Chapter 38: An Unexpected Visitor
One year later.
Southern China. A major coastal city.
Guo Yi walked into his office nursing a hangover, late thanks to too many glasses at the previous night's reunion dinner. He was a civil servant of the People's Republic, and old classmates meeting meant drinking—there was simply no avoiding it. But those who drank too much were rarely celebrating success.
The prosperous ones never shut up. They wanted everyone to know exactly how well they'd done. The failures simply didn't show up at all.
For someone like Guo Yi, trapped in the murky middle, the mood was bleakest. The successful mocked him for clinging to his iron rice bowl, lacking any real ambition. The unsuccessful assumed he spent his days sipping tea and reading newspapers. Neither group was entirely wrong.
A stack of materials awaited him on his desk—the latest reports on social trends. Guo Yi worked in a department whose mandate was maintaining social stability, unity, harmony, and tranquility. The sort of department whose very name required quotation marks.
He flipped through several unremarkable reports before coming to one tagged "Pending"—a status summary from a coastal county in Guangdong. Over the past year, a peculiar group had been congregating at an idle maritime militia training base. By day, they conducted military drills: marching, running, physical training. By night, they held meetings that stretched late into the evening, reportedly involving the chanting of slogans. A concerned citizen had reported them as a suspected pyramid scheme. The Commerce Bureau's enforcement squad found no signs of illegal sales. Local police visited and likewise found nothing amiss. When questioned, the person in charge explained it was simply pre-employment training for a company. The business license checked out—registered for over a year. The base was properly rented from the local People's Armed Forces Department.
And yet something felt off. The report had wound its way up the chain until it landed on Guo Yi's supervisor's desk. His superior's instruction was characteristically vague: "If you have time, go take a look. See if there are any problems."
Whether in intelligence or stability work, sitting in an office reviewing documents was always the primary activity.
One name kept appearing in the materials: Wen Desi. According to registration documents, he served as legal representative, chairman, and general manager—all three positions held by a single man.
Guo Yi hadn't previously encountered this individual. To be fair, Director Wen wasn't the sort of person their department typically monitored. But within the bureau, Guo Yi was known for his obsessive love of digging through materials and archives. This hobby had offended people—he still didn't know exactly whose toes he'd stepped on—and so while colleagues around him climbed the ladder, he remained stuck at the staff-member level. Any assignments with potential for recognition were invariably kept far from him.
He pulled up Wen Desi's file. An unremarkable man in his thirties, formerly an engineer and manager at several companies, with comfortable but not exceptional income. He enjoyed travel and harbored strong interests in history and military affairs. He made handicrafts. He was an outdoor enthusiast and firearms hobbyist, also something called a "survivalist"—apparently the type who stockpiled provisions and dreamed of building bunkers against nuclear winter. No evidence existed that he possessed or had attempted to acquire actual weapons—he didn't even own a dog. His online activity consisted mainly of inquiries about ammunition prices and outdoor equipment on various forums. His background was spotless: no criminal record, no bad debts, not even a traffic violation.
His company had been registered six months ago with one million yuan in capital. Guo Yi knew that registered capital often existed only on paper, but based on Wen Desi's tax history, the man could have genuinely produced the funds. Bank records showed he'd emptied his savings six months prior—over 800,000 yuan withdrawn in quick succession. Since then, his personal accounts had remained relatively bare.
The company's financial activity appeared normal—regular business operations, buying and selling, nothing extraordinary. Expenses included wages, utilities, office costs. The account maintained a modest balance, hovering around 100,000 yuan. Tax records confirmed the assessment: legitimate business, taxes paid in full, only minor accounting irregularities—nothing approaching evasion, though they practiced standard tax avoidance.
Guo Yi sat back and considered. Nothing here suggested potential for mass incidents or other threats to social harmony. But the boss had spoken, and he figured he might as well treat the assignment as a working vacation.
The coastal town was ordinary—one of countless such places along the Guangdong shore, densely populated and economically vibrant. Prosperity brought a massive floating population, and every day at the long-distance bus station, people with bundled belongings and trailing families flowed in and out, chasing their various dreams.
Among this churning crowd, for the past six months, unexpected visitors had been arriving almost daily. They dressed in all manner of clothing and spoke in all manner of dialects. They clutched maps and notes and scanned the station plaza, searching for something specific. They came in groups of three or five, or sometimes alone.
Xiao Zishan stood at the station exit, holding aloft a piece of torn cardboard—the bottom of a fruit box—with crooked brush-painted characters: Crossing Trade. His face, once pale and plump from years of office work, had grown thin and dark. He wore a sweat-stained promotional T-shirt and a frayed straw hat.
A former white-collar worker at a foreign enterprise, even if unemployed, appearing in this getup at a provincial bus station... Xiao Zishan himself couldn't quite say whether he'd gone mad or was simply trapped in an absurd dream that had stretched on far too long. And yet more and more people were chasing the same dream.
Today, as always, some would arrive. Some would hesitate and ultimately lose their nerve. Others wouldn't pass selection. The road to their shared fantasy wound through many obstacles.
Guo Yi emerged from the exit into September heat. The weather was still oppressively humid, the sun merciless. This was his first time in this particular town, and he scanned the crowd with practiced eyes.
His gaze caught immediately on the torn cardboard sign.
Crossing Trade.
Wasn't that the company Wen Desi had founded? In that instant, his eyes met Xiao Zishan's. That brief moment might have been called a "fated encounter"—but neither man experienced any mystical shiver, and neither radiated an irresistible kingly aura that might compel the other's submission. Guo Yi was interested in the company. Xiao Zishan recognized that this newcomer was no ordinary traveler.
Years in sales had failed to develop many of Xiao Zishan's abilities, but he'd learned to read people. This man had sharp, alert eyes. His movements conveyed calm confidence. His clothing was low-key but neat, and he carried minimal luggage. Someone on a government salary—nine times out of ten, from one of the authority departments. And this man was watching him—not out of personal interest, but because of the sign he held.
Before Xiao Zishan could process his unease, a tall, plump young man laden with bags approached.
"Crossing Company?"
"That's us. And you are?"
"I'm here to cross over—"
Cold sweat pricked Xiao Zishan's back. Buddy, do you really have to say that out loud? "Er... that... where did the PLA sweep?"
Every arrival had to verify themselves with the code phrase—some absurd rule inherited from who-knew-where. They weren't a comedy troupe implementing secret handshakes. Probably someone's gangster-novel fixation.
"Asia! Asia!" The young man was clearly still buzzing with excitement, his voice far too loud. "I'm Meng Xian! Meng Xian!"
"Yes, I know, I know..." Xiao Zishan's scalp was damp. He was by nature a cautious person, and with a thief's guilty conscience, he lowered his voice to compensate. "Go to the parking lot. There's a minibus—plate number **."
"Where's Director Wen—"
"You'll see him soon. I still have more people to collect." Xiao Zishan glanced nervously around, hoping their exchange had gone unnoticed.
The crowd remained absorbed in their own affairs. No one seemed to have paid them any attention. Xiao Zishan allowed himself a steadying breath—then noticed that the sharp-eyed man from before had vanished. An uneasy prickle ran down his spine. Should I report this to the Executive Committee?
That day, Guo Yi observed from a discreet corner for quite some time. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could read the interaction clearly enough. The man with the cardboard sign was meeting someone—one party excited, the other anxious and vigilant. Their body language suggested the conversation touched on something sensitive. From the sign-holder's familiarity with the surroundings and the worn condition of his cardboard, such pickups had been happening for a while.
Guo Yi followed the enthusiastic Meng Xian to the parking lot and noted the minibus's plate number.
The vehicle didn't leave immediately—more arrivals were expected. But Guo Yi decided not to wait. Instead, he visited the local telecom carriers and pulled the company's call records. Contrary to his expectations, phone traffic was heavy—large numbers of calls incoming and outgoing almost daily.
With assistance from local authorities, most landline numbers were quickly traced. The majority belonged to domestic small and medium enterprises, research institutes, design academies, plus assorted trading and consulting firms. An eclectic mix. Mobile numbers proved trickier—registrations were looser, many owners untraceable, and the geographic spread was enormous. Guo Yi focused on the landline trail.
What he found left him deeply puzzled.
This company was in regular contact with enterprises, research institutes, and design academies across the entire country. They'd purchased substantial equipment and materials—nothing unusual for an operating business. But the range of industries involved was bizarrely broad. Ordering generators, small hydropower equipment, transformer facilities—that made sense. But they'd also acquired multiple wind-power systems and vast quantities of spare parts. The company showed intense enthusiasm for technical blueprints and manufacturing documentation—they'd even inquired about condom and sanitary-napkin production technology.
Does he have that kind of money? Guo Yi found himself questioning the very premise. Could this be money laundering? Or were they collecting industrial intelligence? But according to every feedback he'd gathered, they showed no interest in high-technology products. Quite the opposite—they actively sought simple, outdated, even obsolete technologies and processes. What kind of spy operated that way?
Perhaps all this activity was smoke—cover for something else entirely? If so, what were they actually trying to do?
That evening, Guo Yi lay exhausted on his hotel bed, declining the Nth phone call offering "relaxation massage services." His mind churned with contradictions. He drifted into restless sleep.
In his dream, he saw Wen Desi wearing a strange flowing robe. A massive ship. Wind and waves. In the distance, a verdant island rose from an azure sea—blue sky, white clouds, silver sand...
(End of Chapter)