AUS Chapter 49: The Memory Discrepancy Between Me and Liu Jiang

I immediately dismissed that thought.

I don’t have that vivid an imagination, not even enough to picture a world without Liu Jiang—if you’re telling me I spent time fabricating a person who doesn’t exist, I’d disagree. I don’t have that kind of leisure.

I just forgot, that’s all.

In the midst of my recollections, Liu Jiang finally let go of my neck. He slowly crawled out from under the covers, starting to look for his underwear.

As always, he turned to ask me after failing to find it, then successfully located it on the standing coat rack. Finally free from his stark-naked state, we stood side by side at the sink, brushing our teeth, one on the left, one on the right.

In my past memories, whenever we met during idle times, it was always a blur of indulgence and wasted time. Getting up at a planned hour like this felt somewhat novel to me.

After washing up and getting dressed, we didn’t go out to eat. Instead, we sat at a small round table, each with a bowl of seafood-flavored instant noodles, because Liu Jiang had plans later.

He had to meet with some producers, which would likely take half the day, so he told me to go wherever I wanted—after all, we had a place to stay, no need to rush checking out.

While I helped him look for his keys by the bedside table, I agreed. This feeling of being tucked away like a kept secret was kind of new, but I can’t say I liked it.

“If you have other things to do, just head back to school,” he said, turning to me before opening the door.

He was dressed a bit more formally today, his half-white, half-black hair neatly styled. He looked mostly like the Liu Jiang from my memories, but somehow different.

I tried to pinpoint what was different, but all I managed was to stare at him blankly.

Maybe I don’t space out often enough, because Liu Jiang quickly noticed something was off. He let out a long sigh, set down the bass guitar bag from his shoulder, and, since he’d already put on his Martin boots, he had to take big, awkward steps back inside, looking like a crab.

He stopped right in front of me, locking eyes with me at close range. Only then did I realize it had been a long time since I’d clearly seen his face.

Narrow, almond-shaped eyes, prominent aegyo-sal when he smiled, pale skin—and that face I’d been looking at since adolescence, through the awkward and uneasy past to the seemingly smooth present.

I said, “Your lip piercing’s a bit rough.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You never complained about it before.”

With that, we both tacitly dropped the pointless conversation. I’m not sure who moved first, but our lips met again.

Soon, I offered my second critique: “Actually, your tongue piercing’s the roughest.”

Liu Jiang took a step back. His little trick of teasing me with his tongue piercing wasn’t new, but being called out on it made him a bit embarrassed.

“Gotta go!” he said with a wave, shutting the door without hesitation.

Because he knew we’d see each other again.

But I wasn’t so sure.

Standing in the now-empty room, I didn’t dare turn around to face the fact that I was alone.

Because I didn’t know if I’d get to see him properly next time.

I glanced at my watch. I’d been in this simulated world for nearly twenty-four hours, meaning I was about to return to reality.

In previous levels, I never hesitated much when exiting. Back then, during the calm period, food, water, electricity, and living conditions were secure. The backdrop of youth gave me this belief that we’d meet again tomorrow as planned. I’d log out on time, take the subway home, and log back in the next day.

And I never ran into any issues. I could go to the company on time every day, boot up the simulation device, and connect to the server.

But meeting Liu Jiang after he turned twenty made me uneasy.

How long would I have to keep living like this?

Would I really, as the waiter said, find the answers in the end?

Perhaps the dignity of adulthood is propped up by the harsh realities we face. From the moment you realize you’re striving for that dignity, you’re tethered to reality.

I turned back to the room filled with Liu Jiang’s presence, but it was just me here. Wasn’t this just like the world I lived in?

Traces of Liu Jiang everywhere, but only me in the end.

My watch buzzed, reminding me it was time to exit the program—a timer I’d set myself. Every fixed interval, I’d log out of the simulation and return to reality.

Time in the simulation moved faster than in reality. A day of joy or melancholy here was just a long, tedious day back in the real world.

So be it.

I braced myself to return to the dull reality, waiting for my surroundings to fade. I slipped into the space between the system and reality.

But this time, something was different.

When I opened my eyes, the simulation helmet vibrated on my head. The usual cool-toned light was replaced by a disorienting, unsettling orange.

—A sandstorm.

This was bad!

I immediately realized what was happening, tore off the helmet, and rushed out of the office. But I quickly retreated, scrambling to put on a windbreaker and goggles before starting to fortify the office door where the server was kept.

In the early months of the apocalypse, the weather was as erratic as this—one moment, a rare blue sky; the next, a whirlwind of sand and dust beyond human comprehension.

Things calmed down for a while after that, and human civilization began rebuilding. On clear days, people returned to their old posts. During storms, they’d hide in shelters, gathering around campfires, playing guitars, and reminiscing about the good parts of their past lives.

I should’ve known.

Calm was never permanent.

After dragging a few cabinets to block the door, the sound of the sandstorm outside grew clearer.

This storm might be bigger than any before. A primal fear of nature sank into my gut.

But soon, another resolve surfaced. I had to protect this place so I could see him again.

Just as I secured the cabinets, a billboard, torn loose by the wind, slammed into the building with a deafening crash. Lightning rolled through the murky yellow clouds.

—If I didn’t leave now, I might never see him again.

In a daze, I heard footsteps in the hallway. The door burst open, and Haozi stumbled in.

“Why are you still here?!” he shouted, barely audible over the wind.

I stood firm and yelled back, “Help me out!”

Just before the storm fully engulfed the city, we made it to the temporary shelter as the broadcast announced its closure. The gate slammed shut, and the metal behind us rattled with the relentless patter of sand like bullets.

Haozi and I were panting. He collapsed on the floor while I, slightly better off, got up to fetch him a cup of hot rice soup from the relief station.

Haozi wanted to curse me out, pointing at me for a while before dropping his hand, catching his breath, and letting out a helpless laugh.

The temporary shelter was set up in a subway station—spacious, with secure gates. A mutual aid group had established a supply point here, where I got the rice soup.

In the early days of the apocalypse, situations like this were common. People got used to it, always checking for the nearest shelter when arriving somewhere new.

Haozi finally caught his breath, took the paper cup from me, and wavered between cursing and laughing at me. Eventually, he asked, “Why were you so desperate to seal off the office? You didn’t even care about your life?”

With his help, we’d managed to barricade the office with every piece of movable furniture, fortress-style.

I sat beside him and lied, “The company’s server—if it goes down, everything’s done.”

Haozi didn’t respond. He set the cup aside and said, “Fair enough. In the apocalypse, we’re all clinging to the last scraps of humanity.”

The shelter was crowded. A subway train sat idle on the tracks, with people resting inside. On the platform, a fire burned in a metal barrel. Near it, a figure stood with their back to us.

He was tall, lanky, wearing a waxed leather trench coat that reached past his knees and a baseball cap. An old violin rested on his shoulder, its slow, soulful melody filling the platform. He seemed lost in his music.

He reminded me of Liu Jiang.

If Liu Jiang were in this apocalyptic world with me, he’d probably be someone like that, bringing hope to others.

Haozi’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

“One time,” he said, “Liu Jiang dragged me along like this too. But that time, I didn’t hold back—I chewed him out.”

I turned to look at him. Haozi hesitated, like he couldn’t bring himself to say more.

I think I understood why.

I asked, “It wasn’t… because of me, was it?”

Haozi and Liu Jiang were closer than he and I were. He knew things about me and Liu Jiang, so naturally, he knew I was a jerk.

Under my unrelenting gaze, Haozi finally chose to tell the truth.

“That year—” he looked up, maybe recalling, maybe avoiding my eyes, “we were in our early twenties, in college. One day, he told me he wanted to find you.”

His words made me look away.

I knew what he was talking about—the time I got a girlfriend to avoid Liu Jiang. The timeline and Liu Jiang’s behavior matched.

To be honest, revisiting this now made me want to punch myself.

Haozi didn’t blame me—or rather, blaming me now was pointless. He continued, “To be fair, he was kind of a jerk back then too.”

I knew he was giving me an out. After all, Liu Jiang wasn’t here to hear us.

“The jerk was me,” I admitted. “Everything stupid I did back then was because of him. I cared about him but was afraid of caring too openly, too cheaply. I thought the people who loved me would always love me, so I didn’t need to care as much.”

The campfire on the platform crackled, a piece of poorly burning wood popping sharply.

Haozi nodded in agreement. “Alright, you were the bigger jerk.”

I shot him a look. He shrugged innocently. “You cursed yourself out first.”

I had no comeback. Amid the campfire’s crackle, I steeled myself and brought up that time again.

I asked, “What did he say to you back then?”

People are like that—when there’s a sore spot, you keep pressing it, not sure if it’s to confirm it hurts or to see how much it hurts.

Haozi sighed and began, “He didn’t say much, but I could tell something was off. He said you two fought, and he wanted to find you. I chased after him to talk him out of it—train tickets from our city to Beijing weren’t cheap!”

I stared at the floor tiles, and he continued, “Did he also tell you about the girlfriend thing?”

Silence fell. I looked up to find Haozi staring at me, confused.

“No way,” he said. “You’re not joking, right?”

He shook his head, his expression shifting to a hesitant smile. “You were a bit of a jerk back then, but you didn’t do that. There was no girlfriend.”

His smile faded, replaced by a look of uncertainty, as if seeking confirmation.

Then he asked, “Your—memory. Is something wrong with it?”