Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

She was a young woman, around twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with her long hair spread out on the pillow and her eyelashes still covered with eyeshadow she hadn't completely removed before bed.

She squinted at me, her voice hoarse from just waking up: "President Chen? What's wrong?"

Chen Juefei didn't speak, he just breathed heavily.

The woman became more awake, propped herself up on one side, and reached for the water glass on the bedside table.

There was still half a glass of cooled boiled water in it, which she had poured before going to bed. She handed the glass to her and said, "Drink some water."

Chen Juefei took it and drank it all in one gulp.

The water went down my throat; it was cold, which made my stomach clench.

He gripped the cup tightly in his hand, took a few more breaths, and his heartbeat slowly calmed down.

The woman looked at him, asked no more questions, and simply placed her hand gently on his back.

Through the sweat-soaked silk pajamas, I could feel that the skin was burning hot.

Chen Juefei is 34 years old this year. He is the operations director of the East China region of "Huangleme" and earns a seven-figure annual salary. He rents a 200-square-meter flat in this apartment building.

The woman next to him was someone he met at an industry party; she was a public relations manager for a certain brand. The two met occasionally, each keeping their relationship a secret.

At this moment, she simply sat quietly beside him, waiting for him to speak.

Chen Juefei stared at the decorative painting worth tens of thousands of yuan on the opposite wall for a long time before saying in a hoarse voice, "It's nothing. I just had a dream."

"Nightmare?"

He did not answer.

It was a nightmare.

No, it wasn't a nightmare.

No, I don't know what kind of dream it was.

-

The dream began very ordinary.

He is a food delivery rider.

Wearing blue overalls, riding an electric bike, with an insulated box strapped to the back seat and a mobile phone mounted on the handlebars, the screen lit up, displaying orders to be picked up.

The first order was from a beef noodle restaurant called "Chang San Xian". It was delivered to an old residential area nearby. While he was waiting for the food at the door, the owner was yelling at her son in the kitchen for not finishing his homework. The smell of cooking oil mixed with the aroma of beef soup wafted out, making his eyes sting.

After picking up my food, I rode my bike through three streets to find the building. There was no elevator, so I climbed six floors. The stairwell was piled with cardboard boxes and bicycles, and an orange cat was squatting at the corner licking its paws. When it saw me coming up, it slowly walked away.

The door on the sixth floor was ajar, and the sound of a television could be heard from inside. He knocked three times and called out, "Takeout!" An elderly woman poked her head out, took the food, said, "Thank you for your hard work, young man," and then closed the door.

He went downstairs, rode his bike back to the shopping district, and waited for his next order.

The second order was for milk tea, to be delivered to an office building. He waited five minutes for the elevator, and when he got up, the receptionist said the person wasn't there and asked him to leave it on the table. He took a picture, uploaded it, and the system automatically assigned the next order.

The third order was fried chicken, delivered to the hospital's inpatient ward. He waited at the door for twenty minutes before the customer came out of the ward. She was a young woman in her early twenties, with red eyes. She took the food, said "thank you," and went back inside. He saw a sign on the ward door that read "Oncology Department."

The fourth order, the fifth order, the sixth order...

Orders are accepted and delivered one by one.

The sun rises in the east, climbs to its zenith, and then sets in the west.

-

The details in the dream were so vivid.

He remembered clearly that the beef noodle shop's signboard was missing a corner, that the orange cat in the stairwell had a small piece missing from its ear, and that the girl at the entrance of the inpatient department was wearing pink pajamas with worn-out cuffs.

He remembers clearly the scorching sun on the back of his neck at noon, and the sudden, unexpected rain in the afternoon, with raindrops dripping from his hat brim onto his phone screen, forcing him to stop the car and wipe them dry with his sleeve.

He remembered clearly that when he delivered his last order that evening, it was already dark, the streetlights in that neighborhood were broken, and he had to use a flashlight to find the building number, which took him twenty minutes. The customer was a pregnant woman; she opened the door, her belly bulging, and thanked him three times. As he went downstairs, he heard the door close behind him, and a man inside asking, "Is the food here?"

He remembered clearly that after finishing work, he returned to the station, parked his bike, and squatted by the entrance smoking with another rider. The other rider asked him how many rides he had done that day, and he said over forty. The other rider said, "You're amazing. I only managed thirty-two rides before my knees started hurting."

The man, named Lao Zhang, was in his forties with half his hair turned white. He said he would quit after this year and go back to his hometown to open a small shop.

Old Zhang handed him a cigarette, which he took, lit, and took a puff of, which made him cough.

Old Zhang laughed at him, saying, "A newbie, huh? You'll get used to it after a few more days."

-

Then the next day began.

The alarm clock rang, I got up, put on my work clothes, and rode my bike out the door.

Pick up food, deliver food, pick up food, deliver food.

The sun rises, the sun sets.

Old Zhang was still squatting at the station entrance smoking, still saying he'd quit after this year.

The orange cat with the missing ear was still licking its paws in the stairwell.

The girl at the entrance of the inpatient department had changed into a blue nightgown, but her eyes were still red.

-

Then on the third day.

Fourth day.

Day .

-

There was no fast forward in the dream.

A second is a second, a minute is a minute, and a day is a day.

He remembers every restaurant where he picked up his food, every building where he delivered, and every intersection where he waited at a red light.

I remember one order was late, and the customer yelled at me for five minutes. It was a middle-aged man who stood at the door, pointing his finger at me and spitting in my face. I just stood there listening without saying a word.

I remember one time he spilled soup on a delivery, and the customer refused to accept it. He had to pay 38 yuan in compensation. That was his earnings for two hours.

I remember one month it rained for 28 days straight, and his knees started to hurt, just like Old Zhang's.

I remember one day Old Zhang didn't come to work. Later, I heard that Old Zhang had gone back to his hometown and opened a small shop there.

He kept running.

-

Three years.

In his dream, he worked as a food delivery driver for three years.

Three years, one thousand and ninety-five days.

He remembers how many steps are on the stairs of each building, what time of day each road is congested, which restaurants serve food quickly and which serve food slowly, and which neighborhoods have easy-going security guards and which neighborhoods have security guards who will stop people.

I remember one particularly cold winter, his hands cracked from the cold, and the cracks bled. It hurt terribly when he touched hot water.

I remember one particularly hot summer, he suffered from heatstroke. He squatted by the roadside and vomited for half an hour before continuing to drive.

I remember one delivery was delivered to a young woman who opened the door while holding a baby in her arms. The baby smiled at her.

I remember one delivery where an elderly man opened the door, said thank you, and then closed the door. He heard coughing coming from inside, and it went on for a long time.

-

The last day.

After delivering his last order, he returned to the station, parked his car, took off his work clothes, folded them neatly, and placed them on a chair.

The station manager asked him, "Are you quitting?"

He said he was quitting.

The station manager said that it's not easy to work for three years, and few people in this line of work can even last three months.

He didn't speak.

When I left the station, it was getting dark, and the streetlights had just come on.

He stood at the door, took out his phone, and glanced at his earnings for the day: 237 yuan.

-

Then he woke up.

-

Chen Juefei put the empty water glass back on the bedside table, his fingers still trembling slightly.

The woman looked at him, hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "What did you dream about?"

Chen Juefei remained silent for a long time.

"Go to sleep..."

The woman wisely stopped asking.

Chen Juefei lay down again.

-

A slight rustling sound came from beside him. The woman turned over, her back to him, and her breathing gradually became steady.

The air conditioner was humming, and it was chilly outside the blanket.

Chen Juefei stared at the ceiling with his eyes open.

Can't sleep.

My mind is a complete mess.

Three years.

One thousand and ninety-five days.

The number of steps in each building. The speed at which food is served in each restaurant. The cigarette Old Zhang handed over. The increasingly worn-out pajamas of the girl in the inpatient ward. Cracked hands in winter. The acidic vomit from squatting by the roadside during heatstroke in summer.

And on that last day, standing at the station entrance, looking at the 237 yuan on my phone screen.

I know it was a dream.

But those memories are so vivid, so vivid that I can recall delivering food on a rainy day, with raindrops dripping from the brim of my hat and landing right on the "Confirm Delivery" button on my phone screen.

I wiped it with my sleeve, and my sleeve got soaked, but the screen was still smudged.

How could this possibly be a dream I had in one night?

I turned to the side and glanced at the phone on the bedside table.

4:23 AM.

Less than ten minutes had passed since I was startled awake.

He turned over again, facing the window.

Through the gap in the curtains that weren't fully drawn, the city lights were still shining, a thin line, like a knife's edge.

My mind started racing again.

The old lady on the sixth floor, the first time I delivered food she was wearing a floral nightgown, then another time she opened the door wearing a cotton-padded coat, and then another time she was wearing the same floral nightgown—that was the following summer, and I recognized her.

The following summer.

How do you know it was the second year?

I don't know, but I just know.

And then there was that girl from the oncology department. The first time I saw her, she was wearing pink pajamas, and her eyes were red. Later she changed into blue pajamas, then gray, and then I didn't see her for a long time. When I saw her again, a man opened the door. He took the food, said thank you, and then closed the door. Standing in the doorway, I heard a woman's voice laughing inside, but it wasn't that girl's voice.

That was the spring of the third year.

The third spring.

The thought is giving me goosebumps.

Then it rolled over and faced the ceiling.

That's not right. That's absolutely wrong. How could one night possibly encompass three years? Even if not a single second wasted, three years would still be over a hundred million seconds. The brain isn't a hard drive; how could it possibly hold that much information?

But I do remember.