Inside a cramped little room, the main lights had been turned off. Only a single desk lamp illuminated a square inch of the desktop, its surface scored by several deep cracks harboring dark fissures that even the lamplight could not penetrate.
A heavy dark shadow pressed down.
It was a person. Using a key, they unlocked the desk drawer, pulling out a thick notebook from within.
The shadow flipped open the notebook, revealing yellowed, weathered sheets of paper tucked inside. The book seemed to hold quite a few of these documents, making it appear exceptionally thick and heavy. The shadow picked up one of the papers and shook it open. On its front side, the words “Engine Logbook” were written.
Engine Logbook:
Voyage No. 8 – March 31, 1976
Main Engine
Auxiliary Generator
Switchboard
……
Watchkeeping Personnel:
On Duty: Yang Jie
Relief: Zhao Dasheng
Incident: Conflict arose with the Captain.
The shadow turned over this forty-year-old voyage record. Pasted on the back of the logbook page were actually several handwritten diary entries. The diary pages were similarly yellowed and old, and judging by the dates written at the top, they likewise belonged to the year 1976.
In the silent glow of the lamp, the contents of the diary came to light:
March 23, 1976
……Once again, it’s that tedious sailing time. Wake up, check the equipment, look out at the same sky and ocean as yesterday. In this agonizing slow-burn, it feels like tearing off a flimsy calendar page, wasting away another day of one’s precious life. This luxurious waste of time and utter boredom will drag on for another year; life just wastes away into old age like this. To the point that when looking back at the past, life feels entirely meaningless—something I dare not ponder deeply.
Yet, as I wrote these lines, I had no idea that a mere ten minutes later, I would receive the greatest surprise of this voyage.
During my routine inspection of the ship’s propulsion machinery, I discovered Miss Huo hidden inside a storage box—Huo Qiying, the daughter of Boss Huo.
The shock of that single moment was no less profound than a destitute beggar unearthing a chest of gold, or a desert traveler stumbling upon a freshwater spring. This soul-piercing thrill stemmed partly from this unexpected encounter straight out of a novel, and partly from Miss Huo’s sheer beauty.
While I was still reeling from shock, Miss Huo already recognized me. She wept as she poured her heart out to me, crying about her strict parents, the suffocating atmosphere at home, and the sorrow of being buried in a grave before she could ever see the world.
Of course I knew. All of us who have had the privilege of stepping through Boss Huo’s front door know how severely strict he is regarding his daughter. But in the past, I always thought it was inevitable. “Beauty itself is not a crime; the crime lies in those who covet it.” Such words are merely the painless, nonchalant ramblings of onlookers far removed from the vortex. In the thick of that vortex, Boss Huo simply wanted to protect his family and his daughter, so he used conventional methods to place her under tighter constraint—there isn’t much to criticize there. It’s much like a man carrying immense wealth; he can’t help but suspect every person brushing past him is a robber or a thief.
But in conventional terms, how utterly mediocre and boring the lives of the vast majority of people are!
When Miss Huo appeared right before my eyes and spoke to me, I found myself completely incapable of judging this matter with cold reason, nor could I handle it in the conventionally correct yet mediocre way (which would mean informing the Captain of Miss Huo’s presence so he could turn the ship around; we had only departed two days ago, and turning back now wouldn’t disrupt anything).
I hid Miss Huo right where she was.
Though it was never my original intention, I know that today, I became a thief.
Stealing the Blue Tear tucked away in Boss Huo’s secret chest.
March 26, 1976
It has only been the third day, yet everyone already knows about Miss Huo’s presence. Well, perhaps not everyone; specifically, it’s the head chef in the galley, Chu Xingfa, who found out. Letting Chu Xingfa discover her was the result of my careful consideration. Miss Huo is not a pet; she cannot be kept alive day after day just by me skimming off bits of food for her. Furthermore, my frequent trips to the galley to whip up private dishes had already drawn Chu Xingfa’s side-glances. Reflecting on it this way, letting Chu Xingfa know the truth benefits both me and Miss Huo. At the very least, those rare, hidden delicacies he only prepares when he’s in a stellar mood are truly magnificent.
Once Chu Xingfa knew, Lin Xiaodao, who works under him, naturally found out next. Lin Xiaodao gets along famously with the sailors and shares a cabin with them, so the sailors all found out too. Just like that, the secret grew vines and spread rapidly.
However, though the secret rippled through the sailors, management remained entirely oblivious. It’s not surprising; those up top are often too lazy to cast their eyes downward. This setup worked on the premise that everyone could keep a low profile.
But things went entirely against my wishes.
Chu Xingfa spent from morning till night using precious ingredients to cook delicious food, and the sailors clamored to give Miss Huo new clothes. Naturally, there was no beautiful fabric on board, so they turned their attention to the embroidered window curtains.
A faint unease stirred in my heart, yet I was powerless to stop them.
Their actions weren’t for me; they were for the Blue Tear. To stop them would require the Blue Tear herself to speak up.
Truth be told, I wanted to dress up the Blue Tear in splendid attire too…
March 31, 1976
The Captain stole my Blue Tear.
All the diary pages pasted onto the back of this sheet of the engine logbook had been read. At the very end of every single page, the following line was written:
I, Lu Kun, hereby promise that the contents of this diary page are written by my own hand and are entirely true. This statement serves as official clarification.
Having finished reading both the front and back of this engine logbook page, the shadow folded it back up and returned it exactly as it was. Reaching out for a pen, they pulled out another notebook from the desk drawer and wrote:
April 26, 2016……
The bathroom mirror reflected Ji Xun’s face. Below it, resting on the sink counter, were a gold ring, a gold necklace, a suit jacket, and a silver mask.
Water gushed from the faucet into the porcelain basin. Finger by finger, palm, back of the hand, wrist—Ji Xun methodically washed his hands clean, dried them with a paper towel, and then put on his suit jacket and gold necklace one by one.
“Arriving at the destination in one hour.”
The voice drifted in, riding along with the nutty aroma of cigarette smoke.
Silver Double Lions. Meng Fushan always smoked this exact brand—a man who could remain so fiercely loyal even to a brand of cigarettes. Lost in thought, Ji Xun picked up the gold ring from the counter and slid it onto his finger.
The ring was far too large; the moment he put it on, it slipped right off.
Ji Xun bent his finger to hook the ring, then pinched the band with his other hand, applying gradual pressure. He squeezed the hollowed-out ring engraved with the Six-Word Vajra Mantra tightly, making it smaller until it fit snugly against his finger like a binding curse, firmly anchoring the base of his finger.
“What about that guy?” he asked.
“Left in the tool room. Once we board Mr. Liu’s ship and this boat heads back, my men will take him away and keep him under guard.”
The person they were discussing was currently lying flat on the porcelain floor of the bathroom, dead to the world in a deep, oblivious slumber.
“What’s the protocol after boarding?”
“No idea.”
“No idea?” Ji Xun murmured.
“I’ve only been aboard once myself, how could I possibly know that much?” Meng Fushan spoke unhurriedly from outside. “Play it by ear. Those law-breaking, sensational atrocities—there’s no way they’ll be in short supply.”
True enough.
Meng Fushan had only ever boarded that ship once, following Chen Jiashu.
Later on, Chen Jiashu even died.
Neither of them brought up Chen Jiashu, as if he were merely an inconsequential matter.
“By the way,” Meng Fushan added, “I heard there’s a grand event on the ship this time, which is why so many people are showing up.”
“Not surprising,” Ji Xun noted. “Today is April 27th, after all.”
“Yeah.” Meng Fushan grunted around his cigarette, his voice slightly muffled. “In another two days, it’ll be Mazu’s birthday.”
“Are the cameras ready?” Ji Xun asked again.
“Yeah.”
“Carrying them on you?”
“Hmph,” Meng Fushan scoffed mockingly. “You think you can just carry them on?”
Once they transferred from the small boat to the massive ship, everyone would undergo a rigorous security check in addition to having their phones confiscated. This was all to prevent anyone from bringing recording or storage devices aboard. This inspection didn’t just target the guests arriving here; even the staff members were not exempt.
Mr. Liu had engineered this vessel into a magnificent, isolated island.
One could only wonder if the people stepping on board possessed the self-awareness that they were walking straight into a cage.
However, assuming the equipment had to be brought on board—otherwise, risking their lives to board would yield absolutely no results—Meng Fushan must have made secure arrangements for those cameras, just as he had for the man unconscious beneath his feet. What kind of arrangement could it be?
Ji Xun fastened the final silver mask over his face, a stranger reflecting back in the mirror.
He opened the bathroom door and stepped out, brushing past Meng Fushan.
He walked all the way into the cabin. Every single boss inside the cabin wore a silver mask, slumping haphazardly in their seats throughout the tedious voyage. Those identical silver masks swallowed up human features and expressions, turning vibrant individuals into a collection of dull, lifeless statues.
Ji Xun walked straight ahead without casting a single glance sideways, cutting through this cabin where no one could see anyone else, and took his designated seat.
He turned his head to look out the window. The water surged unpredictably beneath the glass, and the distant sun was slowly sinking into the deep sea, which was stained crimson by its blood.
With a resonant thrum, the hull shuddered violently. They had reached their destination.
By now, the sun had been entirely swallowed by the ocean, leaving a pitch-black expanse outside. The cabin, however, was brightly lit by fluorescent lamps. The statues that had been slumping in their seats seemed to have their souls jolted back into them by this collision. One after another, they leaped up impatiently from their seats, crowding into the cabin aisle to form a line, crane-necked as they eagerly awaited the forward hatch to open.
Ji Xun walked at the very end of the line. The long queue crawled forward like a snail. Only after Ji Xun had counted from 1 to 100, and then back from 100 to 1 for three full cycles, did his turn finally arrive.
The moment he lifted his foot and stepped out of the hatch, the roaring sounds of the ocean wind and waves instantly grew intense. Ji Xun narrowed his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the darkness, when an orange life jacket was thrust toward him from ahead.
“Put it on.” It was that same cigarette scent with the nutty aroma.
“I’ll pass. From the small boat to the big ship is just a few steps across the gangway. You think we’re going to fall into the sea?” The speaker wasn’t Ji Xun, but rather the person lined up right behind him. The man said impatiently, “If you fall into the gap between two ships, putting on a hundred life jackets won’t do you any good.”
“It’s the rule, always has been.” Meng Fushan spoke calmly, ostensibly addressing the man behind Ji Xun, but his gaze lightly brushed past Ji Xun. “Bosses, please don’t make things difficult for us workers down here.”
Ji Xun remained completely silent throughout the exchange. He simply took the life jacket from Meng Fushan’s hands and slipped it over his torso. In that exact fraction of a second, he realized precisely where the cameras they needed to smuggle aboard were hidden.
—Inside the life jacket.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant.
He walked forward, contemplating the genius of it.
Carrying it on a person’s body would never clear security; hiding it anywhere else ran the risk of how to safely transport it onto a massive vessel that resembled an isolated island in the middle of the ocean.
Hiding it inside the life jacket was the only way that was both secure and convenient. This item inherently belonged to the vessel, so it wouldn’t draw any additional scrutiny from the employees, and because it was required for embarking and disembarking, it would be collected and stored away properly.
Once the strict security check upon boarding concluded, the ship’s security wouldn’t suspect anyone of harboring recording devices. At that point, either he or Meng Fushan could slip into the storage area to retrieve the cameras. Having made it onto the ship, half their battle was already won.
As these thoughts spun through his mind, he reached the end of the gangway. Up ahead, individual figures plunged into the massive ship like a succession of white phantoms passing through the night.
Ji Xun followed them onto the grand vessel. Lights instantly flared with brilliant illumination. As his shoes sank into the crimson carpet—plush and soft as a woman’s skin—he found himself standing within a lavish, yet ice-cold world.
