Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

That person said what would happen to the country if nothing was done. He then asked the other person, "Where did you get this premonition?"

That person said, "I can't explain it clearly, but I believe it."

He didn't ask any further questions at the time.

He could tell if someone had that sparkle in their eyes. He'd seen too many people, those whose eyes shone with light in their youth, and how that light gradually faded. He'd signed countless files on people like that.

He had genuinely admired some people, and even personally promoted others—but in the end, they all became the same, things he had to deal with himself.

He'd been in that position for fifteen years, meeting more idealists than bottles of vodka. But these two young men stayed in Uzbekistan for over three months. Rashidov's men offered them 8,000 rubles, which they confiscated; they offered 20,000, which they also refused. Later, the group lured them into a warehouse with iron bars, and after they escaped, they continued their investigation. They were followed, threatened, and reported to the police, but received no explanation—they were still investigating.

He read their weekly briefings. The language became increasingly harsh, but the thinking became clearer. Initially, the goal was to catch a few corrupt officials, then the focus shifted to the quotas themselves, and finally to Moscow.

The path they were walking was the same one he had walked twenty years ago, except that he had learned to keep quiet and do his thing.

Let's leave the league with some hope.

He picked up the receiver: "Listen."

The other end immediately responded, "Yes."

"Notify all our personnel along the Uzbek border to take immediate action. The reason—" He paused, "is a major case of American espionage. The suspect was attacked by unidentified individuals at number 17 in the eastern suburbs of Fergana, and a large amount of foreign intelligence material was found at the scene. In accordance with Article 7 of the Regulations Governing the Security Agencies of the Union, our department is taking direct control of this case!"

"understand!"

"Move the nearest special operations unit immediately. I need people to arrive on the scene within at least fifteen minutes. Clear the area, cut phone lines, authorize the use of force—I need survivors! And I need the data!"

"Yes."

"There's one more thing." "Please advise."

"A telegram was sent to the KGB branch in Uzbekistan. The wording was as follows: Authorized by the Central Committee, I have direct jurisdiction over the Fergana incident. All local security departments must cooperate and must not obstruct it. Signed my name."

There was a pause on the other end: "Comrade Chairman, if Comrade Rashidov's side—"

“He won’t call Comrade Brezhnev,” Andropov said. “Not today. He won’t have time today. The telephone lines and communications network are in our hands. By the time he realizes what’s happening, he’ll already be on the plane.”

"clear."

"Also, we need to send a medical team over to the wounded as soon as possible."

He hung up the phone. The sunlight outside the window had already slanted onto the wall, casting a long shadow of the bronze statue. He sat back down in his chair, opened the drawer, took out a small bottle of pills, swallowed two, and then picked up the glass of cold tea and took a sip.

The documents on the table were still spread out, including things like Gdansk, Poland, Solidarity, and a whole host of other miscellaneous tasks weighing on him.

------

"Cough cough!"

The smoke grew thicker and thicker; they had already covered their faces with soaked towels, but they were still choking. The fire downstairs had spread to the third floor, and the heat could be felt even through the floor.

“Fifteen minutes have passed, Director Nian,” his voice was hoarse and didn’t sound like his own, “If they can’t be saved—”

"They can be saved."

"I said what if they can't be saved?"

Director Nian didn't respond, but instead pulled him further into the corner, making him stay away from the heat source.

“You’re the system’s daughter, so I think you definitely won’t die.” Slava closed her eyes. “If you can still go up to see the instructor—no, I should say I’m missing out on seeing my mentor since I died in a foreign land, if you can see the instructor, tell him that I did some good deeds in my life.”

"Shut up."

“I’m serious. I’ve been a coward for half my life. Before I transmigrated, I didn’t say a word when my boss pressured me, and I didn’t dare to ask for my salary back when it was docked. I finally bought an SUV and the community was concerned about me every day. Do I look like the kind of person who would take revenge on society? Haha, at least I did some good things before I left.” Slava said in a breathy voice.

"Phew... Even though I didn't join the Party, at least I've done my duty to the Party and the people..."

"Shut up." Director Nian gritted his teeth. "If you say another word like that, I'll shoot you dead myself."

Slava smiled, which aggravated his wound, causing him to gasp in pain. The gunmen outside were still firing sporadically, bullets flying in through the windows and embedding themselves in the walls and furniture. The smell of fire and gunpowder mingled throughout the room.

I don't know how much time passed—maybe ten minutes, maybe longer—but the gunfire outside suddenly intensified. At first, it came from the back wall, a continuous barrage of bangs, sounding like they weren't being fired at them, but rather like two sides were shooting at each other.

Then downstairs, there was another burst of short, rapid gunfire, like machine guns, and it sounded like helicopter rotors.

“I told you we weren’t meant to die, bro!” Director Nian chuckled and poked Slava’s thigh, but received no response.

"Slava!"

"Slava!!"

Interlude: I'm back from down there. Are you surprised?

Slava woke up amidst a jolt.

Or rather, he felt he was awake. His consciousness was like being submerged in warm water, half-submerged and half-floating, seeing everything through a layer of frosted glass. Fortunately, he felt no pain in his body, and his right arm no longer hurt, as if the bullet had never existed.

He was in the back seat of a beat-up Lada.

The car was old; the leather seats were cracked, revealing yellowed foam underneath. There was a crack in the windshield, the wipers were crooked, and the gauges on the dashboard were motionless, making it impossible to discern which number they were pointing to. It seemed like someone was sitting in the driver's seat, but he couldn't make out the person's face; he could only feel the steering wheel slowly turning.

"Splash—"

The vehicle slowed down, and a file folder suddenly slipped from his hand. He picked it up immediately—the kraft paper was quite old, with a crease at one corner. He wanted to see what was inside, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate, and he couldn't open it no matter how hard he tried.

He gave up and turned to look at the vast cornfield outside the car window. The endless corn stalks were taller than a person, stretching densely towards the horizon. The sky was an indescribable color, neither like day nor dusk, as if someone had shattered time and scattered it on it.

"Hey!" It sounded like someone was calling him from outside.

A man stood by the roadside. He was short and stout, bald, wearing a wrinkled white shirt, his trousers rolled up above his knees, and his shoes covered in mud. He held a golden corncob high in one hand and waved the other hand vigorously towards the cars, his mouth open as if shouting something, but nothing could be heard through the car windows.

The car didn't stop; instead, it sped past. Slava watched the short, stout figure grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, still holding the ear of corn, until it finally disappeared at the edge of the cornfield.

The car stopped in front of an old hotel.

The hostel was a typical two-story building common in the Soviet countryside, its exterior painted with a layer of light green paint that had mostly peeled off. Moss grew on the roof, and several panes of glass in the windows were broken and patched up with newspaper. An old elm tree stood by the entrance, its large canopy shading half the yard. A wooden sign hung crookedly on the doorframe, the writing blurred; Slava squinted at it for a long time but still couldn't decipher what it said.

"Click!"

The car door opened automatically. No one told him to get off, but he knew he should.

Slava stepped onto the ground with the file folder in his hand. The soil was soft, and the air smelled of old books mixed with tobacco. He sniffed and walked towards the inn.

There was a man in the corridor. He was very tall, extremely tall, at least 1.89 meters. He wore a gray-blue Zhongshan suit, buttoned all the way up to the top, the collar completely closed. He had broad shoulders and stood there like an unmoving wall. He was leaning against the wooden railing of the corridor, looking into the distance. One of his hands was behind his back, his posture relaxed.

The man turned around at the sound of footsteps. Although his face was still obscured, he waved to Slava casually, as if inviting a junior to dinner.

Slava stood there, nodding absentmindedly, and for some reason, tears suddenly streamed down her face.

He didn't know why he was crying. He couldn't see the person's face clearly, nor was he sure who the person was, but his tears just kept falling uncontrollably, streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the brown paper of the file folder, leaving dark dots.

The tall man didn't speak, but simply stood there waiting for him. Then Slava wiped his eyes with his sleeve, took a deep breath, and walked towards the inn's entrance. As he passed the man, he caught a faint smell of chili peppers mixed with tobacco.

...

The door was pushed open, and Slava then realized that the space inside was much larger than he had imagined.

A long table stood in the foyer, piled high with documents, books, rolled-up maps, several ink bottles, and a paper cutter. Behind the table sat a short man, wearing a dark vest and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his thin forearms. He rested one hand on his forehead, while the other held a pen and wrote on something.

A huge world map lay open in front of him, its edges weighed down by several thick books. The man was slightly bald, with the remaining hair short, and his beard was neatly trimmed, complete with a small goatee. His face was obscured, but he was like a machine that never stopped, constantly radiating an aura of battle.

When the man heard Slava enter, he looked up and reached out his hand, indicating that Slava should give him something.

Slava glanced down at the file folder in his hand, hesitated for a moment, and then handed it over. The man took the folder, opened it, and pulled out a piece of paper—it looked like a resume, with a photo and text on it, but he couldn't make out what was written. The words seemed to be floating on the paper, never quite coming together.

The man looked at the paper, then at Slava, and placed it on top of the stack of documents on the table. He then pointed towards the interior of the inn, indicating that he should go in.

Slava had no luggage, so he had to walk in empty-handed.

There was an old-fashioned black-and-white television in the living room, showing some program. The picture was blurry and emitted a hissing static. Slava could only hear some indistinct voices and music. A man was lying on the sofa watching TV. He was wearing a well-tailored light-colored suit, had a stocky build, and his hair was combed back. One of his hands was resting on the armrest of the sofa, and he was wearing a large ring on his finger.

Two people were sitting on the bed opposite the sofa. One was very thin, wearing a dark suit, and appeared to be of East Asian build. He used many gestures when he spoke, spoke very quickly, and used Japanese, which Slava could not understand.

The man sitting opposite him was even thinner, as thin as a bamboo pole. He wore a simple, earthy-yellow shirt, and had a sparse goatee on his chin. He sat there smiling, occasionally interjecting a word. Slava couldn't understand a word they were discussing, but he could sense that the thin man was anxious, while the bamboo pole-like man was calm.

Slava walked past them, and no one noticed him.

Further inside was a study with a fireplace. The fireplace was not lit, and the walls were lined with bookshelves, crammed full. Slava saw that the spines of the books were printed with text in various languages: German, French, English, Chinese, and some others he didn't recognize. There was an old-fashioned ceiling fan on the ceiling, creaking and turning, blowing very little air.

A bearded man leaned back in a leather armchair, dozing with his eyes closed. He was very burly, with a thick head of white hair and a large beard covering his entire chest, the ends of which swayed slightly in the breeze from the ceiling fan. He wore a dark coat, and an open book lay on his lap, its pages turning unnoticed by the fan. On the small table beside him sat a cup of cold coffee and a half-smoked cigar.

On the other side of the study, near the window, there was a foosball table, and two people were playing it.

One was a woman, not very tall, with brown curly hair cascading over her shoulders, wearing a dark long dress with simple cuffs and collar. Her movements were very serious, each turn of the lever carrying a sense of competition. Standing on the other side of the table was a man, tall and thin, wearing an olive green military uniform and a black beret pulled low over his head.

He had a thick beard on his chin, and while playing ball, he would have an unlit cigar in his mouth. Every time he scored a goal, he would take the cigar out of his mouth, wave it twice at the other side, and laugh silently.

The woman wasn't annoyed when the ball was scored on; she pursed her lips, scooped it out, and put it back. When she saw Slava coming, she even waved to him.

Slava stood at the study door for a while. The bearded old man turned over in his chair and continued to sleep. The sound of the football hitting the table was crisp in the quiet room.

He continued walking inside. The wooden stairs were narrow and creaked as he stepped on them.

The second floor was much quieter than the first floor. At the end of the corridor was a window, through which dim light shone in, making the dust on the floor appear as individual specks.

In the corner sat a chair, where a Slavic man was sitting: he wore a gray-green military uniform, the buttons neatly fastened, and a belt around his waist. He wasn't tall, but he had a heavy presence, like a piece of iron placed there that no one could move.

He held a pipe in one hand, from which thin wisps of white smoke were rising, and his other hand rested on the armrest. His fingers were short, and his nails were neatly trimmed.

His face was obscured, but Slava could sense that he was looking at him.

The man slowly stood up and walked up to Slava, then patted Slava's shoulder twice with the hand that held the pipe.

Then he spoke up: "Young comrade, now is not the time for you to come here."

He patted it again.

"You did a good job, go back now."

Slava turned and walked downstairs in a daze. As he walked down from the second floor, every person he passed would stop what they were doing and say something to him.

The beret-wearing man playing table football put down the joystick and nodded at him.

"Dying is easy, young man. But to live and make a difference, that takes real skill."

The brown-haired woman next to him didn't say anything, but simply came out from behind the table, shook his hand briefly, and then let go.

The white-bearded old man in the armchair had woken up sometime earlier. He picked up the cigar, twirled it between his fingers, and said something in Russian with a heavy German accent.

“I was only responsible for writing the theory, and later generations used my theory as a blueprint to build their countries. Unfortunately, the countries betrayed the theory, and you will face this moment in the future.” He coughed. “It’s not entirely my fault, but it’s not entirely my fault either.”

He waved his hand, signaling Slava to continue walking.

The person who had been lounging on the sofa watching TV in the living room sat up, gestured with their chin towards him, and said something in a heavy accent, like a mix of Serbian and Russian. Slava didn't understand, but the tone was relaxed, as if they were saying something like, "Have a safe trip."

The two people sitting on the bed discussing stopped. The thinner one bowed to him, a very proper Japanese bow, and then said something in Japanese. The stick-like man simply smiled.

"Young man, live well. Living itself is a revolution. We are all waiting for you."

Slava walked into the foyer.

The man behind the table was still there; he had finished reading Slava's resume and was now stamping it with a small bronze seal. He was working very carefully, pressing the seal firmly with his palm afterward to ensure the imprint was clear.

He looked up, nodded to Slava, and put the stamped document back on top of the stack of documents.

"Your seat has been reserved, but don't rush over, we're all watching." He pointed to the television.

Slava took the file bag and tried to see what kind of stamp it had, but he still couldn't make it out.

He walked out the door.

The tall man in the Zhongshan suit was still there in the corridor. He was no longer looking into the distance; he had turned around, crossed his arms, and leaned against the railing. The sun was already setting, which made his figure appear even larger in the twilight. Standing there at 1.9 meters tall, even the corridor pillars seemed shorter.

Slava stopped in front of him.

The man was silent for a moment, then spoke to him in Mandarin with a Hunan accent:

"You're quite an interesting young man."

He reached out and tapped Slava's chest with his thick fingers.

"You look a lot like someone, really a lot like someone."

He withdrew his hands and hugged them to his chest again.

“He’s been dealt with by me three times, and each time it was pretty bad. But every time he’s managed to get back up—but,” the man’s tone changed, becoming a bit somber, “you have to learn from his mistakes too. I have my faults, and he has his. Don’t just learn from his strengths, but also see his weaknesses. Don’t just look at my mistakes, but also think about why I made those mistakes.”

He paused for a moment.

"Remember, history is not black and white, and neither are people."

Slava stood there, his eyes welling up again. He opened his mouth, finally managing to ask a question, his voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Who are you waiting for?

The person turned around and leaned against the railing again, looking at the indistinct scenery in the distance.

“The person I’m waiting for,” he said, “won’t arrive for seventeen years.”