I manufacture weapons in the Middle East and am wanted globally?

Daraa, Syria.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Chen Zheng parked the pickup truck on the side of the road with the windows open. He couldn't bear to turn on the air conditioning, even though it was 40 degrees Celsius outside.

The phone was pressed against my ear, and the voice of Lao Zhou from the domestic and foreign trade company was coming through the receiver. The connection was intermittent, and the signal was not very good.

"Boss Chen, listen to me, that batch of air conditioner parts... they really haven't paid us from India, and we're chasing them, we're really chasing them..."

Chen Zheng spoke, his voice hoarse and strained, "Damn those Indians! Do you know how much that shipment was worth? Four machines took half a month to operate, and I paid for all the spare parts myself. Now the suppliers are blocking the door every day. What am I supposed to do?"

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

"I know, I know..." Old Zhou's voice lowered, "But there's nothing we can do here. The Indian company says there's a quality problem and they want to deduct payment, and we're still arguing about it—"

"Is there a quality problem?"

"Those bastards just don't want to pay! They want to get something for nothing?!"

Old Zhou didn't respond.

Chen Zheng took a deep breath and swallowed back what he was about to say. He knew cursing was useless. Old Zhou wasn't having an easy time either, caught in the middle and suffering from both sides. But what he needed right now was money, not sympathy.

"Okay," he said, "keep an eye on it, I urgently need the money!!!"

It's over.

Chen Zheng tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and stared blankly at the road ahead.

Outside the windshield, the streets of Delaware were dusty and gray.

Several buildings leaned precariously, their walls riddled with bullet holes and old graffiti. A pickup truck drove by in the distance, carrying several armed men in the back, their allegiance unclear.

The situation has become increasingly tense in the past two years.

Although no large-scale armed conflict has broken out, undercurrents are swirling.

His father, Chen Jianguo, came to Syria in 08.

At that time, Delaware was relatively peaceful, and many Chinese people came here to do business.

His father brought some money from his hometown, rented a small factory, and bought several second-hand machines to process parts for the local area.

At first, it was a small-scale operation, but it gradually accumulated. By 2010, the factory had four decent machine tools.

One DMG MORI DMU 60 five-axis machining center, German-made, second-hand, high precision, capable of machining complex parts; one Haas VF-2 vertical machining center, American-made, robust and durable; one CAK5085 CNC lathe from Shenyang Machine Tool Factory, specializing in shaft parts; and one SK40P from Baoji Machine Tool Factory, also a CNC lathe, specializing in rough work.

These four machines represent the savings his father painstakingly accumulated.

The Demagna was something his father managed to buy from a bankrupt factory in Jordan through seven or eight connections. It took three months to ship over, and customs alone took a huge cut.

But that thing is worth it—it's a five-axis machine that can mill gun receivers and bolts. There are many gun-making workshops in Syria, and someone offered a high price to rent this machine, but his father never agreed.

“We’re doing legitimate business,” his father said. “We don’t touch that stuff.”

They run legitimate businesses.

But it's getting harder and harder to do legitimate business.

With the situation in chaos, half of the local factories closed down, and the remaining half couldn't get any work either. The four machines in the factory could only operate for half a month if they were lucky.

Anyone who has worked with CNC machines knows that sometimes bosses would rather process unprofitable work than have the machines stop, because if they stop, there will be no money!

The eight workers, all locals, have been owed wages for two months.

Last month, I finally got an order from an Indian client introduced by a foreign trade company. It was for a batch of air conditioner compressor parts.

The drawings, specifications, and price were all agreed upon, and the other party paid a 20% deposit, agreeing to pay the balance upon delivery.

The goods have been delivered.

The final payment has vanished.

The Indian company said the quality was substandard and would deduct payment; the foreign trade company said they were coordinating; and the material supplier said if we didn't pay, we shouldn't expect to get any more goods.

Then this morning, two relatives of local workers stormed into the factory, armed with machetes, demanding compensation from his father.

The incident involving the two workers happened last week.

The overhead crane was suspending a steel plate when the cable snapped, causing the plate to fall and break, injuring one person's leg and another person's three ribs. Blood flowed the entire way to the hospital.

The rule here in Syria is that workers' compensation is paid, and it has to be in US dollars.

The family said they'd burn down the factory if they couldn't come up with $3000 within three days!

Don't think Syrians can't do it.

His father immediately went limp.

Chen Zheng had never seen his father like that.

His father is the kind of person who can handle anything, even if the sky falls. When he first came to Syria in 08, he lived in a tin shack and ate dry biscuits with salt, but he never frowned. But this morning, his father stood at the factory gate, looking at the group of people holding machetes, his lips trembled, and he couldn't say a word.

Then his father collapsed.

When the ambulance took him away, his father's face was ashen, his eyes were closed, and his hand was gripping Chen Zheng's wrist tightly.

The doctor said it was an acute myocardial infarction; any later and the outcome would have been uncertain.

Chen Zheng stood in the hospital corridor, listened to the doctor's words, said nothing, turned around, and drove off.

He needed to raise money—money for the suppliers, medical expenses for the workers, and compensation for the families—totaling nearly ten thousand US dollars. He had two thousand in his account, not even enough for the small change.

He made seven phone calls.

I lent money to all seven of my friends, all of whom were Chinese doing business here.

The largest loan was five hundred US dollars, and the smallest was that the brother said he would only have it next month. In total, including his own money, it was less than four thousand.

He knew that everyone had their own difficulties.

I'm not a gigolo; making money isn't that easy.

But the amount is far from enough.

Chen Zheng reclined his chair and closed his eyes.

The car radio was on, playing local music. A woman's voice, in Arabic, sang a slow, old song. Waves of heat rushed in through the window, mixed with the smells of diesel fuel and dust.

His mind was a jumble of thoughts. One moment it was his father lying in the hospital bed, the next it was the group of men wielding machetes, and then it was the screen of the DMG MORI—green, lit up, displaying program code, waiting for him to input commands.

The phone rang.

He picked it up and saw it was his mother.

"Ah Zheng," his mother's voice trembled, "your father has woken up and wants to call you."

A soft rustling sound came from the other end.

"father."

"That cabinet in the factory," Chen Jianguo said weakly, "the metal cabinet in my office. The password is your birthday. There are deposit slips in your name inside. Go and withdraw the money and compensate the workers."

Chen Zheng's lips moved slightly, "Father, let's run away..."

"!!! Run away my ass! Cough cough cough cough cough, the worker's leg was crushed, and you run away? Don't you have any conscience?"

Chen Zheng lowered his head and said, "Okay, I understand."

After hanging up the phone.

Chen Zheng got out of the car. The iron gate was ajar. It creaked when he pushed it open. The yard was empty. The DMG and Haas were parked side by side against the wall, covered with plastic sheeting and covered with a layer of dust.

His father's study was at the very back of the factory, a small room partitioned off with corrugated steel sheets.

When Chen Zheng went inside, he saw a vertical black cabinet.

There wasn't much in the cabinet: a few ledgers, a file folder, a brown paper envelope containing a cell phone.

???

Chen Zheng was puzzled and subconsciously pressed the power button on this old-fashioned smartphone. After waiting for more than ten seconds, the screen lit up.

The desktop is clean, with only one app.

The icon is a monster.

Like those characters in Warcraft, with green skin, fangs sticking out from their lower lip, and bulging, staring eyes.

Below the icon are the three words: Monster Factory.

Chen Zheng stared at the screen, stunned for half a minute.

Monster Factory?

He blinked, looked again, and saw the same icon and the same words.

Do you experience hallucinations after using your phone for a long time?

He recalled what he had watched on his phone last night—Yua Mikami, Ayaka Kawakita, Tsumugi Akari… He had probably watched too much.

He tapped the icon.

The interface redirects.

The background is dark, and the fanged monster is shrunken in the upper left corner. The following lines of text are in the middle:

Monster Factory

This place is inhabited by a magical race of monsters. They love to work, are skilled in all kinds of machinery, and their understanding of machinery surpasses that of experts!

There are 10 levels in total... Who says humans can't live on the sun? As long as your technology is advanced enough! The sun can be conquered too!

The next line contains larger text:

[An unregistered factory was detected. Do you want to register the current region as a production base?]

Chen Zheng raised his head and looked around.

The small house, partitioned off by corrugated steel sheets, had his father's calligraphy, "Heaven rewards diligence," hanging on the wall. The windowpane was cracked, and outside was a dusty factory building. The four machine tools, covered with plastic sheeting, looked like four squatting grave mounds.

This is what you call a factory?

He glanced down at the screen again. The words were still there, waiting for him to click.

As if possessed, he reached out and clicked "Confirm Binding".

A loading circle popped up on the screen and spun for two seconds.

[Binding successful!]

[Factory machining precision +2%!]

Congratulations on receiving the New Player Gift Pack: Summon 2 Level 1 Peons for free!

New players will receive an additional random quality tool upon their first summon.

[Summoning...]

Chen Zheng stared at the screen, waiting.

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.

Nothing happened.

He cursed and was about to look down at his phone when he heard a rustling sound behind him.

Chen Zheng suddenly turned around.

Next to the cement slab where he had just sat, two more had appeared out of nowhere...

What are those two things?

It was about half a person's height, with grayish-brown skin, short, thick limbs, and a round head with eyes that took up most of its face. It was blinking at him, making muffled sounds:

"Gurgle?"

"Coo coo?"

Chen Zheng's scalp tingled.

Holy crap! It's a ghost!

……