Thus Spoke the Buddha: The Quantum Circus | Chapter 11 | The Eternal Mother | Novela.app

"What do we do now?" "Wait." "I thought as much." At this moment, both of them displayed an astonishing level of professional composure. Their tones remained calm, their expressions unchanged. Qian Duoduo was a veteran archaeologist who had seen it all, and Zhao Meiyou had dealt with enough lunatics that whether it was human experimentation or slavery, he viewed them as historical realities many races had justified—hardly even worth a clinical diagnosis. The train hurtled through the subway tunnels. After an indeterminate amount of time, the speed seemed to slacken. Qian Duoduo suddenly spoke, "There's a fork in the tracks ahead." "How can you tell, Qian-ge?" Zhao Meiyou asked. "Intuition." Qian Duoduo closed his eyes, then added a moment later, "We've changed course." No sooner had he spoken than Zhao Meiyou felt the carriage shudder for a split second before it began to reverse. The front of the train veered off. Qian Duoduo was right; they had entered a side track. This carriage likely had no driver, so who was responsible for the diversion? Zhao Meiyou made a judgment. "Perhaps there are internal rifts within the android faction." Qian Duoduo nodded. "Something we can use." "Whoever can control our train must have high-level authorization." "The danger level is uncertain," Qian Duoduo said. "If things go south, you hide. I'll handle the fighting." Before Zhao Meiyou could respond, light suddenly flooded the windows. They hadn't entered a station; rather, light was being projected onto the tunnel walls, like LED advertisements in a transit zone. At first, the image was blurry. Zhao Meiyou could just barely make out a human head. However, the image seemed to move, carrying the entire wall with it as it slowly pressed toward one side of the carriage. Qian Duoduo shoved Zhao Meiyou behind him. Then, an incredible scene unfolded: his head suddenly popped off like a bottle cap. The spine inside his neck extended and snapped out—a large-caliber anti-materiel rifle emerged from his throat. By Zhao Meiyou’s standards, such a weapon was meant for high-value military targets, like sniping tanks from a distance. It was, by any measure, entirely unsuitable for use in a cramped train carriage. Qian Duoduo was likely a devotee of extreme "violence aesthetics." The kind who fought with no regard for his own life. *This guy definitely has violent tendencies,* Zhao Meiyou thought, *and maybe selective emotional detachment.* Before he could finish his mental diagnosis, his hands suddenly grew heavy. Qian Duoduo had twisted his own head off and tossed it to him. They were still connected via the communication channel, and the other man's voice echoed in his mind: "Take the gun." "Qian-ge, what did you say?" "The rifle." Without waiting for a reaction, Qian Duoduo drew the long, narrow barrel from his neck like King Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone and threw it to Zhao Meiyou. "I figured you'd be more comfortable with this." Then, he swiped his hand over his hip, and two semi-automatic pistols, similar to Brownings, popped out from beneath his skin. It seemed these were his preferred weapons. *So,* Zhao Meiyou thought, *my diagnosis actually applies more to myself?* Qian Duoduo took a defensive stance. The images outside the window continued to move. They passed through the walls but didn't press closer; instead, they permeated the carriage like liquid mercury. The alloy ceiling and walls vanished, leaving them standing in what felt like a long corridor of mirrors. It wasn't a real hall of mirrors, though; it was likely a composite projection. Zhao Meiyou could still feel the carriage moving, though its speed had dropped significantly. The "mirrors" didn't show their reflections. Instead, a person appeared who wasn't actually in the carriage. It was impossible to tell if he was an android at first glance; he looked perfectly human. He was an old man. Zhao Meiyou was about to say something when Qian Duoduo suddenly fired, shattering the mirror surface with a sharp *crack*. It was a swift, ruthless preemptive strike. "...Qian-ge?" Zhao Meiyou looked confused, but internally he was certain: *This guy definitely has violent tendencies.* Setting aside the rule that the first to move in a duel of masters usually loses, he didn't even wait to gather intel before starting a massacre. Was he joking? "He's an android," Qian Duoduo said, shielding him. "The only part of an android that ages is the brain. Even if an artificial chassis wears out, it would never show such obvious signs of aging on the surface." Yet the man in the mirror, though artificial, showed signs of senescence. This was a technology that had never been implemented—not because it was impossible, but because it was unnecessary. This kind of deliberate, outward aging was usually not for functional needs, but born of some spiritual will. That made it dangerous. It was too eerie. Better to kill it first and ask questions later. But things didn't go as he wished—or rather, they went exactly as he feared. Beside the cracked mirror, a new image flickered into existence. This time, the old man spoke first: "Our time is short. Please, listen to me." Qian Duoduo kept his finger on the trigger but tilted the barrel slightly. "You must be the ones sent by the 'Friends.' Don't bother denying it. Traveling from Mars to Earth requires many formalities; memory erasure is a necessity." The old man spoke rapidly. "I will tell you what you need to know. You can judge for yourselves whether to believe me. Once your trust reaches a certain threshold, it will trigger your memory switches. Then, you will understand everything." Zhao Meiyou’s mind drifted back to the beginning of his relationship with Diao Chan. How do you put suicide, murder, and homicide in the same context? On that rainy night when they were sixteen, after hearing Zhao Meiyou’s answer—"Because you helped me eat my dad"—Diao Chan had asked coldly, "Is this some kind of test?" Zhao Meiyou was busy stuffing his face with dumplings. "What test?" "To see how antisocial I am, or something like that," Diao Chan said. "To decide if you'll take my business." "Not at all." Zhao Meiyou wolfed down another bite. "As long as the money's right, everything else is negotiable." "Is that so." Diao Chan nodded. "I see." Then the boy walked to the sink and crouched down. He lowered his head and vomited until he was blue in the face. "Whoa, take it easy. That's a bit much, isn't it?" Zhao Meiyou leaned over like he was watching a show. Even the sight of vomit didn't stop him from eating. He clicked his tongue as he chewed. "The drains here lead to the sea, though. He got off easy." As if to explain it to Diao Chan, Zhao Meiyou added helpfully, "I was going to wait until I was full and go to the public toilet. The sewers there lead down to the teens for composting. My mom always said she wanted to scatter my dad's ashes in a septic tank." If it wasn't his imagination, the boy seemed to vomit even harder. After he was down to dry heaves, Diao Chan finally stopped. He rinsed his mouth and looked at Zhao Meiyou through his damp, messy hair. "When should I bring the deposit?" "Whenever. This shop offers 'Quick and Painless,' 'Hanging by a Thread,' and 'Wishing You Were Dead' packages." Zhao Meiyou gave a sincere smile. "The master's craft is exquisite. A century-old establishment. You can trust us." "You won't back out?" "As long as the money's right, everything is negotiable." "Good." Diao Chan seemed reassured. Zhao Meiyou was about to ask for the details of the hit when the kid rolled up his sleeves and threw a punch. Zhao Meiyou ducked. "Is this a challenge? Or do you need some 'venting' services?" "I just fucking want to hit you," Diao Chan snapped, throwing a kick. It was a rare profanity for him. "Don't you dare hold back." "Fair enough." Zhao Meiyou nodded. He snatched a boning knife from the counter and brought the spine of the blade down hard. A rich kid with a few self-defense lessons was no match for a street rat born and bred in the Lower District. It took Zhao Meiyou exactly one minute to teach the young master the volatile transition from "client" to "grandson." Diao Chan returned the next day. Even when hiring a killer, the young master remained dignified—punctual and with ample funds. Zhao Meiyou counted the money, immediately opened a pack of good cigarettes, and offered him one. "Smoke?" Diao Chan’s only answer was a fit of earth-shattering coughing. "Suit yourself." Zhao Meiyou shrugged. "I can probably have the job done within a week. Any special requests for the body?" Diao Chan’s voice was raspy. "...Just don't eat it." "No problem," Zhao Meiyou agreed readily. "Though in all honesty, for getting rid of evidence, it's a pretty cost-effective method..." He saw the look in Diao Chan’s eyes and raised his hands in surrender, making a zipping motion across his lips. A week later, Diao Chan returned to the pork shop. The rolling shutter was halfway down, and light spilled onto the tiled floor outside. He ducked inside and nearly tripped. He looked down. It was a pair of high heels. "You're here?" Zhao Meiyou greeted him, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "I just got back and haven't had time to clean up. Sit wherever." He stood at the chopping block, pulling off a wig and peeling away fake eyelashes. Artificial pearls clattered to the floor. Then he unfastened a chest binder and walked barefoot across the floor, nearly slipping. Diao Chan instinctively caught him. "Help me out." Zhao Meiyou handed him the binder and pointed toward the freezer. "Put the clothes in there. My feet kill." "What are you standing there for?" Zhao Meiyou lit another cigarette. "That was my mom's gear. If the pearls oxidize, they're a pain to fix. Get them in the fridge, quick." Ash drifted down. Diao Chan watched him squint through the smoke. "...What exactly were you doing?" "Doing your business, obviously," Zhao Meiyou said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then, as if remembering something, he leaned into Diao Chan’s arms and suggestively rubbed his fingers together. "If you increase the fee, we could do some other 'business' too." The next second, he was dropped unceremoniously, face-first onto the floor. "Tsk, you're no fun." Zhao Meiyou didn't give up. He rolled over and lay flat on the ground, watching the smoke curl upward. He heard the freezer door open and close, followed by the *clack* of leather heels on the floor, then the muffled sound of footsteps approaching. Diao Chan had taken off his shoes. Wearing grey cashmere socks, he walked over and sat down beside Zhao Meiyou, hugging his knees. "So, how was it?" "No problems at all," Zhao Meiyou said, rubbing his lips with his fingers. His face and hands were smeared with crimson. "Hey, let me ask you—what are you planning for the funeral?" Diao Chan met him with silence. Zhao Meiyou finished his cigarette and added, "How about this? Tell me your story. Spit out the tears like they're just saliva in a story. You'll feel better." Diao Chan looked at him. "That doesn't sound like something you'd say." "You haven't known me that long." Zhao Meiyou scoffed. "Who knows, maybe we even crossed paths in the Upper District." He hooked a high heel with his toe. "Hey, did you know that a department head at Diao Corp is impotent?" The topic was nonsensical, but Zhao Meiyou was on a roll, talking a mile a minute. "A sister of mine was rented by him long-term just to save face at big events. He gave her a beauty allowance every month. Sometimes she had to play his mistress, sometimes his mother or his daughter... I heard she eventually went to see a doctor. Every time she described her symptoms, they were different. The doctor couldn't tell if she was playing a role or if she actually had multiple personalities..." Zhao Meiyou had a vast network, and the business scope of the Lower District truly covered all of humanity. Find a street with the right vibe, and the signs—unlicensed clinics, fake IDs, dentists, herbalists, coffin shops—basically encompassed a mortal's life from birth to burial. By the time Diao Chan had finished listening to the "108 Essential Tips for Postpartum Sow Care," the stiffness had finally left his eyes, and the lines of his face softened. Before this, he had been grinding his teeth so hard it looked painful. "...So, at four in the morning that summer, my mom dragged her suitcase out from under the bed, left a note, and vanished. My entire inheritance was a pile of expired makeup and dance dresses with oversized bust measurements." Zhao Meiyou brought the story to a close. "She said she was going to 'martyr herself with the dawn.' To this day, I don't know if that was a poetic metaphor or if she had a man named Dawn." After a moment, Diao Chan’s voice came from above him. "Do you miss her?" "I have to say, she saved me a lot of trouble." Zhao Meiyou exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Before that, she kept telling me to kill her the moment she grew her first crow's foot. Every year before I blew out the candles on my birthday, I had to announce my creative plan for killing her that year." This time, Diao Chan actually laughed. "Your mom was a real character." Zhao Meiyou gave a lazy hum, his tone tinged with a hint of pride. The smile lingered on Diao Chan’s face. Zhao Meiyou’s wild, off-key stories were like a mask, covering everything in garish, comical colors. The mask never changed, and beneath the paint, it created a safe zone. When you wore the mask, you could reveal your truest expressions, your truest self. Diao Chan slowly began to tell his story. Parents joined by a marriage of convenience, a cold, thin veneer of affection. His mother was a classic "cold beauty," always in poor health, always convalescing. The house was too big; Diao Chan rarely saw her. She would appear occasionally, dressed in finery for a holiday or at the dinner table on a night when the hearth was lit. But the guests always said he had inherited her Eastern eyes—like jade. A type of ancient mineral that once came from the mountains but was now only produced through synthetic technology. Diao Chan was a brilliant student. He had a study that was absurdly large. Before he was formally introduced to the family business, he had secretly fantasized about becoming a scholar, with a bit of spare time each day to play the piano. When his mother heard of this, she told him: *Having your own thoughts is a good thing. A scholar is a dignified profession.* And then, the inevitable second half: *Provided your name isn't Diao.* It was the expected answer, and Diao Chan hadn't reacted. Most boys of his background were the same—they possessed a kind of arrogant docility. He thought the matter was settled, but months later, a servant suddenly told him that the Madam wished for him to spend an hour in her room every day. His mother's room was like a secret chamber. His parents only occasionally spent a night together in the ancestral master bedroom; the rest of the time, they had their own quarters. They both showed excellent breeding in this regard; as far as Diao Chan knew, neither had ever set foot in the other's domain. In another sense, in this house where everything was regulated, his mother's room represented absolute safety. He arrived on time, knocked, and froze. His mother was sitting at a piano. They didn't talk much. She demonstrated basic fingering and introductory score reading. The hour passed quickly. After that, he spent an hour in her room every day. The change happened when he was sixteen. Because of a minor cold, his mother passed away. Diao Chan couldn't quite describe his feelings. She had always been frail, sick on and off for so long that he had prepared himself. Perhaps sensing her end was near, a few days before she died, this traditionally conservative lady taught Diao Chan one last piece. It was the first time he had learned something other than classical music. He played that piece at her funeral. The guests whispered, and his father flew into a rage. After that, he was forbidden from touching the piano. Like a character in a cliché story, he tried to run away from home. He encountered strange things on the road—though to someone raised in such a secluded mansion, many things seemed strange. He joined a government agency, one of the few places his father's reach couldn't extend. Months later, he returned home for the first time. He expected his father's fury and had steeled himself for it. Yet the entire estate acted as if none of it had ever happened. Servants bustled about; the gardener was trimming the lilies of the valley, his mother's favorite flower. *Young Master.* The butler looked at him, somewhat surprised. *When did you go out?* Then he added: *You're going to be late today. Hurry along.* "Late"—in this mansion, Diao Chan had the power to be late for anything. Everyone would indulge the Diao heir, making excuses for his lack of punctuality. *The Young Master is so busy; he must have been delayed by something important.* Except for one thing. Diao Chan threw open the door to the room. His mother was sitting at the piano. She turned her head and spoke in a cool yet affectionate tone—a tone Diao Chan had heard for years and knew intimately: "You're late." ... He went to see psychiatrists and the most famous psychological clinics in the Metropolis. Yet everyone looked at him with a gentle, probing gaze and told him: *Young Master Diao, there is nothing wrong with your mental state.* It was as if everything had truly been a dream. From the moment he climbed over the estate wall until his return, those months had been cleanly excised. The lilies in the garden never withered; they bloomed with a cold, fervent intensity. He had secretly questioned many people about his departure and his mother's death. The butler had merely raised an eyebrow, his brief surprise quickly replaced by a calm, matter-of-fact tone: *Young Master, you shouldn't think such things.* Diao Chan didn't know if his supposedly secret inquiries had become a kind of suggestion. He had once told a servant that it was best not to leave the birdcage in the hallway, as it was easy for the cat to eat the bird. The focus of that sentence could have been "hallway" or "eat." He never saw that bird again. A few months later, his mother caught a cold again. The exact same symptoms, no final words, the exact same death. The funeral was as grand as ever. Well-groomed ladies whispered behind their fans. Diao Chan played that unconventional piano piece from dawn until dusk. At nightfall, he packed his bags and climbed over the wall again. This time he only stayed away for a few days. When he stood before the estate again, he looked at the lilies in the garden and realized the gravity of the situation. His mother was still waiting for him in her room. His living mother, who had already died twice.