Chapter 69: The Relationship Between You and Me That I Can Piece Together Isn’t as Distant as You Say

Bai Jingchuan transferred all the male employees who had resigned from the technical department directly to the 2028 project team. With this, aside from one person who had switched jobs, none of the talented boys were left unemployed. On the first day of their move, a geomagnetic storm occurred, causing many electronic devices to malfunction. News broadcasts announced that astronomy enthusiasts would witness unusual sights. Akira’s boyfriend had already arrived at the front lines, and an unprecedented purple aurora was reported. She wanted to record a special gift for him. However, Akira was hopping mad: “What gift? He left on a 6 a.m. flight just to see the spectacle! By the way, I remember you went to Arctic Village before—how did you return so quickly? You never mentioned seeing the aurora!”

Jiang Huan didn’t know how to explain Akira’s barrage of questions. She couldn’t possibly tell her that she had traveled three different modes of transportation within 24 hours, journeyed thousands of miles to see the person she liked, hugged him tightly, and then teleported back to Shanghai together—it sounded like something out of an animated movie. Akira stared at the darkening sky: “The sky is getting darker again. It’s been strange lately—I stayed up all night last night, feeling unusually energetic, and had some very vivid dreams, almost like Inception. When I woke up, my memories felt scrambled. Even recalling what I did at each job takes me a long time.”

“Forgetting tedious and disheartening things like work is normal.”

“No, it’s not the same. I feel like my memories have been forcibly altered. I’m an extreme J-type personality; my brain has spreadsheets—I don’t make mistakes.”

Akira was a steadfast lead artist with impeccable aesthetics and masterful time management. Jiang Huan might be questioned, but Akira never was. Every task had the clearest spreadsheets, and project managers (PMs) dreaded discussing schedules with her. If Akira was feeling this way, it wasn’t just intuition.

The most noticeable anomaly she felt was in Wen Li’s social media posts. The images she shared carried a post-apocalyptic or ethereal aesthetic from the new season’s clothing line. After the event ended, she posted a single landscape photo containing half a human figure stretched by a long-exposure lens. The tall, slender figure with eyes casually glancing at the camera made Jiang Huan instantly recognize it as Duanmu Xuan. But when she tried to confirm it, Wen Li had already deleted the photo.

Akira patted her shoulder: “Have you seen Bai Jingchuan?”

“No.”

“It’s so frustrating—he’s always gone whenever I need him. He doesn’t need to save the world; he just needs to click ‘confirm’ on DingTalk. Why doesn’t he reply to my messages?”

Bai Jingchuan often disappeared—that was something Jiang Huan had realized early on.

The gloomy weather persisted.

Renwu Road in spring was barren, its trees bare. Jiang Huan knocked on the door of Shandi Meng’s studio. Shandi Meng was working on calculations at his computer. He wasn’t surprised to see her and simply greeted her with a gentle smile: “You’re here. Are you hungry?”

Always so considerate. Jiang Huan shook her head: “It’s been a while. I… have something to ask you.”

“Not urgent—we still have time. The map I’ve been drawing is finally finished today. Designing, modeling, and successfully running it took quite a bit of effort. I’d like to invite you to explore it together.”

“Is this what turned your hair white?”

Shandi Meng didn’t answer directly: “Compared to sleep, creating this feels worthwhile. Since we’re touring the scene, how about using a controller?”

The two sat silently in the small soul room. The starting scene was a street in New Capital City. No matter which direction you looked at the intersection, it resembled a maze. This was exactly what Jiang Huan had envisioned for the game’s urban setting—”Since it’s a game city, it must feel like a labyrinth. Players should be able to climb up and down using boxes or wooden planks. There should be chain-link fences to create dead-end confrontations. The sky shouldn’t be fully visible—too sunny places lack damp corners where bacteria thrive, so there won’t be conflicts… Thus, this city has towering skyscrapers, a maze-like view of uneven buildings from above. There are affluent towers basking in optimal sunlight for the rich, and underground areas prone to leaks and moss growth for the poor. The poor’s paradise has sunlight, cats, and children playing soccer freely. Meanwhile, the young masters and ladies of the wealthy district are pale, unruly, and their genetically encoded existence is archived in the building. They fear death yet also embrace it, ready to summon life anew anytime. Surrounding the city are four directions inhabited by other groups. Villagers familiar with the snowy mountains sing and dance, celebrating Minnie Town’s Torch Festival. The other three directions feature complete scenes, as if they had been dormant for a long time, awaiting Jiang Huan’s inspection.”

If this place were holographic, it would become a highly functional living community. People could live in a cyberpunk world where everything could be purchased and adjusted with coins. If someone’s score dropped below 4 points, they’d lose their ability to act. Yet, it would retain natural landscapes similar to the real world—grand and beautiful, offering varied living experiences. In the past, Jiang Huan would have been thrilled—to see majestic scenery, wonders formed by unique landforms, familiar cities, and enjoy a more convenient life within a single map…

Now, she remained quiet, contemplating how to broach the subject with Shandi Meng. He calmly shared the city: “Do you like it here?”

Jiang Huan didn’t understand what Shandi Meng meant.

“There’s much that will feel familiar. Let’s take a look inside.”

Holding the controller, Jiang Huan gazed at the second-floor fast-food joint at the street corner, the cherry blossoms of Renwu Road, vendors selling bubble machines and balloons, the secondhand camera shop she frequented, and the darkroom where film was developed… It was as if all the shops she loved in Shanghai, parks she visited, and scenes she once created were transplanted here. If the rest could be considered speculation, then the enormous cherry blossom window in front of the teaching building was no coincidence. Outside the full-length glass corridor bloomed magnificent pink cherry blossoms, their petals reflected on the ground even in rainy weather, naturally soft-focused. She recalled hurried footsteps rushing upstairs, anxious breathing, and the tender gaze of Shandi Meng when she paused, her heart racing amidst the beauty.

This memory wasn’t stored in her mind, but the scene made her heart flutter, evoking dreamlike fragments she couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Is this what you’ve spent years working on?”

“Mm, turning it into a game scene—isn’t it fascinating?”

“Perhaps it’s not just a game. I’ve seen it in my dreams.”

Shandi Meng smiled: “Our minds are connected.”

“This isn’t just a game scene, right? I entered through dreams. I’ll find past stories with Bai Jingchuan inside, including the main plot of Love Forbidden Zone and places we’ve visited together… like parallel worlds. If I’m not mistaken, there should be a dimensional gateway here, though I don’t know how to open it. Maybe moving the bed or dismantling the floor leads to an underground world, or perhaps the computer screen is a dimensional portal…”

“Your imagination is intriguing.” Shandi Meng completely denied it: “No wonder you’re a storyteller—you can guess so vividly.”

Jiang Huan continued controlling the character forward. The screen stopped at a large screen in the city center, where a pink twin-tailed girl sang. In the soul room stood a beloved pink twin-tailed doll that Shandi Meng cherished and frequently dressed up. Jiang Huan spoke: “I want to show you something.”

Jiang Huan took out her drawing tablet, adjusting the canvas size while painting. She selected a custom brush to outline contours, smoothly sketching hair curves. Then she matched the exact shade of pink from the TV screen. Soon, the image of the twin-tailed girl appeared. Shandi Meng watched silently, revealing no emotion.

“Does it look like her?”

“Almost identical.”

“Because these brushes are custom-made, and this particular pink is a fixed color code only I use.”

The room was silent except for the hum of the computer fan. Shandi Meng waited patiently for her to continue, even seeming slightly expectant: “Did you recall anything?”

“No. My hand remembered the muscle memory. These brushes are mine, and I recognized the color immediately. But I have no recollection of this twin-tailed girl’s story.”

“If that’s the case, don’t think about it.”

“Shandi Meng, are you part of this city too?”

He didn’t answer. A customer stood at the door, peeked inside, then closed it and left. The wind chime tinkled. Jiang Huan waited for Shandi Meng’s response, but he only smiled: “I don’t belong anywhere. I’m just the owner of this shop on Renwu Road. If you walk in, you’re my guest. If you trust me, you’re my friend.”

“Can you tell me what kind of relationship we had before?”

A flicker of unease passed through Shandi Meng’s eyes: “Very close friends.”

“Should I continue drawing this comic?”

The pen hovered near the pink-haired manga girl. With a few strokes, smooth curves emerged, outlining strands of hair and cheeks. Though hastily sketched and colored, Shandi Meng watched silently, seemingly expectant yet increasingly somber, hesitating with traces of sadness—but he didn’t stop her.

Jiang Huan didn’t draw in detail, but a clean, youthful boy in a light blue shirt and white T-shirt appeared beside the pink-haired girl. Jiang Huan chuckled bitterly: “I don’t know if his hair should be golden short or black, but it must be a color related to youthful romance.”

She flipped the drawing board over, sketching both figures’ expressions with a few strokes. The boy’s gaze was gentle, focused on the girl. A brief flash of surprise crossed Shandi Meng’s face.

“What did you recall?”

“It’s deduction—I have no memories, but actions leave traces. I guessed.” Jiang Huan probed successfully: “You said ‘recall,’ so you know I don’t have these memories, right?”

Shandi Meng gave no answers to her questions, not even avoiding her questioning gaze, merely waiting for her to continue. Jiang Huan felt sorrowful: “This is my art style—the brushstrokes don’t change. I’ve never seen this comic or known its story, but I remember these characters I drew—the pink-haired girl. Strangely, whenever I draw her, the other half automatically appears.”

Closer to the mystery, Shandi Meng calmly awaited, as if hearing such a fresh story for the first time.

“I don’t know your real name, but I once loved you. We were lovers. This comic is related to you, isn’t it?”

A breeze swept through the hall. If Renwu Road’s cherry trees were still standing, the streets would now be covered in falling blossoms.

“I’m sorry. I truly don’t know what you’re talking about. Your words confuse me.”

Jiang Huan and Shandi Meng stood a step and a half apart, as if in different timelines. Even close, they seemed destined never to intersect again. She walked toward the lounge and opened the door—

The small curtained resting room transformed into a dilapidated repair station with a large roof. Sunlight poured through the gaps, the door wide open, letting in wind unlike the real world, carrying dust and rust. Papers and small objects scattered, obstructing their view. Shandi Meng didn’t flinch, his eyes filled with sorrow—a gaze he hadn’t used to look at her in six years.

The lounge door no longer led to a curtained mattress but directly connected the real and digital worlds of Mowu City. Jiang Huan looked at Shandi Meng, waiting for a reasonable explanation.

“Does what you’re doing concern my life or death?”

“Though I’d love to say it’s about you, this has always been my personal research. You’re free.”

“Are you asking if I’m interested in a new world because you want to take me there?”

This amused Shandi Meng, but his gaze remained cold: “Your guesses are interesting, but how could I possibly take you there?”

The other side of the world was rich in color yet oppressive, with the sound of massive metal collisions echoing. Basic infrastructure was still under repair. This seemingly ordinary cyberpunk world was actually a patchwork of countless real-world scenes, and those involved knew it clearly.

Jiang Huan’s legs trembled.

Shandi Meng remained indifferent, appearing unaware: “You do seem to have accumulated many coincidences, perhaps causing misunderstandings. But new worlds are never shaped by individual will alone. You can doubt me, but I’m merely an ordinary gatekeeper.”

“Rather than being protected and living safely, I prefer the right to know. Is it only when my life is at stake that you lose your composure?”

The sky darkened to near nightfall. Shandi Meng stood up: “Return to the company or go home. It’s unsafe to stay here.”

“Shandi Meng, at 9 p.m. the day after tomorrow, I’ll wait for you at the intersection of Renwu Road. If you have anything to say, come see me. I’ll wait.”

Her phone continued live-streaming geomagnetic storm updates. Data disruptions were expected tonight, the subway had already malfunctioned, and some neighborhoods experienced power outages, affecting citizens’ activities. Jiang Huan stood at the crossroads, looking at saplings planted three years ago. The scenery was entirely different now. She tried to recall what happened three years ago—even Akira remembered her past with Shandi Meng, yet she had forgotten everything as if brainwashed.

She refused to accept it. After 9 p.m., she grew inexplicably nervous, her fingers twitching. Her phone remained silent except for work messages. Shandi Meng’s shop was just a kilometer away, but all the lights were off, as was his residence—he wasn’t there.

At 9:45, the streets were quiet. Nearby shopkeepers discussed how the entire elevated road was gridlocked due to system failures in electric vehicles caused by the geomagnetic storm. Cars honked incessantly but remained stuck. Jiang Huan thought perhaps Shandi Meng was stuck in traffic, unable to return in time to see her.

During their time together, she always had to wait.

It was 10:30. She set the deadline at 11 p.m., knowing Shandi Meng could be ruthless enough to let her wait all night. But digesting his refusal to reveal the truth over an entire night felt too humiliating. She wandered aimlessly, trying to stay awake, rehearsing what she wanted to say to him. Shandi Meng didn’t appear.

At 10:50, her phone suddenly rang—it was Bai Jingchuan: “Where are you?”

“At the intersection of Renwu Road. But promise me, come after 11 p.m. I have an appointment.”

As she suspected, avoiding overlapping times, Bai Jingchuan or Shandi Meng must be behind the soul room door.

At 10:55, Shandi Meng grabbed his car keys and descended the stairs, taking a detour through tunnels and streets, precisely five minutes away. He didn’t come to check if Jiang Huan was really waiting, nor did he have any “truth” to share. On nights of geomagnetic storms, many people suffered insomnia and nausea. For citizens, it was merely a celestial phenomenon—wake up, and it’s a new day.

His plans progressed steadily. This wasn’t about a single life but the dream of millions of digital lives surviving.

Shandi Meng’s car stopped at the first position at the traffic light. With three seconds of yellow light left, he chose to brake and wait quietly. In the distance, Jiang Huan and Bai Jingchuan met, playfully reaching out to touch each other’s heads, chasing and laughing as they circled flower beds. Shandi Meng rolled down the car window to let the wind in. Light fell on his face, recalling countless familiar nights.

He once held Jiang Huan’s hand, spinning clockwise while recording a video. From the first-person perspective, Jiang Huan still had pink hair, devoid of girlish coquettishness, simply relaxed and childlike beside him. She laughed: “Shandi Meng, don’t hide your face with the camera—I can’t see you! My face must look distorted. If you’re going to take pictures, leave some good ones for me…”

Of the senses, taste and hearing bind most deeply with memory, while vision operates separately. Disasters are hardest to forget—people often advise against sleeping within 12 hours. Fearing forgetfulness, Shandi Meng kept a noodle shop stocked with all Jiang Huan’s favorite flavors of braised dishes and toppings. In the record store, a small second floor was sectioned off, playing music they had listened to together. It wasn’t open to visitors; during rare moments seeking tranquility, he would sit upstairs listening to songs. Inside a tin box lay instant photos, old DV tapes, a few comic booklets, and a ring folded meticulously from Ferrero Rocher paper—delicate yet fragile, rarely touched for fear of damage.

Jiang Huan’s words echoed in his ears: “Only when my life is in danger does it justify losing your rationality.”

Her reason for waiting at the Renwu Road intersection at this hour was simple—it was the street he relied on for survival and the first scene he saw upon stepping into the real world. At 11:01 p.m., as he took his first step, Jiang Huan, riding a bicycle, failed to watch the road and fell off. Instinctively, he opened his arms, and the girl, along with late cherry blossoms, tumbled into his embrace. His desire to invent video-recording eyeballs stemmed from replaying that moment countless times in his mind. The reflection of a complete cherry blossom in Jiang Huan’s pupils was unforgettable, preserved like amber in his heart.

On this night of geomagnetic storms and data chaos, Jiang Huan recalled the time they first met.

The obstacle wasn’t my hesitation or concealment but my countless decisions. The most emotional person makes the most rational choices, yet I never regretted them.

The red light turned green. If he drove straight and parked by the roadside, he could interrupt the newly blossoming couple’s playful antics. But Shandi Meng accelerated on the empty street, passing by their standing positions, stirring the wind that lifted Jiang Huan’s skirt and Bai Jingchuan’s coat. The street returned to silence, as if nothing had happened.