Chapter 109: Ai Mei’s Sympathy
Ai Mei chuckled. “Oh, don’t play dumb about Master Fu! From what I know, there’s a Master Fu running a shop in every single parallel reality out there.”
Although Song Yuqing had already harbored a few theories of her own, hearing the mermaid state it so bluntly still caught her completely off guard. She and Little Meat Bun instantly traded a sharp, tense look. The little panda furrowed his brow, dropping into deep thought.
“Well, yes, there is,” Song Yuqing admitted cautiously. “But we don’t really understand how the system coordinates everything.”
“Fine, if you want to play ignorant, I won’t press you,” Ai Mei shrugged, entirely unbothered. She reached out a webbed hand to playfully stroke the panda’s thick, furry forearm. “My goodness, giant pandas are just so incredibly well-behaved.”
A wave of goosebumps instantly rippled across Little Meat Bun’s skin. He frantically yanked his arm back, shuffling sideways to stick as close to Song Yuqing’s leg as humanly possible.
Song Yuqing tried to seize the opening to extract more historical data regarding Master Fu, but Ai Mei merely laughed it off, smoothly deflecting every question. Feeling a bit demoralized by the stonewalling, Song Yuqing had no choice but to follow her through the aisles to begin purchasing the acid-proof canvas and vital store provisions.
The absolute lion’s share of her remaining currency was completely consumed by the bulk order of fabric, leaving only a microscopic fraction of her balance to cover the food supplies. In truth, if the wholesale pricing in this aquatic dimension hadn’t been so remarkably cheap, the sparse credit left on her supermarket points card wouldn’t have been enough to purchase a single crate of rations.
When Ai Mei processed the card and noted the nearly depleted balance, the vibrant customer-service smile on her face subtly fractured into a look of clear dissatisfaction.
“We really didn’t have a choice,” Song Yuqing explained honestly, catching the shift in her mood. “The mutant population in our grid has completely bottomed out over the last few weeks. If the survivors can’t harvest zombie corpses to trade, our system stops generating transaction points.”
“Oh?” Ai Mei’s eyebrows arched, genuine surprise flickering in her eyes. “Your home world has already progressed to the stage where the undead are reaching extinction?”
“Yeah,” Song Yuqing nodded automatically, before pausing to shake her head in a daze. In truth, she couldn’t definitively say whether the monsters were actually dying out or simply retreating into deep isolation to finalize their evolutionary upgrades.
“Well, don’t lose sleep over it. The end result maps out the same way regardless,” Ai Mei said, gently patting her shoulder in an attempt to offer comfort. “Not every reality is fortunate enough to enjoy a system as resilient as ours.”
Song Yuqing, who had been pushing the heavy shopping cart with her head lowered, snapped her gaze up to lock onto the mermaid’s face. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Ai Mei merely offered a serene smile, clamping her lips shut as she smoothly glided toward a separate row of storage shelves. “How much credit do you have left? I have a few specialized items over here that might prove incredibly useful to you.”
“No, our account is completely wiped out,” Song Yuqing said, quickly catching up to block her path. “Listen to me, Ai Mei. Do you know something about the fate of our world?”
“About what?” the guide asked nonchalantly, tilting her head.
“You just stated that the end results map out the same way?”
Ai Mei let out a soft, melodic chuckle, her eyes suddenly melting into a look of profound, heavy sympathy as she stared down at the human manager. “Alright, since you’ve finalized your inventory run, I’ll escort you back up to the terminal.”
Standing beside them, Little Meat Bun scratched his head in pure confusion. He couldn’t comprehend the logistical logic. They possessed the immediate capacity to slip straight into Song Yuqing’s private pocket dimension to initiate the return sequence; why on earth were they wasting time navigating a vessel back up to the surface bridge?
The panda reached out, poking Song Yuqing’s arm before launching into a frantic series of pantomimes to communicate. Having lived and worked alongside him and Gaha for months, Song Yuqing had developed a near-flawless telepathic shorthand with her non-human staff, instantly translating his gestures.
“There’s really no need to trouble yourself with the return transit, Ai Mei,” she spoke up. “We can just access our spatial inventory and deploy straight back to our storefront from here.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Ai Mei’s relaxed posture vanished, her features twisting into a look of acute panic. “No! Absolutely not! You cannot activate a direct spatial extraction from inside this terminal! If you trigger a jump from here, it will… it will…”
“It will do what?” Song Yuqing pressed, her eyes narrowing.
“It will completely disrupt the cosmic order!”
Song Yuqing blinked. “I’m sorry, I still don’t follow the physics.”
Ai Mei planted her webbed hands firmly on her hips, her voice turning sharp and authoritative. “Look, you just can’t do it. You are strictly forbidden from initiating a direct dimensional jump from this facility. Those are the regulations!”
Song Yuqing hadn’t anticipated such a violent, defensive pushback from the normally passive guide. “Will triggering the extraction literally cause this aquatic world to collapse?”
Ai Mei shook her head. “No, this dimension will be perfectly fine.”
“Then why are you fighting me on this?”
“Because the designated hour has not yet arrived for your home world!” Ai Mei’s eyes flared with a heavy, ominous warning. “You absolutely cannot do it!”
Song Yuqing leaned in cautiously. “What designated hour?”
Ai Mei’s pupils darted nervously around the grand lobby. “If you force a brute-force spatial tear from inside this terminal right now, the system will permanently blacklist your biological signature. You will never be permitted to set foot inside this underwater civilization ever again.”
Song Yuqing and Little Meat Bun nodded slowly. While they couldn’t grasp the underlying multiversal physics, the threat of a permanent ban was a consequence they couldn’t afford to trigger.
Letting out a massive breath of relief, Ai Mei quickly ushered them out of the hypermarket doors toward the docking bay. “Just wait right here. Your automated submarine will arrive at the platform in a moment.”
Song Yuqing tracked the flashing visual path of the various deep-sea vessels shuttling between the towering glass structures. She couldn’t help but wonder if the operators piloting those pods were exactly like her—displaced managers traveling from separate, dying realities to gather essential supplies.
“Hey, Ai Mei,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Could you do me a favor and keep a sharp lookout for any travelers originating from my specific world matrix?”
Ai Mei tilted her head, looking amused. “How am I supposed to identify your specific baseline world signature out of a billion timelines?”
True, Song Yuqing sighed internally, realizing the request was a statistical nightmare. She quickly pivoted her strategy. “If you ever cross paths with a survivor who has been violently dragged through a localized black hole and dropped into this city, could you use your connections to help them settle down safely? I’m more than willing to compensate you for the labor.”
Ai Mei’s gaze dropped to the empty points card in the manager’s hand, her lips curling into a smug smirk. “Please. You’re already a certified pauper. What kind of material reward could you possibly offer me?”
Song Yuqing choked. “Well… I…”
Sensing the negotiation was tanking, the little panda pouted dramatically. He stepped forward, wrapping his thick paws around Ai Mei’s forearm and aggressively shaking it back and forth in a desperate, weaponized display of cuteness.
The mermaid’s cold demeanor melted instantly. “Oh my goodness, you are just too precious!” she squealed, reaching out her free hand to vigorously pinch his furry cheeks.
Song Yuqing struck while the iron was hot. “If you agree to run logistics for our displaced survivors, I promise to let Little Meat Bun stay behind and play with you for an entire day on our next run.”
The giant panda’s adorable smile froze instantly…
“I can’t help you,” Ai Mei said, though her webbed hand continued to affectionately stroke the fur on the bear’s head. “I am merely a standard commercial tour guide. If a contract generates immediate revenue, I sign it. If an objective doesn’t offer a tangible cash payout, I walk away. I don’t run charities.”
“If you assist us with this, I’ll secure whatever payment you desire,” Song Yuqing bargained fiercely. “Name your price. I’ll even venture into other parallel realities to source it for you.”
Ai Mei paused, her eyes locking onto the empty air as she seriously evaluated the proposition. “Deal.”
Song Yuqing and Little Meat Bun immediately shared a thrilled, victorious high-five. Right on cue, Ai Mei’s bright yellow automated submarine glided to a smooth halt at the edge of the submerged platform.
As she ushered her clients into the cabin, the mermaid added, “I’ve intercepted intelligence regarding a specific parallel reality that contains a rare, blue elemental crystal core as massive as a human head. Secure that artifact and deliver it to me. That is my baseline price.”
Song Yuqing immediately recalled the bizarre, theatrical dimension she had explored during her dream state—the performance venue housing the alternate God’s Supermarket. “Consider it done,” she agreed readily. “I’ll return with your payment next month.”
“Perfect! I’ll be waiting for you,” Ai Mei smiled, stepping into the cabin along with them. Then, she paused, a look of sudden confusion flitting across her delicate features. “Wait a minute… how exactly am I supposed to harbor and settle these displaced survivors if your world’s terminal goes dark?”
Song Yuqing seized the opening to lay out the full structural crisis, detailing Lin Han’s devastating devouring mutation, the doomsday tasks handed down by Master Fu, and the system’s terrifying current radio silence.
“What?!!” Ai Mei abruptly bolted out of her seat, her head violently colliding with the reinforced metal ceiling of the submarine with a hollow clang. “Master Fu has completely vanished off the grid?!”
“Yeah…” Song Yuqing nodded grimly. “I haven’t intercepted his voice in days. For all intents and purposes, he’s missing. Our communication lines have always been strictly one-way.”
“This is exceptionally bad news for you folks,” Ai Mei murmured, her brow tightening into a deep, anxious scowl as she stared blankly out the reinforced glass window. It was glaringly obvious that she possessed a deep understanding of the systemic mechanics—and what a missing supervisor implied.
After a long, agonizing silence, the mermaid turned back to face Song Yuqing, her expression uncharacteristically severe.
“Tell you what… I’m not going to escort you back up to the surface bridge. You two can pilot this vessel up to the suspension terminal by yourselves, alright?”
Song Yuqing blinked, thrown off by the sudden departure. “I mean, sure, that’s fine. The navigation matrix is fully automated anyway.”
Without another word, Ai Mei vaulted out of the submarine hatch, casually patted her trousers, and sprinted back toward the hypermarket entrance.
Song Yuqing stood in the center of the cabin, completely speechless. “Well… I guess we’re moving out!” she sighed, a heavy, suffocating knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.
But just as she reached her hand toward the automated ignition console, a thick, furry paw suddenly shot out, firmly pinning her wrist to the panel. She looked down at the panda. “Come on, Little Meat Bun, be a good boy. We need to initiate the return sequence and get back to the store.”
The little bear let out a sharp, urgent growl, keeping his paws locked over the start button.
Song Yuqing frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Little Meat Bun jerked his head toward the glass, tracking the exact direction where Ai Mei had just vanished. He began launching into a wild, exaggerated series of frantic pantomimes.
As she decoded the shapes, a sudden realization sparked in Song Yuqing’s mind. “Wait… are you saying we should bypass the surface terminal and initiate a direct spatial jump straight into our pocket dimension right now?”
The giant panda nodded vigorously.
Song Yuqing’s eyes widened as the hidden logic finally clicked into place. The only reason Ai Mei had abruptly abandoned the vessel and refused to personally escort them back to the bridge was to grant them a safe, unmonitored window to execute the forbidden spatial tear.
If I trigger a direct dimensional extraction from inside this automated hull, what exactly is it going to trigger within this underwater grid?
Song Yuqing stared through the glass, watching the distant silhouette of Ai Mei disappear into the shimmering silver archways of God’s Supermarket. The expression the mermaid had worn right before she turned and abandoned them echoed vividly in her mind.
It hadn’t been an expression of anger or corporate calculated coldness. It had been a look of pure, agonizing sympathy.
