Chapter 15.
We drove along the highway for another couple of days, stopping occasionally at roadside diners and cheap motels. Sly was quiet most of the time, inserting only short remarks every now and then. I had long since grown accustomed to his economy with words.
And throughout all of it, no one attacked us. No ninja, no HYDRA agents. Apparently Megan's spell was actually working. Thoughts of her still produced a strange mixture of admiration and mild unease. An actual witch. It still wouldn't fully sink in that I'd witnessed real magic at such close range.
Finally we reached a port city in California. Sly turned the car onto an inconspicuous side street away from the main roads, we took our few belongings, and continued on foot.
"Food first," Sly said quietly, stepping into a nondescript diner.
We ordered burgers and coffee. While we waited, I finally asked what had been circling my tongue for several days:
"Sly — can you tell me now where we're actually going?"
He took a sip of his black coffee, watched me bite into the burger, and said with a slight smirk:
"China."
I nearly choked.
*China? Seriously?*
The thought was unsettling on its own. A completely different country, different culture, different language. And those damned ninja — who were probably perfectly at home there.
"I hope they can't find us there either," I managed, once I'd stopped coughing.
After the meal Sly disappeared for a couple of hours, leaving me sitting in the diner watching the port cranes through the window. When he came back, he was holding several sheets of paper.
"Got us onto a cargo ship. The Sea Dragon," he handed me one of the sheets. "You're Alex Johnson, a general laborer. I'm Bob Miller, a mechanic. Memorize that. On the ship, keep your head down, do your work, don't draw attention."
I nodded, reading through the details of my new invented life on paper. Alex Johnson. It sounded — fine.
Toward evening we made our way to the dock where several rust-weathered cargo vessels were berthed. Our Sea Dragon looked no better than the others. We were met by a bearded man in a grease-stained work suit who resembled a captain. He glanced briefly at our papers, gave Sly a nod as though greeting an old acquaintance, and gestured toward the ship:
"Find your bunks. We sail at six tomorrow."
The crew quarters turned out to be a cramped space with double-stacked berths, saturated with the smell of sweat and diesel. Five temporary workers were already berthed there in total. A mixed bunch — some kept to themselves, others made attempts at humor. I tried to keep my distance, as Sly had instructed.
The journey took two weeks. The days blurred into monotonous routine. Mornings were work: I moved crates, helped clean the deck, and handled other simple, basic tasks. After lunch I carved out time to train.
Running on the ship was impractical — laps along the deck would have drawn attention. So Sly had me doing push-ups, squats, and ab work in the empty bunkroom. But the most interesting sessions, though painful, were the wooden knife sparring matches. Every evening, when most of the crew were already asleep or watching television, Sly found a quiet corner on deck, and we squared off.
"Watch the elbows," he said, easily parrying one of my attacks and responding with a short thrust to the chest. "The position of the elbow tells you where the blade is going. Don't watch the knife itself — watch the body."
And I actually started getting somewhere. At least a couple of times I earned one of his approving nods.
Beyond the physical training, Sly put my mind through its paces as well.
"Attention and memory are muscles, same as any other," he said one evening early in the voyage, handing me a battered deck of playing cards. "Try this: shuffle, memorize the order, then reproduce it."
At first nothing worked — the cards got confused, and I was forgetting the sequence after a dozen cards. But I kept at it, starting over and over. "Structural Thinking" didn't help enormously here, but it did allow me to group cards by suit or rank. By the end of our voyage I could hold nearly the whole deck in memory.
The other exercise was harder. Sly required me to describe in meticulous detail every person we encountered during the day — whether a sailor, the cook, or the captain himself. The goal was to recall what they wore, what their hands looked like, whether they had scars, how they spoke and how they moved. At first I mixed things up, remembering only broad impressions — but gradually I got better.
In general, the days on the ship were — strange. On one hand, relaxing. Nobody was shooting at us or chasing us with knives. On the other, I understood all of it was temporary, and that in China we would most likely be walking into problems again — possibly ninja of the Hand. Sly deflected my questions, keeping me in deliberate ignorance. And the closer we drew to the unfamiliar country, the more often I found myself pulling up the interface, turning over where and how many WP to spend in the various scenarios I could imagine.
Then one morning, land appeared on the horizon. At first just a stripe, then gradually the outlines of high-rise buildings and port cranes came into focus. We had arrived in China. In Shanghai, if I was reading the scattered overheard conversations correctly.
We disembarked with the other temporary workers and even collected our pay — a few crumpled bills of local currency. Sly hailed a taxi on the street, tossed a short phrase in Chinese at the driver, and we were moving.
The city was living its life. The noise of the crowd was deafening after two weeks of sea quiet. Bright signs in an unfamiliar language were disorienting. We drove for a long time, turning from broad avenues into narrow lanes, until the taxi finally stopped in front of a building that stood in stark contrast to everything around it.
It wasn't a high-rise — it was a two-story structure built in a traditional style, with a curved tiled roof, carved wooden beams, and red lanterns flanking the entrance. A sign in both English and Chinese read: *The Sleeping Dragon Inn.*
"Our temporary base," said Sly, paying the driver. "While I figure out how to move forward and get in touch with the right people."
Inside it was quiet and cool, and the air carried a sweet scent of incense. An elderly Chinese woman in traditional dress sat behind the front desk reading something. Sly spoke to her in his rough Chinese, and we received keys to two adjacent rooms on the second floor.
My room was small but very pleasant: a wooden bed with a thin mattress, a low table, and a scroll of calligraphy on the wall. Through the window I could see a small inner courtyard with a dwarf tree.
I dropped my pack, sat down on the bed, and closed my eyes. From here, from this quiet room in the heart of an unfamiliar city, everything that had happened to me over the last six months felt like an impossible dream.
*The bunker, the ninja, the witch — and now China. What's next? Another world? Why couldn't I have ended up with a normal system, or at least a world where the ratio of women to men was a little more favorable?* The momentary weakness was smothered by the reminder that it was too early to relax.
I believed that sooner or later a time would come when I could stop and rest — in body and in spirit both. Until then, I couldn't afford softness.
For the next two days I stayed in the room. I had no phone for obvious reasons, and Sly had forbidden me from going outside in the strongest terms.
"Why?" I asked when he was about to head out. "The city's enormous, they're unlikely to find us. And Megan's protection is on me."
He looked at me the way you look at someone who's just suggested taking a stroll across a minefield in a glowing costume.
"This inn belongs to a serious local organization. They value their reputation and provide security for guests. Outside its walls — it's dangerous territory. And the Hand, apart from their ninja tricks, runs a decent informant network. Even if they don't have direct power here, they have money, and money buys a great deal. So stay put and don't move."
And he left, and I was alone in the quiet, slightly stuffy room. No television. The window looked out on a tiny, empty courtyard, which offered almost nothing to see. A couple of times a day sounds drifted up from the street — the city's hum, fragments of speech — which only underscored my position as an involuntary prisoner.
Several times I was overcome by the urge to forget everything and just go out, stretch my legs, breathe some fresh air. But each time fragments surfaced from books and films — the part where the hero ignores his more experienced companion's instructions and immediately lands in trouble. My situation already came with a trailing wake of problems, with HYDRA and ninja both in the mix. So I had to find ways to occupy myself.
Unfortunately there wasn't much to work with. I got out the deck of cards again and tormented my memory, trying to hold increasingly longer sequences. Then I did push-ups, worked my abs, did squats. The room was small and didn't allow for any real movement. Out of boredom I even began studying the calligraphy scroll on the wall, trying to guess what it said. "Structural Thinking" attempted to find patterns in the characters, but without knowledge of the language it was pointless.
Food was brought to the room three times a day. It was good, but unfamiliar — lots of rice, vegetables, unusual sauces. I ate, trained, slept, and trained again. Time crawled with agonizing slowness. I caught myself feeling envious of Sly — he was out in the city and could actually do things.
On the third day, toward evening, there was a knock at the door. Sly's calm voice came from the other side.
"Open up. It's me."
He stepped in and cast a quick eye around the room, as though checking I hadn't made a mess of it.
"Pack your things. We move out in an hour."
I exhaled with relief and quickly stuffed my few belongings into the pack. Exactly one hour later we walked out of the inn. A nondescript sedan was waiting at the entrance, which Sly had apparently rented. We got in and he pulled out without a word.
We drove for a full day. First along Shanghai's multi-lane highways, then the road narrowed and the scenery outside shifted to rural — rice paddies, some factories, then mountains. We stopped only at gas stations, for fuel, water, and the bathroom. Sly was, as usual, quiet and focused.
The final destination turned out to be a remote village tucked deep in the forest. The houses were old and wooden, some already sagging with age. The road first became a dirt track, then simply ended. Sly killed the engine, and around us settled a silence that was deafening compared to the city's noise.
We got out. Sly immediately approached the first local he could find — an elderly Chinese man in simple clothes — and asked him something in his halting language. The man silently pointed to one of the houses on the edge of the village.
We went there. When we knocked, another old man came to the door. But unlike the first, there was something different about this one. Yes, his face was lined and his hair was white. But his posture was straight, his shoulders broad, and the gaze from beneath his heavy brows was sharp, attentive, and assessing. For his age, he looked remarkably solid.
Sly greeted him, they exchanged a brief word. Then Sly nodded to me, and we walked back to the car. He opened the trunk. Inside were two large packs — the kind used for mountain climbing — already assembled, along with sets of simple hiking clothes: heavy-fabric trousers, T-shirts, and jackets.
"Change," Sly said. "Our clothes will only get in the way here."
We changed right there by the car. The new clothes fit well, leaving full freedom of movement. The packs were heavy — tent, sleeping bags, food, water inside. Mine, among other things, contained the Glock and the armor.
"Who is that old man?" I asked, hoisting the pack onto my shoulders. "Your debtor?"
"No," Sly shook his head. "That's a guide. He knows the way to where we're going."
We went back to the house. The old man was already waiting on the threshold, a long staff in his hands. He gave a silent nod and, without looking back, set off toward the forest. Sly and I fell in behind him.
We walked for three days. The route wasn't the most technically difficult, but the constant uphill climb was hard going under the weight of the packs. The guide was a man of few words. He muttered occasionally to Sly, indicating direction. Nights we spent in the forest, pitching the tent and cooking on a gas burner. The air was clean and cool, and the scenery was breathtaking. But inside me, the tension wouldn't release. I was waiting for a trap, an attack, any hint that someone was following. Around us, though, there was only nature and silence, broken by birdsong and the rustle of leaves.
On the evening of the third day we emerged onto a large clearing ringed by high peaks. And in the middle of it stood a Stone. Enormous — three times my height — dark, covered in moss and lichen. It had a strange, elongated shape, as though someone had deliberately worked it into form long ago.
When we came closer, I could make out characters carved into the surface through the green growth. Very old ones, partially worn away by time.
Sly paid the guide without a word, handing him a thick stack of local bills. The old man nodded, tucked the money into the folds of his clothing without expression, and disappeared silently back into the forest.
"Where are we? And what is that stone?" I said, unable to hold it anymore, once the guide had gone.
"A special place. Very old," Sly dropped his pack on the ground and began clearing a spot for a fire. "And the stone — it's a relic. Several hundred years old, at the least. A place of power, if the legends are to be believed."
We made camp. Sly built a small, neat fire, set a pot on it, and cooked rice. Then he did something I hadn't seen coming at all. He took a bowl, filled it with the freshly cooked rice, and produced from his pocket an old, worn coin with a square hole in the center.
He carried the bowl to the stone, set it respectfully at its base, gave a slight bow, and murmured something quickly in Chinese. Then he placed the coin on the rice.
I watched the whole ceremony with undisguised surprise and curiosity.
"And — why did you do that?" I asked when he came back to the fire.
"Sent a signal," Sly answered, settling onto the ground. "Now we wait."
"A signal? To the stone?" I didn't follow.
"No," Sly gave a short laugh. "To whoever is meant to receive it. The coin and the rice — that's payment. You have to give a small gift to the spirit-messenger."
"And who is the recipient?" I sat down beside him. "You said I'd see for myself."
"You will," Sly nodded, watching the flames. "If he comes, that is. For now — let's eat and get some sleep."
---
I woke to a quiet, rustling sound. It wasn't Sly — he moved silently when he chose to, and his ordinary steps were firm and deliberate; I'd learned to tell them apart during our journey. This sound was different. Careful and furtive.
*The old guide, maybe? Come back, waited until we were asleep, to rob us and disappear.* The first and most plausible thought.
I slowly, almost without breathing, raised myself and pressed against the gap of the tent opening.
The moon was nearly full, and its light flooded the clearing, turning everything to shades of silver and blue. Near the stone, at its base, where Sly had left the bowl of rice and the coin, sat — a girl. Five years old at most. Slight, wearing a simple pale dress. From her dark hair rose two neat little fox ears, and from beneath the dress, a fluffy russet tail swished along the ground.
I blinked several times, trying to determine whether I was asleep. The surrealism of what I was seeing pressed on my consciousness.
*A fox-girl. Seriously.*
She was crouching, examining the bowl with her head tilted sideways. Then a small hand reached out toward the coin sitting on the rice. She picked it up, turned it between her fingers, and I noticed traces of rice around her mouth — she had clearly already helped herself to some.
I couldn't help myself and called out softly, barely above a whisper:
"Hey — what are you doing out here?"
She startled, her whole body tensing. Her head snapped toward me — and her eyes were not human. They were golden, with vertical pupils like a cat's — or yes, like a fox's. They went wide with surprise and possibly fear. She clutched the coin in her fist, and in the next instant something extraordinary happened.
She didn't run — she made a sharp, explosive leap directly onto the top of the enormous stone. In the moment of landing she was no longer a girl but a small, graceful russet fox. The coin glinted in her teeth. She threw me one last quick, reproachful look from those golden eyes, and then vanished. Not ran away — literally disappeared, as though she had never been there — only a faint, barely perceptible white glow hung in the air for a moment before it too went out.
*The fox-girl turned into a fox and disappeared.*
A soft sound came from nearby. I spun around sharply. Sly was standing in the shadow of a large tree, leaning calmly against the trunk with his arms folded. A slight, barely visible smirk crossed his face.
"You — you saw that?" I managed, still not quite back in myself.
"I saw," he said simply.
"And that — that's who you were making the offering to? That — fox-girl?"
Sly shrugged, and the smirk widened slightly.
"More or less. Honestly, I've never performed a ritual like that before in my life. It was new to me too. But judging by what just happened — it worked."
I walked closer to the stone, unable to take my eyes off the spot where she had vanished.
"So what the hell was that? A ghost? A spirit?"
"A huxian, if you believe the locals," Sly said, pushing off from the tree. "A fox spirit. Clever, likes gifts, and can act as a messenger. Since she took the coin — the message will be delivered. All that's left is to wait."
He stretched, his neck cracking with obvious satisfaction.
"Now get some sleep. Dawn's not far off, and tomorrow might turn out to be an interesting day."
Without further words he ducked into his tent. I stood for several more minutes, staring at the dark silhouette of the ancient stone. None of it would organize itself into anything coherent in my head.
*A witch. Ninja. And now shape-shifting spirits. This world was turning out to be far more — layered — than I had imagined. And stranger. Incredibly strange.*
Over the last months my life had become such a deranged cocktail of events that even by the standards of this universe it was excessive. And the most unsettling part was that I was slowly beginning to adjust to all of it. And I was desperately curious to see the face of whoever Sly had arranged all this theater for — the stones, the ritual, the spirits running around in the night.