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Jiang Huan was not a drinker. She didn’t believe in temporarily numbing her mind with alcohol to find fleeting comfort. Wen Li’s idea of romance was simple—she could be consoled by a few lines of inspirational quotes online or a thirty-second melancholic melody from a short video. Watching sappy films and crying over them could also provide an outlet. But Jiang Huan couldn’t do that—Bai Jingchuan had teleported behind her to block an attack, the image still vivid in her mind. She often brushed shoulders with life and death, but for some reason, this time felt like it would be her last encounter with danger.
If the normal trajectory of life was to pass through it in calm monotony, her journey had been far more turbulent than others, as if fate intended for her to feel pain acutely so she could create. Just thinking about this made Jiang Huan sigh. It seemed fate had singled her out, determined to mock her endlessly.
How could drinking possibly help?
Being unknown wasn’t impossible either. Jiang Huan now had more vacation days. The nights she used to spend working overtime at the office were now free two or three times a week. She had time to watch plays, attend concerts, and even visit Disneyland for its nighttime fireworks. She revisited all the places she’d gone with Bai Jingchuan, trying to imprint new memories of traveling alone. On the rooftop overlooking the Ferris wheel, she encountered young girls gathered together, radiating youthful energy that overwhelmed her, causing her to retreat.
She began using weekends to draw illustrations and storyboards at home—without any concrete plans yet. She told Akira she wanted to depict lovers living on two separate planets who couldn’t meet, though the rest of the details were still unclear. Akira brought other colleagues to Jiang Huan’s place, holding two boxes of fresh fruit in front of the camera: “It’s the weekend; come help out. We’re also here to mooch cake. You won’t mind if I bring my subordinate, right? I told her your butter Madeleines are unbeatable.”
The girls giggled and sat together chatting through the afternoon and into the night, moving from Jiang Huan’s apartment to the café downstairs. The number of chapters in her manuscript was minimal, mostly wasted amid noisy conversations. Jiang Huan rubbed her forehead: “Next time, let me just draw on my own. You guys only managed the surface-level stuff.”
“Mainly because you can’t draw it yourself.”
Indeed—Jiang Huan fell silent. She refused to believe Bai Jingchuan no longer existed. Outside, a torrential rain began, and Akira frowned: “Honey, you need someone more skilled to help you. We can all draw, but this story requires a lot of work. If you want to create something immersive, like a game, you’ll have to code it. Plus, we all still have jobs…” Akira sighed: “Jiang Huan, you work so hard that it makes me believe there really is a planet where lovers who can’t meet exist.”
“It’s fine.” Jiang Huan gestured toward the table covered with drafts and storyboards: “This is just my hobby anyway, a way to document my feelings. You’re helping out of friendship; I can’t burden you too much. Besides, I’m not giving up my authorship rights.”
No matter how many years it took, she could finish it. If there was something she didn’t know, she could learn it. She just wanted to record the emotions she couldn’t convey. No one believed this had truly happened to her, but the people who entered her life illuminated part of her youth. With everything she had learned, she could leave behind something small. That way, he wouldn’t just be a faint trace.
When the rain stopped and her friends left, Jiang Huan leaned against the window, watching the outside. Petals blown by the wind fell into puddles. Feeling drowsy, she rested her head on the window beside her hand-drawn storyboards and fell into a deep sleep. In her dreamlike state, she felt the petals falling like snow in the rain, but the light was soft, like the colors of a fairy tale. Someone approached her, reaching out to tap the glass on the other side of the window but hesitated and lowered their hand. The person holding an umbrella closed it. Jiang Huan’s arm bumped against the coffee and cake plate nearby, nearly knocking them over.
He hesitated before stepping inside, clearing away the unfinished cake and sitting quietly beside her. Jiang Huan slept deeply, unaware of his presence. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek but hesitated for a long time without lifting his hand. The sound of rain blended with the opening and closing of doors, stretching time into white noise, accompanied by dreamless drowsiness. He simply sat silently, neither disturbing nor announcing his presence. When passersby approached, worried about collisions, he gently shielded the sleeping Jiang Huan, fearing someone might wake her.
After a long while, Jiang Huan murmured in her sleep: “You’re here.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you had already left this place.”
“It’s because you didn’t want to see me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what role you played in that plan, what kind of work you did. Did you bring Bai Jingchuan into the real world? Did you take back the wealth and opportunities Wen Li never had?”
Jiang Huan opened her eyes, leaning on the table, gazing at Shan Di Meng with sadness and sincerity, hoping for honesty in return. The rain continued, and the days associated with Shan Di Meng always carried flowers and scents of the season—it was as if Shan Di Meng insisted on preparing these gifts for her despite being unable to get too close.
“I have some authority, but I can’t make many decisions. This is the consciousness of the entire digital world. As a part of it, I am merely a cog.”
Passersby walked past, one playfully slapping a friend’s back, then leaving happily arm-in-arm. Jiang Huan once shared such joy with the person in front of her. Shan Di Meng’s hair was still half-white, but it didn’t look aged—just his lips were dry and tired, as if he hadn’t slept well in a long time. He said, “If you’re willing to come to my shop, I can show you some things you might want to see.”
Exiting through the back door of Soul Chamber, Jiang Huan re-entered Mowu City. She didn’t pay much attention to the large factory with the green roof connected to it, nor did she glance at Shan Di Meng’s small house. Instead, out of curiosity, she wandered into the city. The entire Mowu City was eerily quiet, devoid of human traces. The wind swept through the streets and alleys, completely silent since there were no flying vehicles or chaotic traffic—no noise. What were once neon lights and giant advertisements projected onto the walls were now blackened, unmaintained, and crumbling.
Coming to her senses, she remembered Shan Di Meng. He had been following her silently, observing. Jiang Huan apologized repeatedly: “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect this place to be empty.”
Surprisingly, she wasn’t angry or crying in front of Shan Di Meng. She treated him like a stranger, as if he were the guardian of Mowu City.
“It’s fine. Things change, and it’s normal for you to look around.” Shan Di Meng turned and gently guided her toward the building: “Let me formally introduce myself for the first time. I’m the planner of Mowu City, but my main profession is a repairman, specializing in fixing and maintaining bodies and prosthetics. This is my workspace. You didn’t even look at it; you rushed off to explore Mowu City.”
“It’s so quiet. It’s hard not to be drawn to an abandoned city.”
Bai Jingchuan didn’t ask further questions. He simply walked toward the inner workshop, pulling back the curtain. Jiang Huan’s heart trembled violently.
“How is he here…?”
The soft lighting above made the repair room less intimidating. The smell of antiseptics lingered, but the dampness reminded her of the back garden of Renwu Road. Bai Jingchuan lay motionless on the repair table, eyes closed—not like the last time she saw him, embracing her and shielding her from an attack. Now, he rested quietly, as if asleep. His body emitted a scent akin to ripe fruit, not yet rotten but retaining a faint sweetness. His temperature was icy—a sensation Jiang Huan recognized. She had touched her mother’s skin after she passed away, feeling the same layer of moisture.
Having seen death before, Jiang Huan wasn’t afraid. She simply didn’t understand why Bai Jingchuan was placed here like a specimen. Could he still awaken, or was he being kept for some utilitarian purpose?
Shan Di Meng stood with his arms crossed behind her: “Did you miss him?”
“Why is he here?”
“Because he isn’t human. What you see now is his body.”
His words confused Jiang Huan.
“Bai Jingchuan—you originally named him Li Junzhu. He was a key participant in Pantheon’s initiative to experience the real world. He fell in love with you, and although he only reached Level 79 with a B permission level, it doesn’t diminish the fact that he gained significant human emotions from you. This will greatly advance the emotional learning of the first batch of humans on Mowu Continent, especially in love.” Seeing Jiang Huan hesitate, Shan Di Meng patiently explained: “We inject electronic data summoned from the real world into a human body. But this body differs from a human’s—it breaks down randomly, can’t be repaired at hospitals, and must return to a repairman like me. That’s why he’s here.”
“Is there any chance he can be fixed?” A flicker of hope sparked in Jiang Huan’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, the wear and tear are too severe. It’s not just from that one hit—I can’t pinpoint the exact reason for his loss of consciousness. Think of it as an old computer that was overused without maintenance. Eventually, something failed, and now it can’t start.”
Jiang Huan didn’t respond. She reached out to hold Bai Jingchuan’s fingers. The slight wetness on his palm came from the rainy weather. He resembled a large doll needing care—lifeless but still bearing his handsome face in repose.
“So… if there’s no chance of fixing him, why is he still here?”
“He needs further processing. If sent to a new planet, he’ll be placed in a museum as a first-generation emotional collection android for public viewing.”
“What?” Jiang Huan thought she misheard: “He was once human. How can you treat him like this?”
“This was the exchange condition he accepted when entering the real world.”
“He wouldn’t have done this just to see me…”
Shan Di Meng remained stern and composed: “I apologize, but I’m just a repairman. I don’t know Li Junzhu’s original intentions.”
“Will he only become an exhibit now?”
“His body can’t go to the new planet. I’ll try to extract his hair and skin to restore him as much as possible. Unless he wakes up, which has almost zero probability. His normal process from here would be gradual decay.”
Jiang Huan shook her head forcefully: “I can’t accept him becoming an exhibit.”
With great effort, she dragged Bai Jingchuan’s body off the operating table, carrying him toward the door. A vehicle was parked outside. Struggling, she opened the door and placed him inside, as if hauling a heavy, misshapen piece of luggage during a move. Shan Di Meng didn’t help; he slowly followed her out: “Now that Mowu City is empty except for me, you’ll eventually return.”
Jiang Huan muttered “No,” climbed into the driver’s seat, and sped away. She drove north along the wide roads. The once narrow streets were now spacious due to the absence of residents. The big screens on the walls were dark—the city was dead, lifeless. No one cared about this fleeing car.
Jiang Huan stopped in the desolate streets. Silence surrounded her, devoid of any signs of life. Automated gas stations and emergency signal stations built along the road were convenient, but the emptiness was terrifying. The green-tinted light illuminated the dusty, cement-covered ground, reminding her again that this was a ghost town. In the backseat lay Bai Jingchuan’s body—motionless, utterly silent. They rarely had such quiet moments together. Usually, they bickered or debated, or even when silent, she greedily listened to his breathing.
He looked like he was asleep, peacefully resting in his suit in the backseat—more like someone who had collapsed from exhaustion rather than lost consciousness. The green light filtered through the windows, casting over him. His chest didn’t rise, his cheeks were pale, and there was no trace of breath. Touching him confirmed he was cold. Shan Di Meng said this wasn’t “death” by Pantheon’s standards—it was simply the inability to host consciousness and emotion, beyond repair but potentially usable for a new soul if restored properly.
But she could never view the person in the backseat as a corpse.
She aimlessly drove, knowing she’d eventually have to return him to Shan Di Meng. She anticipated the final outcome: displayed as an exemplary emotional experience sample in a museum. Everything in Mowu City no longer carried its former legendary aura. Digital lives that migrated away were still people, but Bai Jingchuan had become a still object—destined to be exhibited and observed, unable to return to what he once was.
She drove back to Shan Di Meng’s repair center. From afar, she saw Shan Di Meng standing at the entrance, looking like a sorrowful statue. Had her memories been erased, making her forget the past she shared with Shan Di Meng? The sadness in his eyes was hard to conceal. But at what cost? Was she even alive? She wasn’t all-powerful.
She stepped out of the car, missing the looping electronic bird calls that once filled Mowu City. In this environment, conversation felt distant and impersonal. She cautiously asked her final question: “Shan Di Meng, did you erase our memories of loving each other to keep me alive?”
Shan Di Meng flinched slightly, then carefully masked his emotions with a smile: “What do you think?”
“I’m not worth it. If that’s the truth, it’s… unfair to me.”
“If I truly loved you, out of respect, I wouldn’t have done this.”
Under the light, Shan Di Meng appeared calm and composed, offering no further explanation. Jiang Huan wasn’t satisfied with his answer, but Shan Di Meng remained tight-lipped. Their world operated according to its own rules. Jiang Huan pointed to Bai Jingchuan in the car: “We were in love. I consider myself his family. If he’s destined to decay, let’s bury him sooner. Is there a place in Mowu City for that? I’ve experienced loss before; I can handle this. Or respect his wishes—he aimed to contribute to emotional research. Being exhibited is fine, but please don’t mention me. Loving me isn’t worth writing about; it’s no contribution…”
Jiang Huan muttered bitterly, laughing at herself. Shan Di Meng observed everything silently. She climbed back into the car and kissed Bai Jingchuan’s cheek one last time. It was cold, like sea-sprayed droplets, reminiscent of shaved ice—the same sensation she felt kissing her mother.
I’m not particularly unfortunate; I’ve just experienced more farewells than others.
She turned and said, “Shan Di Meng, thank you. Bai Jingchuan is in your hands now.”
She walked into the repair station, heading toward the wooden door behind the curtain leading to Soul Chamber. Once she passed through this door, she’d never see Bai Jingchuan again. Her hand touched the doorknob, and she spoke calmly: “Shan Di Meng.”
“Yes?”
“No matter what happens in the future, if it involves danger for me, don’t put in effort for me anymore. People and the world have their connections. If fate wants to end something, don’t force it… I hope you can live safely and peacefully.”
“Do you wish for him to live?”
“No.” Jiang Huan opened the door: “Shan Di Meng, don’t do anything for me anymore.”
The door opened and closed, and Jiang Huan disappeared from Shan Di Meng’s sight. Alone in the repair shop, with an unbreathing, lifeless prosthetic body in the car outside, Shan Di Meng was the sole inhabitant of this empty city. The heart-wrenching pain wasn’t unfamiliar to him. In fact, he had endured many such moments over the past three years. Yet, he deeply understood that at every crossroads of fate, he would make the same choice. Jiang Huan was his only mandatory option among all possibilities—an instinct he retained even after becoming human.
He placed Bai Jingchuan back on the repair table and sent Jiang Huan an email with a packaged file. This was a feature he desperately desired after reaching Level 100, but the older version of Pantheon lacked this capability. He could have chosen to destroy it, but seeing Jiang Huan’s dejected expression, he clicked send without hesitation.
“These are recordings stored in Bai Jingchuan’s eyes, capturing many first-person perspectives. I think you’ll find them interesting.”
If the cherry blossom tree hadn’t been cut down that year, he would have been able to see the late cherry blossoms with Jiang Huan this year.
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