirits that day, playing four-hand piano on the balcony to accompany the tirade.
Zhao Meiyou didn’t ask why they had come here. The agent clearly had no intention of explaining. He changed into the uniform in the restroom, then descended a rather long spiral staircase. At the bottom lay a sealed room, and right in the center stood an antique piano.
“Do you play the piano?” the agent asked.
“I only know one piece,” Zhao Meiyou replied, naming the tune.
The agent’s expression grew subtly peculiar for a moment. Then he nodded, lifted the lid, and made a welcoming gesture. “This is the way to enter Site S45. Play that piece on this piano.”
Zhao Meiyou stepped forward and tested a few chords. “No sheet music?”
“No, just play it from memory,” the agent said.
“One last reminder: if someone in the site asks to borrow a smoke from you, don’t refuse.”
With the final note, Zhao Meiyou felt a familiar sense of detachment sweep over him. When he opened his eyes again, he was in the late 22nd century.
The government’s briefing materials had been sparse, offering only a rough outline of Site S45’s interior. The era inside was the late 22nd century, a time when human technology had reached its zenith.
In the late 22nd century, humanity endured a calamity of unknown origin. Civilization nearly faced total annihilation until the founding of Metropolis in 2265. History books glossed over the details of that cataclysmic period, but rumors persisted in the city. They said humanity had waged a war called the Orion Arm War.
When the war ended, civilization did not rebuild promptly—because Earth had suffered the Great Catastrophe.
The Orion Arm War and the Great Catastrophe caused the loss of countless technologies from humanity’s peak. After Metropolis was established, modern civilization became far more conservative by comparison. Many advanced technologies were sealed away. Zhao Meiyou’s senior thesis had focused on the 23rd century partly because so much of 22nd-century history remained scattered or classified at the highest levels.
No wonder Site S45 was rated as extremely high-risk.
But. Zhao Meiyou surveyed his surroundings. Thanks to his recent crash course in history and literature, he was certain this wasn’t the 22nd century.
He was inside a building—though he couldn’t tell what floor. From the height of the view, it had to be a skyscraper. Outside the glass stretched the moon and starry sky, with no dust storms or low-flying craft. Judging by the visibility through the pollution… this seemed more like the 21st century?
Zhao Meiyou had just made up his mind to head outward when a burst of gunfire erupted, sending the lobby into chaos.
Then he heard the sound of high heels—sharp, elongated heels. Whoever wore them must have a pair of powerful long legs. The footsteps wove swiftly through the crowd—accelerating—then halted abruptly. Had they been shot? A clattering followed, like pearls scattering. No, crisper—diamonds. The footsteps drew nearer, charging straight toward him—
In that instant, Zhao Meiyou heard his own heartbeat, syncing with the footfalls. It thundered like war drums, clashed like iron and steel, like sun and steel. Flesh and bone tore beneath his skin as old sickness died, giving way to a bloody rebirth.
He saw the figure burst from the crowd.
Heavy makeup coated its face, lipstick streaked like blood beside the ears. A fiery black skirt billowed like a storm draped over its form.
It seemed to be fleeing for its life—enough to snap its heels and run barefoot. Yet it looked so coldly alluring, like an avenger from an apocalyptic tragedy. How could someone like that be in a chase scene?
Another round of gunfire rang out. This time, Zhao Meiyou confirmed it: the figure really was on the run.
No, not it—him.
Bullets tore into the figure’s body, but what spilled from between the ribs was not blood, but diamonds. Piles of diamonds. And those weren’t ribs either—no ribs gleamed with metallic hues.
This was an artificial human.
Zhao Meiyou overturned all his prior judgments. This was indeed the 22nd century.
He quickly pieced together what had happened: a highly intelligent artificial human had infiltrated the building, stolen a fortune in jewels, gotten exposed, and was now being pursued by the police—
His train of thought shattered. Zhao Meiyou looked up to see the artificial human charging straight at him.
Diamonds littered the floor. Sirens, screams, gunshots, footsteps, and his heartbeat all blended together, compressing before exploding outward. The moon vanished behind dark clouds, the full orb twisting into a scimitar that grinned wickedly and slashed down toward his skull—
In that dizzying hallucination, he glimpsed starlight reduced to powder.
“Pull yourself together.” A voice spoke from above him.
Only then did Zhao Meiyou realize the “starlight” was shattered glass. A massive impact had sent shards into his mouth. As the artificial human had barreled into him, it had knocked them both flying. Together, they had smashed through the glass wall and plummeted from the heights—
The next second, they crashed into an airship.
The artificial human flung Zhao Meiyou into the back seat and yanked the controls. The force split its skin, revealing metallic mechanical bones beneath. Zhao Meiyou felt them ascending; the gunfire faded into the distance. He sat up, about to speak, when another violent jolt hurled him back to the floor amid swirling airflow.
Zhao Meiyou gave up struggling and simply lay there limply. After some time, the turbulence smoothed out, and that voice came again: “What’s your ability?”
Zhao Meiyou sat up. The artificial human in the pilot’s seat turned half its face toward him. The other half was mangled, exposing a web of circuits and fiber ports. Where its eyeball should have been, sparks burst forth.
No way—is this guy an archaeologist too? Zhao Meiyou felt a flash of shock. “How do I prove your identity?”
The artificial human snapped its fingers, and a silver aluminum cigarette case appeared in its hand out of thin air.
Creation.
Zhao Meiyou paused. “Got a smoke to spare?”
The artificial human glanced at him. The case popped open to reveal slim cigarettes. It took one out and handed it over.
Zhao Meiyou accepted it. A flame flickered to life between the artificial human’s fingers, lighting it for him.
This wasn’t tobacco. Zhao Meiyou judged in the instant the flame ignited. As a veteran smoker, he knew real cigarettes released their aroma the moment the paper caught—quick as a perfume’s top note. But the smoke in his mouth was odorless and colorless. What had this guy made him inhale—?
The next second, the artificial human plucked the cigarette from his lips. Its eyes gleamed with an inorganic silver sheen as it placed the mouthpiece between its own lips.
“I get it now,” it said. “Your ability is ‘Transformation.'”
Zhao Meiyou suddenly recalled the government agent’s words before he left: “If someone in the site asks to borrow a smoke from you, don’t refuse.”
Beneath the ashen moonlight, the artificial human extended a hand toward him. “Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”
Zhao Meiyou thought for a second. “You can call me Brother Zhao.”
The metallic arm cut through the moonlight. Zhao Meiyou watched as skin spread from the mechanical fingertips up to the elbow joint and halted there. When he grasped that hand, he was certain he touched genuine human flesh—soft, warm, with a pulse thrumming at the wrist.
They shook. The artificial human said, “No need to doubt. This is a real hand.”
“I borrowed your ability for a bit.” The artificial human withdrew its hand, the skin reverting to machinery. “Transformation. Once you master an ability to a certain degree, you can control its range.” Its lips moved; the half-ruined face turned toward Zhao Meiyou. “You seem surprised. Got a question?”
Zhao Meiyou said, “…What’s your ability?”
“Mine is ‘Borrow Smoke,'” the artificial human replied. “When you lend me a smoke, I can use your ability for a limited time.”
It pulled the controls, sending the airship climbing again. “I’d just come out of another site when I got the government’s rescue summons. I didn’t have many smokes left on me. The effect from the last one—Transformation—wore off, trapping me in this body. You arrived just in time.”
“Anyway, thanks.” It glanced at Zhao Meiyou. “I’m Qian Duoduo. You…”
Zhao Meiyou’s mind raced. An ability like “Borrow Smoke” was like “Poetry”—one limited to a rare gifted few. In other words, this was a bigshot, the kind who could carry him straight out of the newbie zone.
“Nice to meet you, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou sat up straight, slipping seamlessly into the conversation. “I’m Zhao Meiyou. Feel free to call me Little Zhao.”
Qian Duoduo paused for an instant. “…Zhao Meiyou, I need a favor.”
“Anything, Brother Qian.”
“It’s about Diao Chan’s safety. I found some intel in that building.” Qian Duoduo turned his face fully. “I’ve got hardcopy files stashed in this body’s torso. The diamond heist was just a diversion. Now I need you to retrieve those files for me.”
“Sure thing, Brother Qian,” Zhao Meiyou said. “How?”
“I can’t damage the abdominal cavity myself, or this body loses mobility.” Qian Duoduo demonstrated, twisting off his left arm with a sharp click and tossing it aside.
The artificial human got straight to the point: “Dissect me.”
Zhao Meiyou: “…”
Zhao Meiyou, citizen of Metropolis, doctor in the ER of the 33rd Layer Mental Hospital, part-time butcher at the Pork Shop, active archaeologist—was about to take his first step toward latching onto a bigshot’s thigh in Site S45.
By carving up the bigshot.
