Volume One, Chapter Twenty-Six: A Twist of Fate

Director Liang Zhennin of the school administration had already reached retirement age. If it weren’t for the double-breasted suit and glaring red tie on the man sitting across from him today, he would never have believed that such a silent, rebellious student existed in his school. To uphold the dignity of the teaching profession, he instructed his secretary to bring Chang Ke into the office.

After the secretary departed, the man asked, “What do you intend to do with him?” The old director’s eyes were filled with tears. Matters like this had to be reported to the principal, and even if he hadn’t done so yet, he knew there could only be one outcome. Speculation, like affairs between men and women, could be seen as trivial or grave—it could be prosecuted or settled with school discipline.

He asked warily, “Is it your intention to recruit him?” The man shrugged. “If you keep using him, he’ll be ruined.”

Chang Ke entered respectfully. The man faced the window, not looking back at him. But when Chang Ke saw the director’s expression, a sense of foreboding crept into his heart.

The director was filling his fountain pen with ink, deliberately avoiding eye contact, and said, distractedly, “Child, you’re expelled.”

Chang Ke’s tears burst forth. Attending university was the dream of his entire generation, and he felt utterly helpless and out of control about his future.

Moreover, from the director’s tone, Chang Ke could tell that expelling him was not the director’s intention. It was the man standing beside him—the one who had reported his speculative activities.

Knowing this didn’t change anything. Chang Ke was not one to plead; shock and sorrow lasted only a moment before he steadied himself. He bowed to the director, offered his final respects, and left the office.

Rather than accept this as a setback, Chang Ke preferred to believe it was a turning point, a blessing in disguise.

Leaving the academic building, his head felt heavy and his steps light. He returned to the dormitory to pack his belongings and prepare to leave.

From the second-floor window, he saw again the pale-faced man beneath the Bauhinia tree.

The man, impeccably dressed, with a dark red tie, remained silent—like Satan from “Faust.” The man looked up at him, the whites of his eyes larger than usual, his irises pitch black. For a moment, Chang Ke felt he might die under that gaze.

The man smoked, and after a long exchange of looks, discarded his cigarette and walked away.

The next day, Chang Ke had finished packing.

The dormitory was filled with the stench of boys’ shoes and cheap detergent. He knew that tomorrow, he would bid farewell to the life that had once been his.

He lay on the bed; the others had gone to class. His tape recorder played Cantopop songs only he could understand, Sam Hui’s “Drink Today’s Wine.” From this day forward, his life would be split in two—he was fated to become a stranger to himself.

A roommate entered the room, handed him the expulsion notice.

Descending the corridor, he saw the stranger again, standing fifty meters away by the flowerbed, cigarette in mouth, as if he’d been waiting for him for ages.

Chang Ke was drawn toward him, his mind blank, but his steps grew stronger.

He decided to embrace this twist of fate—it was his destiny. If there was a choice, he would choose to adapt, even if it was a road to death.

After all, who wouldn’t die?

He walked straight up to the man and looked him in the eye, this man who resembled Death itself.

The stranger offered him a cigarette. Chang Ke shook his head, pulled a thick cigar from his cash-laden waist pouch, struck a match, and lit it.

At that moment, amidst the youthful campus, there appeared a young man with a cigar clenched between his teeth, defiant and heedless.

Years later, even when transformed into a flying squirrel, Chang Ke would vividly recall that conversation.

The man smiled. “No luggage? You’re not taking your quilt or clothes? What will you do after this?” Chang Ke saw danger in him, felt no friendliness at all.

Chang Ke carried only a large backpack, filled with underwear.

He replied, perplexed, “Everyone’s gone, those things are useless now, I gave them to my dorm mates.” He patted his waist pouch proudly. “Money—I’ve never lacked it.”

The man raised his cigarette, glanced at the dormitory. “You must have plenty of books left—aren’t you taking those?”

Chang Ke tapped his head with pride. “All the books are packed in here, heh.”

The man smiled, crushed his cigarette underfoot, and said, “I’m here to recruit you.”

Chang Ke folded his arms, chin raised slightly. “I knew you were up to something. You know I was just expelled, don’t you?”

The man admired his rebellious stance. “I know, which makes this the perfect time to recruit you.”

Chang Ke felt uneasy at the man’s appreciative gaze and frowned. “What company or organization are you from?”

The man straightened his posture—a simple gesture, but it made Chang Ke feel the man towered over him. “I represent a special intelligence department.”

Chang Ke instinctively grew wary and casually refused. “I’m not cut out for that kind of work.”

The man, as if expecting this, asked, “Do you even know what it takes to be ‘cut out for this kind of work’?”

Chang Ke turned his head, looking elsewhere, and said offhandedly, “I just don’t think I am.”

The man pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips. “I’ve recruited people like you before, countless times. I know how to spot them.” He extracted another cigarette halfway from the pack, held it out to Chang Ke. “Frankly, even if you hadn’t been expelled, you’re not the type to quietly endure four years of dull university life, much less hang out with those naïve kids, here only to fulfill their parents’ wishes and earn a degree. Graduate, find a stable job, marry, have children, and live an ordinary, mediocre life? No, that’s not you.”

Chang Ke stared at the cigarette offered to him, saying nothing.

The man continued, “Times have changed. Traditional education and values are shifting. Human nature is changing, and faster than ever. You know that, which is why you isolate yourself to read philosophy books others consider heretical. Why you risk expulsion, even being accused of speculation, for petty business ventures with no social value beyond a bit of cash.”

Chang Ke listened, his heart pounding.

The man ignored Chang Ke’s internal turmoil and went on, “I’ve recruited and trained countless outstanding individuals. My eye for them is unique. Not only do they excel at work, they become well-rounded elites with knowledge, culture, skills, and character—and most importantly, they develop a powerful will: strong, steadfast, resilient, and enduring.”

Chang Ke tossed aside his cigar, took the offered cigarette from the man’s pack, and put it in his mouth. He pulled out his lighter, struck it, but instead of lighting his own cigarette, he held it up to the man’s, and said firmly, “Where is the job? When do we start?”

The man didn’t move his cigarette toward the flame, but instead grasped Chang Ke’s hand and brought the lighter to Chang Ke’s own cigarette. He leaned in, and the flame lit both cigarettes.

The man exhaled, smiling with genuine goodwill, and Chang Ke felt it deeply.

That noon, Chang Ke bid farewell to Xiamen University, to his thriving business, and for the first time in his life boarded a plane, following the strange man to the outskirts of Beijing, to Miyun.

He and forty-four others lived within the high walls of an abandoned prison, though there were no sentries on the watchtower. The gate had only a guardhouse, inhabited by a middle-aged fat man with a thick Beijing accent. No visitors, no mail. No sign at the entrance.

They were called “trainees,” forbidden to share names or backgrounds, only identified by code names drawn from animals.

Additionally, nearly forty “instructors” were present.

Each morning, Chang Ke was jolted awake by a police alarm. A fifty-centimeter bed, a chipped enamel spittoon at the foot, a thin military green blanket, a block of wood for a pillow.

At the head of his bed was a “Bashan Cigar,” clearly taken from his luggage and deliberately left for him. This small gesture made him realize he had no secrets here. Every morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, he used a long match to light his cigar.

Luckily, they hadn’t taken his cash-filled waist pouch.

He had no relatives, no parents, trapped between two worlds, brought here to face an unknown future.

This was his destiny.