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Chapter 18: Storm at His Fingertips
March 30th, Monday.
Shi Rang sat slumped at his desk in the newspaper office, unable to focus. The "game report" from Facility 031, the red-and-black webpage of The Management Bureau headquarters, and the documents Angie had handed him floated through his mind like ghosts.
Every few minutes, he picked up his phone, scrolled aimlessly, then set it back down with a sigh, staring blankly at the document on his screen that only had half a title typed out.
Investigation Request for Smuggling Activities in Pingyuan City_
“Hey, Shi Rang, want some snacks? The delivery guy just arrived—looks like there are doughnuts,” someone called from the cubicle across the room.
Only then did Shi Rang notice that most of his coworkers had already left their desks.
Had hours really passed without him realizing?
“Coming,” he muttered, pushing away from the document that had been torturing him.
The newspaper where Shi Rang worked wasn’t large, but its editor-in-chief was notoriously stingy—a man with a foul temper and an arrogant streak who seized every opportunity to dock wages. The rare moments of solace in this job were the free morning and afternoon tea breaks.
“Did you see those new interns this morning? Fresh graduates—they’re dirt cheap. Their salaries might even be lower than yours,” a colleague remarked as they walked toward the break room. “You’d better watch out, Shi Rang.”
“Mm…” Shi Rang replied absentmindedly.
The comment wasn’t malicious; everyone knew how low Shi Rang’s salary was.
He’d been working at the paper for over a year now, stuck as a mediocre columnist churning out sensational stories about scandals or bizarre accidents—things so sordid they made even him nauseous.
He wasn’t cut out for this line of work. He’d begged someone to write him a recommendation letter just to get in because he needed a journalist’s credentials to investigate Yingshang’s disappearance.
But after two years, he still hadn’t found anything useful.
Yesterday, Angie—a friend of Yingshang’s—had given him a crucial lead: a criminal organization operating in Pingyuan City, and a man known by the alias “Greyhound,” who might know where Yingshang had gone.
[Alias: “Greyhound.” Member of the cross-regional crime syndicate “Blue Signal.” Known for smuggling and human trafficking activities around Pingyuan City in recent years. Arrested multiple times but released due to insufficient evidence. Current whereabouts unknown...]
He had the location and the lead—but how was he supposed to pursue it?
Surely not by walking into an unfamiliar city and asking random strangers, “Do you know Greyhound or Blue Signal?”
That approach might work elsewhere, but this was District Ten—a place infamous worldwide for its lawlessness.
Gangs were the cancer of District Ten, something that had once been completely unrelated to Shi Rang and Fan Yingshang.
But somehow, fate had dragged them into it.
Gangs weren’t something an ordinary person could easily infiltrate—he had no connections, no way in.
In the break room, Shi Rang found a quiet corner and ate his powdered sugar doughnut alone, avoiding the chatter of his colleagues. It was as if he wasn’t really there.
That was Shi Rang in real life: taciturn, reserved.
He’d come to the newspaper to find his wife, but now it felt like he was trapped in this job. Though still young, he seemed to be withering away.
As he chewed, inspiration struck. For a brief moment, his creative urge dispelled his confusion. With the doughnut still in his mouth, he pulled out his phone and returned to The Management Bureau’s site, typing out hundreds of words to create a hypothetical “compass that helps people find their loved ones.”
If only he had such a compass to help him locate Fan Yingshang...
But when he finished, he realized the anomaly file he’d written was little more than heartwarming fluff.
It followed the proper format and carried some meaning, but beyond that, there wasn’t much substance. Even if it got deleted, he could argue its merits...
With slight trepidation, he hit save. But he was wrong.
[Insufficient clues, unable to lock target.]
The page refreshed, and his new entry was rejected outright by the website’s system, leaving Shi Rang thoroughly disheartened.
Why didn’t the site have a beginner’s guide or tutorial?
If this approach wouldn’t work, it seemed he’d have to collaborate with others again—like he had with Kyle during their first partnership.
Speaking of which, how was Kyle doing in Green Island City? He’d heard the pollution there was severe...
How strange. He couldn’t solve his own problems, yet he was worrying about a stranger online.
Before heading back to his desk, Shi Rang grabbed another doughnut and nibbled on it as he followed the flow of coworkers returning to work.
He’d spent a surreal weekend playing the role of a powerful writer and Game Master on The Management Bureau’s site, but reality and games were different. He could craft adventures for Kyle, pass intelligence to Robin to help her escape—but here, with the clues right in front of him, he was powerless to find his wife.
One man against a ruthless gang—everyone knew how that would end.
He wasn’t afraid of dying; he was afraid of dying for nothing, leaving her lost forever.
But who would help him? Who else would be foolish enough to take on a criminal organization?
Back at his desk, Shi Rang temporarily escaped his bleak prospects by diving back into the site.
He stared at the search bar for a moment, then did something foolish.
[Search: Fan Yingshang]
[0 results found.]
[Search: “Greyhound”]
[0 results found.]
What was he thinking? This was just a website.
He browsed through some anomaly files related to District Ten, seeking inspiration, but found none. Then he sifted through the [Recently Uploaded Clues] for potential collaborative writing prompts.
Eventually, amidst his growing despair, he stumbled upon one titled [Intelligence Report on District Three Port Black Market (Suspected to Be Headed for District Ten)]. Inside was a jumble of rough creative ideas.
[Currently located at Port ██, suspected to function during the day... Currently employed by Organization ██, suspected individual with memetic contamination abilities... Last seen on the ship ████, suspected object that changes form at night...]
Before, Kyle had provided the clues while Shi Rang organized them. Now, this document felt like a fill-in-the-blank exercise, offering members fragments of characteristics and rules to build upon.
Suddenly, a trickle of inspiration bubbled up from his otherwise dry well.
He had an idea—a rough draft, but worth jotting down.
[A “Justice Gun” that changes form at night to help users fight crime.]
Hmm, kind of boring...
[A “Justice Gun” that changes form at night and only targets criminals.]
But what defined a “criminal”?
On second thought, the first part wasn’t necessary. Without the framework of this “fill-in-the-blank” prompt, his original content would likely be deleted, just like the “compass” he’d written earlier.
So Shi Rang deleted, rewrote, rewrote again, and still couldn’t strike a balance between creation and revision.
Finally, he copied the rough draft—including its physical address reference—into an empty document in his personal space on the site.
[Last seen departing from ██ City in District Nine, resupplying at District Three Port before vanishing aboard the ship ████ (suspected to be transporting an anomalous object). Expected to arrive offshore of District Ten within three days. Changes form at night to combat crime.]
Shi Rang pressed his finger to the screen.
[Save.]
---
BOOM!
A deafening roar pierced the storm clouds, and continuous flashes of lightning illuminated the struggling cargo ship caught in towering waves. The name Pierre on the hull glowed white under the electric light.
Moments ago, the ship had managed to maintain balance, but suddenly it lurched violently to one side, as if yanked by an invisible hand.
Had anyone dared step onto the deck in this tempest, they would have witnessed an unbelievable sight: a container at the center of the deck seemed to possess its own will, shifting despite the steel cables binding it. With a snap, the cables broke loose.
The freed ropes exploded with a sound like thunder, lashing against the deck and denting the steel plates beneath.
Without restraints, the entire row of containers shifted with the waves, tumbling from the upper deck into the sea below.
Once the external force subsided, the ship regained some semblance of stability, though barely. But inside one of the bottommost containers, screams erupted.
Inside, a group of stowaways huddled together under blankets, crowded like ancient humans seeking warmth. As the ship tilted, they were tossed around like marbles in a box, slamming into the container’s solid walls.
This nightmare-like chaos lasted for what felt like eternity. When the Pierre finally broke free of the storm, groans, moans, and quiet sobs filled the container.
Most of the ship’s cargo was ordinary goods, but it also carried illicit shipments for criminal organizations. Among these were sensitive items—and people. Boarding the ship was possible, but surviving the journey was never guaranteed.
The survivors, battered and bruised, regrouped in the darkness, nursing their wounds while clinging to both relief and fear for the journey ahead.
After a while, someone whispered, “We should… be close to District Ten, right?”
“Probably almost there. Soon we’ll dock. Once we reach District Four, we can send word home…”
“I heard you can make thousands washing dishes there.”
“We couldn’t stay in District Nine—it’s getting worse every day…”
Even after enduring such horrors, the surviving stowaways clung to hope for the future.
Some groaned in pain, but their voices were deliberately drowned out by the murmured conversations.
These stowaways had paid smugglers to sneak them into Green Island City’s “Emergency Relocation Program.”
Green Island City, devastated by toxic factory incidents, had become overcrowded. Neighboring District Four had agreed to share the burden of resettlement—an affluent district ranked among the world’s top economies.
Reaching District Four meant infinite possibilities.
For this chance at a fresh start, these desperate souls had endured nights crammed into containers, setting sail from District Nine, navigating the seas past District Three, and aiming to land in District Ten en route to Green Island City.
The smugglers promised them new identities registered on relocation lists bound for District Four. Upon arrival, they could blend in with legitimate migrants and begin anew.
No one spoke of the trials ahead. They clung to visions of brightness and warmth, grasping at the illusion of safety.
In pitch-black darkness, the Pierre entered District Ten’s territorial waters, heading toward its destination—Pingyuan City.
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