Chicago O'Hare International Airport is the world's only dual-hub airport, boasting a massive passenger throughput and ranking among the busiest airports on five continents. Every day, people of all races witness different farewells here, so the sight of two Asian faces whispering in front of the terminal is nothing new to most.
"My lord, I have instructed the servants to prepare everything you need for your life in the country. Please rest assured and return to your homeland in the East." An elderly man dressed in a tailcoat, who looked like a butler, said respectfully to the young man in front of him.
The young man looked at the old man, whose hair was already white, with a kind expression. "Anzhi, you've been with me for many years now. You followed me and left the mainland in 1949, and you haven't returned since. Don't you really want to return to your roots?"
The old man shook his head, his voice a little hoarse. "I've gotten used to life here; I can't go back. Besides, the businesses here need trusted people to manage them. The Chicago city government has been trying to buy the land rights in Thaftl recently, and it won't do without someone keeping a close eye on things!"
Thaftl is Chicago's most bustling commercial street, acquired during the 1929 stock market crash and valued at billions of dollars. Previously, it was widely believed to be owned by the Morgan family of Harttown, but it turns out it belongs to this Asian man. If the media were to find out, it would likely cause another media storm.
The young man's name was Duanmu Ci, which was his real name. He remembered that his previous false name was Li Quandao, which was given to him by Wang Shouren, the Right Vice Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate, in the fourteenth year of the Zhengde reign.
He has lived for two thousand years.
Duanmu Ci patted the old butler on the shoulder, "Once things are settled in Chicago, you can retire on the beaches of Virginia, soak up the sun, and live a long life. I'll come back to see you when I have time." After saying that, the young man picked up the black leather suitcase at his feet and headed towards the immigration hall.
"My lord—" The old man looked at Duanmu Ci's retreating figure and wept uncontrollably.
...
...
After boarding the plane and finding his seat, Duanmu Ci didn't hesitate and plunged into the deep red high-backed seat in first class. The 14-hour flight to Haishan wouldn't be enough without sleep. So, amidst the deafening roar of the Boeing 777's twin engines at 30,000 feet, Duanmu Ci drifted off to sleep.
In his dream, he seemed to have returned to two thousand years ago, to an era when everyone wore flowing robes and spoke verses from the Book of Songs. Back then, he was still called Duanmu Ci, and only hundreds of years later did he learn that later generations preferred to call him Zigong.
Through the thin mist, he seemed to see again his teacher, a sage and philosopher, holding a scroll of bamboo slips, sitting high on the apricot altar, reciting the elegant language of the Eastern Zhou royal domain, imparting knowledge, teaching skills, and resolving doubts for his three thousand disciples—
"Granted!"
The teacher seemed to be calling him. Duanmu Ci walked over in a daze, about to speak, when he suddenly heard another voice—
"Sir, sir—"
Duanmu Ci opened his eyes in a daze and found a blonde, blue-eyed flight attendant calling him in broken Chinese. He got up and looked around, only to find that all the other passengers had already left.
I finally dreamt of the Master...
Duanmu Ci frowned, nodded to the flight attendant, then picked up his suitcase and left the first-class cabin.
However, Duanmu Ci encountered a slight mishap when passing through the immigration hall of Pudong Airport. Because the entry and exit records on his passport showed that Duanmu Ci had never been to China before, the airport staff at the counter became suspicious and it took quite a bit of effort to get Duanmu Ci through customs smoothly.
“My personal file was fabricated by the world’s top team, how could there be any flaws?” Duanmu Ci shook his head secretly.
...
...
The Lunar New Year had just passed, and it was early winter. Large chunks of white ice floated on the Huangpu River. Old iron ships sailing out of the harbor blared their horns and relentlessly smashed through the ice floes. On both banks of the surging river stood rows of high-rise buildings, their crystal-clear facades resembling giant flags hanging upside down against the dark blue sky.
Duanmu Ci wore a long black woolen overcoat, with an exquisite cashmere scarf around his neck; every detail, from his hair to his fingertips, was meticulously crafted. However, his eyes were vacant; he stared blankly at the bustling scene, feeling utterly disillusioned.
In his memory, Puxi was indeed incredibly prosperous, but back then, the Grand Oceanfront was ablaze with neon lights, so he wasn't particularly surprised. What truly disillusioned him was Pudong. Duanmu Ci never imagined that the once desolate and barren place would now be so wealthy!
Duanmu Ci still remembers the time Du Yuesheng invited him to drink on the banks of the Huangpu River in Puxi. Du pointed to Pudong and laughed, saying, "I'd rather have a bed in Puxi than a room in Pudong!" Now, times have changed. Pudong, once so desolate you could ride a horse there, has become one of the most prosperous and vibrant places on Earth.
Time has left his memories in a dusty museum.
“Mr. Duanmu—” a voice came from behind.
Duanmu Ci turned around and saw several middle-aged men in black suits carrying briefcases calling him. They looked no different from the countless white-collar workers in Haishan City.
Furthermore, their calling themselves "Mr. Duanmu" indicated that they were unaware of his background. This pleased Duanmu Ci greatly, so he nodded and said, "Let's go."
Parked by the roadside was a Phaeton, which looked no different from a regular Passat. An old monster like Duanmu Ci, who had lived for over 2000 years, was naturally past the age of showing off; humility was the true path taught by Confucius.
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