Cape of Good Hope, the City of the West Wind.
Helicopters flew over the sea, cutting through the dark sky as the fierce west wind swirled the clouds into vortices. A storm raged, and waves surged, with the Antarctic currents heading north, creating waves over a hundred meters high in the ship graveyard. Shrouded in Earth's chaotic magnetic fields and perpetual storm belts, the Cape of Good Hope was undoubtedly the safest refuge in the world. This storm-ridden fortress, standing defiantly on the sea, had survived through natural climatic barriers and humanity’s most resilient will.
The City of the West Wind was divided into two parts: above and below the sea. The surface city was a desolate ruin—built by the most notorious pirate of the 18th century, who had monopolized the shipping lanes from Spain to South Africa. Using nearly a hundred thousand slaves' blood and sweat, he constructed a fortress kingdom within the Cape's storm belt. At the end of the 20th century, explorers discovered a far more complex underground space, sprawling across the continental shelf, vast and interconnected, covering nearly five hundred thousand hectares.
During the First Five-Year War, China’s military sacrificed countless lives, retreating from the Malacca Strait to the Indian Ocean base, before falling back to the Cape of Good Hope and forming an alliance with African nations.
Forty helicopters, piloted with exceptional skill, navigated the storm barrier and landed in the underground hangar. The militia, armed and ready, spread out to secure key points. The hangar was vast and empty, with stark white lights glaring down.
Zheng Rong glanced around and asked, "Is this all that remains of China’s forces?"
“Not just China,” corrected a soldier as he inspected the hangar doors. “Doctor, there are also sovereign African nations.”
Lance was carefully lifted onto a stretcher and placed in an ambulance. Zheng Rong moved to follow, but the officer made a polite gesture. "Dr. Zheng, he’s not in critical danger. The doctors will be able to treat him."
“Our helicopters were dispatched to rescue survivors after we received the news of Northern Ireland’s fall,” the officer explained as he led the scholars out of the hangar. “Many were destroyed in the process, and only about seventy percent have returned.”
Zheng Rong walked at the head of the group, seemingly becoming the de facto liaison between the two systems.
"General Wei Rong immediately deployed all our air forces when we received Alaska’s distress signal, with orders to bring you back at any cost…" The officer paused at the hangar’s end, pressing the door’s open button. “I hope you bring us some better news.”
The door groaned as it slowly opened, revealing an underground square filled with people. A dark mass of bodies—Asians, whites, and blacks—stood silently. The crowd, along with the military in formation, was utterly still. Nearly a million people wore white armbands, mourning the fall of Alaska and the collapse of the central tower.
At the forefront of the military stood an old man in a general’s uniform, leaning on a saber. Zheng Rong took a deep breath.
"Is that…?"
"General Wei Rong, I recognize you," Zheng Rong said, “It’s been a long time.”
He removed his hat and saluted. The old man’s voice was hoarse but still strong. "Zheng Hong’s son, it’s been a long time. Welcome to the City of the West Wind."
Zheng Rong replied, “Things are dire. Alaska has fallen. They didn’t even have time to activate the self-destruct mechanism. But we’ve brought back a lot of data. All hope now rests here.”
General Wei asked, "How is ‘The Teacher’?"
“He’s just been taken to the ICU,” Zheng Rong answered.
As they shook hands, a soft click echoed, but there were no flashbulbs or cheers. The moment was frozen in black and white.
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The scholars were settled in, and by the next day, the final group of over two hundred survivors had already begun the detailed work of organizing the materials. Everywhere in the City of the West Wind, the militia enforced a state of universal conscription. General Wei did not pry into any internal matters but provided the best medical care for the wounded. Lance’s injuries were manageable, but “The Teacher’s” condition continued to deteriorate.
Even in his coma, the old man conveyed one message: that Zheng Rong should inherit his research, organize the physicists, and perfect the report until the right moment to present it. That moment was for Zheng Rong to decide.
Zheng Rong had no time for anything else, but Xiang Yu did. During the three consecutive days Zheng Rong worked overtime, Xiang Yu found General Wei Rong and made a request.
"I need to see Anthony and that old woman," Xiang Yu said.
General Wei looked into Xiang Yu’s eyes and asked, "You’re Chinese too? Where are your ancestors from?"
Xiang Yu smirked and answered, "I’m a soldier."
Xiang Yu’s natural military aura made it impossible for General Wei to refuse him. The old general pondered for a long time before finally speaking. "Anthony and Eve Zabalueva are about to stand trial before the United Military Tribunal. You don’t know the whole story. When Anthony contacted Alaska, our experts intercepted…”
Xiang Yu interrupted, "Yes, I guessed as much afterward. At that time, he was reporting something to the U.S. military commander in Alaska."
General Wei nodded.
Xiang Yu continued, “The report was about a person.”
The general straightened. “You overheard their conversation?”
Xiang Yu didn’t answer directly. “That person was me.”
General Wei furrowed his brow, and Xiang Yu said, “Let me get to the bottom of this. I’ll report everything truthfully, or… you can listen in.”
General Wei said, "This information must remain classified. Dr. Zheng Rong’s team also..."
Xiang Yu replied firmly, “I won’t tell him—if my suspicions are correct.”
General Wei signed the authorization for the interrogation.
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"Let’s wrap up for today. Everyone, go out for a walk, and after dinner, sit outside for a while. You might find some inspiration." Zheng Rong removed his rainbow-tinted glasses and tossed them on the table.
The scholars nodded in agreement, tidying up their documents. Zheng Rong apologized, “I’m sorry I’m almost useless when it comes to physics. I can’t help much.”
One of them responded, “Doctor, you’re too modest. You may not come from a background in natural sciences or mathematics, but you can understand some of our more obscure terms. That’s impressive enough.”
Zheng Rong smiled ruefully. “My brother explained quite a bit to me before… Dismissed, everyone. See you tonight.”
He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled mess.
“Where’s Yu?” Zheng Rong stepped out of the scientific hall, asking a soldier to find Xiang Yu through military communications, but there was no trace of him.
Zheng Rong headed to the hospital. The Cape of Good Hope’s hospital had very few patients. Since the arrival of the refugees, an unspoken rule had circulated among them.
The elderly, the injured, the Africans, the Asians—when someone became too old or too sick to move, or when their illness was beyond treatment, the refugees would leave the City of the West Wind. They would take a blanket, a little food, and water, and ascend to the surface, waiting in the storm city above to die.
Tibetan monks had established a celestial burial platform there. After people died on the rocky islands, their bodies were cut apart, their bones shattered, and the remains were cleaned with bran and dough. Seagulls and cliffside vultures would come to devour their bodies.
A few African tribes, however, conducted cremations or sea burials among the ruins, believing that life returned to the sky, the sea, and nature. This allowed the next generation a chance at survival. The elderly departed, each returning to their own gods, leaving behind no attachment.
Medicine was scarce and expensive, but the scholars were well taken care of, including Joseph and Si Yan's orphaned son.
Zheng Rong stood by the nursery for a while, unable to identify which of the multi-colored babies was his child.
“I’m here to see my son,” Zheng Rong said.
The nurse asked, “Please wait a moment. The name of the guardian is…?”
“Xiang Yu and Zheng Rong,” he answered.
The nurse glanced through the records.
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“Is it this one?” Zheng Rong smiled, playfully teasing a Chinese child through the glass.
“No, no, Dr. Zheng, that’s not him,” the nurse said, laughing. “Let me bring him out for you. He’s barely a month old and very fragile. Please wear these sanitized gloves. Where’s his mother?”
The nurse made her way through the rows of cribs—each child, regardless of skin color or parental status, received the same care. She gently lifted a sleeping baby boy, carrying him over to Zheng Rong.
Drool trickled from the baby’s mouth, and Zheng Rong smiled softly, making small gestures. The baby was so small, almost small enough to fit in Xiang Yu’s hands.
“You can touch him,” the nurse said, “but be very gentle. Baby skin is delicate, and they don’t like the feel of adult hands.”
Zheng Rong declined, “No, I’ll just look. That’s enough. The hospital asked me to come fill out a form the other day, but I was too busy. I’m sorry…”
The nurse gently returned the baby to his crib. “Mr. Xiang Yu already filled it out for you.”
“What was it about?” Zheng Rong asked, suddenly curious.
The nurse explained, “It was about what happens to the child if both guardians are killed in the war. It’s a detailed document outlining custody arrangements.”
“That gentleman was very kind. I remember clearly. Two days ago, he signed on your behalf. If both of you are gone, the army will take custody of the child. When he comes of age, he’ll be required to serve in the military for five years before deciding his future.”
Zheng Rong nodded. “That’s good. And his name…”
The nurse flipped through the records again. “His name is Xifeng Kaide’er (West Wind Cadel).”
Zheng Rong said, “I’ve been very busy lately. Please… take good care of him. His parents were martyrs in Alaska.”
The nurse smiled, “We treat all the children the same. Don’t worry—he’ll grow up healthy here.”
Zheng Rong nodded, tipped his hat to the nurse, and left for the ICU.
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Lance was lying in bed, reading a book.
“Feeling better?” Zheng Rong asked.
Lance put the book away, smiling. “What brings you here? Any progress?”
Zheng Rong replied coolly, “Just checking on you. We’re one step away from the truth.”
Lance breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s great news.”
Zheng Rong, still distant, said, “But sometimes, that last step requires crossing thousands of years and light-years of space. Don’t get too excited yet.”
Lance: "..."
Zheng Rong laughed.
Lance laughed as well, giving Zheng Rong a knowing look.
Zheng Rong frowned. “What are you looking at?”
Lance shook his head with a smile. Zheng Rong’s voice turned cold. “I asked, what are you reading?”
Lance lifted the book’s cover. “The poetry collection you gave me... Have you eaten yet?”
Zheng Rong had his hands in his pockets, and Lance, thinking he was about to leave, hurriedly tried to reach for his hand but winced in pain as his injury flared up.
Zheng Rong, at a loss for words, asked, “Do you want to take a walk?”
Lance hesitated. “I… I can’t move right now. Do you… want to eat here? I mean, if you’re not too busy… Have you been getting any rest?”
Lance's shoulder was still bandaged from the injury, and his foot had suffered a minor fracture in the last battle, leaving him bedridden. He wanted to chat more with Zheng Rong but didn’t want to take up too much of his time.
Zheng Rong brought over a wheelchair. “Honestly, I’m stuck on something in my thinking. I want to walk around the city.”
Lance considered it for a moment, but Zheng Rong had already unceremoniously taken Lance’s arm and slung it over his shoulder. “Move… and use your strength.”
Lance, gritting his teeth in pain, managed to sit in the wheelchair with a heavy sigh.
Zheng Rong fetched a blanket, covered Lance with it, and pushed him out of the hospital.
“Where’s Xiang Yu?”
Zheng Rong shrugged. After briefly informing a nurse, he pushed the wheelchair toward the underground city exit.
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Outside the hospital lay a seemingly endless flight of stairs, a ladder to the sky. There was also a handrail elevator slowly moving upward.
“Where to?” Lance asked, confused.
“A pilgrimage,” Zheng Rong replied.
“This ladder only goes up. It’s a one-way journey, a path of no return. Look…”
Lance leaned back in the wheelchair, quietly watching the procession of people ascending the stairs.
The elderly, the sick, women, and the disabled.
The handrails of the stairs were adorned with sculptures depicting gods in various forms and postures: Hel, the Norse goddess of death, cloaked and bearing a scythe; Anubis, the Egyptian god of death; Shiva, the Hindu god of life and death; Tibet’s Buddha; and China’s Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva.
A man, leaning on a cane, climbed a few steps at a time before placing down his cane and prostrating himself in reverence.
Lance and Zheng Rong slowly ascended with the escalator, watching the man’s pious expression as he gradually disappeared into the distance, bowing his head to the ground in worship toward the top of the ladder.
“They have a tradition,” Zheng Rong said softly. “Those who feel they can no longer live go to the surface to die, giving their place in life to their children.”
Lance reached back and gently placed his hand on Zheng Rong’s, which gripped the wheelchair. "So, are we also going to wait for death?"
Zheng Rong didn’t pull his hand away, nor did he respond.
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One by one, the pilgrims on the ladder straightened up, some casting curious or complex glances at them.
Lance said, “Let’s go back, my dear. Perhaps once you find the truth, they won’t have to walk this painful path to death anymore.”
Zheng Rong murmured, “I’m lost too… I don’t know. My thoughts are stuck here.”
“What is life, after all?”
The escalator reached the top, and Zheng Rong pushed Lance onto a platform. “We’ve deciphered most of the Mayan glyphs, but there’s one thing we still can’t understand… something crucial.”
“Their lives are already eternal,” Zheng Rong said as he stood at the platform’s edge, gazing at the countless tiny figures in the underground city far below. “What more are they seeking?”
“In the universe, all forms of life should evolve toward eternity,” Zheng Rong muttered. “They’re the end of that journey, but why have they begun to fear death?”
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They stopped in front of a massive sculpture.
The statue was a blend of Eastern and Western deities, its face indistinct, with towering wings stretching upward, seemingly ready to take flight. Hundreds of arms each held symbolic objects: crosses, rosaries, swords, and flowers. The stone figure’s skirt floated, frozen mid-movement.
“God of Hope,” Lance read one of the many languages inscribed at the base.
“A fictional god of hope,” Zheng Rong realized. “A place for the promise of rebirth.”
Lance uneasily asked, “Is this the surface?”
Zheng Rong turned and pushed open a small door at the end of the platform. A sea breeze rushed in, carrying the brilliant golden light of the setting sun.
He wheeled Lance out of the underground city of the West Wind. They stood on the edge of a thousand-foot cliff, with the sun sinking slowly behind the mountains, casting its grand light across the entire ocean.
Seagulls cried out as they spread their wings and flew, and along the endless coastline, people sat or lay down. For millions of years, Earth’s tides had lashed against cliffs and rocks, stirring a faint, salty scent into the air.
“Teacher once said that the ultimate purpose of the universe could never be answered by physics or any other discipline because we exist within the universe.” Zheng Rong sighed, sitting down next to Lance’s wheelchair, arms folded behind his head as he lay down on the cliff’s flat ground.
He murmured, “Even that so-called ‘god,’ the first captain of the Mayan mothership, couldn’t glimpse even a fraction of the meaning of his existence. What do you think, Lance?”
“Teacher said that souls and thoughts are infinite and everlasting… They drift through the vast universe and will one day return to our world…”
Zheng Rong gazed at the strange sky in the east, its colors shifting from the receding sunlight to a brilliant crimson, then a deep rose, and finally, darkness.
The stars rose over the sea, and the vast Milky Way stretched across the sky, shining brightly over the City of the West Wind.
Lance sat in his wheelchair, looking up at the stars. The sea breeze had calmed, and bonfires blazed across the land, their flames reflecting each other.
“Zheng Rong,” Lance said, “I think we humans…”
“We humans,” Zheng Rong repeated absentmindedly.
Lance continued, “Our species has been incredibly resilient since its inception. It’s made up of the Chinese people, the Germans, and countless martyrs from nations unafraid of death.”
Zheng Rong said, “But now, death is a way to live better.”
Lance disagreed. “No, immortality has always been the pursuit of only a small portion of people…”
“No,” Zheng Rong interrupted. “You’re wrong, Lance. The ultimate goal of life’s evolution is eternity. They continually modify their bodies, extending their lifespans.”
Lance didn’t argue. After a long pause, he said, “We’ve replaced the existence of each individual with the immortality of the collective. New babies are constantly born, while the old blood fades away. When the species faces the threat of extinction, more people step forward to fight. You have a saying in China…”
Zheng Rong pondered for a moment, his pupils reflecting the dazzling stars.
“‘Though thousands may oppose me, I will go forward alone,’” Zheng Rong quoted.
“Zheng Feng and Li Ying,” Lance said gravely. “We are all just parts of the collective, like cells in the human body—constantly renewing, aging, dying. Including you. You’ve inherited Zheng Feng’s will, his memories passed on to you. Li Ying’s memories passed on to you.”
“In your last research report, didn’t you say this? Memories are the soul. Their souls will one day fade away, but humanity, like a flourishing tree, will still possess unparalleled vitality. The Mayan people have only one lonely individual left, so they can never defeat us.”
“They can never defeat a species full of wisdom and courage.”
“Perhaps,” Zheng Rong muttered, closing his eyes as if he had understood something.
Lance said no more. The waves crashed against the cliffs, spraying white foam. Memories of his childhood with Zheng Feng floated through Zheng Rong’s mind.
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When China began its full-scale retreat, Zheng Rong and Zheng Feng were following the army west.
Zheng Feng carried Zheng Rong, crossing mountains and rivers with the refugees until they reached the Cape of Good Hope. Their parents had been dispatched by the United Nations Defense Alliance to Northern Ireland.
As far as the eye could see, the long coastline was filled with black refugees. Zheng Rong, exhausted, sat at the end of the rocky shore, unable to go any further. Zheng Feng turned back and carried him, struggling to keep up with the fleeing crowd.
“Brother, I don’t want to go in,” Zheng Rong said.
Zheng Feng reassured him, “It’s dangerous outside. Be good.”
Zheng Rong, crying and complaining about missing their parents, was inconsolable. Zheng Feng, still just a teenager himself, couldn’t calm him down. After a long time, he stood up, let Zheng Rong down, took off his little brother’s shoes, and told him to sit on the rocks while he went to find the military to negotiate.
Someone came over, trying to take Zheng Rong away, but Zheng Rong coldly and hatefully stared at the stranger. The well-meaning African resident, unable to communicate, had no choice but to leave.
Zheng Rong fell asleep curled up under the rocks, and Zheng Feng returned to carry him.
“Brother… let me sleep a little longer,” Zheng Rong murmured.
Zheng Feng said, “It’s time to go. I’ll take you to Northern Ireland to find our parents.”
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Xiang Yu’s voice was soft. “It’s cold out here. Why’d you come all the way out here?”
Zheng Rong opened his eyes and saw Xiang Yu.
“I dreamt about my brother,” Zheng Rong said.
Xiang Yu carried Zheng Rong on his back, Lance’s wheelchair following behind them. A military search team escorted them back into the underground city.
“What did you dream about?” Xiang Yu asked with a smile.
Zheng Rong answered quietly, “I dreamt that he was taking me to Northern Ireland to find our parents… waiting for the International Humanitarian Rescue Organization’s ship in the English Channel…”
Lance asked, “Was this before we met?”
Zheng Rong nodded, “Long before you met my brother. We boarded the ship and found a little boy, dirty all over, hiding in the corner of the cabin—a stowaway. That was Li Ying. Later, we waited in Northern Ireland for a long, long time… nearly a month.”
The three children had waited for the underground city to open in the snow-covered entrance, and finally, Zheng Feng had brought his little brother back to their parents.
In the blink of an eye, nearly twenty years had passed silently.
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Back at the research center that night:
Zheng Rong asked, “Any new insights? Sorry I’m late.”
The scholars all shook their heads, weary and without much to offer.
Zheng Rong began to lead the sixth meeting. Just as they were sorting the materials, there was a knock on the door. A soldier stood waiting outside.
“The Teacher wants to see you, Dr. Zheng. It’s something very important,” the soldier said.