Jing Lan carefully freed his right hand and gripped the top frame of the small door, attempting to pull his body upwards with considerable effort.
By now, his hands were aching from the excessive exertion, and every single movement had to be flawless.
However, Jing Lan had gained a particular insight from climbing trees as a child: the more challenging and winding the path, the less one could hesitate once committed to tackling it; one had to charge through in one go.
Otherwise, a moment of weakness could lead to utter failure.
Of course, this was no longer a question of resolve; he was already up, with no path to retreat.
With another desperate surge of effort, both hands clutched the door frame, pulling his body upwards as his legs swung to one side, using the momentum.
This was the kind of muscle memory inherent in children who often scrambled everywhere, their bodies instinctively determining the optimal posture for passage whenever they encountered unfamiliar terrain.
For instance, Jing Lan, clinging to the side of the pipe at this moment, knew that if he merely exerted upward force, without any foothold to provide friction, his fingers might suddenly give way.
Therefore, a portion of the upward force had to be redirected into swinging his legs sideways, allowing him to hook his foot around a protruding component on the pipe’s side.
Then, with another synchronized push from his hands and feet, he finally flipped onto his back atop the pipe.
Jing Lan’s entire body at last relaxed, collapsing limply onto the pipe—a pipe suspended eighty meters above the ground.
He squinted, gazing for a moment at the cloudless twilight sky.
In a daze, Jing Lan felt as if he were lying on a patch of grass, his companions seated nearby.
Keke was meticulously fiddling with the solid alcohol for the barbecue grill, while Little Lang, the guitarist, was holding a camera and taking pictures; he even wanted to photograph the uncooked ingredients.
Lui Si leaned languidly against a nearby hackberry tree, and closer still, Ling Yechen sat beside him, likely watching him…
“That…” he began.
“Hey! Are you alright?!” Several voices spoke to him simultaneously.
Jing Lan awoke, his fleeting dream, though lasting mere seconds, having conjured such vivid imagery.
The voices of those speaking were now clearly distinguishable.
Ling Yechen in his dream had been calling to him, and Leng Yu and Little Zhao below the pipe were also shouting.
“I’m fine, I’m up.”
Jing Lan gritted his teeth, clenching his fists and stretching his arms to dispel the cramping sensation.
Then, slowly rising, retracting his legs, and engaging his core, he finally stood upright.
In his hand, he still clutched a rope, his grappling hook.
The small iron gate on the hook had detached and fallen away.
This equipment had to be secured if he were to descend directly from the air to the office building’s roof.
Otherwise, the overhead pipe would only lead Jing Lan to the platforms of other grain storage facilities, forcing him to descend to the ground via a ladder, still exposed to the office building’s firing range.
On the platform, Leng Yu’s suspended heart finally settled upon hearing Jing Lan’s reply.
He shouted, “Damn, you’re quite something, kid! Hold steady, it’s all on you!”
“You guys keep an eye out too.
If any snipers approach, hide in the warehouse first.”
Leng Yu grumbled, “It’s all on you, so what are we doing standing out here?
We’ll go hide now, fight tooth and nail or just wing it, come what may.”
Jing Lan dared not lean out to look down.
The overhead pipe was extremely narrow, allowing little room for free movement.
Walking along the pipe towards the office building, he also had to pay attention to the high-altitude wind direction, constantly adjusting his footing to counter the strong air currents.
Sometimes, when a sudden gust of strong wind struck, he had to brace himself sideways against it, keeping his feet firmly planted to avoid being knocked over.
After about five minutes of this stop-and-go progress, he finally reached the end of the pipe; more precisely, it was the end closest to the office building.
Just then, the sound of a car echoed from the ground below; a garage door beneath the office building opened, and a van drove out.
The van stopped beneath the grain storage facility where Leng Yu and the others were.
Three armed men and a man with a megaphone disembarked.
“You three up there, listen up! Drop your weapons immediately and come down the ladder!”
The man with the megaphone spoke, his Mandarin tinged with a local dialect.
Having frequented cross-border trade markets, Jing Lan knew these were Chinese immigrants from Myanmar.
The majority of Chinese in Myanmar had migrated from the southwestern border, while a smaller portion were descendants of Fujian and Guangdong people who had traveled to Southeast Asia and eventually settled in Myanmar.
Thus, it was no surprise that they spoke a border region dialect.
It seemed he needed to speed things up.
Jing Lan knew many Chinese in Myanmar were ruthless; while they called for Leng Yu and his companions to surrender their weapons, it was highly probable Leng Yu would be headshot the moment he showed his face.
He hooked the grappling hook onto the handle of a small iron door at the pipe’s edge; this door appeared sturdier.
He wrapped the other end of the rope several times around his arm, ensuring it was secure.
Jing Lan took a deep breath and slid his body down the side of the pipe.
Fortunately, the small iron door didn’t slip open.
Jing Lan gradually released the rope coiled around his arm, his body slowly descending.
After the entire length of rope was deployed, his body was still five meters from the office building’s rooftop.
If he were to jump directly, his body would fall backward, and he might even crack his sit bones.
Jing Lan had, in fact, learned a technique for dissipating impact upon landing when he studied martial arts under Master Jimie.
It involved leaning forward, diving ahead, and performing a somersault upon impact to absorb the force.
It was said that a world record holder had used this technique to jump from fifteen meters high without sustaining a single injury.
At the time, Jing Lan wasn’t particularly keen on learning it.
Keke had advised, “Look, if you go to some shady university, they’ll definitely have strict dorm checks at night.
Learn this move, and you can climb over the wall to find some fun.”
Although Jing Lan would never seek out prostitutes, Keke’s remark had, for some inexplicable reason, spurred him on.
Consequently, he spent a few days learning and was able to jump from four meters high and dissipate the impact.
Who could have imagined that such a seemingly useless physical technique would prove so invaluable now?
Jing Lan couldn’t even recall how many times he had averted danger thanks to the skills acquired during those two months of training.
Releasing his grip on the rope, his body plummeted.
The instant his feet touched the ground, he powerfully pushed off, using the forward momentum to execute two front rolls before coming to a steady stand.
The impact of the landing was distributed in stages across his limbs, and the slight, vibrating ache quickly faded.
“Excellent, it worked.”
An inexplicable fire ignited within Jing Lan.
He wasn’t entirely sure where this emotion stemmed from; too many events had transpired in just one week for him to fully process.
After landing and steadying himself, he noticed a surveillance camera at the entrance of the rooftop stairwell.
Jing Lan didn’t dare to hesitate, immediately striding into the stairwell; he was banking on the person watching the monitors being distracted.
Upon entering, he found the stairwell itself was devoid of cameras, and he finally let out a breath of relief.
Pricking his ears, he could hear people speaking loudly on the lower floors.
The third floor, in contrast, seemed somewhat quieter.
Jing Lan softened his footsteps, slowly making his way to the third floor.
From a room around the corner, a voice suddenly emerged; he heard a boy’s voice say, “Dad, when are we going back?”
Another middle-aged man replied, “What’s the rush?
We finally made it here; shouldn’t we enjoy some good food and drink, and have a blast shooting guns?”
Jing Lan crept closer to the room, its door ajar.
Directly opposite the door was a plastic promotional sign, emblazoned with the words, “Food security is heavier than Mount Tai.”
Because the sign was covered with a plastic casing, it reflected light.
Through this reflection, Jing Lan saw a man sitting on a stool, smoking, with a young boy next to him playing on a mobile phone.
Before the man was a computer screen, divided into grids; clearly, it was a surveillance terminal.
In one corner of the screen, a small surveillance feed showed a man standing at the stairwell corner, clad in a military-green windbreaker.
It was Jing Lan himself.
The man would see this image the moment the child’s head turned.