28 A New Job (Part One)

Misfortune never comes alone, and good fortune rarely arrives in pairs. Perhaps it was the barrage of these utterly unpleasant notification messages that set his nerves on edge, but a few minutes later, as Chen Wenming absentmindedly refreshed the webpage once more, he was suddenly confronted with a flood of analyses from countless internet users dissecting the celestial anomaly from every possible angle.

A certain Swedish Historical Institute declared: Based on the authenticity of the clothing, farming tools, and crops in the video—especially the state of malnutrition and overwork, which the three individuals could not possibly be feigning—this footage absolutely could not be a film production.

The Royal Geographical Institute of Belgium stated: Considering the attire of the people, the characteristics of the plants, and the proportion of vegetation coverage, the location in the video matches none of the major geographical features at any latitude or terrain currently found on Earth.

An authoritative Western European Linguistics Institute added: By reconstructing the dialogue in the video, it’s clear the region possesses a fully developed and independent language system, yet this system is not documented by any linguistic research institution on Earth.

And so on, and so forth...

In short, within a brief span, one institution after another, one organization after the next, each from their own perspective, confirmed that the world shown in the celestial phenomenon was indeed real—but existed nowhere on Earth.

To make matters worse, just at that moment, a certain media outlet somehow obtained and published the contents of the United Nations conference, revealing the agenda, the experiments conducted on Wu Qingchen, and the devastating news that this unfortunate man had involuntarily dragged seven billion humans into his predicament.

Chen Wenming hastily rolled up his sleeve and, eyes wide, found a faint scar on his left forearm—just as he’d feared.

"Damn it!"

He had barely finished cursing when, all of a sudden, the light in his room brightened sharply.

At the same time, a commotion arose outside his window.

Chen Wenming rushed to the window. On the street below, pedestrians once again froze in their tracks, vehicles stalled, and countless heads tilted skyward.

In the sky, where just minutes before there had been an expanse of darkness, shifting tableaux of blue sky and white clouds now raced across the heavens.

Heaven has truly come!

Though he had spent the last six hours glued to web pages, mentally preparing himself, when the phenomenon reappeared, Chen Wenming’s heart still pounded with dread.

He stared dumbly at the sky, at the rapidly changing blue and white, at the three farmers laboring swiftly beneath the clouds—his mouth agape, speechless.

After a long while, Chen Wenming finally regained his senses. The first thing he did was quickly make a circuit of his room, switching off all sources of light—the fluorescent lamp, the television, the computer monitor, the dehumidifier, even the tiny light on the air conditioner—anything that might interfere with viewing the celestial spectacle.

When he returned to the window, the street, usually aglow and bustling at this hour, was shrouded in darkness and silence.

At that moment, across the Asian continent, Eastern Europe, Australia—everywhere on the sunless side of the Earth—nearly all those awake were doing precisely as Chen Wenming was.

If one were to observe Earth from space at that moment, the sunless hemisphere would have been plunged into sudden blackness, the twinkling lights symbolizing human civilization and power vanishing all at once, as if the blue planet had reverted to a prehistoric darkness.

That day, as daylight swept one half of the globe, countless souls were restless; that night, as darkness enveloped the other half, multitudes lay awake till dawn.

People leaned against balconies, doorposts, stood in the middle of streets—some clutching a spouse’s arm, some holding a child’s hand, and others, like Chen Wenming, stood alone in the dark, gazing silently into the sky.

From 12:21 a.m. to 8:37 a.m. Beijing time on May 9, 2012, for a full eight hours, untold numbers of Earth’s inhabitants stared up at the sky in anxiety and terror. Pale and hollow-eyed, many would nervously pinch their own arms or thighs, confirming their continued existence; if they felt the least bit off, they would instantly roll up sleeves or pants legs, frantically searching for a fresh wound.

Chen Wenming did the same several times through that endless night.

With nerves stretched to the breaking point and the celestial visions shifting too rapidly to comprehend, Chen Wenming soon felt exhaustion wash over him.

Finally, as day and night had cycled three times on the sky’s great screen, and still he had gleaned nothing, Chen Wenming staggered to bed. When he next opened his eyes, the sky was back to normal, and the clock read ten in the morning.

He was late.

But the panic over being late lasted only two seconds; recalling the deluge of information from the night before, Chen Wenming rose slowly, washed and brushed his teeth, even cooked himself a long-missed bowl of noodles, ate heartily, donned his favorite clothes, and finally stepped out the door.

It was already eleven o’clock. Ordinarily, the streets at this hour would be packed and lively.

But as Chen Wenming descended, the street was eerily quiet; few pedestrians, almost no cars. After waiting in vain for a taxi, he finally caught a ride with a familiar neighbor in a pickup to his office.

Upon entering, he found the front desk unattended, while a group of colleagues huddled around the entrance. The general manager—usually the epitome of propriety—was squatting at the doorway in pajamas, sporting dark circles and surrounded by a litter of cigarette butts.

Upon seeing him, the manager said nothing about his tardiness. Before the others could converge, he rose, came over, and asked in a weary voice why Chen Wenming hadn’t answered his phone.

Chen Wenming checked his phone—it must have been silenced by accident while reading messages last night—and found countless missed calls. The manager shook his head helplessly, gestured for the others to disperse, then informed him that the boss from the neighboring company had come looking for him several times.

That neighboring company was where Wu Qingchen worked; its owner was familiar with Chen Wenming, and it was Chen who had recommended Wu Qingchen for the job.

At this point, thirteen meters underground, in a room with walls at least three meters thick—

Chen Wenming pulled a card from his pocket. “Qingchen, your boss asked me to give this to you.”

The card had evidently been scrutinized many times. As Chen Wenming laid it on the small table, the four officers nearby didn’t even bat an eye.

Wu Qingchen picked up the card: a bank card from the National Industrial and Commercial Bank.

“The PIN is your employee number. The accountant never came in that day—your boss got this card himself. It holds three months of your salary.”

“So... I’ve been fired?”

The answer was obvious.

Having become the central figure in this celestial event, there was no way Wu Qingchen would ever return to work—he had long since braced himself for that. Yet the thought that nearly two years of toil now meant nothing brought a distinct note of dejection to his voice.

“No, you weren’t fired,” Chen Wenming replied with a wry smile. “Your boss decided to quit and shut down the company entirely.”

As Chen Wenming explained, in these past few days, analysis of the celestial phenomenon had focused above all on the dangers of the medieval world and the grave risks facing all humanity.

Every second for Wu Qingchen was the next second for the entire human race. The medieval world was barbaric and harsh; its living conditions perilous. Wu Qingchen might encounter any manner of misfortune at any time, and Earth’s fate now hung by a thread—its dominant species might be replaced at any moment.

Even if Wu Qingchen were to live out his days in that world, safe and happy, the time ratio between that world and Earth was a staggering 30:1. Each time he slept for eight hours, twenty days would pass there. If he lived to one hundred in that world, and died peacefully, only nine years would have passed on Earth.

Nine years!

The apocalypse could arrive at any moment, but in any case, not more than nine years remained!

This was why, at ten in the morning, the streets were empty, why the general manager was in pajamas, why the neighboring company had closed its doors.

With doomsday looming, all the usual striving—the hard work, the sacrifices, the relentless effort—had suddenly become a joke.

In just three days, countless employees had resigned, shops had shuttered, companies had folded—society itself was in turmoil. And at the center of it all, Wu Qingchen...

“Well...”

At this point, as Wu Qingchen asked further, Chen Wenming’s brows knit tightly together, as if even the gentlest wording would be a struggle.

“Er... never mind,” Wu Qingchen quickly dropped the subject, seeing Chen Wenming’s expression.

“Mm... mm...” At that moment, Ji Mingming, who had been sitting silently nearby, pressed his earpiece—apparently receiving new instructions.

Half a minute later, Ji Mingming stood up. “Alright, Qingchen, that’s enough for now. Time to head out... Mr. Chen, you’re coming too.”

“Alright...” Wu Qingchen rose, glanced at the flustered Chen Wenming, at the phone, wallet, keys, and the bank card he’d just set down, and let out a long sigh.

“Don’t sigh so much...” Ji Mingming, walking ahead, suddenly turned and rolled his eyes. “You’ll have a new job soon enough.”