Chapter Two: The Miracle

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Hearing movement behind them, the three turned around simultaneously and saw Shang Luo.

“This is... ah, it’s Little Shang! Come quickly, come quickly. If your father can’t handle this job, we’ll have to ask you to do it.”

The three pulled Shang Luo and led him upstairs. They brushed aside the green can of Wangzai milk and instead pressed Shang Luo down onto a red stool.

“Little Shang, have you discovered anything? Hurry and give us some direction; we’re about to lose our minds!”

“Uh...” Shang Luo hesitated for a moment. “Sirs, you don’t need to be so formal.”

“Little Shang, we’ve heard rumors about your Seven-Opening Exquisite Heart. Communicate with this old electrical grandpa and see what’s making him unhappy. We six Level-6 fitters have been tending to it nonstop for months, but whenever this thing feels uneasy, it shuts down. Just now, there was a loud ‘boom,’ and we had no idea what went wrong—it tripped the breaker. Did you hear anything from outside?”

Shang Luo hadn’t heard a sound, but indeed, their own light bulb had blown.

But could power grid fluctuations blow a bulb? Shang Luo hadn’t studied electrical work and wasn’t sure. Considering the generator had been invented less than ten years ago, any number of problems were possible.

Still, with the old fitters insisting, it wouldn’t do for him not to help. Based on past experience, he should be able to sense some flow of "qi" through touch.

Shang Luo lifted the talisman and placed his hand on the generator’s casing.

...

Confusion, bewilderment.

These were the emotions Shang Luo felt, much like when he first traveled to this world.

Suddenly, a beam of light opened his vision: a heavy hammer striking an anvil sent sparks flying; the casing was welded amid arcs and flames. A Taoist priest, robed in ceremonial garments, blessed it with talisman water, then it was loaded onto and off a boat amid cannon salutes, finally installed here. Yet, this “self” was not the sole core of this power grid—another unknown source was interfering. Discordant static pulsed within its heart.

Anger, pain. And growing confusion.

...

Snapping back to awareness, Shang Luo was stunned. Fleeting images flashed in his mind, far more tangible than the simple mechanical “qi sensations.” He felt a part of this machine’s “memory,” even “emotion.”

Do machines have memories? Do machines have emotions? Perhaps simple machines like alarm clocks only generate the rudiments of “qi,” but a complex generator could possess “memory”?

“What am I, then? Where do I come from? What is my purpose?”

After immersing in the generator’s memory, Shang Luo was at a loss.

“Hey, Little Shang!” an old fitter shook him awake. “You alright?”

“Uh... yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“So, what’s the generator’s condition?”

Shang Luo frowned. “It’s hard to describe. It’s somewhat unhappy.”

“Huh?”

“The machine’s spirit is displeased,” Shang Luo answered.

“I told you so!” The old fitter who had roused Shang Luo shouted to the others, “It’s not our fault—it's a metaphysical problem! We operated strictly by the manual, but the machine’s spirit is displeased! Offering incense and Wangzai milk didn’t work, neither did the red stool or the Five Thunder Calm Mind Spell. We need an expert!”

“Little Shang, figure out how to fix it! This thing is driving us mad, breaking down every few days. How are we supposed to level up to seven?”

“Let me think.” Shang Luo stepped back and studied the generator carefully.

Next to it, a high-speed steam engine loomed three stories tall, roaring continuously. The generator, by contrast, was quite compact—about the size of a small car.

The steam engine’s drive shaft connected directly to a gearbox, which was currently idling, not driving the generator itself.

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“Unhappy, huh? Then how can I make you happy?” Shang Luo glanced at the Wangzai milk spilled on the ground and three half-smoked cigarettes, their embers still flickering.

“Offering doesn’t seem to help? Then let me ask you.”

Shang Luo placed his hand on the generator again.

...

Rejection.

...

“Hm? Such a temper?”

This time, not only was there a response, but an emotion of “refusal” came through.

“Looks like there’s only one way then—old fellows, bring me my toolbox. Yes, the little hammer.”

The old fitter tossed the hammer over, and Shang Luo caught it.

Holding the hammer, Shang Luo kept one hand on the generator and circled it halfway around, stopping where he felt the strongest emotions transmitted.

“Hm? Seems to be right here.”

Shang Luo took out the chalk that fitters always carried, circled the spot under his hand, then raised the hammer—

“Clang!”—a sharp sound, sparks flying from the hammer’s strike.

...

Rejection! Rejection! Rejection!

...

A fierce resistance surged through his fingertips.

“Heh.” Shang Luo sneered, gripping the hammer with both hands and raising it overhead. Looking back, he asked, “What spell did you just chant? The Five Thunder Calm Mind Spell, right? How did it go... oh, I’ve got it.”

He struck down with all his might, roaring the spell from his dantian energy:

“Left zero, right fire! Thunder Lord assist me!”

With a “boom,” sparks exploded from the hammer’s head, chipping off a large patch of paint from the generator.

A low buzzing tone emerged faintly, growing steadily in pitch and volume. No one pressed the restart button, yet the generator switched itself into restart mode.

The light came on.

...

“You three, this is how you handle it.” Under the old fitters’ stunned gaze, Shang Luo stuck the talisman he had dropped earlier onto the chipped paint.

“Use this yellow paper as a marker. Next time it misbehaves, beat it! Hit it here. If once isn’t enough, hammer it several times. Keep hitting until it runs normally. Household appliances break down—this is how you fix them. Don’t pamper them; that only causes problems.”

“Is... is this alright?”

“Similar causes produce similar effects. I don’t see a problem.” He spoke as he put the hammer back in the toolbox. “I’m off now. Call me if you have another problem.”

“Hey, wait! Little Shang, don’t go yet. We can’t let you work for nothing—we have to treat you to a big meal!”

Above the Golden Gate Building was the Governor’s Mansion, but the 14-story podium beneath housed the Golden Gate Hotel. It was the reception place for the Yangzhou Governor’s guests and the mess hall of the San Francisco Garrison. Three meals a day were free with vouchers—but only for craftsmen and military personnel, who were on official business and fed by the imperial court.

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The food there was actually quite good, but Shang Luo had never liked it much…

“Second floor is free; third floor costs extra. Let’s go, it’s almost mealtime. Let’s hurry while there are few people. Come on, all of you, let’s go together.”

...

“*Burp~*” Waving goodbye to the garrison soldiers who had escorted him, Shang Luo leaned on the door and returned to the clock shop.

That meal was overwhelmingly filling; he had eaten too many radishes, and his stomach still felt bloated.

Yes, the so-called “big meal” was radishes.

“*Burp~~~* Why is it always radishes? The free meal on the second floor at least has radish stew with meat, but the expensive third-floor meals are all radishes—colorful radishes, like they’re having a radish conference.”

Opening the door, the room was pitch dark due to the blown bulb. He flipped off the switch and held a new bulb from the garrison, preparing to replace it.

“Have you eaten your fill? Good, we can be on our way now.”

A cold voice came from behind the door.

Before Shang Luo could react, a sack was thrown over him from head to toe. Darkness enveloped his vision.

Several men carried him to the back door; Shang Luo was shoved into the trunk.

The engine roared to life. Then came a dizzying spin—

“Clunk, clunk.”

When he came to, the car was rattling over a few speed bumps. The vehicle had left the city, and he couldn’t tell which direction they were going or if they’d crossed the Golden Gate Bridge.

Within less than half a minute, the road suddenly worsened. The wheels raced over uneven cement full of potholes, jolting everyone inside nearly airborne. But the driver seemed to be in a hurry, pressing the accelerator hard.

Gradually, the scents changed. No longer the faint city smoke—now the fragrance of growing wheat seeped through the closed windows. It was the grain-filling period. If the blindfold were removed, Shang Luo knew he would see endless stretches of green fields. Most of the New World looked like this—every arable patch properly cultivated. The dull roar of compression-ignition tractors came from afar—pesticides being sprayed over the wheat fields. Most of the gasoline saved elsewhere was used here.

Besides wheat fields were radish fields. Yangzhou produced either grain or those large radishes.

After several hours, the road deteriorated sharply. Earlier it was still cement, albeit bumpy, but now it was dirt. Even military vehicles swayed like a rocking toy on such terrain.

Fortunately, the car stopped not long after leaving the main road.

“Get out, Mr. Shang.” For the first time in hours, they spoke.

A large man with a flushed neck opened the door, helped him out, and removed his blindfold.

Instinctively, Shang Luo closed his eyes to shield from sudden brightness. Yet the surroundings remained pitch black—

Cool water droplets fell from above—stalactite drips. Through faint light, Shang Luo saw a damp flag stretched between the stalactites: the crosses of England, Scotland, and Ireland arranged to form the Union Jack.

“That is...”

Shang Luo knew this flag could not appear here and now. The country called “Great Britain” had never formed in this world. England, Scotland, and Ireland were all independent. London only flew the English flag, and this banner clearly did not belong to this era.

“That is the flag of the British Empire. The empire that should have existed—the sun-never-sets empire, the Victorian era that should have been. Not the stinking slum by the Thames today. Our angel will help us rebuild the empire, and we will once again drink Darjeeling tea.”

“You’re planning a rebellion? Do you understand what you’re doing?”

Shang Luo warned them sternly. No civilians came to Yangzhou; almost everyone carried official dispatches. Kidnapping an officer was a dead end—certain extermination awaited.

“Of course, we know what will happen. In the worst case, we will be wiped out; each of us skinned and buried in the grass. But you are the angel’s guest; we must invite you. Please come forward. The angel and the senator await you.”