svetikya Chapter 142 The Shadow of the Cold War and the Path in One's Heart
Chapter 142 The Shadow of the Cold War and the Path in One's Heart
Chapter 142: The Shadow of the Cold War and the Path in My Heart
In October 1959, news of Khrushchev's visit to the United States dominated the front pages of all newspapers. The atmosphere of the Cold War was as sweltering and oppressive as the Santa Ana winds of California. Against this backdrop, Laurel Estate became a small haven.
These days, the manor is filled with a relaxed and cheerful atmosphere. Every morning, Lin Yan would take Xiao Qi to practice breathing exercises in the garden, while Lin Er was enthusiastic about organizing tennis matches, often dragging Lin Gang and Wang Yuling to the court for a good workout. Charles, as meticulous as ever, directed the gardeners in pruning the precious rose bushes. Occasionally, Carlos would bring his painting supplies, painting Xiao Qi's portrait while discussing art with Lin Yan.
Since the gallery incident, engineer Williams had become a regular visitor. This aerospace-obsessed scientist developed an unexpected friendship with Lin Yan. Every Wednesday evening, he would visit with blueprints and questions, and the two would talk in the study until late at night.
On a sunny afternoon, engineer Williams came to visit. He was sitting on the terrace with complex blueprints spread out in front of him.
"Look at this thruster design," he said, his eyes bloodshot, "theoretically perfect, but the material strength just doesn't meet the requirements." He pointed with a wry smile to the complex calculation formulas. "Sometimes I really envy your Eastern mythology; those legendary artifacts seem to never need to consider material fatigue."
Lin Yan gently traced the intricate lines on the blueprint. His cultivator's eye allowed him to intuitively perceive the structural flaws. He pondered for a long time before speaking, "In a Chinese historical story, the *Wu Yue Chun Qiu*, there's a tale of the forging of two divine swords, Gan Jiang and Mo Xie. When the swordsmith discovered that ordinary materials couldn't withstand the sword's intent, he chose to sacrifice himself in the forging process—'tempering the sword with his blood.' This might not be superstition, but rather a subtle principle of material purification."
Williams' eyes lit up: "You mean...we need to find a new alloy formula?"
In this way, through numerous long conversations, Lin Yan skillfully offered inspiration using Eastern wisdom. He never used advanced knowledge, but rather transformed the cultivation world's understanding of the essence of matter into concepts acceptable to the scientific community of this era. Sometimes it was a purification concept in alchemy, and sometimes it was the geometric principles of force field distribution in formations.
A few days later, on a rainy night, Williams visited again in a hurry, this time bringing a document marked "Top Secret." "Lin, I may be facing the biggest crisis of my career," he said, slumping down. "Khrushchev has declared at the United Nations that he will defeat us in the space race, and my project..."
The blueprints were spread out on the table, showcasing a revolutionary navigation system design. Williams pointed to the vibration data: "If a solution isn't found by next week, the entire project may be canceled."
Lin Yan stared at the blueprints, suddenly recalling the shock-absorbing formations of the cultivation world. "Do you know about the Zhuge Repeating Crossbow?" Williams shook his head blankly. "No!" "The Zhuge Repeating Crossbow is a very famous military invention from ancient China, with a legendary aura. It's not the magical weapon in *Romance of the Three Kingdoms* that can fire ten arrows in succession, but its rapid-fire principle was revolutionary in the era of cold weapons." He slowly explained, "The ancients used layers of bronze plates to absorb recoil, similar to the damping effect we see today..."
Williams jumped to his feet, pacing excitedly around the room. "Layered buffering! God, we've been thinking about using the overall structure to resist vibrations, but we forgot we could disperse and mitigate them!" He excitedly hugged Lin Yan. "Lin, you're truly my muse! I'm going back to revise the design; I'll treat you to dinner next time!" He then rushed to his car and drove off. Lin Yan, infected by Williams' excitement, called out to the kitchen, "Yu Ling, something happy happened today! We're having hot pot tonight!"
In a run-down bar in East Los Angeles, another conspiracy was brewing. Richard shoved a wad of bills at a burly, bald man: "Five hundred dollars. I want the one to break his limbs, to teach that Chinese kid a lesson he'll never forget."
The bald man weighed the banknotes in his hand, grinning to reveal his gold teeth: "Beverly Hills? That's a tough nut to crack."
"Just because he lives in Beverly Hills!" Richard slammed his fist on the table, "Why should an Asian man..." His voice was particularly jarring in the smoky bar.
The night was as dark as ink. Seven or eight shadowy figures nimbly scaled the wrought-iron fence of Laurel Manor and silently landed on the soft lawn. The bald man leading them was named "Iron Hammer" Jack. He glanced around and saw the main building of the manor clearly outlined in the moonlight, no more than a hundred meters away. "Easy job," he grinned at his men. "Teaching a rich yellow-skinned brat a lesson is like taking a stroll."
As planned, they headed straight for the main building. However, after walking for a few minutes, Jack sensed something was wrong. The house, which was so close, still seemed so far away. The gravel path beneath their feet seemed endless, and the familiar rose bushes and oak trees on either side began to reappear in a strange way.
Lin Yan had already set up a simple "Nine Palaces Maze," which turned ordinary courtyard paths into endless corridors in the eyes of the intruders. These people wandered around inside all night, sometimes encountering ghost walls and sometimes being attacked by illusions, until they all suffered mental breakdowns by dawn.
"What the hell?" one of the henchmen muttered, his voice tinged with unease.
"Shut up!" Jack growled. "This damn manor must be too big; I'm getting lost." He forced himself to calm down and quickened his pace. But the more he rushed, the more distorted the surrounding scenery became. The once pleasant night breeze turned chilling, and the glow of the streetlights began to flicker and elongate in their eyes, turning into pale streaks of light. In the silent night, the faint sounds of a woman's sobs and a child's laughter began to drift in and out, tugging at their taut nerves.
Fear began to creep up on him like vines. A burly, hot-tempered man, unable to bear the eeriness, kicked a tree to the side, trying to vent his frustration. But his foot felt like it had plunged into a viscous swamp; a tremendous suction force pulled him in, and at the same time, everything went black. He seemed to see countless pale arms reaching out from the tree trunk to grab him! He screamed in terror, stumbled backward, and landed heavily on his backside, gasping for breath, too afraid to touch anything else.
Another man tried to carve marks on the tree with a dagger, but the bark the dagger cut through oozed a dark red liquid with a rusty, metallic smell. He threw the dagger away in horror and found that his palms were also covered in "blood," which he couldn't wipe off no matter how hard he tried (it was just a hallucination).
Time lost its meaning. They ran desperately, yet always ended up going in circles. The surrounding temperature fluctuated wildly, sometimes feeling like being in an icebox, their teeth chattering; other times like being thrown into an oven, sweating profusely. The most terrifying thing was the hallucinations: they would suddenly see their companions turn into blue-faced, fanged monsters and pounce on them, then attack each other in terror; they would see poisonous insects crawling all over the ground, or hanged ghosts dangling from the trees. These hallucinations were terrifyingly real, accompanied by corresponding tactile sensations and pain—the burning sting of being scratched by "monsters," the stinging pain of being bitten by "poisonous insects."
One by one, the strings of reason snapped. Some began to kneel and pray, some wailed and wept, some stumbled around like headless flies until their heads bled. Jack's spirit also completely collapsed. He seemed to see countless wronged souls with Asian faces rising from the ground, silently surrounding him, staring at him with empty eyes. He curled up on the ground, clutching his head, and begged incoherently, "Let me go... It was Richard... Richard Morris who paid us to come... He said he'd break that Chinese kid's legs... I'll never do it again..."
For these intruders, this night felt like centuries of hovering on the edge of hell.
The next morning, patrolling police found seven or eight men slumped on the ground, barely recognizable as human, outside the grand gates of Laurel Estate. They were ragged, covered in mud and self-inflicted wounds, their eyes glazed over, muttering incoherently. Some were laughing hysterically, some were screaming, and others were repeating like broken records, "Ghosts...ghosts..." and "Richard Morris...he ordered it..."
When the police took them away, it was almost effortless; these people were completely terrified and answered every question, vying to testify against Richard in such detail that they seemed afraid of being dragged back to that "ghost place" if they spoke too slowly. Based on their statements, the police quickly arrested Richard in his apartment.
When he was arrested, Richard was stunned and furious; he couldn't understand it at all. "You idiots! You took the money and did nothing, and now you dare to slander me?" he roared at the police, then yelled at the dejected gangsters, "I paid you to teach people a lesson, not to turn yourselves in! What's wrong with you?" He couldn't fathom the existence of something like a "nine-square maze," and could only attribute it to the gangsters' stupidity, cowardice, or even their collective betrayal of him in order to escape.
Although the incident didn't make headlines in the mainstream media, it quietly spread through private clubs, afternoon tea parties, and dinners in Beverly Hills. Details were embellished, becoming increasingly fantastical. Some said Lin Yan's estate was protected by mysterious Eastern forces, while others claimed he himself was a reclusive and extraordinary individual. In any case, Laurel Estate and its owner, Lin Yan, were shrouded in an aura of "unapproachable" mystery. Those who might have initially looked down on him because of his Chinese identity now set aside their ulterior motives, replaced by an attitude of mixed curiosity and awe. No one dared to underestimate this mysterious Eastern neighbor anymore.
On the last Friday of October, Emily was invited to attend a seminar in the city center about US-Soviet cultural exchange. After the meeting, she intended to visit a newly opened art gallery, but unexpectedly encountered a clash between Khrushchev's protesters. The crowd quickly spiraled out of control, dragging Emily into the center of the scuffle.
At that moment, Lin Yan was at Carlos's invitation to go to a gallery in the city center to discuss an art exhibition. From afar, his divine sense detected that Emily's familiar aura was in danger.
"Excuse me for a moment." Lin Yan said to Carlos, his figure disappearing into the crowd. Just as Emily was about to be pushed over, he appeared in time and caught her steadily.
That evening, on the way back to the manor, Emily finally mustered the courage to confess her feelings. Under the moonlight, her deep blue eyes glistened with tears: "Lin, I know this is sudden, but I don't want to hide my feelings anymore."
Lin Yan paused for a moment, then gently took her hand. "Emily, you're a wonderful girl. I don't love you, and we won't be lovers—but I'll always be your friend, if you're willing." He winked playfully. "And, I'll tell you a secret: I'm only sixteen, still a minor according to your laws."
Emily was taken aback at first, realizing she had been rejected, and was about to cry when she heard Lin Yan's last "secret," and she immediately burst into laughter through her tears, instantly easing the tension.
In the stillness of the night, Lin Yan stood alone on the terrace, overlooking Los Angeles. This city had taught him that cultivation didn't necessarily require escaping the world. Upholding one's Daoist heart amidst the joys and sorrows of mortals might be a more difficult form of cultivation. Under the shadow of the Cold War, when faced with Williams' plea for help, he neither evaded nor abused his abilities, but instead found his own balance.