Before entering Site A173, Zhao Meiyou had left a message at the theater. Regardless of who came looking for the Pillar—or if the Pillar himself showed up—the stagehand’s response would be the same: "Don't bother looking; he left word that Boss Liu isn't in the 33rd District today!"
Someone like Diao Chan would take the words at face value. But the Pillar himself would immediately realize it was a clue left by Zhao Meiyou: *Stay out of the 33rd District.*
Aside from the 33rd District, there was only one other place the Pillar would go—the place Zhao Meiyou truly wanted him to be.
Site A173.
*I have to say, I really didn't see this coming,* Zhao Meiyou thought.
After all, he knew nothing about the Pillar’s husband. The old man was a resident of the ruins, and Zhao Meiyou hadn't dared to place his full trust in him. His message had been a failsafe; if he actually died, at least someone would know where to collect his corpse.
As it turned out, the truth was even more explosive than he had imagined. Zhao Meiyou looked at the youth in the room, who was clearly spiraling into a brief state of confusion. After a moment, the boy seemed to finally snap back to reality. "Sir, what have you done?"
The old man’s smile was helpless but resolute. "Qijue, it’s really time for this dream to end."
The youth wiped his face and took a deep breath. "I refuse." He produced a mask from nowhere and donned it—a stark white opera face. He uttered a single word with sharp finality: "Dragon."
Colored dragon patterns swirled onto the white paper. In an instant, the youth transformed into a massive dragon, roaring as it lunged at Zhao Meiyou. He was clearly playing for keeps. The Pillar’s expression shifted instantly as he shoved Zhao Meiyou toward the exit. "Go! Now!"
Zhao Meiyou watched the boy-turned-dragon and figured the kid must have a serious screw loose. Mental illness was a symptom that never ceased to surprise him.
He intended to say something more—the situation was obviously deeper than it appeared on the surface. Well, the surface was already plenty complicated, but from an observer's perspective, it was easier to step out of the fog and see the core of the "player's" delusion.
"Please, come with me." The old man led him away without allowing for argument. The manor was on the verge of collapse. they scrambled into the car and sped toward the tunnel. Zhao Meiyou still had his cigarette clamped between his teeth; in the howling wind, only the butt remained. "Why are you doing this?"
"At my age, many things no longer require a reason." The old man floored the accelerator, pushing the car to an unprecedented speed. In this moment, he didn't look like an old man at all. The gale blew back his white hair, revealing eyes that were calm and composed. Amidst this death-defying velocity, he even took his right hand off the wheel to light a cigar.
By the time they finally drove out of the turbulent space and the surroundings turned back into white noise like television static, Zhao Meiyou didn't even have a cigarette butt left. His face was covered in dust from the wind, and he leaned against the window, coughing violently.
"This is why hair pomade is a good thing. It's a pity young people don't care for it much." The old man bit down on his cigar and handed him a glass bottle. Zhao Meiyou took it and caught the familiar scent of elmwood.
The old man exhaled a cloud of smoke. "We don't have much time, young man. When Qijue loses control, the entire space becomes unstable. They'll catch up soon."
Exhaling smoke was an art form. When Zhao Meiyou was a teenager, he had specifically tried to mimic the decadent, melancholic look of NPCs in holographic games, but he could never capture the essence; he just looked like a delinquent who hadn't slept enough. But now, as the old man held the cigar between two fingers and the smoke drifted, Zhao Meiyou realized that the images he had idolized in his youth had lost all their color.
With just one smoke ring, you could see the sharp, cold youth, the elegant and dashing middle-aged man, and the serene, composed elder. Their faces passed through the smoke in sequence, outlined in silhouettes both blurred and concrete. When those images dispersed, they left behind a face with warmer tones—fine lines at the corners of the eyes like carvings in ivory, and a suit jacket concealing a volcano that had yet to burn out.
He was old, but he was more vivid than he had ever been, for his soul had finally found a secure place to rest.
Zhao Meiyou understood. There was truly no need to ask why. For a man of the elder's age, the word "love" was too frail. A king does not use words to conquer time; he uses action and resolve.
"I understand. My previous words were offensive," Zhao Meiyou said. "I have one last question. What was the date when Young Master Liu left the ruins to find my sister in the 33rd District?"
The moment the youth in the room turned into a dragon, all the pieces had connected into a single line.
The old man smiled. "You truly are Qijue's friend."
Zhao Meiyou smiled back. "And you truly are his lover."
The back of the car suddenly vibrated violently. The white space was collapsing rapidly. The Pillar and the dragon, locked in combat, were catching up. "I believe I don't need to say anything more." The old man handed Zhao Meiyou a cigar, clipped it, and lit it for him. "Straighten your tie, put on some pomade, and go do what an adult ought to do."
Zhao Meiyou opened the door and stepped out. A split second later, a gust of air rushed past as the taxi roared toward the dragon. It was the most badass car Zhao Meiyou had ever seen; even Diao Chan’s glittering collection of treasures paled in comparison. The driver was like a groom running late for his wedding, dressed in his finest suit and rushing toward the church, speeding through the city streets as roses and fireworks erupted from the trunk. Zhao Meiyou was sprayed with a face full of exhaust, and in that moment, he suddenly had a concrete vision for his own old age.
The Pillar was knocked flying by the car mid-fight, streaking across the sky like a meteor before crashing down at Zhao Meiyou’s feet. Zhao Meiyou was busy slicking back his hair with pomade; it was his first time trying a pompadour. "How do I look?" He watched the Pillar stand up and smoothed back a stray strand. "Don't I look like a dashingly handsome marinated egg?"
The Pillar didn't take the bait. "Zhao Naught, are you going to help or not?"
"I'm helping, I'm definitely helping," Zhao Meiyou said. "How?"
"First, we have to stabilize the original body." The Pillar pointed at the dragon in the distance. "If he's unstable, I'm finished, and then all of A173 is finished."
"Fine. But before that, let me ask you a question." Zhao Meiyou looked at him and repeated the same question he'd asked in the taxi: "What was the date when Young Master Liu left the ruins to find my sister in the 33rd District?"
The Pillar was baffled. "December 8th. Why?"
"On December 8th, did you enter or leave the ruins?"
"No. I had a show that day. You even came to listen, Zhao Naught," the Pillar said impatiently. "What the hell are you trying to say?"
"Liu Qijue, listen to me." Zhao Meiyou took a deep breath. "I got my hands on some government documents regarding lifeforms in the ruins. They recorded the date the system observed a lifeform leaving the ruins—the same day Li Daqiang went missing."
"It was December 8th."
From the moment the youth turned into a dragon, the sense of contradiction Zhao Meiyou had been vaguely sensing finally exploded.
His own ability was Transformation, so he knew the difference between "Creation" and "Transformation." Creation is bestowed upon others; Transformation is applied to oneself. Liu Qijue could remodel anything in the ruins at will, provided it was his own creation.
There was only one thing he could not change: a living person from the real world, or rather, an archaeologist who had entered the ruins. Because a living person was not created by him. The unchanged appearance of Li Daqiang was proof of this.
By the same logic, the youth who could transform into a dragon was not a living person.
The youth was the lifeform that had been created.
"You told me yourself! Excessive emotional fluctuations lead to getting lost! You start believing you're a native of the ruins!" Zhao Meiyou roared at the Pillar through the gale. "You love your husband so damn much that you forgot who you are! You're the most incredible lunatic I've ever met, Liu Qijue!"
God created the world and then fell into the mortal realm, forgetting where his true self came from.
The Pillar stared at him, mouth agape, like someone jolted from a long dream, his consciousness drifting in a sea of karma.
Zhao Meiyou kicked him, but there was no reaction. Rage flared in his heart; he forced the man's mouth open and poured the rest of the pomade straight down his throat.
The sharp scent of elmwood surged into his brain like a plunge into the deep sea. Long-forgotten memories rose like a tidal wave, bearing the impact of the storm.
Whose face was that in the depths of his memory?
How long ago had it been?
He remembered their first meeting. He had escaped a coordinated assassination attempt within a ruin, only to be betrayed by a friend in a safe house back in reality. He had killed everyone—the enemies and the comrades he had once trusted with his life.
The safe house was no longer safe. He changed his name and fled to the Lower District, hiding in a dilapidated holographic cinema for seven days. He pried open vending machines and lived off the instant pizzas left behind by the audience.
Seven days later, his injuries had improved. He didn't leave immediately; instead, he went to the counter to ask if he could buy an annual pass.
The ticket seller was the owner. He gave him a strange look and told him in an archaic dialect from some forgotten era: *Just bring money when you want to watch. We don't have those fancy services here.*
He thought about it, took off his jade thumb ring, and placed it on the counter. it was the only thing of value he had left. He bought the shop and became the part-time owner and ticket seller.
A few nights later, an elderly gentleman walked in, his silver-gray hair slicked back. He smelled that scent of elmwood pomade and cigars and stood up from behind the counter.
The old man glanced at him and smiled, pointing to a floating poster on the wall: "Young man, a ticket for *Schindler's List*, please."
The old man became a regular, often coming at nine in the evening to watch a film. Sometimes he carried a long-handled umbrella; sometimes he pinned an orchid to his lapel. A black cat ran under the moon-lamp. Their conversations grew from few to many.
"Young man, a ticket for *Witness for the Prosecution*, please."
"The rain is quite heavy tonight."
"This cat seems to have eaten too much."
"Use the whole-grain canned food; switch to a brand that's easier to digest."
"Have there been fewer customers lately?"
"Your ticket, please."
"You left your umbrella here last time."
"Your orchid is beautiful."
"You like jazz too?"
"Of course, though I think Peking Opera is even more classic."
"A ticket for *A Streetcar Named Desire*, please."
...
Until one day, the holographic display malfunctioned. He and the old man stood facing each other in the night. After a moment, the elder smiled warmly. "It doesn't matter. I think this is an unexpected pleasure. At my age, being able to taste the flavor of a surprise is a very delightful thing."
He was frustrated, but he didn't know how to fix the display. The black cat nudged his hand at the counter. The old man pondered for a moment. "I think there might be some spare machines in the warehouse. I saw the previous owner use them a long time ago."
There was indeed another spare unit in the warehouse, but it didn't even have holographic capabilities. It was a digital projector from the first two centuries of cinema. No, it wasn't even that. He looked at the dusty light box. *How do you use this?*
The old man seemed to see his confusion. He smiled and flicked a gear on the film transport mechanism. "This is a film projector. It should be the earliest form of cinema."
The man unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and picked out a reel of film from the cluttered mess, placing it into the supply reel. A beam of silver light ignited, striking the dusty white wall.
Old celluloid films had that kind of magic. There was always an invisible row of seats before the screen. The moment the black-and-white images appeared, they both sat down on the floor.
The first night, they watched *Casablanca*.
In the 1940s, when World War II broke out, a mass of Europeans chose to flee to the Americas. Casablanca in French Morocco became a vital gateway. But only a lucky few could obtain visas to the United States.
In this city where despair and hope intertwined, the male protagonist ran a bar. He had a broken heart, a loyal Black musician, and a room full of gamblers every night. Smugglers traded diamonds for passage, murderers were shot, and a woman stood by the piano looking at an old friend, asking him to play an old song one more time.
"Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake."
When the movie ended, the old man said to him, "In 1982, a singer wrote a song of the same name for this movie. The melody is enchanting."
He found it and listened to it many times. A few days later, the old man returned. When their eyes met, they both laughed. "I brought a reel of my own." The old man took a silver box from a paper bag. "I thought we could watch it together."
This time, the images were in color. *Breakfast at Tiffany's*. Audrey Hepburn played a socialite, wandering the streets in that famous little black dress. When morning came, she would take a taxi to Tiffany's and eat breakfast in front of the jewelry windows.
"I like that bright yellow taxi," he said when the movie ended.
That taxi, seen everywhere in New York, carried the protagonists through Fifth Avenue as if it could drive to the ends of the earth.
As it turned out, the ends of the earth weren't that far away. The nights flowed through projections and silver light. Together, they wandered through the colorful Montmartre Heights in *Moulin Rouge*, drank heartily at Gatsby's jazz parties, witnessed the student movements under the Eiffel Tower in *The Dreamers*, and looked up at the stars during the space odyssey of 2001 over the Pacific. When the apocalypse came and the tsunami overturned the great ship, they ran into a cave where students of a poetry society were discussing freedom and death. They joined them, reciting a poem by Whitman by the campfire.
On an unknown night, when the movie ended, he finally asked the old man that question: "Why did you save me?"
During the seven days he had hidden in the cinema to nurse his wounds, he had often smelled the scent of elmwood pomade and cigars from the front row. When the movie went dark, he would always find something left behind on the still-warm seat—food at first, then medicine.
The old man laughed. "I was wondering when you would ask." As he spoke, a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes—in that instant, he became young again—a young businessman, dressed in a suit, navigating various districts, where great profits were accompanied by great danger.
"The first time I was at the end of my rope, I also fled into a cinema."
"After that, I developed the habit of watching movies. Although I'm retired now, the hobby of my youth remained." The old man’s voice was gentle, carrying a hint of a smile. "So, the first time I noticed you hiding in the back row, I thought to myself: isn't every person a poem? Coincidental rhythms always appear in the same places."
"What kind of business were you in?"
The old man looked at him and smiled tolerantly, uttering a codename.
It was an old name. Ancient, but shining brilliantly.
"I heard about what happened on the 777th floor," the old man said. "It’s been a long time since someone dared to take off their mask at a gathering. The dragon you transformed into was beautiful."
Many archaeologists had heard of that codename, though it had been buried for years. It was said the user had long since retired.
"I’ve been retired for many years." The old man’s tone was peaceful and steady. "Now, I’m just an old man who likes movies."
...
After that, the movie was paused until one day he entered a ruin again and then retreated rapidly, nearly consumed by panic. When night fell, the old man looked at him from the counter, frowning slightly, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"
"My dragon," he murmured. "My dragon is dead."
His "Creation" ability had reached perfection, yet this time the ruin had rejected him. He could create nothing.
The old man fell into a brief silence. After a moment, he said, "I haven't entered a ruin in many years."
He wasn't surprised by the answer. "I know. No one can help me with this."
"You misunderstand." The old man looked at him. "For an old fogey like me, jumping off a building does require a bit of preparation time. Are you free at this time tomorrow?"
He was stunned.
The old man maintained that gentle smile. "Let's first see what the situation is, and then decide. What do you think?"
The next day, the scene in the ruin looked like a Dalí painting. Everything was chaotic and unstable. Giant clocks bent in mid-air, the sky dissolved, dripping transparent slime. The old man remained calm at the sight and asked, "To what extent can your ability function now?"
He tried his best, but could only manifest a single hair.
"May I ask the reason?" the old man said. "Before it became like this, what happened to you in the ruin?"
He spoke of the student entrusted to him by an old acquaintance, the betrayal of a former friend, the infighting among peers. These were common occurrences for archaeologists. The old man listened quietly and then said, "I think those clumsy assassins are not worth worrying about. As for the newcomer entrusted to you, you saved him, didn't you? Then I think the problem might lie between you and your friend."
The old man corrected himself: "Your former friend."
And he could give no answer.
Was it to mourn the decay of a friendship? It didn't seem so. He did not fear the blood of his former friend on his hands, even if it had once been stained with his own tears.
They fell into a brief silence. A square sun rose on the distant horizon. He had never seen a ruin this chaotic. Site A173 had always been his home ground; he was arguably its most profound explorer. The entire main body of the ruin had been remodeled by his Creation ability. He had built vermilion temples, flying dragons, even oceans and stars. Thus, the entire ruin was influenced by him. He looked at the floating clocks, still unable to understand what this meant.
The old man suddenly laughed softly. He shook his head as he laughed. "Oh, I see. This is truly..."
"What do you see?"
"This was something I should have done." The old man looked at him with a hint of helplessness and a smile. "Young people always like to snatch away the privileges of the elderly, even though we don't have much left to begin with."
He didn't understand. But he saw the old man walk up to him, pointing at the floating clocks in the sky, and asking in a gentle tone, "Qijue, have you been very concerned about time lately?"
Time.
There was too much time between them.
How much time did they have left?
"Qijue, please listen to what I have to say next." The old man’s voice came from beside his ear. "I have spent most of my life alone, but I have also lived through wonderful times. I originally thought I would be like those old movies—I’ve already experienced the grand climax, the lights dim, the audience leaves, and then on some afternoon, a young person on a whim might mention those past events again..."
"But clearly, fate has been generous enough to me. My life is not a movie. Fate has given me a poem. The most brilliant lines always appear at the moment the poet is ready to set down his pen."
The old man looked at him, smiling—a wide, toothy grin. This smile contained the better part of a man's life. He saw a youth of his own age laughing as they kissed, teeth clashing; he saw a young man pretending to be suave while offering kisses and roses, his mouth stiff with nerves; he saw an elder elegantly reaching out a hand to ask for a dance—finally, all the images condensed into a single face, becoming this old yet young person before him.
"Qijue, do you know what the sole essence of poetry is?"
"What is it?"
"To drink, laugh, dance, and sing as much as possible before the music stops."
"Are you sure you're talking about poetry?"
"Of course. The definition of poetry goes far beyond the ink on a page."
"Above those conventions, transcending all meter, rhyme, form, and antithesis, you can still create a poem. You must catch the last flicker of flame before the sun sets, chew it, and swallow it. Do not look at those who point and fear the fire. You shall burn, dancing wildly in pain, singing. Your ribs will turn golden, and you will ultimately become the sun."
"Qijue, I will not be the only person you ever love in your life, but I am honored to be one of them." The old man looked into his eyes. "As the last flicker of flame before the sun sets, my life is probably enough for one last heat. Are you willing to catch me?"
He instinctively looked at the clocks overhead, then his eyes were covered. "Let it be." The old man’s voice came from the darkness. "At least before the sun sets, we still have time to compose a poem."
...
They moved to the Middle District, which had living conditions more suitable for the elderly. The projector was installed in the bedroom, and old movies were watched over and over again. His ability slowly recovered until one day, the Chuyun Theater performed the famous Peking Opera *Havoc in Heaven*. Coming out of the box, the old man suddenly said, "Qijue, I have an idea."
"You said before that when your ability is restricted, you can at most manifest a hair—but what if it were a hair from the Great Sage, Heaven's Equal?"
...
His ability fully recovered. Site A173, under his remodeling, was given forms from various times and spaces. The images from the silver screen became reality one by one. They rode the bright yellow taxi through different eras, having dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria—the place where Donna and the Colonel danced in *Scent of a Woman*. The band played the melody of *Por una Cabeza*. The old man stood up and smilingly asked him for a tango.
"Let's change the tune," the old man said. "We've heard *Por una Cabeza* ten thousand times."
"What does Sir want to hear?"
"Perhaps we could try jazz. How about *Fly Me to the Moon*?"
...
"...Liu Qijue?" A faint voice came from his ear. "Imperial Consort! Dammit, Liu Qijue! Wake up, Liu Qijue!"
The Pillar finally snapped out of it. Zhao Meiyou had shouted himself hoarse; he bent over, coughing twice, and said raspily, "Remembered now?"
The Pillar looked at him like a long-sleeper jolted from a deep dream, then punched Zhao Meiyou in the chest.
Zhao Meiyou had just straightened up only to be doubled over again. "...Dammit, you can't do that, Consort."
The Pillar turned away. "Thanks."
Zhao Meiyou smiled. He didn't hit back. He was bound to get hit; after all, the price of waking from a dream was likely an eternal parting.
They were brothers; he could handle a bit of morning grumpiness. "You'd better go check if your man can hold on..."
"Sir will be fine." The Pillar interrupted him, snatching the cigar from Zhao Meiyou’s hand and taking a drag himself.
"Are you kidding? That's a dragon." Zhao Meiyou looked into the distance. He had been too busy worrying about the Pillar’s condition, but now he was surprised to find that the rampaging Azure Dragon had vanished at some point. The taxi was slowly driving back.
The old man lowered the window and handed a mask with a painted dragon pattern to the Pillar, his smile gentle. "Qijue."
*That strong?* Zhao Meiyou watched the Pillar take the mask, feeling a bit dazed. *Wait, does this count as a domestic violence case?*
The Pillar stroked the mask and sighed softly. "Sir."
The old man got out of the car and gave him a hug. It was a long, deep embrace, but he eventually let go and looked at Zhao Meiyou. "I should say thank you, young man."
"It's only right." Everyone has a bit of admiration for the strong, and this old man was ridiculously powerful and cool in a way that didn't seem elderly at all. Even Zhao Meiyou felt a rare touch of bashfulness, like a junior being praised. "But I have a question... why didn't you wake the Consort up sooner?"
As soon as he said it, he realized the question was quite tactless.
The old man continued to smile warmly. The Pillar took a heavy drag of the cigar. "Because of the Correction."
"Correction?"
"A large part of the current Site A173 has been remodeled by my ability. In other words, my subconscious controls the laws of operation here," the Pillar said. "Sir... Sir is the same. He is a counterpart created by me. If I don't recognize my own identity as the original, he cannot speak the truth."
*If I do not recognize it, it is an error.*
*Errors are corrected.*
Therefore, the fact that the Pillar was the true original could only be pointed out by an outsider from beyond the ruins. Because they were not creations, they would not be corrected by the creator's laws.
*This is truly...* Zhao Meiyou cut off the evaluation that was about to burst out, leaving only the bloody first half.
*This is truly something.*
He could probably guess why the old man chose this moment to reveal the truth.
The sentence he’d said when he first came in was actually the truth: the old man’s original body outside the ruins was truly about to fail.
The farewell was at hand.
There was likely another reason. "What exactly is going on with Li Daqiang?"
"As you saw, that younger version of me." The Pillar paused, clearly still organizing the messy logic. "It kept trying to drag you into the ruins. But for a creation to leave the ruins, there are conditions; it must follow a true living person to enter reality. He must have made a deal with Li Daqiang for that reason."
That was likely the youth's most outrageous act. It had realized to some extent that the old man in reality was about to die, so it began to lose control, even dissolving living people into the ruins.
The Pillar sounded frustrated. "Dammit, it was so simple, and I never realized."
It wasn't strange. If it’s a beautiful dream, most people don't want to wake up.
The old man gently patted the Pillar’s shoulder and looked at Zhao Meiyou. "Actually, the number of archaeologists who have entered Site A173 over the years is not small. But I watched for a long time, young man. You are the only one suitable to wake Qijue."
He smiled again. "Perhaps the only one who *could* wake him."
He had observed for a long time, struggling against the "Correction" while searching for an opportunity. His young lover had created something far too mad within the ruins; it was too easy for others to exploit. Only Zhao Meiyou—who could be called Qijue's only friend—could help him keep the secret and be entrusted with all of this.
Zhao Meiyou looked at the old man, then at the Pillar, suddenly feeling an indescribable sensation—bittersweet and complex. He felt a bit like the Queen Mother of the West breaking up the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl.
The Pillar took a deep breath. "...Sir."
The old man looked at him, his gaze forever deep and tolerant. "Qijue."
They both understood it was time for the dream to end.
The old man reached out his hand. "Qijue, do you remember our tango at the Waldorf-Astoria?"
The Pillar looked up sharply.
"Come, my husband."
"Let us dance one last dance."
Zhao Meiyou was surprised to find the scene in the space beginning to shift—this wasn't the Pillar’s ability. Creation was the act of manifesting matter from nothing, but now, countless scenes slid past like grains of sand: the Old Homestead, Rick's Café, the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre, Tiffany's... Finally, the scene settled on a brilliantly lit hotel. Under the grand chandeliers, people moved in elegant attire, and glassware sparkled.
The Colonel and Donna had just finished dancing *Por una Cabeza*. The band turned their sheet music. The youth and the elder stepped onto the dance floor, stirring a pool of moonlight.
*Fly me to the moon*
*And let me play among the stars*
*Let me see what spring is like*
*On Jupiter and Mars*
*In other words, hold my hand*
*In other words, darling, kiss me……*
Amidst the jazz melody, the old man looked at the youth who was weeping uncontrollably and said softly, "One tear for me is enough, Qijue. One tear for me is enough."
"Remember what I told you before? What is the sole essence of poetry?"
"To drink, laugh, dance, and sing as much as possible before the music stops."
Zhao Meiyou walked to a dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down, asking a waiter for a cigarette.
On that night they’d had hotpot in the emergency room, Diao Chan had told him that at archaeological gatherings, few people dared to take off their masks. Diao Chan had mentioned Liu Qijue and several other ancient names, one of which was a particularly memorable codename.
Diao Chan had said: *Some abilities are extremely rare, so archaeologists will use their ability itself as their codename.*
This kind of ability could stop or even rewind time within a ruin.
At the time, Zhao Meiyou had been dizzy from the explanation and asked directly: *Stop beating around the bush. What is the codename? Is it "Time"?*
In his memory, Diao Chan had shaken his head amidst the steam of the hotpot and uttered a word—
"Poetry."
Now, Zhao Meiyou watched the youth and the elder on the dance floor. No, they were no longer a youth and an elder; they had shed the skins controlled by time, leaving only their souls to face each other naked.
When the poetry begins, time stops.
As the dance ended, the old man remained in the position of holding the youth in his arms, his lips pressed against his temple as he softly recited a line of verse.
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately."*
The first law of ruins: A ruin is not a dream.
A ruin is not a dream; it is the woods between dream and reality. we bury our dead selves in the dream, grow wild in the woods, and finally gain the courage to live on in reality.
"Qijue, live on."
the words fell like pearls on the floor, letting out a crisp echo. Gentle ripples spread; time was like a long river. The river washed everything away, the river took everything away, until finally, only a space as clean as a blank sheet of paper remained.
The Pillar and Zhao Meiyou faced each other.
Zhao Meiyou cleared his throat. "Leaving?" *By the way, how do we get out now?*
"A173 has been cleared. the laws of operation I established no longer apply." The Pillar wiped his face. "It's completely empty now. You just have to think about leaving, hold that thought, and you'll be out instantly."
Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment, walked to his friend, and crouched down. "Then what do you plan to do?"
"I have to handle the cleanup," the Pillar said. "I have to conjure up something to fool the government, otherwise the next archaeologist who comes in will be scared to death. And Li Daqiang..."
"Don't tell me." Zhao Meiyou waved his hand. "I entered A173 this time for you."
An adult gets what he seeks.
The Pillar was silent for a moment, then punched him, and the two embraced tightly.
"I'm off then." Zhao Meiyou stood up. "See you at the theater next time. Remember to buy me supper."
A second later, the tail end of his voice dissipated into pure white.
The theater in the 33rd District hadn't opened its stage for a long time. Old Man De was howling with rage, chasing Zhao Meiyou down the hallway every day. It was said the original Pillar had gone away on business and wouldn't be back for a while. Later, the troupe finally found a new lead actor. They performed *The New Dream of the Red Chamber* for over a month, and it was quite a hit.
The Lower District had endless spectacles every day, and soon people gradually forgot the Pillar who was so skilled at singing the role of Ji Gong.
In the twelfth lunar month, Easterners celebrated the New Year in the district. The Butcher Doctor slaughtered pigs in the street to distribute "blessing meat" and offer sacrifices to the Kitchen God. Zhao Meiyou was busy all day. In the evening, he simply skipped work, leaving Diao Chan alone in the emergency room while he ran to the parking lot for supper. He rented a barbecue truck and ate while drinking, listening to the distant sound of gongs and drums from the theater.
A moment later, the chair opposite him was pulled out. "Is anyone sitting here?"
"You're already sitting, why ask..." Zhao Meiyou looked up, his words trailing off.
From the distant stage, a line drifted over: "Behold, his face is like the mid-autumn moon, his complexion like the flowers of a spring dawn; his temples are as if cut by a blade, his brows as if painted with ink—"
Like jade stones piled high, a youth of peerless brilliance.
The peerless youth sat down and raised an eyebrow at him with a smile.
"My name is Liu Qijue. Shall we get acquainted?"
***
