24: Attention from Shanghai

"Thompson, are you fucking drunk, or did the shells rattle your brain?"

In a smoky British bar in the Shanghai International Settlement, the editor-in-chief of the Far East branch of The Times, a fat man named Harris, crushed his cigar into the ashtray, sending a cloud of gray ash flying.

He glared at his best war correspondent as if he were looking at an irredeemable madman.

"My God, look at this horseshit you wrote!" Harris slammed a telegraph draft onto the table. "'Mysterious Oriental sorcery'? 'Two Imperial tanks melted into molten iron by a strange red light in broad daylight'?"

He pinched his throat and read the draft in an extremely exaggerated, operatic tone, drawing a burst of laughter from the nearby compradors of foreign firms who were sipping whiskey.

"Thompson, I sent you to the front lines to report on the war, not to write One Thousand and One Nights! If you turn in something like this again, I swear, I'll buy a boat ticket tomorrow and send you back to your hometown in London to feed the pigeons!"

The reporter called Thompson was a tall, thin, middle-aged man. His eyes were sunken and his face was weary, but in those blue eyes burned a stubborn, almost fanatical light.

He snatched the telegraph draft back, his voice trembling with excitement.

"Harris, I swear to God, every word I wrote is true! I saw it with my own eyes! Right through my telephoto lens! Those two tanks, just like that... 'poof,' like two blocks of cheese thrown into a fireplace, they turned into two puddles of flowing liquid!"

He waved his arms, trying to describe the inconceivable scene, but his limited vocabulary made him sound somewhat incoherent.

"It wasn't an explosion! It wasn't shelling! It was a... a power beyond our understanding! Like... like the Scourge of God!"

Harris waved his hand impatiently, signaling the bartender to bring Thompson another whiskey.

"Enough, Thompson, you need to rest. Change 'melted' to 'hit and exploded into flames,' and delete 'strange red light.' Tomorrow morning, I need a draft that's actually readable."

After saying that, he ignored Thompson and turned back to chat and laugh with the others.

Thompson slumped back into his chair and downed the strong liquor in his glass.

Everyone around him was mocking him; no one believed him.

But he knew that what he had seen was real.

That night, he didn't change a single word. Using his private channels, he sent the draft his editor had dismissed as "gibberish" to a few old friends at the London headquarters.

He just wanted to find someone to prove he wasn't crazy.

He didn't know that this unintentional act of his would stir up a colossal wave a few hours later... At the same time, in the French Concession, inside an inconspicuous tea house booth.

A Chinese man in a long gown and round-rimmed glasses was handing a stack of intelligence, just extracted from Thompson's report, to the Frenchman opposite him.

"Mr. Mair, this is the latest news we've dug out from that British reporter's mouth."

The Frenchman called Mair was the head of the French Concession's intelligence department. He took the intelligence, scanned it quickly, and his brow furrowed deeply.

"Melted? Are you sure that's the right word?"

"Yes, we've confirmed it repeatedly. That Brit insists that what he saw was 'melting,' not an 'explosion.'"

Mair placed the intelligence on the table and tapped the surface lightly with his finger.

"What do your people think?"

"Two possibilities." The man in the gown held up two fingers. "First, the reporter is mad, or he's exaggerating. Second... our rivals, the Japanese or the Germans, are testing some kind of unknown new weapon on the battlefield."

"For example, some kind of directed energy weapon?" Mair's eyes sharpened.

"The possibility can't be ruled out," the man in the gown nodded. "However, the instantaneous energy required to melt a tank in seconds is beyond our imagination. I don't believe any country at this stage can miniaturize such a weapon to the point where it can be carried by a single soldier."

"So, your conclusion is?"

"Indeterminable." The man in the gown shook his head with a bitter smile. "This matter is too bizarre. It's like... like a myth suddenly crashing into reality."

...On the banks of the Huangpu River, at the Du Mansion.

Unlike the noise and the flames of war outside, this place remained a scene of songs and dances.

Beautiful women in qipaos, taipans of foreign firms holding wine glasses, and celebrities from all walks of life in Shanghai moved through the magnificent hall.

Inside the study, a middle-aged man wearing a black silk gown, rolling two walnuts in his hand, was quietly listening to his subordinate's report.

He was the underground emperor of this city that never sleeps, Du Yuesheng.

"Sir, that's how it is." A lean man bowed, using the most concise language to report the "strange news" from Sihang Warehouse and the various reactions he had just scouted from the settlements.

"An 'immortal' who melts tanks?" Du Yuesheng stopped rolling the walnuts. On that face that always wore a warm smile, a look of interest appeared for the first time.

"Yes, sir. That's what everyone is saying outside. The British reporter calls it 'sorcery,' the French suspect a 'secret weapon,' and the people from Chongqing have also sent someone to investigate, but everyone is completely baffled."

Du Yuesheng fell silent.

He didn't get hung up on the principles behind it like the foreigners did.

As a hero who lived on the edge of a blade and climbed from the bottom to the peak of power, he was more concerned with who this power belonged to. And who could it serve?

"Can you find out which immortal's handiwork this is?" he asked calmly.

"Can't find anything," the subordinate shook his head. "The warehouse is like a block of iron now; not even a needle or a drop of water can get in. Our people can't get close at all."

Du Yuesheng stood up and walked to the window, looking at the ships coming and going on the Huangpu River, his eyes growing deep.

This country was rotten to the core.

Relying solely on those students and soldiers wouldn't drive the Japanese away.

He knew this better than anyone.

But what if... what if an "immortal" really had descended?

What if a power that didn't belong to this era was willing to stand on China's side?

Even if there was only a one-in-ten-thousand chance, he had to seize it.

"Prepare a generous gift."

Du Yuesheng spoke slowly, his voice not loud, but carrying an unquestionable authority.

"Send it in through our own channels."

"Yes, sir," the subordinate replied. "It's just... we don't know who that expert is. How should we send the gift? And how should we sign it?"

Du Yuesheng smiled and picked up the walnuts from the table again, slowly rotating them in his hand.

"Since it's an 'immortal,' then we follow the underworld rules of paying respects to the mountain."

He paused, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes.

"Address the card to 'The Guardian Deity of Sihang.'"

"As for the signature..."

He picked up a seal from the table and lightly dipped it into the red ink pad.

"Just stamp it with this."