Taoist priest goes to America

When Ang Lee woke up, sunlight was already streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, drawing a thin golden line on the dark blue fabric and falling onto the pillow.

He opened his eyes and saw the air conditioner unit still humming beside the apocalyptic puppet.

He stared at the golden light on the ceiling for a few seconds, then closed his eyes.

He hadn't had such a sound sleep in a long time.

During those years in the fantasy world, he slept on the floor of a dilapidated Taoist temple, on rocks in a mountain cave, and on coffin boards in a mortuary. He rarely slept on a decent bed.

Before closing his eyes each time, he had to set up several rune arrays around him, and leave a thin line of spiritual energy between the rune arrays. As long as anything got close, that line would vibrate and pull him out of his sleep.

He never slept for more than two hours at a time, rarely waking up naturally. Most of the time, he was awakened by the vibrations of the talisman array or by the roars of wild beasts coming from afar. Later, his body got used to it, and he would automatically open his eyes after a certain amount of time, check his surroundings to make sure it was safe, and then close his eyes again.

But last night was different. Last night he just put the gun under his pillow, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

After sleeping for seven hours, feeling very comfortable, Li An turned over and kicked the blanket aside.

He reached out and picked up his phone from the bedside table; the time was 9:47 AM. Li An put down his phone and buried his face in the pillow. The pillowcase was cotton and smelled of laundry detergent, completely different from the pillows in the Taoist temple that had been damp for decades.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then sat up and put his feet on the carpet.

The carpet was dark brown and a bit rough on his feet. He stretched, and his shoulder bones cracked twice, as did his back.

Ang Lee stood up, went into the bathroom, and turned on the tap.

The faucet had unstable water pressure; it hissed a few times before water finally flowed out, the temperature just right—neither too hot nor too cold. He unwrapped a disposable towel and toothbrush, washed his face, and brushed his teeth.

He dried his face with a towel and glanced at himself in the mirror. The bloodshot in the whites of his eyes had lessened considerably. He blinked at himself in the mirror, then turned and walked out of the bathroom.

The Taoist robe was still draped over the back of the chair; it was already dry. He put on the robe, then took the puppet string from the bedside table, hung it on his belt, and tucked the Glock back into his waistband.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor were still flashing. He went down the stairs, pushed open the hotel door, and found that the sunlight outside was much brighter than he had imagined.

Ang Lee squinted and then turned into a small restaurant next to the hotel.

The restaurant's sign was blue and read "Diner." A bell rang as I pushed open the glass door. Inside, there were six or seven booths, where several Black men in work clothes sat, eating breakfast with their heads down.

The air was filled with the aroma of fried bacon and toast, as well as the scent of coffee that had been brewing for a long time.

Ang Lee sat down at the bar, in front of him was a white plastic countertop with a row of condiment bottles: ketchup, salt, and pepper.

A white woman in an apron came out of the kitchen carrying a pot of coffee. She poured Ang Lee a cup; the steaming coffee dripped a few drops onto the coaster.

Ang Lee said thank you, and she nodded, taking out a small notebook from her apron pocket to write down: "What do you want to eat?"

Ang Lee glanced at the menu board on the wall, which read "Breakfast available all day" and listed a row of dishes below.

He casually ordered a few things: two fried eggs, crispy bacon, roasted potato chunks, and two slices of white toast. The woman wrote down the order and turned to go into the kitchen.

Ang Lee picked up his coffee and took a sip. The coffee was hot and bitter, with a slightly burnt aftertaste, like the flavor of cheap coffee beans, but it was delicious.

He took another sip, then pulled his iPhone out of his pocket. The screen was dim in the morning light, so he turned the brightness up to the maximum and opened the browser.

Breakfast was served. The fried egg had a runny yolk that broke easily with a fork, letting the orange yolk flow out and seep into the gaps between the potato chunks. The bacon was fried to a crisp, making a crunchy sound when you bit into it, and its salty and savory flavor filled your mouth.

The potato chunks were fried until golden brown on the outside and soft and tender on the inside, then sprinkled with paprika and a pinch of salt.

The toast was toasted to perfection and spread with butter. The butter melted on the hot toast and seeped into the holes of the bread.

He ate his breakfast clean, even using toast to spread the small amount of parsley on the edge of his plate.

The browser's homepage was full of news articles, with the first headline in large, bold red: "Brooklyn Villa Bombing: Suspected Gang Fight, Multiple Deaths."

The accompanying aerial photo shows a white Victorian building that has collapsed on one side, with the roof caved in, all the windows on the second floor shattered, and the exterior walls blackened by smoke.

Seven or eight fire trucks and police cars were parked in the yard, and yellow police tape cordoned off the entire estate. The news headline read: "A violent explosion occurred at a private villa on Lyndon Avenue in Queens in the early hours of the morning."

Police found multiple bodies at the scene, their identities yet to be confirmed. Reports indicate the villa belongs to the family of a prominent local politician. Police stated they are not ruling out the possibility of a deliberate bombing and are conducting further investigations.

Ang Lee scrolled down. The second news item was a video with the title:

"A Brooklyn bus caught fire late at night, and multiple skeletal remains were found inside." The video, taken by a passerby on their phone, is shaky, but clearly shows a B15 bus parked on the side of the road in the early morning hours, completely engulfed in flames, with black smoke rising into the air, and fire hoses spraying water into the windows.

The news article stated: "Early this morning, a B15 bus caught fire near Flatbush Avenue. The 911 fire department responded to the scene, extinguished the fire, and found multiple bodies inside the bus."

Police stated that the identity of the deceased and the cause of death are under investigation. They do not rule out a connection to the previous villa bombing, suggesting it may be an attack carried out by an unknown terrorist group in various locations.

Ang Lee glanced at the news article, then locked the screen and placed his phone face down on the table. His coffee was still steaming; after finishing it, he got a refill.

He leaned back in his chair and pulled out the new pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his sleeve pocket, which he had bought the night before at the grocery store next to the bus stop.

He pulled one out and put it in his mouth, not ordering it at the breakfast shop, just holding it in his mouth.

Ang Lee took the phone, went to the front desk to pay, opened the door and went out.

The sunlight outside the window grew brighter, shining on the window of the grocery store across the street, the glass reflecting a blinding light.

The streets started to get busier; some people were walking their dogs, some were pushing strollers, and some were carrying shopping bags as they came out of the supermarket.

Ang Lee lit a Marlboro cigarette and slowly walked back to the hotel.

Back at the hostel, the receptionist was still the same middle-aged man in a polo shirt. He had changed into a blue one, and his hair was combed, making him look much more energetic, but he was still yawning.

As Ang Lee walked past the counter, the middle-aged man was also watching the news report on TV, muttering complaints as he watched. He said that things had been so unsettled lately, with strange things happening one after another...

Meanwhile, on a highway bordering Brooklyn and Queens, a gray sedan was slowly driving in the afternoon sun.

Qiguer sat in the driver's seat, his hands on the steering wheel; he had been driving for a full day and night. He had set off early last night and had barely stopped until nearly noon.