LIAONING, Northeast China — Xu Shouzhong, 67, never imagined his small arcade would outlast all the others. “It’s a fluke,” he tells Sixth Tone. “In bigger cities, the survivors are legends. My place was never part of that story. I just showed up every day — and here I am.”

His arcade, named Lianhe, meaning “union,” spans barely 100 square meters in northeastern Shenyang’s Dadong District. Inside, 45 arcade cabinets line the walls, frozen in the 1990s. Two rows of Street Fighter and King of Fighters machines dominate the center of the arcade, with mahjong and other cabinets along the sides.

The games are reminders of when Xu’s arcade first began in the ’90s, before home consoles had become mainstream and arcades were among the few places for teens to escape everyday life. For parents and officials at the time, arcades were akin to “electronic heroin” and dens of trouble frequented by delinquents. For Xu, Lianhe was a way to turn over a new leaf.

Now, with tens of thousands of arcades shuttered from decades of policy and changing lifestyles, his is the last one left in Shenyang, a time capsule for the heady days of youth.

Xu still remembers fights breaking out every few days back in the rough-and-tumble early days: older kids shaking down younger ones, sore losers refusing to quit, and drunk teens stumbling inside. Trained in Chinese wrestling, he could end the trouble quickly. “Took three of them to pin me,” he says with a grin. Later, the scuffles dwindled as surveillance cameras became mandatory and he plastered police notices across the walls.

Those days seem far away to Xu, who still cranks up the rusted store shutter every day at 11 a.m. Now, instead of surly teens, he has middle-aged regulars trailing in. As they make a beeline for their machines, help themselves to tokens, and lose themselves in the game, Xu turns on the lights, mops the floor, restocks sodas, and collects fees. By lunch, most machines are claimed, with players balancing takeout boxes on the control decks.

“The kids just grew up,” he says. “Those who used to fight now have jobs, wives, kids. Those still single have mellowed out. They treat me with respect.”

Among his regulars is Han, 39, a freelance construction worker, who gathers around the King of Fighters cabinets with a group. He tells Sixth Tone that on slow days, he plays from open to close, sometimes detouring to a pool hall and then circling back for one last round.

“This place runs on nostalgia,” he says. “Other cities have new machines and celebrity tournaments. Here, it’s like time stopped 30 years ago. I’ve known Uncle (Xu) for 20 years; most regulars for 15, easy. … If Lianhe ever goes, it’s like our whole generation’s youth fading away.”

Huang, a state-owned enterprise worker, waits for his turn on King of Fighters. “I slipped out of the office to be here,” he tells Sixth Tone. “My family thinks I’m at work, just like they used to think I was in school.”

He gestures toward two regulars brawling over a match. “Coming here is like stepping back into childhood. Nothing’s changed — not the place, not the people, not even how they argue. Even fathers act like they did as boys.”

Though Lianhe has since become a community mainstay, Xu had not always planned to own an arcade. Before Lianhe, he supervised 50 people at a state-owned factory, his photo once adorning the honor wall. By the time he turned 32, he thought he would climb the ranks and retire with respect.

Then, in 1990, severe stomach ulcers forced him on prolonged sick leave. His relatives urged him to join the booming arcade business, sensing an opportunity to supplement his small sick leave stipend. He was hesitant at first, worrying arcades were “a bit disreputable” for a model Party member like him. Eventually, he and his brother-in-law pooled 40,000 yuan (approximately $8,460 in 1990) to open a 20-square-meter shop on the side while Xu kept his factory job.

Profit came pouring in, but so did regulations and change. After policies in 1995 forced small operators to consolidate, Xu merged with two relatives and moved to Lianhe’s current location. Just two years later, factories began closing across China’s Northeast, forming what would become China’s Rust Belt. Just like that, the arcade became his lifeline.

“With my skills, if I’d held out (and found another factory to work at) … I’d be a foreman by now, making maybe 15,000 yuan a month,” Xu says. “But back then, everything could vanish overnight. You never knew.”

Over the years, the arcade faced many close calls, and Xu worried Lianhe would not survive. First, there was the raft of policies in 2000, which called for new licenses, machines, domestic production, and bans on minors in arcades. Registered arcades plummeted from over 100,000 to under 20,000 nationwide, and Xu became the sole owner after his partners quit in 2006. He taught himself to repair the machines and saw a wave of success as patrons of other arcades sought him out, even hosting game tournaments and making 10,000 yuan per month for a time — though he knew it couldn’t last.

Then, there was the pandemic, and a changing player base as his longtime customers aged and kids born after 2000 began to look down upon arcade games, according to Xu. Just last year, the arcade’s license review threatened the closure of Lianhe, citing new standards, but a senior official intervened.

Even now, Xu is surprised Lianhe is still open. “These old machines are only good for scrap now,” he says.

Business has surged in recent years as strangers come to relive their childhoods, particularly since his arcade made the news in 2024. Now Lianhe draws in a wave of reporters, influencers, and other nostalgia-seekers.

Among them is Dai Shenming, 46, a taekwondo coach from Beijing, who brought his wife and daughter for “a proper farewell” to his childhood. “If the last arcade had just disappeared quietly, I might’ve made peace with that,” he says. “But knowing one was still here, it lit a fire in me. I realized how much I still cared.” Dai says after putting the era to rest with this visit, he won’t return.

Some visitors come to pass along the legacy. A father surnamed Lu guides his son through the cabinets, explaining strategies. “Letting my son see the past is its own kind of heritage,” Lu says, hoping their visit will offer his son a glimpse of that world. The boy, however, leaves quickly: “It stinks of smoke, and it’s too loud.”

Others come for advice, like Yuan Yinglin, who drove 10 hours from Jiamusi, a small town in the northeastern province of Heilongjiang. As Yuan swaps stories with Xu, he mulls reopening his own arcade, saying, “The market might come back.”

To most, the beloved arcade looks like a family business ready for the next generation. Xu knows better. His son, Xu Zhang, helps out, but it is out of a sense of duty, not desire. Xu Zhang does not share his father’s love for arcades and has sought to build a different career, initially training as a barber in Japan. He is often seen scrolling on his phone, and regulars joke that if they ask for a few more rounds, “he’ll flatline on the spot.”

Yet Lianhe endures. For Xu, it is simple: a room of grown-ups caught in the glow of a world that refuses to disappear. In a city transformed by factories, high-rises, and time, Lianhe survives — a last token of Shenyang’s youth.

“These are my kids,” Xu says. “Even if they’re grown up now.”