Chapter Twelve: Gao Ning's Speculation

Lying in bed, Gao Ning’s mind was awash with countless thoughts.

Fortunately, he hadn’t rushed toward his two teammates when he discovered them; instead, he’d kept his wits about him, letting the soldier pose as a drunk and deliver a phone with an open line.

The phone was stolen, and its signal routed through several intermediaries. Even if Liang Bing noticed it upon leaving, she would simply assume it was a tossed-off device from a drunken passerby.

If Granny Liu were particularly suspicious, she might check the dialed number and use the Irish Mob’s information network, but at most she would trace it back to some minor thug. None of them would ever suspect that a companion they’d always considered a rookie had orchestrated a full-blown eavesdropping operation.

Though a bit resentful, Gao Ning couldn’t deny the substantial gains from tonight.

The magical train was somewhat similar to the Infinite Space, but not identical. From Granny Liu’s words, it seemed that the skills here weren’t exchanged in the usual way; aside from reward time that could be spent in the real world, every skill was obtained by meeting certain conditions and then drawing them in a lottery.

Of course, this deduction had its gaps, given the limited information.

Gao Ning remained composed. He already possessed a powerful golden finger—an endless supply of paratroopers, his greatest asset.

Granny Liu had struggled through three worlds before finally drawing a skill that summoned corpses.

In contrast, Gao Ning was provided with a fully armed American soldier every ten hours—muscle and firepower included.

The difference in strength was astronomical.

From the old woman’s words, he could tell she’d traversed three worlds: “The Day After Tomorrow,” “2012,” and “Resident Evil.”

On the surface, each of these worlds was ravaged by global catastrophe.

If viewed from that perspective, the super-virus in “The Tuxedo” clearly had the same potential.

Moreover, the adversary Granny Liu mentioned caught Gao Ning’s attention. From her tone, it seemed genuine.

With an obstructer present, the difficulty of completing the task increased dramatically.

If only plot characters were involved, they would simply act out the movie with him.

Then, Gao Ning would just need to accumulate soldiers during this period; when he had enough firepower, he could storm in during the final boss fight and subdue everyone on both sides.

But now, with a sudden adversary, variables multiplied.

After careful consideration, Gao Ning decided to stick to his original plan and stay put.

He would continue his role as a police officer, steadily amassing American soldiers, while keeping a close watch on the now-exposed, big-nosed Jackie Chan.

Using him as a clue, he would secretly monitor the unfolding plot.

Though Gao Ning’s memory of the detailed storyline was hazy, any character appearing outside the plot would instantly trigger his vigilance.

Danger always lurked beneath the surface; once an adversary was exposed to his gaze, they ceased to be a threat.

With such a powerful golden finger, Gao Ning refused to believe he couldn’t accomplish his mission!

Sleep!

Resolute, he turned over, calmed his mind, and drifted into dreams.

Faintly, Gao Ning heard the sound of a door opening downstairs, followed by his parents’ quiet conversation.

Who could it be? Most likely his cheap father, Gao Fei!

At last, he’d returned!

As this thought passed through his mind, Gao Ning slipped into a groggy sleep.

While he slept, the soldier continued his mission as instructed.

It was now the latter half of the night, and the streets were even emptier.

The soldier moved like a cat through shadows and flowerbeds, running for more than twenty minutes from the bar before arriving at the spot where he’d purchased supplies.

He quickly located the pit, retrieved his equipment at lightning speed.

Wearing full military gear in the city would attract too much attention; he needed to change before resuming surveillance.

Thanks to America’s community services, nearly every neighborhood had several self-service laundromats.

A mere twenty-five-cent coin would clean a small bucket of clothes, far more cost-effective than washing at home.

Many people brought clothes here to wash, picking them up whenever they had time.

Of course, the odds of finding abandoned clothing late at night were slim.

The soldier visited three laundromats before piecing together a set of close-fitting garments.

From a garbage bin in an alley, he grabbed a battered guitar case, tore off a sleeve, tied up the damaged end, and packed his gear inside, slinging it over his back.

Now, he wore shabby denim—the pants washed pale, the knees split, one sleeve long, one short—paired with a white shirt and that broken guitar case. Walking the streets, he genuinely looked the part of a wandering artist.

Even with a sturdy build, he wouldn’t draw much attention.

He hailed a cab on the main road and headed for his destination.

That night, in the alley opposite 70 Fleming Street, a new figure appeared—a vagrant with a vacant stare.

He leaned against his guitar case, half-reclining, gazing at the sky as if asleep or silently in prayer.

————

At nine in the morning, sunlight flooded the earth, the city gradually waking as Jackie Chan drove his taxi into a high-end residential area.

Number 70 Fleming Street was a famous landmark nearby.

Although this was the uptown district, most surrounding homes were small row houses or stacked villas, with limited land and relatively dense arrangements.

But Number 70 was different—its grounds were vast, almost like a luxurious castle.

The architecture leaned toward the eighteenth century. Though only three stories, it boasted front and back gardens; a swimming pool and tennis court graced the rear, and a modest parking lot out front could hold five to seven cars side by side.

For land-scarce New York, this was an extravagant mansion.

Jackie Chan drove around the property, his jaw never quite closing.

He couldn’t help it—the sight was astonishing.

After a brief exchange with the gatekeeper, someone promptly parked his taxi elsewhere.

Then someone guided Jackie Chan through the long front garden corridor, into a spacious hall.

The room ran deep; despite large windows, little light entered.

Numerous display cases stood throughout, filled with all manner of odd yet valuable items.

“Good morning, Mr. Tang!”

Jackie Chan followed the voice, his face breaking into a smile.

“Good morning! This place is outrageously big!”

Yesterday’s woman now wore a neat business suit; her hair was meticulously styled, her makeup subdued.

She sat sideways with legs together, projecting a refined air.

“Please, have a seat!”

She gestured, and Jackie Chan took the only chair before her.

“Please review the documents in your hand; that’s the employee handbook. Remember the rules, especially the first one.”

Somewhat bewildered, Jackie Chan opened the thick booklet and read aloud, “You must never speak directly to Mr. Du Fulin.”

“Correct!” The woman nodded, smiling demurely. “All your questions are answered in the employee handbook. By the way—welcome!”

With that, she strode away in her high heels.

Jackie Chan absentmindedly rubbed his nose and said, “Well, for two thousand dollars a week!”