Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

Name, age, place of origin, ID number, when you came to Y city, what you came to Y city for, how you lost your ID card, where you lost it, and why you didn't reissue it.

Ma Xiaoming answered them one by one, his throat dry, and the person opposite him didn't even pour him a glass of water.

After asking the question, the uniformed man took out a thick stack of photos from his drawer and spread them on the table: "Take a look, see if you recognize anyone."

Ma Xiaoming looked down and saw hundreds of photos, including men and women, young and old, some resembling ID photos and others resembling surveillance screenshots.

Ma Xiaoming honestly identified them, but he didn't recognize any of them.

The uniformed man calmly took the photo back and left.

The second group wasn't in uniform, they were in civilian clothes, and they were very friendly. They offered him water and asked if he was hungry.

Then they started asking: Why do you work day labor? Have you missed home after being away for so long? Who are your relatives? Which friends were you close to when you were in school? Who do you usually borrow money from when you're in trouble?

As they chatted, as if suddenly remembering something, the man in casual clothes pulled a stack of photos from his briefcase and spread them on the table.

It was thicker than the previous stack, and the people in the photos were dressed in all sorts of different styles. Some looked like they were taken in an internet cafe, some looked like they were taken on the street, and a few were obviously cut from some kind of ID card.

Ma Xiaoming looked at each one one by one, and when he saw the last one, he still shook his head.

He smiled casually and put the photo away.

The third group came from an old man in his fifties with gray hair. He sat opposite him without a notebook or pen.

Then, slowly, they asked: "It's getting hot lately, do you keep the air conditioning on at night in the internet cafe?" "Ugh, these owners deserve a good scolding. Even the instant noodles they sell you are more expensive than outside, right? It's inconvenient not having an ID card, isn't it? Have you ever thought about buying it back from the person who bought your ID?" "Oh, sorry, I mixed up the records. This is the statement from the previous unlucky guy..."

The old man patted his forehead apologetically, then pulled out another stack of photos from his pocket and placed them on the table.

More than a hundred!

The angles were very random; some were taken on the street, some in stairwells, and some were so blurry that you could only make out the figures.

The old man laid out the photos one by one in front of Ma Xiaoming, gently pressing his fingers along the edges of the photos.

Ma Xiaoming lowered his head, looked at it once, then looked at it again, and then shook his head.

The old man looked at Ma Xiaoming for a while, patted him on the shoulder, and took the photo away.

In the days that followed, Ma Xiaoming lost count of how many places he was moved to.

From an unmarked small building to a guesthouse, and from the guesthouse to an internal dormitory of a certain unit, each transfer took place at night, and each time involved different vehicles, different people, and different rooms.

The rooms became more secluded each time, the number of guards increased each time, and the number of people questioning people increased each time.

The questions were becoming increasingly bizarre and incoherent. There was nothing Ma Xiaoming could do; he didn't watch many movies and didn't know that this was a technique of mixing important and unimportant questions in questioning, nor did he know what it meant to repeatedly compare testimonies, and he was even less aware that there was such a thing as a classified interrogation.

Ma Xiaoming only vaguely sensed that these people cared a lot about his interpersonal relationships, especially those men who were around his age, who asked him the most questions.

It seems... I just can't believe that I really don't have any friends in Y City.

The guards were becoming increasingly large.

Moving to a different location means more people, more eyes on you. Someone's watching you while you eat, you can't close the bathroom door properly, and if you turn over in bed at night, you'll hear footsteps in the hallway, as if your criminal gang might suddenly appear from the wall and rescue you. —At most, most likely, your ID card will be used for telecom fraud; it's unlikely they'd actually steal the property certificate for the tax bureau building, right?

The day I was released, the sky was overcast.

The door opened, and no one was holding him back. A middle-aged man stood at the end of the corridor and waved to him.

Ma Xiaoming walked over and handed him an envelope in plain clothes: "Live a good life from now on."

Ma Xiaoming took it, squeezed it, and found a small stack of money inside.

As they were leaving, the side door opened, and the old man who had questioned them the first time came out. This time, his eyes were sharp and clear: "Ma Xiaoming, it's good to be a good friend, but you also have to see if your friends are a good friend to you!"

They are free, but not completely free.

The next day, Ma Xiaoming went to find work.

It was the same street, the same real estate agents, but as soon as he reached the door, the agents waved him away.

They turned down the offer from another company.

When I walked across the street to the car wash, the owner was squatting at the door washing rags. He looked up at me, paused for a moment, and said that he didn't need anyone right now.

He tried to change jobs again, but the landlady glanced at him and said they were full. Ma Xiaoming clearly saw someone next to him had just finished registering!

There was only one place that didn't refuse him.

It was a job cleaning up trash. At the end of the street, next to an old factory, two people worked together, one with a broom and the other pushing a cart. Three steps behind them, a uniformed man squatted, supposedly supervising the site's sanitation, but in reality, his eyes never left their backs all day.

The work wasn't tiring, but it was dirty. I was covered in rotten vegetable leaves and coal ash. More importantly, my heart was always in my throat. I always felt like something was pressing against the back of my head, making me feel very uncomfortable.

Ma Xiaoming worked for one day, but didn't go back the next day. The feeling of having someone stare down the back of his neck was more unbearable than anything else.

On the third day, Ma Xiaoming had no choice but to go again.

There's no way around it; hunger is the most powerful driving force in the world.

A week later, Ma Xiaoming finally realized that this job was clearly tailor-made for him. There was never enough work to do. As soon as he finished cleaning one place, there would be another. As long as Ma Xiaoming went there, there was no garbage dump he couldn't find!

Someone else came looking for him.

One morning, Ma Xiaoming was squatting at the crossroads eating a steamed bun when a black car stopped in front of him.

The car window slowly rolled down, revealing the face he recognized—the same man in plain clothes who had handed money to Ma Xiaoming when he was released.

His expression was more relaxed than when we last met, and he even smiled slightly.

"Ma Xiaoming, get in the car."

Ma Xiaoming looked at the car, then at the steamed bun: "What are you doing?"

"I need to talk to you about something."

"Ask again?" Ma Xiaoming almost dropped his steamed bun.

"I won't ask..." The person who asked the question opened the car door, "Get in first, I'll treat you to dinner."

Ma Xiaoming hesitated for two seconds, then stuffed the remaining half of the bun into his mouth and climbed into the back seat.

The restaurant was elegant and clean. Monstera deliciosa was placed on the partition by the window, and the chopsticks were made of bamboo joints, which were smooth and rounded when held in the hand.

The person asking the question pushed the menu towards them: "Let's order."

Ma Xiaoming opened the menu, flipped through it twice, and didn't say a word: the cheapest cold black fungus salad, 55 yuan!

The person asking the question waited a while, then took the menu and read out the names of several dishes.

Ma Xiaoming counted silently, and when he got to the fifth question, he couldn't help but say, "That's enough, that's enough."

"That's enough. You eat steamed buns and instant noodles every day. At least have a proper meal to nourish yourself." The middle-aged man then made another soup.

The waiters brought out the dishes one by one, each plate steaming hot, the aroma filling the air.

Ma Xiaoming first picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks, chewed it twice, then picked up another piece. After that, he stopped talking and his chopsticks flew back and forth between the plates.

The middle-aged man smiled.

After Ma Xiaoming finished eating, he asked the other person what they wanted to ask.

The other party didn't ask any questions at all, and handed over a brand new ID card with both hands. Ma Xiaoming took it and saw that the photo was him, the address was his hometown, and the name was still the same three characters: Ma Xiaoming.

The middle-aged man leaned forward slightly, his tone soft and gentle, as if afraid of startling something: "Xiao Ming, from now on, live a good life, work hard, and come to us anytime if you need anything."

After a pause, the middle-aged man handed over another business card and continued, "Of course, if you remember anything... or if you suddenly want to contact any friend, just let us know anytime, anytime, no matter how late."

Ma Xiaoming took the business card, put his ID card in his pocket, and nodded weakly.

Then, everything suddenly relaxed.

In the morning, Ma Xiaoming walked through the street of labor agencies, and the first one asked him if he wanted to work.

The second shop owner stood up from his plastic stool, handed him a cigarette, and said, "Brother, how have you been lately? Are you feeling alright?"

A job posting was displayed at the entrance of a steamed bun shop on the street corner, offering a monthly salary of 3,000 yuan, room and board provided, and four days off per month.

The electric vehicle repair shop in the alley is now paying apprentices. For the first three months, they get 2,200 yuan a month, plus meals.

Ma Xiaoming walked away regretfully: he only had 50 yuan in his pocket, not enough to last until payday.

"New regulations, new regulations, come and listen up."

A dozen or so sorting workers sparsely gathered around.

The safety officer stood next to the conveyor belt, holding up a laminated sheet with the "Y City Flexible Employment Labor Protection Rules" printed on it.

He read it not very fluently, but very seriously: every 45 minutes of work requires a mandatory 15-minute break, during which the conveyor belt is powered off, and no one may ask the worker to continue working for any reason; the maximum daily working hours are four hours, and any overtime will be paid at double the hourly rate, and the worker must give written consent; all sorting workers must wear back supports, which are provided free of charge by the sorting center.

After reading the last rule, the safety officer stuck the plastic wrap on the wall, took out a stack of back braces from a cardboard box next to him, and distributed them one by one.

Ma Xiaoming took it, flipped it over and looked at it. It was very wide and thick, and the Velcro made a dull ripping sound when it was torn open.

"Put them on, everyone," the safety officer said as he handed them out. "No one is allowed to go online without them."

I'll just wear it; it won't make a difference how much weight it adds.

As the conveyor belt started turning, Ma Xiaoming habitually bent over, his waist being steadily supported. There was support when he bent down and a spring when he straightened up.

Old Liu, who worked at the next workstation, was an acquaintance of his; they had sorted together several times before. He nudged Old Liu's shoulder with his elbow and asked, "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Ma Xiaoming glanced at the labor protection regulations on the wall: "Not bad."

It felt like we'd only been working for a short while when all the lights flashed at once.

The next moment, the rumbling sound suddenly stopped, and the entire sorting center fell silent.

Forty-five minutes later, the power was forcibly cut off.

The safety officer's whistle blew: "Everyone down, come down! Go to the break room and get some water!"

Ma Xiaoming entered the lounge for the first time.

The room was very large, and there were three water dispensers: one for hot water, one for cold water, and one for room temperature water.

On the shelf next to it were stacks of disposable paper cups, two cans of instant coffee, and a box of tea bags.

Old Liu stood in front of the water dispenser for a long time, then made himself a cup of coffee. He took a sip, hissing as it was scalding hot, but still took another sip: "Damn it, before, they wouldn't even let us drink water for ten hours straight, and now they cut off the power after forty-five minutes, and they still give us coffee, tsk tsk tsk..."

Ma Xiaoming leaned against the wall and drank the warm water in the paper cup sip by sip. As the water flowed down his throat, he remembered his first time at the sorting center two months ago. He had only drunk water once during the ten hours he worked there, and that was when the safety officer went to the toilet.

During the second break, Lao Liu didn't drink coffee; instead, he stood at the window of the lounge and looked out.

A van was parked in the open space of the factory outside the window, and several workers were unloading the goods.

Old Liu watched for a while, then suddenly said, "See? It's not just us who feel relaxed."

Ma Xiaoming followed his gaze.

The workers at the unloading dock were also taking a break, sitting in twos and threes on the platform. Some had cigarettes in their mouths but hadn't lit them, while others leaned against cement pillars in a daze.

In the past, the unloading area was always bustling with activity. As soon as one box was unloaded, the next one would arrive. If you were slow, the boxes would pile up, and you would get yelled at.

In the evening, Ma Xiaoming left the construction site. Halfway there, the driver suddenly asked, "Should we stop at the convenience store up ahead? Anyone want to buy something?"

Back at the internet cafe entrance, after getting out of the car, Ma Xiaoming clutched two 120s in his hand, one from the sorting center and the other from the construction site.

The two together only took eight hours!

This was also the first time that Ma Xiaoming's legs didn't shake, his back didn't ache, and he didn't feel like he had risked his life for the money after finishing the work.

Standing at the entrance of the internet cafe, the familiar smell of smoke wafted out from under the door. Someone pushed open the glass door to light a cigarette, and the sound of keyboards clattering and game character voices could be heard the moment the door opened.

After standing at the door for about half a minute, Ma Xiaoming hesitated for a moment, then turned and left.

He found a small hotel three blocks away.

The door opened, revealing a single bed in the room with white sheets and fluffy pillows. The window faced east, and the light from the streetlamp shone through the gaps in the curtains.

The bathroom wasn't very big, but it was very clean. Ma Xiaoming stood under the showerhead for a long time.

Hot water soaked my scalp, flowed over my shoulders, and ran over my heels, carrying away the dust and the not-so-obvious fatigue.

Turning off the water, Ma Xiaoming stood barefoot on the cooled floor tiles, looked down at his toes, which were white and a little wrinkled, but clean.

He hadn't seen his feet so clean in a long time.

After taking a shower, Ma Xiaoming left the room and went into the internet cafe:

"Open the package for the night: a pack of classic instant noodles, a bottle of iced tea, a cup of instant noodles with ham and a braised egg, and a 50-yuan pack of Hecheng Tianxia instant noodles!"

155 Fog Hill

Lin Xiaotang felt like she was going to die any second.

To be precise, Lin Xiaotang had been in this "I'm going to die any second" state for almost two days.

Her consciousness was like an unstable light bulb, flickering on and off. Every time she sank down, she felt that it was going to go out, but she didn't know which nerve in her body was still holding on, always pulling her back at the last moment.