Chapter Zero: The Origin of Everything
December 23, 2021.
107 Plank Street, South District, Altoona City, Pennsylvania, M Country.
On the wall of a typical American-style, red-brick, three-story commercial building hung a sign: White Bull Information Network Services Company.
7:30 AM.
Tommy Blanco, ID badge around his neck and a Starbucks cup in hand, walked into the office—just like any ordinary office worker.
"How's the situation?" Tommy placed his backpack on his seat and glanced at the several screens mounted on the wall.
The colleague on duty shrugged, idly twirling a pen. "All normal."
Tommy sat down, his expression unchanged. He took a sip of his coffee and stared at the screens on the wall for a moment.
Three different split screens displayed real-time satellite images. Though the feeds were separate, they all focused on the same area.
A target in international waters was being monitored in real-time by three different satellites.
Tommy stared at the screens for about a minute before sitting down and flipping through the shift's monitoring log.
"You know..." His colleague approached, leaning on the back of Tommy's chair and sighing. "How much longer do we have to do this? I've been here for three years already."
Tommy turned to look at his young colleague and smiled. "Isn't this job good? High salary, great benefits, all insurance paid for, and regular hours. I hope this job lasts forever—you really should see what a mess the world outside has become."
The colleague muttered reluctantly, "I didn't take an early discharge from the fucking Navy to come here and waste my life on boring shit like this."
Tommy sighed, touching his slightly graying hair. "When you get to my age, you'll understand just how precious a stable job is."
·
White Bull Information Network Services Company.
On paper, it seemed like a very ordinary information processing company. Its scope of business included information consulting, data processing, and providing network setup solutions, among other things.
According to municipal records, the company had operated smoothly for eight years. Its finances and tax records were so spotless that not even the vultures at the IRS could find fault.
Of course, Tommy knew these pristine and unremarkable accounts were actually the handiwork of those same vultures.
In reality, White Bull Information Network Services Company was just a front.
Its true identity was a clandestine monitoring agency subordinate to the CIA at Langley Headquarters.
The surveillance team, including Tommy, consisted of eleven professionally trained surveillance and information analysis personnel, along with four armed security guards transferred from the military.
They also had the authority to access six satellites for monitoring at any time, and a floor of water-cooled, high-density servers hidden in the building's basement for information analysis and processing. Furthermore, they had "red" clearance to access the federal government's top-security information network at any moment.
Eight years ago, on the company's first day.
Tommy Blanco, freshly transferred from a CIA intelligence analysis department, watched as the new surveillance team's boss stood before him. The boss pointed one finger at his own eye and another at the monitor, roaring with such ferocity that spit nearly flew into Tommy's face.
"We only have one job!
All members will work in three rotating shifts, with time-shared access to six satellites for monitoring!
Our sole objective: watch that damn guy!
Watch him like a hawk!!
Ensure no blind spots, no dead angles, 24/7, 365 days a year! Watch him like a hawk!! This isn't just my demand! It's an order from Langley Headquarters; it's an order from the White House!"
·
Yes, watch that guy like a hawk.
To be precise: the target was in an area of international waters, centered on specific coordinates, with a radius not exceeding two hundred nautical miles.
According to orders, the target was a boat, and on that boat was a man... This man, and this boat, had to remain within this designated area. They were absolutely, absolutely, absolutely not allowed to leave this zone. Otherwise...
Back then, Tommy, new to the job, couldn't help but ask his superior, "What if he gets out?"
He remembered how his ferocious-looking superior had suddenly paused, a strange glint in his eyes.
"Let's pray that terrifying event never happens."
·
Eight years. 2,894 days and nights. 69,456 hours.
Tommy had been in Altoona City, monitoring the target.
And fortunately, the situation his boss had dreaded had never occurred.
Yet, after eight years...
Monitoring a ship perpetually sailing in circles in the same spot.
Would anyone believe such a thing?
·
What Tommy Blanco also didn't know was that, besides M Country, intelligence organizations from over six other nations and regional alliances worldwide had established similar units on the very same night eight years prior.
Their objective and mission were identical: watch this ship!
·
Tommy swallowed the last sip of his coffee, tossed the paper cup into the trash can, and glanced at the time.
8:01 AM.
In less than ten minutes, he would begin his 69,457th hour with this company.
He stretched subconsciously and took another look at the screen on the wall.
On the screen, the marker representing the ship was moving.
Seems a bit fast? Tommy couldn't help but rub his eyes, wondering if he was seeing things.
Moreover, the target's trajectory was bringing it dangerously close to the critical boundary of the 200-nautical-mile surveillance radius!
Tommy's mouth fell open.
A few seconds later, as the ship's marker on the screen finally touched the critical boundary line...
Tommy shot up as if electrocuted, his face a mask of terror.
"WTF!!!"
Tommy instantly felt blood rush to his head... as if his eight years of work had all been leading up to this very moment.
At that moment, Tommy, a civilian intelligence officer, was too stunned to process much else. Beyond the shock, there was even an almost absurd, comical feeling rising in his heart.
...It actually, really, happened?
Tommy snapped back to reality, frantically snatching the phone from his desk and slamming a button.
"Boss, we have a situation."
"What?" came his boss's voice from the phone.
Tommy swallowed, his voice a bit hoarse. "Red alert."
An angry curse came from the other end—it sounded like his boss had spilled coffee.
·
Four minutes later, in an office at Langley Headquarters, a grim-faced middle-aged man picked up a phone. After listening, he silently put it down and cursed, "WTF!"
Eight minutes later, in the largest office in the White House, an elderly white man picked up a phone. After listening, he too couldn't help but curse, "WTF!"
·
「Three hours after the "red alert" had sounded.」
Roni Hill Island, a British Territory in the South Pacific.
In front of a local shop on the hillside.
A middle-aged man in a hoodie was sitting on a rock, smoking.
The middle-aged man sat on the rock, looking down the hill. He watched until a silver yacht slowly pulled away from the pier, then lit another cigarette.
But after just one puff, he began to cough violently.
The middle-aged man, however, seemed unconcerned. He turned and waved at a vendor sitting beside a nearby fruit stall.
The vendor seemed to hesitate.
"Alright, come over," the middle-aged man said with a frown, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He sighed. "And tell your people to show themselves."
The vendor seemed to hesitate for a moment but finally gritted his teeth, slowly stood up, and walked over.
As he walked, he removed his jacket, revealing a tactical vest underneath. He also made two gestures.
One was to signal his companions to emerge. The other was to raise his hands high, showing he had no hostile intent.
Centered on the middle-aged man, groups of fully armed soldiers quickly emerged from the bushes and the hillside behind them, at the nine o'clock and three o'clock positions.
The middle-aged man took a look around and whistled. "Six tactical teams. Anything else?"
The vendor slowly approached him. "We also have four snipers covering this position. A Navy submarine is on standby nearby. On my command, your boat won't get far. We'll sink it!"
The middle-aged man laughed, even gesturing towards his own distant ship. "Go on then. Give the order to sink it."
Vendor: "..."
The middle-aged man scornfully curled his lips. "Put away those boring threats. You small fries don't have the authority to issue such an order."
"You shouldn't have broken the agreement; you stepped out of the safe zone we agreed on!" The vendor's face darkened. "Langley Headquarters and the White House are very unhappy about this."
The middle-aged man shook his head. "Then let those unhappy bastards go to hell. Now, let me talk to someone who can actually make the decisions."
The vendor gritted his teeth, turned, and took out a satellite phone. He whispered a few words into it, unconsciously straightening his posture, then turned back and, with a complex expression, handed the phone over.
The middle-aged man took the phone, a cigarette between his fingers.
His eyes were on the distant coastline, his expression seemingly nonchalant.
"Hello, Mr. President… uh-huh… uh-huh… Hey! Stop cussing! … Keep it up and I'll cuss right back!"
The middle-aged man, smoking as he spoke on the phone, said, "Every agreement has an expiration date. I've given M Country enough face these past eight years at sea. Now, I just want to feel soil under my feet and smoke a cigarette. That's all."
"…There's no need to beat around the bush. You know my medical condition perfectly well. Your people inspect every potato my ship procures, don't they? You're also well aware of the medication I regularly use. Your medical experts must have deduced the deterioration of my condition and the progression of my illness, haven't they?"
"So, let's make a deal. Yes, one last time!"
"The sixteen nuclear weapons I stole from you will all be neutralized. All detonation procedures will automatically be canceled in three months. My demand is simple: for three months, you are not to take any action to pursue my people.
My people will go underwater and then disappear from this world completely."
"That's my final offer. If you accept, we can remotely pop some champagne to celebrate. If not… BOOM! A nuclear detonation on home soil. Exciting, isn't it?"
The middle-aged man held the phone slightly away from his ear, as if to muffle the furious shouting coming from the other end.
The middle-aged man listened with a smile, then his expression turned serious. "Alright, stop banging the table. Save that act for Congress. I'm only asking you one thing now: do we have a deal, Mr. President?
If we have a deal, have your dogs send over a decent bottle of champagne right now, so we can celebrate our successful cooperation."
The phone went quiet. The middle-aged man spoke softly into the receiver for a few more moments, then handed the phone back to the vendor.
After taking the phone and listening for a moment, the vendor hung up with a complex expression.
Shortly thereafter, a bottle of champagne was delivered.
The vendor opened it personally, but the middle-aged man tossed aside the glass and took the bottle directly.
"It tastes mediocre," the middle-aged man commented after taking a swig from the bottle, curling his lip. "Considering the tight schedule, I'm satisfied with Langley Headquarters' efficiency in producing a bottle of champagne instead of mouthwash."
With that, he raised the champagne bottle, making a toasting gesture towards the sky.
"They're watching us with satellites, aren't they?" the middle-aged man said with a chuckle.
"So, is this the final moment then?" The vendor suddenly sneered. "Are you giving your last words?"
"It seems you have a grudge against me?" The middle-aged man chuckled, looking at the vendor.
The vendor shook his head, his tone laced with irony. "For the past eight years, I, along with three departments at Langley Headquarters and over four hundred intelligence elites, have all been 'serving' you."
When he said the word "serving," he practically spat it out.
"Hahaha," the middle-aged man roared with laughter. "I love that look on your face: you can't stand me, yet you can't do a damn thing about me."
"This is not a laughing matter," the vendor sneered, his voice filled with hatred and sarcasm. "Lucifer!"
"Luci…" The middle-aged man paused for a second, suddenly looking annoyed. "Motherfucking Lucifer! Is that how you M Country people come up with nicknames? So cringey and chuuni? Don't you know a nickname like that could make me die of embarrassment?"
"According to the traditions of my homeland, I'd prefer people call me… Yama! It's a bit chuuni too, but at least it's more culturally fitting, okay?"
The middle-aged man put down the champagne bottle and lit another cigarette.
But this time, his fingers were trembling slightly.
The vendor's eyes narrowed. He covertly signaled, and the surrounding armed personnel began to edge closer.
"It's pointless," the middle-aged man chuckled, pointing to his head. "The tumor cells have already spread to the cerebral cortex and are compressing the right side of my spine. Besides, I took a little something to ensure I know my exact time of death. The time I have left is now..."
The middle-aged man looked at his watch. "Ten…"
"Nine."
The vendor exclaimed, "Get back!!"
The armed personnel rapidly dispersed.
The vendor rushed forward, grabbing the middle-aged man to steady him.
The middle-aged man looked up with a sarcastic smile. "Someone like me? How could I let myself be captured by you? The man in the White House gets it, but you don't. Five…"
The vendor gritted his teeth. "Fuck!! I'll catch all your associates! I swear it!!"
The middle-aged man's face was full of disdain. "You don't have the ability, and your president wouldn't dare give such an order… Two… One."
"Zero!
Hell… here I come… ha…"
The middle-aged man slowly closed his eyes, his breathing stopped…
The vendor exhaled and waved his arm.
The armed personnel and the prepared medical team rushed forward immediately.
After muttering a curse, the vendor tore off his tactical vest, threw it to a subordinate, and grabbed a medical expert. "I don't know much about medicine, but he mentioned tumor cells spreading to the cerebral cortex, compressing the spine… A person in that state…"
The medical expert had a strange expression. "All I can say is that even a Siberian white bear in such a condition would be confined to a hospital bed, unable to move a single finger."
The vendor's gaze was complex. "But just a minute ago, he was smoking, drinking champagne, and trading curses with our president over the phone."
"…I can only say it's a miracle," the medical expert stammered.
"Hah!" The vendor let out a long breath, his eyes grave. "Fortunately, this miracle… is over! For America, it's a blessing! This demon has finally gone to hell… No, I should say, returned to hell! He belonged there all along."
·
「December 23, 2000, 11:45 AM.」
Jinling City, Jiangning District, No. 8 Middle School of Huaxia's Sudong Province.
Class 11-6
A teenager suddenly woke from where he'd been slumped asleep over his desk.
At the blackboard, the math teacher was pointing to a problem.
Given log₃(x-2y) + log₃(x+2y) = 1 + log₃x + log₃y, find the value of log₂x - log₂y...
The math teacher tossed down the chalk, then scanned the room, his gaze landing on the teenager. He pointed.
"You, Chen Nuo! Come up and solve it."
"..."
The teenager looked lost for a moment. His gaze slowly focused as he looked at his classmates, the classroom, and then the blackboard…
The afternoon sun, the dilapidated classroom, the whitewashed walls…
Looking at the string of math problems on the blackboard…
Okay, I don't understand any of it!
Emmm… this really is… hell… The teenager suddenly sighed with a wry smile, his eyes sparkling like stars.
He'd wandered for half a lifetime, only to return… still a youth.
·
[Hello everyone, I'm the author. I'm jumping back here from the 300,000-word mark to leave a message for new readers.
This is a serious urban fantasy novel, not a 'king of soldiers' story, and I can assure you it's definitely not trash. Keep reading, and you'll see.
To new readers: whether the book is good or not is for you to judge. Don't listen to those bored haters spouting nonsense. Those people are not only blind, but their brains don't work right either~]