Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea

There’s a saying: great minds think alike.

United States of America, the Senate.

A United States Senator, staffer for the Office of Management and Budget, Secretary of Health and Human Services, and a member of the United Nations Temporary Committee on Celestial Events—the same person, all titles combined—stood in his office.

“Bang!”

“So these are the opinions from the gentlemen who cost me three hundred thousand dollars a month?” The Senator, staffer, Secretary, and committee member slammed the bound document onto his desk with fury.

“I’m sorry, Senator…” The intern, fresh out of an elite university, trembled.

“Thud!”

“This is the result of the Senate Special Committee’s emergency video conference?” Veins bulged in his forearm as it crashed down onto the polished desk.

“I’m sorry, Senator…” The intern, who had only just defended her thesis two weeks ago, was quaking.

“Clang!” “Bang!” “Clatter…” “Clatter… bang bang bang bang…”

“To hell with democracy and freedom! To hell with universal values! To hell with the American Dream! Is this the time to export this doggerel?” The Senator’s tailored sleeve swept across the desk, sending pens, phones, staplers, business card holders, and the contemptuous document flying to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Senator…” The intern, who had never before faced the wrath of a political beast, felt her legs buckle.

“Go, bring them here!” Rising from his desk, the Senator pressed his hands on the surface, eyes sharp as an eagle surveying prey, roaring at the nearly fainting interns in the office: “Hurry up, bring all the documents from the fax machine!”

The interns quickly fetched a pile of documents from the ever-churning fax.

“Ladies, take a look, learn something…” Grabbing a random stack, the Senator began to read aloud: “Lifelong Cleanliness—Memories of Wu Qingchen from his kindergarten classmate!”

“The Most Memorable School Cleaning—Sample Essay by Wu Qingchen’s middle school classmate!”

“A Spotless Desk—Internal Company Publication from Wu Qingchen’s firm!”

“What magnificent prose! Ladies, do you understand now? This is the stimulant American citizens need right now! The adrenaline shot they crave! This is the aircraft carrier fighter jet the world’s police needs most!” The Senator’s judgment was undoubtedly accurate, his decisions unquestionably decisive.

Unfortunately, besides “great minds think alike,” there’s another adage: “A clever housewife cannot cook without rice.”

After the celestial event, “Wu Qingchen’s kindergarten, preschool, elementary, middle, and high school classmates,” “Wu Qingchen’s family, relatives, neighbors, colleagues,” “the owner of the bun shop downstairs, the corner market, the dumpling shop at the alley,” “couriers, delivery drivers, and computer repairmen from Linjiang Community, Jiang County”—all these related parties were instantly classified as scarce resources by the government, export strictly prohibited.

For such sought-after resources, needed by every country on earth, the smuggling and anti-smuggling wars skipped all preliminaries and reached a fever pitch immediately.

Within an hour of the celestial event, both highways leading to Jiang County were sealed.

By the second hour, five national roads and forty-one county roads were blocked as well.

By the seventh hour, hundreds of village roads were all closed.

Yet, despite this ironclad blockade, around Linjiang Community, the disaster’s epicenter, foreign individuals with foreign media credentials, local government invitations, or embassy passports kept appearing around the clock, emerging from rooftops, alleys, public toilets, dumpsters, sewers—places beyond imagination. With lightning speed, they would slip a scrap of paper with a phone number, a 24/7 satellite phone, a wad of cash plus a number and a phone, or even a suitcase of cash, a phone number, and a phone into the arms of anyone considered “Wu Qingchen-level resource” they encountered.

Next, if time allowed, these gentlemen and ladies would, while snapping and instantaneously transmitting satellite photos, make grandiose promises—green cards, citizenship, jobs, houses, wives, even concubines, swearing every oath imaginable.

If time was short, they would drop to the ground and cover their faces, only to be seized by a group of burly men—either already loitering or emerging from who-knows-where—who cared nothing for diplomatic consequences, beating them with riot batons before dragging their limp bodies away in trucks like dead dogs.

Such brazen, desperate, moth-to-flame actions were, in fact, the only option for intelligence agencies from countries with weak resources in China.

The traditional intelligence powers, however, had more elaborate tricks.

Take one Western country, for instance.

Still in Jiang County, as a convoy of armored vehicles traversed a sealed-off highway, twelve small drones suddenly appeared at a curve, dropping dozens of magnetic claws in a flash and snatching away the third vehicle in line—driver and four armed guards included—in under a minute, right before everyone’s eyes.

The convoy called for backup. Soon, helicopters scoured the region, and thirty minutes later, they found the missing vehicle in an abandoned village ten kilometers away. The driver and guards were there, just unconscious from ether.

Without a single shot fired, the most crucial cargo was stolen: Wu Qingchen’s three years of middle school homework notebooks!

Hours later, at an abandoned dock in a coastal province, the coast guard intercepted a group of armed men “speaking with a variety of American accents” yet of “unknown nationality,” along with a “civilian” submarine decked out in “pure American equipment” but also of “unknown origin.”

The homework notebooks were recovered from the submarine. On their left: a top-tier laboratory scanner “recently stolen from America.” On their right: a world-class satellite transmission device, likewise “recently stolen.”

Or take a certain northern country.

Jiang County’s networks and communications were under strict surveillance, yet residents’ computers kept receiving bizarre pop-up chats all day long.

Their phones rang non-stop with calls from numbers displayed as gibberish.

On the other end, a heavily-accented speaker would immediately recite all the recipient’s personal details, their professionalism far surpassing even the slickest scam rings.

Their requests were simple:

“…No, please don’t hang up. Yes…I know you don’t know Wu Qingchen… Yes, I also know you’re not acquainted with his relatives. You’re in your bedroom, right? All you need to do is open your window and take a few photos.”

Yes, just take a few photos.

No need to worry about how to shoot, how to send, or to whom. The moment the phone was raised, the caller would say they’d already received the images, and politely inform the resident: the photos and call records had been deleted.

The service was impeccable!

As for payment?

“Do you want a satellite phone? A top-of-the-line computer? A sturdy truck? If you want cash, well, the economy’s rough… Will you take rubles? Or maybe an AK-47? RPGs? As many as you want! We’ll deliver to your door, guaranteed safe!”

Such generosity was terrifying, but no matter how Jiang County’s citizens set whitelists or blacklists, their phones kept ringing.

Even unpaid bills didn’t help; to ensure communications, these “foreign Good Samaritans” hacked the telecoms and topped up every Jiang County resident’s account with a jaw-dropping balance.

Even when those loopholes were closed, they brought their own base stations!

In the end, it took six burly armed police officers with a battering ram to break into a basement, only to find that the base station blocking the door, clunky and sparking, was still tirelessly broadcasting wilderness survival tips for trips to the Sino-Russian border to the residents of Jiang County!

Such was the state of affairs.

Every player showed their hand; all sorts of rogues displayed their magical skills. Yet, under the iron defense of the Chinese government, their harvest remained limited.

Now, in a world both ancient and modern, the newly promoted cattleman Mr. Wu Qingchen faced a brand new situation: the entire world craved any scrap of information about him.

What to do? Should American media simply copy Chinese reports? Of course! And they’d already started.

But if they didn’t add their own American voice, what would the public think? The senators? The President?

What if they couldn’t access Wu Qingchen’s real inner circle?

No problem—never underestimate the ingenuity of Western media!

With the largest Chinese community in the U.S., San Francisco led the way: “Exclusive Interview! Wu Qingchen as Seen by His College Desk Mate—the Son of God!”

Despite heavy makeup, the man comfortably chatting on camera seemed… not quite right. After all, asking a man nearing forty to play a newly graduated college student was a stretch.

But San Francisco TV hadn’t lied—this man truly had been Wu Qingchen’s desk mate.

It was just that their time sharing a desk was separated by twelve years—the same as their difference in graduating class.

Regions with fewer Chinese resources, like the Midwest, weren’t fazed. Cincinnati scored next: “Into the Mysterious East—Unique Medical Philosophies and Sanitation Practices!”

Had it not been for the overwhelming scent of curry on the guest, even the host might have believed he was presenting traditional Chinese medicine.

In areas where even finding an Asian face was difficult—especially in small towns with dreadful roads—the situation was dire.

“How’s it going? Where are they now?”

The channel director stared ahead, his assistant panting and shaking his head: “…No… not in time. At this hour… too much traffic… the police… can’t help either…”

The director’s face turned ashen before their eyes.

“Hey! Hey! Gentlemen, do something!” At the desk, the FBI agent banged his fist: “Only five minutes till airtime!”

“There’s nothing I can do!” The director clutched his hair in despair. “The only Asian face we could find is still twenty blocks away!”

“No, you must do it!” The FBI agent’s tone was as firm as the handcuffs on his belt, as determined as the National Guard’s M4A1 carbines outside the door.

Five minutes later, facing the hastily scribbled cue cards behind the camera, the channel director donned his jacket and went on himself, reading: “When I first arrived in the historic eastern city of Sichuan…”

——————

While strategists adjusted plans, spies stole data, governments maintained order, and the media scrambled to debunk and spread rumors—

On Earth, May 12, 2012, and in the ancient-modern world, February 8, Year One: Wu Qingchen, also known as Los, was about to dispatch his first batch of directly commanded labor—his cattle hands.