Chapter 056: The Edge of the Sky

This story is purely fictional. He felt a certain fear toward a woman who had been involved with a foreign man. The fate of his ex-wife made his dread of AIDS no less than his fear of death itself—perhaps even more terrifying. In the days that followed, the thought of facing Gao Yating became an insurmountable psychological barrier.

In Yun Jiu’s view, if he had to choose between money, women, and life itself, he would choose life. He felt the preciousness of being alive; money and women were secondary. He thought to himself: if I ever encounter that dreadful demon called AIDS, wouldn’t that be the end of everything? He dared not take such a risk. After just one night, he no longer had the courage to share a bed with Gao Yating.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he seemed oblivious to the world. Only when Gao Yating called out that they had arrived at the Grand River Club did he fail to register it. It wasn’t until Gao Yating tapped him on the head that he snapped out of his reverie, got up, opened the door, and got out of the car.

Zhao Ming regretted not having spent the three hundred yuan, regretted not having sincerely prayed for the Bodhisattva’s protection. In short, he was filled with remorse, but there was no medicine for regret—everything was too late. He did not know whether this trip would bring fortune or disaster, nor what difficulties awaited him in his attempt to recoup his losses. But he thought, even if he managed to win back what he’d lost, how much time and patience would it take?

When his colleague invited him to breakfast, he sat there as if deaf, staring blankly ahead. The colleague, worried, asked if he felt unwell and offered to bring some food from the restaurant, but Zhao Ming gave no response.

When the colleague returned, Zhao Ming was still sitting motionless on the bed. The colleague brought up an egg, two buns, and a bit of pickled vegetables. “Director Chi, eat something—it’ll make you feel better,” he said.

It was only then that Zhao Ming raised his head and, expressionless, muttered, “Thank you.”

“Hurry up and eat. The team leader says we’re leaving for the hotel entrance in fifteen minutes. You need to get ready,” the colleague reminded him.

“Alright,” Zhao Ming finally realized it was time to go.

He barely had time to eat a bite, busy as he was packing his laptop. In his haste, the antenna of his wireless internet card snapped. Now he felt truly doomed—misfortunes never come singly, and even his betting tools seemed to mock him.

He quickly restarted the laptop, plugged in the broken wireless card, and tried to connect to the internet. The computer just kept spinning, stuck on “connecting.” At last, it connected, but the icon showed only a single, blinking bar of weak signal. Zhao Ming tried to reattach the broken antenna, hoping for a stronger signal, but no matter what he did, the connection remained feeble and intermittent.

When the hotel bus did a headcount, they found that Zhao Ming from the TV station was missing. The tour guide asked his colleague to fetch him from his room.

Seeing his colleague, Zhao Ming hurriedly replied, “Coming, coming right away.”

He packed up his laptop and, half running, nearly stumbled as he boarded the bus to Yantai.

On the bus, he puzzled over why, twice now, he had drawn the same lot. Was fate playing tricks on him, or was it a warning that he was on a road of no return? He kept shaking his head.

The coach entered the Penglai Fairyland Scenic Area, and as soon as it stopped, the restless tourists hurried off to explore the legendary land.

Along the road to Penglai Pavilion, vendors lined both sides, hawking tourist trinkets. Small ornaments dangled from retractable poles, swaying in the wind, and wind chimes tinkled melodiously. Zhao Ming was drawn by the sound. He gazed at the carts and the ground, cluttered with local souvenirs. A toad figurine, exquisitely carved, caught his eye. He picked it up, admired it, and returned it to its place.

As he put back the toad, a nearby Bodhisattva statue attracted him. He picked it up and could not bear to let go. He thought, when I get home, I’ll put this statue on my car dashboard—for peace and prosperity. That would give me peace of mind.

He had always believed in the Buddha. Since childhood, whenever he faced danger or wished for something, he would never forget to murmur, “Bodhisattva, protect me.”

The vendor saw that he liked the toad. “The toad symbolizes wealth. With the toad by your side and the Bodhisattva’s blessing, you’ll have smooth sailing on the road to riches, and wealth will flow in endlessly.”

That phrase—“smooth sailing on the road to riches, and wealth will flow in endlessly”—struck a chord in Zhao Ming’s heart. For over a year, he had been walking a tightrope, sliding back and forth between hope and despair. When he won his bets, he was jubilant; but when he suffered a crushing loss, his eyes were lifeless, like a dog without a home.

This trip was his chance to reverse his losing streak, to turn things around for good.

But reality is always at odds with desire. When he first started betting on football, he thought his understanding of the game and some analysis would let him predict the results he wanted. He yearned to escape poverty, to live a slightly more prosperous life. But the more you try to shake off poverty, the tighter it clings to you.

Now, more than ever, he felt he needed the Bodhisattva’s protection. He picked up the jade statue, inspecting it for flaws. Finding none, he asked, “How much is it?”

“It’s not for sale, it’s for inviting home,” the vendor replied. “You can only invite the Bodhisattva into your home. If you truly like it, three hundred yuan and you can take it.”

“Can’t it be a little cheaper? Two hundred? I sincerely wish to invite the Bodhisattva home,” Zhao Ming pleaded.

“Alright, I’ll wrap it up for you,” the vendor said, packaging the statue as he spoke.

Zhao Ming paid, carefully placing the statue in the bag he carried.

Having secured the Buddha’s protection, he noticed his group had already moved far ahead. He jogged to catch up.

The guide led them into the scenic area and then let them roam freely, instructing everyone to meet back at the drop-off point two hours later.

In high school, Zhao Ming loved reading Yang Shuo’s essay “The Mirage.” Back then, he dreamed of one day seeing the wonders of Penglai Fairyland with his own eyes.

Forty years later, he no longer dreamt as he did in his youth. Having lived through much, his feelings had changed. Now, standing in this legendary place, he felt not a shred of elegance or interest.

Throughout history, few writers or poets have described mirages. He doubted Yang Shuo’s tales of seeing a mirage as a child, or even that the mirage existed at all. In literature, one can describe any ethereal world, but did Yang Shuo truly witness such a vision? Zhao Ming was deeply skeptical. Given today’s advanced imaging technology, it seemed impossible that no one had ever captured this illusory world.

He put more faith in his own understanding of the place. According to ancient records, Penglai, Fangzhang, and Yingzhou were said to be islands in the sea inhabited by immortals, unreachable by mortals. The tales were fanciful and hard to believe. The city of Dengzhou was called Penglai—perhaps because the emperors of Qin and Han had traveled east in search of immortality. Yet, Penglai was never found, and the city bears the name as an empty legacy, misleading later generations.

According to the alchemists’ theory of the Three Mountains, the names of plants, animals, and monsters were fanciful, and they described the palaces of immortals as grand and peaceful; eating their herbs would grant eternal life.

He knew from ancient texts that Emperor Qin Shi Huang traveled to Penglai in search of the elixir of life, but he died along the way before returning to his palace in Xianyang. In later dynasties, no emperor or official came to admire the so-called mirage again.

He simply did not believe there was any magic potion in the world that could grant immortality.

He believed that the fairy pavilion was merely built by later generations to honor the sea’s beneficence, and the temple was renovated so that locals could have a site for sightseeing. Today’s tourists hope for a mirage not out of faith, but out of longing for something beautiful—a hope for the appearance of that elusive world.

At dusk, he stood in a corner of the tower, watching as the sky darkened.

At the sea-viewing platform, he gazed out as far as he could see, where sky and sea met. The ink-black sea was calm, only a few seagulls wheeling above. In the distance, a ship’s smokestack emitted thick plumes of smoke, the smoky bands lingering in the gray-white sky, like a heavy brushstroke that would not fade.

His mood at that moment was like those lingering clouds—gray and somber, with not a trace of joy.

On the way back to the hotel, he sat alone at the back of the coach, dazed. Up front, his companions chatted about their impressions of Penglai, laughing boisterously, joking and teasing. Some admired their souvenirs, humming little tunes as they played with them.

He felt as if he were sitting on pins and needles. Every sound from the front seemed like a deafening noise. All he wanted was to reach the hotel as soon as possible, use the hotel’s internet, log onto his betting site, and begin the gambling that occupied his every waking moment. As long as he could place bets, he felt he needed nothing else.

When the coach arrived at the hotel, he was already at the door before the bus had come to a stop.

The moment the door opened, he stepped out, striding quickly toward the hotel.

His companions called his name and reminded everyone to head straight to dinner, but he didn’t hear a word.

He took three steps at a time. A manager greeted him in the lobby, but he didn’t notice. All he cared about now was reaching his room as quickly as possible and opening his laptop. (To be continued)