Michael slumped against the cold, unforgiving tiles of his bathroom floor, his body trembling like a leaf in a gale. The adrenaline that had fueled his desperate flight was gone, leaving behind a hollow, echoing terror that made his bones feel like glass. In the frantic scramble for survival, the fear had been a sharp, focused thing. Now, in the stark, fluorescent-lit safety of his own home, it crashed over him in a nauseating wave.
Holy hell. I almost died. Multiple times.The thought reverberated in his skull, more chilling than any hangover. He was just a salesman from a world of traffic jams and quarterly reports, a man whose greatest physical peril had been a wobbly bar stool. The last twenty-some years had not prepared him for ogres, clubs the size of small trees, or the predatory greed in a minotaur's eye.
His hands shook so violently he fumbled the cigarette three times before the flame from his cheap plastic lighter finally caught. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, not even registering that he'd instinctively grabbed the expensive blue Furongwang pack—the three-yuan-a-stick luxury he saved for clients. Right now, he needed every crutch he could get.
He sat there for a long time, surrounded by a growing constellation of discarded butts on the damp floor, until the nicotine and the sheer, mundane reality of the cracked linoleum and the faint hum of the refrigerator began to work their slow magic. The panic receded from a tsunami to a manageable, if persistent, dread.
His eyes kept drifting to the spot where the emerald vortex had swirled and vanished. Its absence was his salvation. A concrete, comforting truth solidified in his mind: no matter how strong John the Minotaur was, no matter how terrifying that one-eyed monstrosity had been, they couldn't follow him here. This portal, whatever it was, was his alone. The key to safety was simple, brutally simple: never, ever go back.
To cement the resolution, he spoke aloud to the empty bathroom, his voice gravelly with smoke and residual fear. "If I ever set foot through that door again, I'm a goddamn idiot. A complete and utter moron."
As the tremors finally subsided, he became acutely aware of his own state. He was caked in a fine, ochre dust that had seeped into every pore. His clothes reeked of stale sweat, fear, and, most unpleasantly, the pungent, gamey musk of Lynda and Faye—a scent that seemed woven into the very fibers of his shirt. It was the smell of that other world, a pungent reminder he was desperate to scrub away.
The shower that followed was a ritual of purification. He stood under the scalding spray until his skin turned pink and tender, scrubbing himself raw with half a bottle of cheap lavender-scented body wash. He wanted to erase not just the grime, but the memory of clinging hands and hungry eyes. Only when the water ran clear and his skin felt new did he step out, wrapping himself in a threadbare towel.
Dressed in clean, soft cotton—a profound comfort he'd never before appreciated—he finally sat on the edge of his bed. The mind, once freed from immediate peril, turns to accounting. His adventure needed a balance sheet. The cost: several years off his life expectancy due to sheer terror. The potential profit? He reached into his satchel, his fingers closing around cool, hard metal.
The Spirit of Ecstasy. Even under the dull glow of his bedside lamp, she was beautiful. The silver—or silver-plated, he corrected himself—goddess gleamed with an elegant, timeless grace, a stark contradiction to the brutal world she'd been looted from. She felt solid, weighty with possibility in his palm.
He picked up his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen. A few searches later, his breath hitched. Numbers danced before his eyes. Twenty thousand? Twenty-five? Even accounting for the inevitable depreciation of a second-hand, "found" item, the potential windfall was staggering. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face for the first time since his return. The fear was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but now it was ringed with a giddy, golden glow.
Okay, he thought, the salesman in him reawakening. It was hairy. It was absolutely insane. But… not a total loss.
He held the figurine up, watching the light play across her poised form. "Worth it," he whispered to the silent room. Then, as if to counter the seductive lure of that gleaming metal, he added with more force, "Still not going back. Not a chance. Idiot's game."
…
Time, as it often does, proved to be a gentle, if imperceptible, healer. A dose of anti-inflammatories and a solid twelve hours of dead-to-the-world sleep worked wonders. The lingering aches faded to background noise. By the time he stumbled out of bed, the world had regained some of its normal, reassuring solidity.
He celebrated his continued existence with a pilgrimage to a famous claypot rice restaurant across town. He ordered the double portion with extra pork and a fried egg, savoring each greasy, savory mouthful as a sacrament to being alive. Food had never tasted so profoundly good.
With renewed vigor, he completed the mindless paperwork for Boss Chen's order and submitted it to his company's system. Then, with a purpose that had been absent for years, he fired up his sputtering scooter. The little silver goddess wasn't going to cash herself in.
His destination was another urban village on the opposite side of Yangcheng. As a salesman, his one true asset was his network—a spiderweb of acquaintances spanning different trades. He knew a guy. Or rather, he knew a guy who knew a guy. For a cut, of course. Everything in life was a commission.
Half an hour later, he pulled up in front of a small, cluttered agricultural supply store. Through the fly-specked window, he could see the owner, a man in his thirties named Long (or "Dragon," as he preferred in his gamer handle), hunched over an ancient computer. The tinny sounds of epic fantasy combat leaked from the speakers—the familiar grunts and spell effects of World of Warcraft. Long was utterly absorbed, his brutish Tauren warrior laying waste to pixelated monsters on the screen.
"Long-ge! Pause the raid, man. Got something to show you!" Michael called out as he pushed through the door, a bell jangling overhead.
Long glanced over, his expression one of practiced skepticism. He'd heard this line from Michael before, usually preceding a pitch for some new, overpriced fertilizer or pesticide. "What is it this time, A-Biao? Some miracle growth hormone that'll make my cabbages sing?"
But his dismissive air vanished when Michael didn't pull out a product catalogue. Instead, he placed the gleaming Rolls-Royce hood ornament on the glass countertop, right between a display of fungicides and a box of rat poison.
The effect was immediate. Long's eyes widened. His character on screen let out a death cry, forgotten. He reached for the figurine, his fingers hovering for a second before picking it up, turning it over in his hands with a mechanic's ingrained curiosity.
"Need a favor," Michael said, cutting to the chase. "You mentioned your buddy in Guangzhou, the one in auto parts. Get him on the line. If he can move this, there's ten thousand in it for you." He named the figure cleanly, no haggling preamble.
Long's eyebrows shot up. Ten thousand was serious money. He hefted the ornament, his gaze shifting from the exquisite craftsmanship to Michael's face. "This real? Not some fancy knock-off?"
Michael met his look squarely. The confidence was back, the bravado of a man who'd faced down far worse than a suspicious friend. "Your guy's the expert. Let him vet it. If it's fake, next order you place with me, I'll knock ten grand off the total. Guarantee it."
The offer hung in the air, mingling with the smell of fertilizer and dust. Long studied him for a long moment, his eyes calculating. Notably, he didn't ask the obvious question: Where did you get this?Some lines of inquiry, in their line of work, were better left uncrossed. The ten thousand was tempting. If there was trouble later… well, he could always plead ignorance. Michael was the one holding the hot merchandise.
Finally, Long gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Alright. I'll make the call."
While they waited, Michael fell into the familiar rhythm of his trade. He helped mind the store, his salesman's persona sliding back on like a well-worn jacket. "Uncle, looking for something? Fruit tree fertilizer? Take a look at this one from Ruinuo, let me tell you about its special formula…" He spent the afternoon charming elderly farmers, hauling fifty-kilo sacks of fertilizer to rusty motorcycles, and restocking shelves. It was grunt work, but it was honest. It kept his mind off green portals and one-eyed giants. This was his world: hustle, small talk, and the grit under your fingernails.
Just past five o'clock, the sound of a smooth engine purred to a stop outside. A BMW with Guangzhou plates. A man in a crisp polo shirt and designer jeans stepped out, smelling faintly of cologne and money. This was Ma, the "friend."
The appraisal that followed was conducted with the silent intensity of a diamond merchant. Ma produced a small loupe, examined seams, weighed the piece in his hand, tested the metal with a discreet acid touch from a kit. Long and Michael watched, the only sound the buzz of a fly against the windowpane.
Finally, Ma set the ornament down. "It's real," he announced, his tone casual, already moving to the negotiation. "But goods with no… provenance… don't fetch showroom prices. I can do seventy."
Seventy thousand. Michael's heart did a little flip. He'd seen the online listings. Twenty-two, twenty-five for a new one from a dealer. Seventy was a lowball, a predator's opening bid. He knew the game. He also knew Ma would be kicking back to Long as well. This was the ecosystem.
He let the silence stretch for a beat, then countered. A half-hour of polite, persistent haggling ensued—a dance Michael knew well. He cited "sentimental value," "rare find," "flawless condition." Ma talked about "market risk," "distribution channels," "cleaning fees." It was a familiar, almost comforting ritual.
When the dust settled, the price stood at seventy-six thousand. Michael extended a hand. "Deal."
The mobile banking transfer was instantaneous. A notification chimed on his phone. He excused himself to the back of the shop, ostensibly to use the bathroom, and stared at the string of digits in his account balance. Seventy-six thousand. Minus Long's ten. Sixty-six thousand net. A lucky number. More money than he'd seen in one place in years. More than half a year's income, after expenses, bottled in a single, insane day.
He walked back into the shop's main room, the plastic bag containing his now-useless satchel dangling from his hand. He felt different. Lighter. The gnawing anxiety about rent, about next month's sales quota, about skipping breakfast—it had momentarily receded.
As he passed the counter where the cheap Baisha cigarettes lay next to the premium Furongwang, he didn't hesitate. He picked up the blue soft-pack, the sixty-yuan one, and tucked it into his breast pocket with a deliberate flourish. He caught Long's eye and gave a small, tight smile.
"Starting today," Michael said, his voice calm, laced with a newfound, quiet defiance, "I'm upgrading."
He walked out into the fading afternoon light, the engine of his scooter coughing to life. The fear of Cinder Town was still there, a cold, hard seed buried deep. But on top of it, warming him, was the simple, profound satisfaction of a gamble paid off. The bicycle, it seemed, had finally turned into a motorcycle. For now, that was enough.