Hong Kong, Eternal Night Base Island—a tropical haven south of the Tropic of Cancer.
A few days ago—
Waves gently lapped at the shore. On the distant western horizon, a giant orange-red fireball—the sun—was slowly sinking.
A sliver of sunset stretched over the water, half the sea shimmering, half ablaze in crimson.
It was the dead of winter, when northern winds should bite and water freeze instantly. But here, on this tropical island south of the Tropic of Cancer, John Yang was comfortable in a short-sleeved shirt.
White shirt, light slacks—refined and precise. John Yang strolled along the beach, step by step. To his right, a row of elegant villas, the view idyllic; to his left, the vast, endless sea swept by a cleansing ocean breeze. Ahead, the sun set in the west, dusk glowing red, the air fragrant and soft.
Amidst the beautiful scenery, city lights competed to shine, blazing like flames that stitched the skyline together.
Honestly, this was a slice of paradise on earth.
Truth be told, in terms of material comfort, John Yang's life these days was the definition of luxury. No one at Eternal Night Holdings Group dared disrespect him—everything he ate, wore, or used was top-notch. With just a word—or heck, not even a word—someone would eagerly handle it all for him. Food, clothing, housing, entertainment—he didn't have a single worry.
But on John Yang's face, there wasn't the slightest hint of ease.
His gaze was calm yet deep, as if he was always lost in thought, and yet somehow, always drifting, distracted.
John Yang was caught up in memories. Suddenly, he began recalling the first apartment of his life—a dorm room assigned by the school, with red brick walls, damp and cramped. Just three stories tall, that old brick building would shed its mortar when the wind and rain hit. Every rainy season, the floor grew sticky and muddy—nothing like now.
But back then, things were different. He was the pillar of the family, the shield for his wife and kids. They were all together, happy as could be. Life may have been tough, but they faced the storms together, hearts united. Every day was exhausting, but somehow, it felt full of hope.
Now, with every material comfort imaginable, he felt nothing—no sense of enjoyment at all.
His wife was gone. The kids were gone. How could he possibly be happy?
A few nights ago, the helicopter had roared away. John Yang remembered standing on the tarmac, looking up at that very moment. He wasn't the sentimental type, but right then, he felt a deep, aching sadness.
He was a husband, a father, but he couldn't shield his wife from the wind and rain...
Gritting his teeth, John Yang's fists clenched tight.
Suddenly, he realized he wasn't the only one on this island feeling lonely and lost.
Thud thud thud—a figure was running along the sand toward him. Looking closer, he saw a man in his fifties, hair gone white, tall and sturdy, with a dark, rugged face and a stern expression. His whole presence was cold and forbidding, like a chunk of iron that warned strangers to keep their distance. And judging by the heavy burden strapped to his back, every step he took left a deep pit in the sand.
Running on sand is way tougher than running on solid ground. This guy was clearly putting himself through some brutal training. Sweat poured off him, his muscles twitching from exhaustion, but he didn’t waver—not even his pace changed—as he kept charging forward with that heavy load.
To be pushing himself this hard at his age—this iron man’s body and willpower were seriously impressive. Well, impressive for a regular person, anyway. These days, saying that almost feels weirdly sad and ironic.
Wait, he’d seen this guy on the tarmac a couple nights ago—he’d wanted to go to London too, but ended up getting booted off the plane. Getting closer, John Yang noticed the man carried a heavy aura, as if he were a chunk of stubborn iron, unable to bend or change with the times.
John Yang suddenly wanted to say hi, maybe chat a bit. But… what was this guy’s name again? John frowned—guess he really was getting old, with white hair at his temples and fading eyesight, even his memory was slipping. Let’s see… let’s see… Chao… Uncle Chao?
Yeah, that’s it—Uncle Chao!
But it’s fine for the younger folks to call him Uncle Chao—I can’t really do that, can I? Maybe… Little Chao?
While John was still tangled up in his thoughts, Uncle Chao had already run up close. Not sure how to address him, John just nodded politely, gave a warm smile, and greeted him, "Getting some exercise?"
Uncle Chao stopped, panting a couple times. He was always the silent type, not much for words, but he answered, "Yeah, just working out. You?"
"Me too. Just keeping in shape."
Looking at this iron-willed man, seeing the heavy sadness and faint disappointment in his eyes, John Yang really wanted to talk to someone his own age. But in the end, in an awkward silence, the two just nodded at each other and got ready to head off in different directions.
Suddenly, a voice rang out—it was the radio broadcast.
"Breaking news! A massive terrorist attack has just occurred in London, England!"
Both men stopped in their tracks, reaching quickly for their waists—and in perfect sync, each pulled out their own device. John Yang had a boxy radio, while Uncle Chao produced an old-school walkie-talkie.
They exchanged a surprised glance, and suddenly, a sense of unspoken camaraderie bloomed. John grinned, "Looks like you’re worried about them too, huh?"
"Of course—can’t help but worry myself sick." Uncle Chao gave a thumbs-up. "Wanna check out the intel office together, see what’s going on?"
John hesitated, "Can I even get into a secret department like the intel office?"
"Technically, no." Uncle Chao shook his head, all gruff and serious—then forced out a weird little smile. "But I’ll sneak you in. Let’s go."
The next day.
Cafeteria.
Both men had beers in front of them, and they were drinking with gusto.
"You’re a teacher?"
"Yeah, I teach students."
"You know, when I was a kid, my dream was actually to be a teacher," Uncle Chao said, taking another swig and letting out a sigh. "Sitting in a big, bright classroom, teaching every kid according to their needs, keeping those little troublemakers in line, setting them on the right path. At the very least, keep them away from drugs, and maybe even help them pick up a real skill. I always thought that’d be amazing."
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"So why didn’t you become a teacher?"
"Ah, fate had other plans," Uncle Chao said, a little wistfully.
John took a drink and smiled, "You know, when I was a kid, I didn’t dream of being a teacher—I wanted to be a soldier."
"A soldier?!" Uncle Chao’s eyes went wide. "You?"
"Don’t believe me? But it’s true. Back when I was a kid, every time they showed movies in the village, it was always war flicks. Tunnel Warfare, Landmine Warfare, Fighting North and South, Behind Enemy Lines—whenever there was a movie night, people from ten villages around would swarm in, so many that once, folks even got shoved into the manure pit!"
"Manure pit? Hahaha!" Uncle Chao slapped the table, laughing his head off.
"Back then, I thought charging into battle, defending the homeland, never pulling the trigger unless you saw the enemy—then, bam bam bam when you did—that was the best thing ever." John mimed a pistol, aiming just like he did as a kid, pretending to spot an enemy: "Too bad, never got to fight the Japanese devils or the American ones. Not that being a soldier would guarantee that, but I still really longed for military life."
"So why didn’t you join the army?"
"Ah, fate had other plans," John said with a sigh.
Uncle Chao looked at his peer, thinking he really was a solid drinking buddy. Seeing John, all polite and clearly not much of a drinker, Uncle Chao suddenly had a flash of inspiration and gave a sly, mischievous grin: "We’ll call it a night for now. Next time, I’ll bring you something good."
Day Four.
Bar.
Uncle Chao thumped three bottles of whiskey on the table.
"Cheers!"
The drinks flowed, the conversation went wild—they were both having a blast.
Behind the bar, the TV was showing news—wall-to-wall coverage of the terrorist attacks in London. How many buildings burned, how much property was lost, which group of terrorists pulled it off, what their motives were—the TV had some self-important old expert analyzing and discussing every angle, and the Central TV Security Channel’s ratings were hitting new highs.
With a bang, Uncle Chao slammed his glass down on the table, his face flushed and dark, the booze hitting him hard as he shouted, "Times have changed! They’ve really changed!"
John Yang, eyes bleary from drink, stared at the burning streets on TV and suddenly sighed, "Maybe I really am old—old folks just love to reminisce. Last night I dreamed about when I was young, when Xiao Qi was just born. He was so tiny, I could hold him in both hands, but I was scared to even touch him, afraid I’d break him. And in a blink… sigh…"
Uncle Chao, red-faced and tipsy, slurred, "Come on, brother, drink up! A toast to this damn time, this damn era—bottoms up!"
Bang—their glasses clinked, and John downed his in one go. Exhaling a boozy breath, he spread his fingers, eyes glazed, "I—I still remember, when my kid was three, he suddenly got sick in the middle of the night. Fever—forty degrees! I grabbed him and ran, opened the door—outside, the wind was howling, rain pouring down. I waded through puddles with Xiao Qi on my back, your sister-in-law following with an umbrella. I remember the rain hammering her, I remember Xiao Qi, burning up and dazed, slumped on my back. No streetlights, just lightning flashing again and again, lighting up everything so bright it hurt. That rain was really something."
"That rain—I remember it too!" Uncle Chao was now deep into drunken rambling, slurring, "Back in ’93, I took a bunch of old soldiers to the Amazon for special training. Bugs, beasts, hunger, injuries, guerrillas, and all kinds of hellish torture—the trainees dropped out one by one. Brother, I’ll tell you, that training was life or death. Those guerrillas came at us with real guns and knives. I took a bullet in my left leg. Limped away, right into a downpour. Infection, fever, starving, shivering from the cold—but I pulled through! I made it! I became a top special forces soldier! Brother, tell me, am I a good soldier or what?"
"You are! You’re the best damn soldier there is!" John Yang thumped Uncle Chao’s shoulder, his tongue thick from drink. "Comrade Little Chao, come on, keep drinking!"
"But how come, in this era, a soldier as good as me is worth nothing?" Uncle Chao threw his head back, shouting, "How come I’m worth nothing at all!"