"Consider this your payout for North Africa."
James's grandfather reached into a tightly wrapped piece of oilcloth. Like a stingy medieval landlord counting his land deeds, he gingerly pinched out two crumpled, grease-stained hundred-dollar bills and handed them to James, who was watching him with wide, expectant eyes.
James's jaw nearly hit the floor. He couldn't believe his eyes. In the war-torn wilderness of North Africa—where even the camels seemed to wear Kevlar—he had infiltrated rebel headquarters, hacked into satellite systems, and neutralized a top-tier mercenary group on the side. The client had walked away with millions, and his life was worth only these two raggedy greenbacks?
Exactly what kind of bargain-bin scrap yard was the old man getting these "elite" contracts from?
Looking back at the last few years, every mission had been a tightrope walk. He'd performed "ballet on the edge of a volcano" more times than he could count, only to be paid fifty or a hundred bucks. The most ridiculous instance was after he spent half a month on the polar ice caps; the old man had handed him two cents, calling it a "rounded-off bonus."
Every time he recalled these bitter memories, James felt a sudden urge to find a block of tofu and headbutt it to death. Taking the two hundred dollars of blood-soaked money, a stampede of frustration galloped through his heart, finally converging into a single thought: Mother of pearl!
Though he was an orphan and had never actually met his mother.
After fifteen years of grueling cultivation under the unreliable James's grandfather in these deep mountains, James considered himself a polymath. He was well-versed in everything from astronomy and geography to the ancient mystical arts of Qimen Dunjia. He could stitch meridians with silver needles as easily as he could have a heart-to-heart with a wolf pack in fluent German.
In ancient China, he'd easily be a Zhuangyuan—the top-ranked scholar-warrior—or a Great General of the Realm. But here he was, living a life worse than a common laborer on a construction site. When would this end?
He'd heard that a hardworking bricklayer in the city could save tens of thousands a year. Meanwhile, he spent his days dancing on the edge of life and death, and his total earnings wouldn't even buy a decent smartphone.
"Old man, tell me the truth. Are you secretly keeping a mistress somewhere? Two hundred? Even if you're skimming off the top, this is a bit much!"
James had often suspected the old man had a secret Swiss bank account. But looking at the old guy's faded, patch-covered undershirt and the drafty, dilapidated earthen bed they shared, he figured the old geezer was probably just genuinely broke.
"Be grateful you're getting paid at all. The global economy is down, and the real estate market is tanking. Even the employers are struggling to put food on the table," James's grandfather replied.
The old man rolled his bulging eyes, spat out a blade of grass, and grumbled, "What? Too little? If you don't want it, give it back. Luna widow at the edge of the village just made braised pork intestines, and I was just wondering where I'd find the cash for a feast."
"..."
James's fists tightened. He really wanted to grind this mummy-looking old man into the dirt, but he had some self-awareness. Every time James thought his "God-tier" powers had matured enough to stage a peasant revolt, the old man would swat him into the wall with some bizarre, effortless move.
The old man's strength was like a bottomless black hole; for every inch James grew, the old man remained a foot taller.
"Fine, quit the melodrama. I've sent you out like a wild dog for years, and I'd say you're sufficiently tempered. It's time to hand over that 'big one' I've been saving."
James's grandfather didn't even look up. He sat cross-legged on the bed, crunching on a bowl of fennel beans. "If you finish this task, you can 'lie flat' for the rest of your life. Food, drink, and everything else will be provided for!"
"For real?"
James arched an eyebrow. He'd been dug out of a dumpster by the old man at age three. The fifteen years of inhuman torture he'd endured were supposedly all to prepare him for this "Ultimate Mission."
But his instincts screamed suspicion. Given the old man's track record, could one mission really sustain him for a lifetime? Or would he just be spending that "lifetime" on the run?
"When have I ever lied to you?"
The old man tossed another bean into his mouth and asked indistinctly, "Are you going or not? Give me a straight answer. If you're not interested, I'll go find the village idiot next door."
"I'm going! Of course I'm going!"
James figured that anyone who turned down an early retirement was a total fool. One mission to last a lifetime? That meant no more racing against attack helicopters for a measly two hundred bucks. Even if he had to walk through fire, this "all-in" bet was worth it!
"Good. You've got spirit. Pack your bags and head down the mountain. Go to Washington and find Liam Bell of The Walt Disney Company. He'll tell you the workflow for the assignment." A sly smile tugged at the corner of the old man's mouth—a professional habit developed from years of swindling people. "But let me give you a fair warning: once this mission starts, there's no backing out. Abandoning it will bring bad karma—or a lightning strike."
"Why? What if the target turns out to be some creepy middle-aged guy? I'm not allowed to retreat?"
James wasn't a brainwashed zealot. His life motto was: As long as the green mountains remain, one need not worry about firewood. (Basically: Live to fight another day.)
"Little James, have some heart. I've raised you for fifteen years, fed you the best I could, and even got you an Alienware laptop and a global data plan..."
The old man's eyes widened as he flipped into "preacher mode," nagging so much that James's scalp felt numb.
"Bullshit!"
James exploded on the spot. "You have the nerve to bring that up? I've been doing the laundry and cooking since I was six! Since I was ten, I've been catching fish in the river and hunting in the mountains to feed you! You only bought that laptop to watch those 'inappropriate' live streams! I only used it to look up data!"
"And what were you doing under the covers at midnight with that laptop? Do you think I'm senile?"
The old man's voice suddenly dropped to an eerie whisper. "Do you want me to read out the names of those 'private collection folders'? What was it? 'Pure Teacher'? Or 'The Girl Next Door'—"
"Stop! Enough! I'll go... I'll go, alright!"
James's face turned bright red as he admitted defeat instantly. He had no idea his eighteen-layer encrypted folders had been cracked by this old lecher long ago. If he let the old man keep talking, his reputation as a "young hero" would be flushed down the toilet.
And so, under the old man's combination of threats and blackmail, James slung his faded backpack over his shoulder. Clutching his "fortune" of two hundred dollars, he boarded a green-skinned train bound for the international metropolis of Washington.
As the train rhythmically clattered along the tracks, James rested his chin on his hand, daydreaming about his "retired" life. For all his faults, the old man usually didn't joke about things like "survival" and "compensation."
It wouldn't be easy, but if it weren't a challenge, it wouldn't be fun.
Pop.
A burly man with a pockmarked face sitting across from James cracked open a can of cola. After taking a few gulps, he casually tossed the pull-tab onto the small table.
A young man with a buzz cut sitting nearby suddenly looked interested. He pretended to fiddle with the tab absentmindedly, then suddenly let out a piercing shriek as if he'd been struck by lightning:
"Holy cow! I hit the jackpot! It's the grand prize!"
The voice sliced through the noisy carriage. Drowsy passengers immediately snapped into "spectator mode."
The pockmarked man was startled. Seeing the pull-tab that was originally his in someone else's hands—and hearing it was a winner—he panicked. "Hey! That's mine! Give it back!"
"Yours? If I call its name, will it answer you?"
The buzz-cut youth clutched the tab in his palm and glared. "You threw this trash away. I found it, so it's mine. Don't you know the rules?"
"That... that was a mistake! I just set it down for a second! That's a hundred thousand dollars!"
Though the pockmarked man looked tough, he withered slightly in the face of the youth's aggression. He could only stare at the youth's fist, salivating over the prize.
"You threw it away; it's unowned property. Now it's mine," the youth sneered, oozing arrogance.
"Hey, brother, you can't be so unreasonable."
Finding no way out, the pockmarked man turned to the man on James's left—a refined-looking gentleman in a suit with thick glasses. "Sir, you look like an educated man. Please, settle this for us. Who does this prize belong to?"
"Hmm..."
The man in the suit pushed up his glasses and pondered. "I am a high school literature teacher. Since you both value my opinion, I shall offer a fair word."
"Please, go ahead!" Both men leaned in like hungry penguins.
"From a legal standpoint regarding property rights, the tab was indeed purchased and opened by this gentleman. The ownership should technically be his..."
Before the pockmarked man could celebrate, the teacher smiled and held up a hand. "However, as an adult, you performed the act of 'abandonment.' The tab was in a discarded state. Subsequently, this young man made a valid 'find.' In a legal gray area, things become quite ambiguous."
"Then what? I can't just let this kid have it!" The pockmarked man stamped his feet.
"In my view, since we are all fated to share this carriage, why not share the wealth? Why don't you two split the prize?" The teacher offered what seemed like a perfect compromise.
"Split it..."
The buzz-cut youth hesitated. Realizing that if they kept fighting, the transit police would show up, he gritted his teeth. "Fine! For the teacher's sake, I'll give him half!"
Seeing that he wouldn't get it all back anyway, the pockmarked man figured half was better than nothing and nodded vigorously.
"Good. Since we have a consensus, it's simple." The teacher took the can and read the fine print. "The grand prize is $100,000. After taxes, that's $80,000. To save the trouble of traveling to claim it, whoever keeps the tab can just pay the other person $30,000 in cash to settle the difference. Then, the winner's voucher belongs to that person entirely. What do you think?"
"Deal!"
The pockmarked man reached into his pocket impatiently. To get an extra twenty thousand in the long run, he agreed to pay the cash upfront. "I'll give you the thirty thousand, and you give me the tab!"