Chapter 0001: The Era of Dreams

One cannot reap a different future with the same self. To hope for a change in one's future, one must first change oneself.

Zhao Fusheng knew very well that there were too many things he wanted to change.

As an aging man past forty who hadn't achieved much success, he vaguely remembered that in 2004, when he bought his first second-hand Nokia, he excitedly called home, and that joy kept him awake all night. Yet seven years later, when he bought the latest Apple phone, he no longer felt that thrill.

When he bought his first Xiali, he drove his parents around Binzhou's Central Avenue. When he bought an Audi, he merely posted a casual moment on his social feed. Although he eventually sold the car to pay for his father's medical treatment, it didn't stir much emotion in him.

Once upon a time, in his third year of middle school, sitting behind the girl he secretly liked, he often wore a silly grin. A decade later, sitting next to a young and beautiful woman, he couldn't even be bothered to move a finger.

The threshold for happiness keeps rising, and the cost of excitement grows ever higher—that's one of the prices of growing up.

Zhao Fusheng suddenly thought of Ma Yun's remark that his biggest regret was founding Alibaba. Perhaps it wasn't just affectation, because for everyone, the ceiling of striving might be the day you no longer feel what happiness tastes like.

That very morning, Zhao Fusheng had overturned his immediate superior's desk. The reason was simple: that fat, pig-like man, who had risen through his sister's connections, shamelessly stole the proposal Zhao Fusheng had spent half a year crafting.

The release of anger naturally comes at a cost.

The box he held in his hands was the price Zhao Fusheng paid for his actions.

He was fired.

But Zhao Fusheng felt no regret, because just yesterday, he had gotten divorced. Now alone, he had nothing to hold him back.

The victor is king, the loser a bandit—that was the lesson life and time had taught Zhao Fusheng, and it made him understand what was most precious in this world and what should be most cherished.

And now, he only wanted to drink himself into oblivion.

…

…

A breeze stirred ripples, and the sound of reading came from not far away. This was an era when people still retained their last shred of innocence. Perhaps a decade later, even the ivory tower, this final sanctuary, would lose its purity.

They say character determines destiny. Often, people don't realize that before life's trials, our character is not fixed. Only after being mercilessly battered by reality do we truly know who we are and what we should do.

When Zhao Fusheng opened his eyes again, his face felt a little itchy, as if someone was whispering softly in his ear.

His head ached. Zhao Fusheng vaguely remembered sitting at a street-side stall, drinking bottle after bottle of beer. When he got tipsy, he went to a karaoke bar, called a hostess, and had her sing him 'The Brightest Star in the Night Sky' over and over.

Then came the torrential rain after he stepped out. The last memory in his mind was seeing a flash of light.

'Zhao Fusheng? Is Zhao Fusheng here?'

An aged voice rang out. Zhao Fusheng looked up and saw an old man with graying hair and glasses, holding a book.

Looking around, he seemed to be in a university lecture hall.

Everyone's gaze was fixed on him. The dappled summer sunlight fell on his face. Still groggy, Zhao Fusheng instinctively raised his hand.

'I'm here.'

'Mm, next time answer promptly when your name is called.'

The old man nodded and continued calling the roll.

But at that moment, Zhao Fusheng sat frozen as if under a spell.

I must be dreaming!

Zhao Fusheng thought to himself, because he knew he had had such dreams countless times before. In those dreams, he returned to that era of flowing white shirts, to that time when he recklessly unleashed his youthful passion.

Yet when he woke, he was still that miserable office worker ruthlessly crushed by the wheels of time, still commuting between subway and bus stops for a living.

Once in a while, Zhao Fusheng would smile faintly when recalling those youthful days.

It was a good era—at least when you wanted some peace and quiet, no one asked who 'Jingjing' was.

Slowly standing up, ignoring everyone's astonished stares, Zhao Fusheng walked out of the classroom with composure. After all, it was just a dream. Let the old professor do whatever he wanted. He remembered that after graduation, this professor had been dismissed from public office for academic fraud.

…

'Will you still remember tomorrow, the diary you wrote yesterday...' Humming a tune with his hands in his jeans pockets, Zhao Fusheng strolled leisurely along the school path. He had seen poetry and distant lands, and he also liked the present humdrum, because behind that humdrum lay a hundred thousand kinds of worldly烟火 and deep affection.

Along the way, peers passed by. Zhao Fusheng watched the familiar yet strange surroundings with interest. For some reason, this dream was exceptionally clear—so clear that things he had almost forgotten were vividly before his eyes.

What had he done in the summer of 1999?

Zhao Fusheng walked and thought, but it was hazy. Too much time had passed, so long that he could no longer remember what had happened.

Now, he was a sophomore, finally shed of his freshman status. His biggest daily pleasure was probably lying by the dorm window, watching pretty girls who were clearly freshmen walk by.

'Some lack zinc, some lack iron. At this age, what I lack most is probably face.' He chuckled self-deprecatingly, recalling his somewhat melodramatic temperament in college.

Zhao Fusheng came from a poor family. His parents were both wage earners. Twenty years ago, a worker's salary might have been envied, but twenty years later, it barely covered living expenses.

But at this age, he was immature, always finding ways to ask his parents for money—for clothes, a phone, a computer.

And his parents always loved him silently.

Until the day they grew old.

'The tree desires stillness, but the wind will not cease; the child wishes to care for his parents, but they are no longer there.' Many young people might not understand this, but they would only grasp it when they themselves grew old.

'Maybe I should go home and see,' a thought flashed through Zhao Fusheng's mind. Then the longing became irrepressible, like a spark that quickly spread through his entire being.

He felt his wallet and saw a few red bills inside. He remembered that this version of the hundred-yuan note had been in circulation for less than a year.

At the school gate, he hailed a taxi.

'Driver, the Second Hospital.'

His voice trembled as he said it.

Since his parents passed away, he had rarely returned to their old house.

Time is like a sieve, constantly filtering the people around us. Some stay in our lives, some drift away. But no matter what, there will always be some people who warm the seasons of our lives.

Zhao Fusheng knew well that in adult life, ease is a luxury, a smile is an ability, persistence is a responsibility, and effort is an obligation.

So no matter how hard he lived, he gritted his teeth and endured.

But in the years, there are many branches where the music ends and people part, and in the end, they fall silent with unspoken words. Waking up in the morning, he occasionally remembered the past, chopping wood and feeding horses.

Time had passed so long that Zhao Fusheng had almost forgotten those gentle, loving eyes and those broad shoulders as steady as mountains.

Fortunately, this dream gave him a chance to remember again.

At this moment, Zhao Fusheng felt that happiness should probably be like this.

The taxi driver seemed to notice the young man's daze and didn't chat with him, instead turning on the radio.

'I hope to meet someone like you, like the fresh wind in the mountains, like the warm light in an ancient city. As long as it's you in the end. Today, who have you passed by, and who has lost you? Passing Through Your World, I am Xue Yi. This is Ninghai Radio Station, FM 95 megahertz...'

The pleasant voice came from the radio, but it made Zhao Fusheng pause. Something felt off, though he couldn't say what.

Shaking his head, he stopped dwelling on such trivial matters and began to imagine what he would say to his parents when he saw them.

Even though it was a dream, he still wanted them to know that he had been doing okay in the years since they left.

Unconsciously, Zhao Fusheng's feet stood at the entrance of his old neighborhood.

The familiar streets, the familiar everything. Though perhaps because it was a dream, the stationery store on the corner had changed its name, and some neighbors' faces were blurry, he was sure this was the home he had lived in for nearly twenty years.

Reality and dreams were separated by mountains and rivers, by life and death.

Stepping into the familiar building, hearing the vaguely familiar noise from upstairs, his steps faltered.

When he reached the fourth floor, he felt inexplicably nervous.

Everyone's life is a straight line, occasionally brushing past others like intersections on a crossroad.

We never know what will happen next, nor whether the person appearing in our lives at this moment will vanish the next.

Perhaps that is the saddest thing in life.

…

…

Zhao Fusheng lived on the fifth floor. As he climbed the stairs, he saw many people standing at his door, and noise came from across the hall.

'Pay up, pay up now, or we'll start moving things!'

'Put that down, or I'll call the police!'

'Can't we talk this out?'

'Ah!'

With a cry, someone fell to the ground.

What Zhao Fusheng saw as he stepped onto the landing was his mother falling.

Seeing his mother, whom he hadn't seen for years, pushed to the ground—even if only in a dream—his anger erupted like a volcano.

'Mom!'

Shouting in fury, Zhao Fusheng charged forward.

The crowd parted to reveal a fierce-looking man in his thirties. Before he could speak, Zhao Fusheng lunged at him like a hungry tiger.

Yes, lunged.

After all, it was a dream. Even if he ended up battered and bleeding, it didn't matter. Anyone who dared to touch his mother, he would beat until they couldn't take care of themselves.

Weighing over 150 pounds and standing nearly six feet tall, he crashed directly onto the man.

'Bang!'

With a dull thud, Zhao Fusheng got up and, like a madman, punched the man's face again and again.

His grandfather had practiced martial arts, and his father had been a soldier. Zhao Fusheng had been forced to exercise since childhood. As his father put it, being physically fit at least meant you wouldn't lose in a fight.

It turned out his father was right. From the start of school, Zhao Fusheng had never been bullied. Especially since the first year of middle school, when he single-handedly beat up three ninth-graders who had cornered him for pocket money.

'Fusheng? Why are you back?'

His mother's exclamation finally made him stop. He released the man, whose face was now covered in blood. As he stood up, Zhao Fusheng noticed that the place where his mother had been pushed was not his own home but the Fan family's across the hall.

He remembered that the Fan family had two daughters. The elder one was about his age, and the younger one was only two or three. Uncle Fan had originally been an honest man, but later lost an arm due to gambling addiction. His wife had run off with the younger daughter, and the house was sold. The two families had since lost contact.

It seemed that today, debt collectors had come, and his mother had been accidentally hurt while trying to mediate.

Glancing at the few people who had been scared stiff by his frenzied behavior, Zhao Fusheng said calmly, 'You guys, collect your debts, but if anyone dares to hit someone again, do you think we neighbors are blind?'

No matter what, first rally the crowd.

'Right, right, Fusheng is right.'

'Collect debts, but talk it out. Why hit people?'

Suddenly, a group of elderly neighbors found their purpose, united in spirit, and began to berate the remaining three debt collectors.

Zhao Fusheng walked to his mother's side, embraced her, and burst into tears.

Sentimentality has always been about separation. Parting is a constant in life, but if physical distance can be eased by 'a bosom friend afar brings distance near,' how can the distance of the heart be comforted?

'I go upstream to seek her, but the way is long and blocked.'

'It's wrong of us to hit people, but he owes our boss fifty thousand yuan. What about that?'

At the debt collector's words, everyone fell silent.

A sense of justice might embolden these neighbors to speak up, but reality made them dare not say another word.

In Ninghai in 1999, fifty thousand yuan was no small sum. In other words, a debt must be repaid—it's only right. Even a gambling debt had to be paid.

Zhao Fusheng laughed. He increasingly felt that this dream was too real. Could it be that everyone had such an experience before death?

But regardless, he didn't want his hard-won reunion with his mother to be disturbed by such matters. So he waved his hand and said, 'Enough, less talk. Isn't it just fifty thousand? I'll take it. Come back in a month for the money.'

To be honest, Zhao Fusheng thought he must have looked incredibly cool at that moment.

But for some reason, he noticed that his mother and everyone around him looked at him with shock.

The only one looking at him with admiration was the three-year-old girl from the Fan family.

'Lolis are the best,' the thought popped into Zhao Fusheng's mind.

And the next moment, boundless darkness swept over...

…