The night air in Yangcheng was a living thing, thick with the sizzle of hot oil, the pungent aroma of garlic and chili, and the warm, yeasty promise of beer. It was nearly eleven, and Michael sat alone at a rickety plastic table on the crowded sidewalk, a king surveying his greasy domain. A sense of profound, almost giddy liberation coursed through him. The shackles of debt were gone, shredded into confetti. The remaining cash in his pocket—52,000 yuan that felt earned in the most bizarre way imaginable—was a tangible promise.
"Boss!" he called out, his voice cutting through the din with an uncharacteristic boldness. "A hundred yuan's worth of lamb kidneys! A dozen oysters! One grilled saury, three chicken legs, three wings, and a pitcher of your coldest beer!" The order was extravagant, far more than he needed. But he was ravenous, a hollowed-out creature returned from a land of scarcity, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he had the means to fill the void. He was, in that moment, wealthy and willful.
The feast arrived swiftly on chipped plates. Yangcheng, a coastal city, provided seafood of shocking freshness. The oysters, nestled in their half-shells, swam in a bubbling pool of minced garlic and chopped red chilies. Ignoring the heat, Michael lifted one, tipped his head back, and sucked the entire, slippery, gloriously briny morsel into his mouth. The flavors exploded—the clean taste of the sea, the punch of garlic, the slow burn of chili. He chased it with a long, cold draught of draft beer, the bubbles cutting through the richness. A sound halfway between a sigh and a sob escaped him. Tears, unbidden, pricked at the corners of his eyes.
Einstein was right, he thought wildly. Everything was relative. This same food, eaten a month ago, would have been merely satisfying. Now, after the "Spine-Tap" beer and the mystery meat of the Wasteland, it was a symphony, a spiritual experience. The succulent chicken, the smoky fish, the rich, gamey kidneys—each bite was a revelation, a celebration of a world where flavor was abundant and safety was assumed.
As he ate, another surprise registered. His appetite was monstrous. He polished off the initial mountain of food with ease, his stomach a bottomless pit. He flagged down the server for another dozen oysters and a heaping plate of dry-fried rice noodles with beef, devouring it all with the focused intensity of a man making up for lost time. He attributed it to simple, prolonged hunger, a body catching up on calories denied. The truth, a subtle shift in his metabolism begun in that harsher world, did not yet occur to him.
Sated, blissfully full, he paid the bill with a careless wave. The act of reaching for his keys brought the evening's one note of discord. His fingers brushed empty air where the familiar, grimy key fob for his scooter should have been. A cold splash of reality. The 'little donkey,' his trusty, sputtering steel steed, was gone. Stolen. By her. Jaunysmoke. The rabbit-eared bandit who had used him as a human brake and sped off on his property. A fresh wave of irritation washed over him, souring the afterglow of the meal. I offered you my hand, and you took my ride, he thought darkly. Just you wait.
Fortunately, his apartment key lived on a separate ring. The walk home, a half-hour journey through the neon-drenched streets, felt like a victory parade. The warm night air, the glow of streetlights painting the asphalt in pools of orange, the distant laughter from open restaurant windows—it was all a beautiful, mundane tapestry. He was not just back; he was back and winning.
The walk also gave his mind, fueled by protein and triumph, space to plan. The job at Ruinuo Agricultural Supplies… he wouldn't quit. Not yet. The portal was a miracle, but miracles were, by definition, unreliable. What if it vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared? Until he had amassed a fortune that could withstand such a loss, the drudgery of sales was his necessary tether to normalcy. The time dilation was his secret weapon; he could operate in both worlds without either collapsing.
Which brought him, inevitably, to transportation. He needed wheels. His mind, trained by years of frugality, first offered the usual options: a new motorcycle, another cheap scooter. Then, with a soft, disbelieving laugh, he smacked his own forehead. You idiot. Think bigger.
Four wheels. A car. A sealed, air-conditioned box that laughed at rain and the vicious Guangdong sun. A vehicle that could carry not just him, but cargo. Realcargo. Medicine, tools, spare parts for a certain antique tank, bulk food that wasn't slop. The image was intoxicating. On the cusp of twenty-six, Michael Gao would buy his first car. The thought alone sent a thrill through him.
He arrived at his building, the fantasy of horsepower and cargo space filling his head. He pushed open the door to his apartment, and his eyes, as they always did now, went instantly to the bathroom. The green pinprick of light was there, pulsing gently. And then he saw it: the narrow bathroom doorway. The reality of the dimensions hit him like a physical blow.
He couldn't drive a car into his bathroom.
The glorious four-wheeled dream shattered against the unyielding frame of the door. His mood, so recently soaring, plummeted. He'd be stuck with bikes, limited to what he could strap to a rack or stuff in a backpack. The scale of his ambitions—for Cinder Town, for his own wealth—seemed to shrink instantly, constrained by a doorway. He felt the loss of potential, of future millions, as a sharp, visceral pain.
…
Sleep, when it came, was thin and unsatisfying. He woke at first light, the problem gnawing at him. Lying in bed, he stared at the water-stained ceiling, feeling the keen edge of opportunity slipping away. Other people in stories, he thought miserably, their portals are convenient. They snap them open like umbrellas, carry them in a pocket. Mine is stuck in a bloody bathroom! What if I… claimed it? Made it mine?
The idea, born of a thousand web novels and fantasy games, was absurd. But so was a glowing green doorway in his toilet. Desperation made alchemists of everyone. He threw off the thin sheet and padded into the bathroom.
The vortex had fully reformed, a perfect, swirling disk of emerald energy about the size of a dinner plate. It hung in the air, rotating with a lazy, cosmic grace, its depths hinting at impossible distances. It was, despite its inconvenient location, profoundly beautiful. A gateway to another star, folded into his laundry room.
"Right," Michael muttered to himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Nothing ventured." He brought his right index finger to his teeth, hesitated for only a second, then bit down hard. A sharp pain, then a fat, crimson bead of blood welled up. He held his hand out, flicked his wrist.
The droplet flew, not downwards, but in a perfect, impossible arc towards the center of the green maelstrom. It was swallowed without a sound.
Nothing happened.
Disappointment, cold and heavy, settled in his gut. Not enough blood?The logic of fairy tales and bad movies took over. Grimacing, he grabbed his cheap razor from the sink, fiddled with it, and pried out the thin, sharp blade. He held it to his palm, steeling himself for a deeper cut.
As the blade touched his skin, the portal reacted.
With a soft whooshof displaced air, it began to spin, not lazily, but with frantic, dizzying speed, clockwise, ten times faster than before. The green light intensified, painting the tiny room in pulsating, aquatic hues. At the same time, a sensation unfolded insideMichael's mind. It wasn't a voice, or a vision. It was a knowing. A profound, intimate connection, as if a new, silent organ had awakened behind his eyes. He could feel the portal's presence, its latent power, its… allegiance.
Tentatively, he formed a thought, a silent command directed inward, towards that new sense: Withdraw.
The spinning disc of light winked out of existence. The bathroom was just a bathroom again, lit by the grey dawn from the small window.
But Michael didn't panic. He stood perfectly still, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face. He could feelit. Not gone. Held. Nestled in some non-space within his own consciousness, a secret he carried with him. And with that feeling came understanding: without his express permission, the portal was a wall, as impassable as it had been for Zach. With his permission, it would open, a stable gateway for three minutes.
The implications crashed over him, a tidal wave of possibility. The logistical chain that had just been choking his plans snapped. He could go anywhere. The portal could be anywhere hewas.
The grin on his face turned manic. He looked at the empty space where the portal had been, then down at his uninjured palm. He hadn't needed the deeper cut after all.
The car. He could get the car. He could drive it right up to a portal opened in an alley, a field, anywhere. The scale of what he could move between worlds exploded exponentially.
Laughter, loud and unhinged, bubbled out of him, echoing in the tiled room. He had come for treasure. He had gained a town. Now, he possessed the key to the kingdom itself. The world, both of them, suddenly seemed wide open, waiting for him to drive on through.