Fishing

"Hello, Sheriff Boris, welcome to my home. Please, have a seat."

Wu Heng looked at the faint sweat on the other man's forehead and greeted him with a smile.

Looks like this one's a money man.

"Hello, Mr. Dean. I rushed over as soon as I got the call. Didn't have time to change into formal wear—my apologies for the rudeness."

Boris sat on the sofa, his bearded face beaming with anticipation as he stared at Wu Heng.

He looked like a lovably clumsy polar bear waiting to be fed.

"No trouble at all, Sheriff Boris. If anything, it makes me feel more at ease."

Boris hesitated, as if wanting to say something. "Well..."

"Oh, right, here's the thing. On my way back today, I got blocked by a bunch of black thugs.

The trunk of my car got scratched up. It really drove home how strained our security forces are, so I've decided to donate some money to the police station for improvements."

As he spoke, Wu Heng picked up one of five pre-written checks on the table and slid it over to Boris.

"Mr. Dean, I hope you weren't too shaken up. Those illegal immigrant gorillas are like tumbleweeds on a highway—

a few disappear every day, but more always roll in. You can never clean them out completely."

"Don't worry. When I get back, I'll step up patrols around your area. I'll make sure those damn scumbags never show up in front of you again."

Boris took the check, knowing full well that a few black guys couldn't compare to the number on that slip of paper. There had to be more to it.

"Sheriff Boris, that's all minor stuff. The real reason I invited you today is to ask for your help tracking down a few people. Here are their names. Ten thousand pounds per person, and if you get me news within the day, I'll add another ten thousand each."

Wu Heng handed over a slip of paper as he spoke.

On it were four names: Kirsty Cotton, Larry Cotton (father), Frank Cotton (uncle), and Marcus Ames (priest at some church).

Wu Heng couldn't for the life of him remember Kirsty's stepmother Julia's last name, but with her father's name, it was enough to confirm this was the Kirsty he was looking for.

Marcus hadn't appeared in the first movie, but in the comics, he was a member of the "Intercessors" organization Kirsty founded—and part of Wu Heng's plan.

If Marcus existed, it confirmed this wasn't just the world of the first movie, but a sprawling mix of film and comic universes.

"Mr. Dean, can I ask why you're looking into these people?"

Boris took the paper and glanced at it. This was a simple task for him, but as sheriff, old habits kicked in and he asked.

"Don't worry. Since I invited you, it's nothing illegal or criminal."

Boris nodded, reluctantly eyeing the remaining four checks on the table. "Alright, I'll get back to you by tonight at the latest. I'll head out now."

After the butler saw Boris out, he returned to Wu Heng. "Sir, the detective you requested has been contacted. Looking into these few people doesn't need this kind of expense—one percent would be more than enough."

"I know that. But this is important, and it's worth the cost."

Wu Heng understood perfectly, but only by quickly locating these people and confirming the plot could he proceed with the next two tasks.

Seeing Wu Heng's resolve, Markel knew he had to throw his full effort into the remaining task of packaging and promoting Wu Heng's image.

By evening, Wu Heng had received the sheriff's reply.

Kirsty, her father, and stepmother were currently in neighboring Brooklyn City.

Frank had flown out of Hatton Airport two days ago on a morning flight to Morocco in Africa.

More importantly, Father Marcus had been found—he did exist.

He was serving at Glass Church, 600 kilometers from the estate. There were plenty of people named Marcus, but only one was a priest.

It looked like the first movie's plot hadn't started yet, but it was close. Once Frank returned to the British Empire, the story would kick off. Everything had to move fast.

Wu Heng silently recited every deity and immortal he could remember, hoping it would all go smoothly. He'd been given a second chance at life—he had to live it brilliantly. No way it would end like this.

After turning down dinner invitations from several women—Mary, Manny, Laura, and others—Wu Heng finally got a good night's rest.

Three days later.

At Glass Church, Wu Heng was speaking with Father Marcus.

Looking at this well-dressed priest with brown hair and a beard, who would guess that in the years to come, he'd become a faithless drunk?

"Father Marcus, I'm here. As agreed, the exhibition will be held at the church entrance today."

Wu Heng extended his wrist and checked the time.

"Mr. Dean, I've seen your work. I hope it serves as a warning to the world. I just don't know if this is the right thing to do."

Marcus began praying devoutly before the image of Jesus on the wall, ignoring the noise outside the church.

Marcus, if you knew what was coming for you, you'd thank me. Maybe you should be praying to me, not Jesus.

Wu Heng sneered inwardly at Marcus's behavior, said a silent remark to himself, and turned to walk out the door.

"Mr. Dean, I hear you received divine inspiration in a dream to create this rare piece?"

"Sir, could you explain the original intent behind this work?"

"As a young artist, do you have any plans for the near future?"

On the grounds set up beside the church, a crowd of reporters surrounded Wu Heng, firing off questions nonstop.

A glass box covered in red cloth was brought up and placed on the display stand. Under the expectant gazes of the crowd, the box was opened.

Inside lay a crystal-clear orb with red liquid flowing within, like surging, unending magma.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the 'Blazing Crystal Ball,' created based on the hell from my dreams."

"The ceaseless flames within represent the true cruelty of hell—an endless, unrelenting scorching."

"I chose to unveil this piece near the church today to use hell's flames as a warning: do not be deceived, lest you fall into the fires of hell."

Wu Heng stood on the red-carpeted stage, speaking with ease.

In truth, this crystal ball was nothing more than an ordinary craft item he'd ordered overnight at a high price, with no real artistic value.

The so-called press conference and the advertisements instantly blanketing the nearby city were merely money paving the way.

Everything was aimed at spreading the meaning behind this "Blazing Crystal Ball."

As the conference ended, evening had arrived. The reporters had returned to their newsrooms with their red envelopes, and the onlookers gradually dispersed.

Only the staff waiting to clean up remained on the grounds.

"Mr. Dean, should we wrap things up? There's no one left."

A foreman in blue work clothes approached Wu Heng and asked softly.

"Wait a little longer. Just a little longer."

Wu Heng sat on the display stand, a hint of irritation stirring in his heart.

There's no way he wouldn't come.

Though he could still arrange things later, wasting too much time meant that once Frank returned from Morocco and the plot began, the plan would become much more rushed.

Slap. A dirty hand, sticky with sweat, landed on the red-cloth-covered display table in front of him.

Black grime filled the crevices of the blackened fingernails.

But Wu Heng no longer cared about that. His gaze narrowed, focusing on the crystal ball in that filthy hand.

Got him!

Inside the crystal-clear orb was a withered pine tree.

Pale white snowflakes fell from the top, drifting within the crystal ball. Wu Heng could even hear the howl of the wind and snow.

These snowflakes seemed to hold a strange allure.

Wu Heng felt as if he were being drawn into it. In this warm season of early autumn, he could actually feel a bone-piercing chill.

"Where'd this bum come from? Get lost!"

A staff member barked, raising a stool to strike.

"Wait."

Wu Heng reached out to stop him, carefully studying the hooded vagrant before him.

"This is a truly special crystal ball. Name your price—I want it."

Wu Heng said.

"It belongs to you. Hell has no brimstone and fire—only bitter winter."

The vagrant dropped these words and swiftly turned to leave.

Wu Heng picked up the crystal ball, not daring to examine it too closely.

He carefully placed it in the box, wrapped it up, and waved for the staff to start packing up.

What he had been waiting for had arrived. There was no need to linger.

Would you trade your collections, monthly tickets, and recommendation tickets for two plastic bottles?