Laozi shook his head, his eyes closed, and returned to the grand hall, saying only one thing before entering: "Karmic threads, endless karmic threads. Deal with your own affairs!"

Laozi lifted Zhou Huan with the back of his hand, shooting him out like a fully loaded missile, straight towards the distant horizon. All he could feel in his ears was the extraordinary speed of the wind, and an approaching city, over which hung a vast expanse of dark clouds laced with lightning and thunder. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning snatched Zhou Huan upwards, dragging him down through the clouds. The lightning struck the ground with a resounding crack, sending sparks high into the air. Zhou Huan’s outer clothes were completely scorched black, and when the wind blew, only his undershirt and underpants remained.

"Damn it, how precise can this lightning be? Do they think I’m Superman or RoboCop? Are they trying to kill me?" The rain fell hard, forcing Zhou Huan to seek shelter. As he started running, he noticed something unsettling: this place felt incredibly familiar, like modern-day Andong. He couldn't help but wonder if he had actually returned. This Laozi seemed genuinely accurate in sending people away, even blasting him out with a lightning strike. The staging was quite good, but he forgot that the heat from the lightning would be enough to incinerate clothes.

It was dusk. Zhou Huan felt increasingly that something was wrong. This was the general environment of Andong, yet the streets were unbearably narrow, and the houses were old—structures that looked ancient. He had only ever seen buildings like these in the historical records of Andong. It seemed like… "Right, my God, these are architecture from the Manchukuo period. What—how did he send me here? This leaves me utterly stranded!"

The sky was slowly lightening; even though it was early evening, it would be a while before true darkness set in. The torrential downpour had abruptly stopped. A moment later, someone passed behind Zhou Huan, dressed even more wretchedly than he was—a figure in tattered grey cloth with paste-soaked shoes whose soles were peeling apart from the water. Zhou Huan continued forward and spotted a small two-story building not far away. Flying from the second floor was a flag that fueled the hatred of every Chinese person: the Japanese sun flag. Two Japanese soldiers stood guard by the main entrance of the building. In front of the building, many people, having weathered the rain, hurried about their business, clearly trying to get home.

"Laozi, oh Laozi, I at least called you Master, why did you send me back to the anti-Japanese war era? What am I supposed to do?" Zhou Huan felt helpless. The pedestrians were rushing, and with night approaching, he had no money and no decent clothes—where could he go? Night patrols by the little Japanese devils would be even worse.

Behind Zhou Huan, he heard the distinct sound of running footsteps—a squad of Japanese soldiers, carrying Arisaka rifles fixed with bayonets. Though not tall, they were solidly built. Leading them was a Japanese NCO, identifiable by his mustache. Trailing behind him was a Chinese man wearing glasses and a neatly parted, small side-swept hairstyle, muttering something in Chinese while nodding and bowing obsequiously to the Japanese soldiers.

Zhou Huan stepped to the center of the road, then quickly pulled himself to the side, pressing close to the wall, hoping to let the group pass without having to make eye contact. But when he saw the bespectacled Chinese man, Zhou Huan froze: "Huh? Isn't that Long Sheng? Is he…" Seeing this, Zhou Huan wanted to step forward and ask, but with the Japanese right there, it was awkward.

While he was thinking, two Japanese soldiers approached, and the running squad halted. They grabbed Zhou Huan’s arms: "Haiku, haiku!"

"What? Why are you arresting me? Hey!" Zhou Huan was helpless; in that brief moment of distraction, he had been seized by the soldiers.

"Kid, you’re lucky! The Taikun is taking you to the barracks for a meal. After eating, the Taikun has errands for you. Hurry up and go!" The Chinese collaborator he had just observed spoke with a tone identical to Long Sheng’s.

Zhou Huan was truly stunned. He had intended to resist; with his abilities, escaping them would have been no problem, even with their rifles—it would have been useless. But Zhou Huan wanted to see why these Japanese devils were grabbing him. The soldiers marched him along for nearly twenty minutes, their breathing ragged, while Zhou Huan remained calm, barely winded, and able to look around when they stopped. They halted in front of a textile shop. The soldiers quickly formed a neat line. The collaborator waved, and two soldiers pushed Zhou Huan into the store.

"Hey, sir, please come inside with us!" the collaborator said to Zhou Huan.

Zhou Huan was examining the shop’s exterior—two wooden glass doors that looked somewhat dilapidated, and a large sign jutting out from the roof: "Yuan's Fabrics and Clothing." Feeling uncomfortable being physically restrained by the two soldiers, Zhou Huan looked at the Chinese collaborator: "Hey, Big Brother, tell them to ease up. I’m not running away. Holding me so tight is really unpleasant!"

"What?" The collaborator, basking in borrowed authority, raised his hand to slap Zhou Huan across the face. But just as his hand went up, the Japanese officer who looked like the squad leader snapped at the collaborator.

"Hei, ¥%…" It was all unintelligible Japanese. Then, the officer turned back to Zhou Huan and spoke in heavily accented Chinese: "Hey, what kind of work do you do?"

"Just wandering around, sir," Zhou Huan replied with a nervous smile.

The Japanese officer then actively pushed the hands of the two soldiers away and scolded them. The two soldiers turned and rejoined the formation. The devilish captain placed both hands on Zhou Huan's shoulders: "You, good citizen. We must know how your clothes were born."

"What? Born?" Zhou Huan looked at the little Japanese man with utter confusion. He had no clue what "born" meant in this context and glanced back at the collaborator.

The collaborator, being an experienced running dog, immediately jumped in: "Born means, where did you get the material for those clothes? How were they made?"

Clothes? Zhou Huan’s mind was filled with question marks. What scheme were these little devils plotting?

"Oh, my clothes? I bought them at a supermarket. As for how they were made…" Zhou Huan’s eyes darted around. "To tell you the truth, I don’t really know how they’re made. I saw on TV that these clothes start with planting cotton, then it’s sent to a textile mill, and finally sewn by machines. See this word: 'MADE, IN, CHINA!' Do you understand?"

"What?" Zhou Huan watched as both the collaborator and the squad leader stared back, looking utterly bewildered, as if they had heard some incomprehensible foreign gibberish.

Just then, an elderly man who looked like the shopkeeper scurried out from behind the counter of the fabric store. He bowed to the Japanese soldiers, careful not to lift his head, and smiled deferentially: "Taikun, Translator Long, I am an expert. Perhaps if I question him, he might understand."

"I do understand!" Zhou Huan interjected, which immediately drew a fierce outburst from the Japanese officer.

"Baka!" The Japanese officer's face darkened instantly.

The so-called Translator Long grabbed Zhou Huan by the collar. His previously smiling face contorted into one of intense malice: "You brat, is it your turn to speak?"

The shopkeeper bowed and scraped, trying to placate Translator Long: "Hey, Translator Long, don't be angry!" As he spoke, the shopkeeper shot a meaningful glance at the translator: "I will handle questioning him. Rest assured, I guarantee I will get something useful out of him." With that, the shopkeeper pulled Zhou Huan aside. At this moment, an errand boy ran out from the back room carrying a tray with two cups of tea, which he respectfully offered to the Japanese squad leader and the collaborator, inviting them to sit in chairs nearby. The tea was placed on a low table, and the boy poured it reverently.

"My good brother," the shopkeeper said in a low voice after pulling Zhou Huan aside, "why choose to wear this outfit when you could have worn anything else?"

Zhou Huan was also thoroughly confused. He quietly asked back, "Sir, what is wrong with the clothes I’m wearing? Are the Japanese going to arrest people just for wearing this? Look, I’m practically dressed like a beggar."

"Nonsense! Anyone with eyes can see the fabric of these clothes is top-grade Western material. Our country cannot produce material or styles like this." The shopkeeper then glanced furtively at the sitting Japanese officer and the collaborator. Turning his back slightly toward them, he leaned in and whispered even more softly to Zhou Huan.