Chapter Three: Boundless Freedom

The elevator descended slowly, crowded on all sides, with Shang Luo squeezed right in the middle.

“Since they call themselves the ‘Great British Empire’... could it be that they actually speak English?” Shang Luo was somewhat curious.

About a minute later, the elevator stopped. The inner door slid open, but the outer door remained firmly shut, only a small window opening. A face appeared at the window, calling inside:

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

Shang Luo silently listened from behind... something felt off. They were indeed speaking English, no doubt, but their pace was slow, and their choice of words and sentence construction stiff and awkward. They didn’t sound like native speakers at all—actually, their English was even poorer than his.

The halting conversation dragged on for two minutes before it finally ended. Judging by Shang Luo’s English proficiency, these self-proclaimed restorers of the “Great British Empire” hadn’t even surpassed beginner-level conversational English.

As for the advanced terms exchanged—like “Yangzhou Grand Camp” and “Embroidered Uniform Guard”—they were all rendered phonetically. Even without knowing English, Shang Luo could understand.

“Mr. Shang, I apologize for my earlier abruptness. Let me introduce myself: my name is Franklin. Please come this way; the senator is waiting for you,” Franklin said, switching to a refined Jinling accent that Shang Luo thought was even purer than his own.

“No worries, I’m not in a hurry,” Shang Luo glanced at his watch. He had no interest in helping these people revive some “Great British Empire,” nor did he believe any miracles awaited him here. What he wanted most was to figure out whether these people were after his money or his life.

The iron gate opened, and the two turned several corners along a damp corridor. The walls still bore the rough surfaces of cave formations, dripping water streaming down along them, flowing into gutters at the base. The air was heavy with a damp, musty smell mixed with the scent of freshly varnished wood.

They stopped in front of a wooden door. The varnish smell came from the door—it was clearly still drying.

Before they could knock, the door swung open from the inside.

A gentleman in a tailcoat appeared. Upon first meeting, he warmly grasped Shang Luo’s hand.

“Hello, hello. You must be Mr. Shang, right?” His expression betrayed his excitement, the mustache above his lips twitching with his words. His Jinling accent was also standard, noticeably more polished than Shang Luo’s.

He led Shang Luo inside. Facing the door was a large desk, but to appear more welcoming, he guided Shang Luo to a corner sofa, pressing his shoulder to encourage him to sit while he took the seat opposite.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jefferson, a senator from California. What would you like to drink? I hear coffee is popular in Yujing now?”

“Tea is fine, thank you.”

“While we wait for the tea, let me explain today’s business,” Jefferson smiled. “Everything is up to you. You are chosen by the angels, our most honored guest. Once everything is finished, you may decide your own fate.”

Shang Luo thought for a moment before asking, “What exactly is this about? Your angels... what kind of reform are you talking about? And why come to me?”

“That’s a long story. Originally, we wanted to find your father, a renowned clockmaker. But after investigation, we discovered that you are the true treasure. There’s a Persian proverb: ‘In craftsmanship, only the Ming people see clearly with both eyes; the Romans are blind in one eye; everyone else is blind.’ Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because some of you have mastered the flow of ‘Qi.’ It’s clear, Mr. Shang, that you are one of them. You are the inheritor of ancient techniques, naturally gifted with extraordinary vision to see hidden things that ordinary people cannot. I don’t know how you do it, but I believe you can help us.”

“But why should I help you?”

“I thought you’d say that,” Jefferson said, looking into his eyes. “So please allow me to show you a small miracle.”

He pointed at the table, where an inconspicuous copper box sat, resembling a card case.

Jefferson opened the box—it contained cards. Like a magician, he displayed them before Shang Luo.

They were a delicate set of playing cards printed on copperplate paper. Numbers and suits—spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs—appeared in the upper left corner. But the cards weren’t just symbols; they bore detailed illustrations. The Ace of Spades depicted a sword, the Two of Spades two swords, up to the Ten with ten swords. The Jack, Queen, and King corresponded to a sword-bearing knight, queen, and king respectively.

Hearts, diamonds, and clubs corresponded to cups, coins, and wands.

“Cups, swords, coins, and wands. These are the minor arcana of the tarot deck, the predecessor of modern playing cards. Of course, this deck is just plain playing cards—there are no court pages. It merely uses tarot elements.”

“So you brought me here just to perform card tricks?”

“Not tricks, miracles. When you witness the power of angels, you will join us. Please, take out a coin.”

Shang Luo happened to have a coin in his pocket.

It was a silver dollar, denomination one tael, minted in the first year of Shaoping—two years ago. The obverse bore the number one tael, the reverse inscribed with “Shaoping Tongbao.”

The silver dollar was the highest denomination coin, equivalent to one tael of silver.

One tael was a large sum—equivalent to 1,000 wén. A bus ride cost only 2 wén, a subway 5 wén, a bottle of soda 3 wén; two steamed buns cost 1 wén, and a single bun 0.5 wén.

Because of its high value, a one-tael coin was only used in important occasions, like salary payments, red envelopes, or New Year’s gifts.

“That’s a beautiful silver dollar. Let’s use this. Please toss it.”

Without hesitation, Shang Luo tossed the coin into the air and caught it with both hands. One side faced up, the other down. After the toss, he stared into Jefferson’s eyes, curious about his next move.

“Confirm which side is up but don’t tell me. I’ll guess,” Jefferson said, beginning to shuffle and draw cards here and there, spreading them in a line, then shuffling again.

“Heads,” Jefferson suddenly stopped, looking up at Shang Luo. “Your coin landed heads.”

He released his hand, and indeed, the coin’s heads side, showing one tael, faced up.

“Okay, but so what? I can do that too. It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

“Then toss it again,” Jefferson gestured politely.

Shang Luo complied. Another toss and catch, the same result—heads.

“Heads,” Jefferson said, putting down the cards, answering far quicker this time.

Shang Luo fell silent for a moment.

He was puzzled—not due to probability, since guessing correctly twice in a row wasn’t so improbable. What puzzled him was how confident Jefferson was in always guessing correctly, without hesitation.

He asked, “Did you see something? Is there a mark on the back of the card?”

“Not me. The angels see it.”

“How can you prove that?”

Jefferson smiled. “Proving it is simple—do you want to learn?”

“Huh?” Shang Luo blinked in surprise.

If anything had puzzled him before, it was the claim that this could be learned.

He examined the cards carefully. He had thought perhaps some “Qi” was influencing them, but he saw nothing unusual. No flow of Qi, no complex mechanism generating emotions. Qi sensing was clearly unteachable. But this? Could it be magic? Whether magic or not was unclear, but it certainly wasn’t mere sleight of hand. Magic tricks might surprise, but they never evoke true mystery—unless the secret leads to another unsolved enigma.

“It seems you’re beginning to feel astonished. At first, you might have thought this was just some magician’s trick. But it’s not. It’s a miracle. Miracles, like the sun, shine unconditionally on everyone under the sky. If I can do it, so can you.”

This time, the cards were in Shang Luo’s hands. Jefferson didn’t teach him anything; he only asked him to try to “read” the cards.

“Well then, start guessing,” Jefferson said, holding his own coin eagerly, waiting for Shang Luo’s guess.

Shang Luo was at a loss. The cards were in front of him—should he shuffle them first?

He picked up the cards.

[A third-rate magician, why does he like flipping coins so much? Newcomer, right?] A girl’s lazy voice echoed from the void, as if she was used to these tricks. She didn’t expect the “newcomer” to hear her—it was just a casual remark.