While waiting for his flight at the airport, Zong Hang saw a news report.
The report focused on the “Greater Mekong Subregion.”
It explained that China’s Yunnan Province, along with Southeast Asian countries including Myanmar, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, and Thailand, all shared the “Lancang-Mekong River” basin. With similar geography, climate, and cultural backgrounds, they had established a regional economic cooperation mechanism under the Asian Development Bank’s initiative, aiming to achieve mutual prosperity.
This news greatly reassured Zong Hang, who was traveling abroad for the first time.
After all, if these places could form a “subregion” together, the differences between them couldn’t be too great. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Yunnan form subregions with South Africa or South America?
He had spent three days in Yunnan and felt “at home” there, so he figured Siem Reap, Cambodia would feel familiar too, probably “like the neighborhood next door.”
When boarding time came, Zong Hang queued up with his bag.
The flight from Kunming to Siem Reap was two and a half hours, shorter than many domestic flights. After subtracting takeoff and landing time, plus filling out an immigration form, there wouldn’t even be enough time left to watch a movie.
He decided to use the time to sleep.
Before takeoff, he posted to his WeChat Moments as planned, then turned off his phone.
The plane climbed into the sky, heading south.
Once the flight stabilized, passengers came to life: some ate, some chatted quietly, and others watched movies.
Zong Hang dozed with his eyes closed, legs crossed – the legroom was too tight for his 182cm frame, but he stubbornly maintained the position anyway.
The awkward posture sent discomfort signals from his calves to his brain, but his brain ignored them, focused on just one thing –
How would his father, Zong Bisheng, react to his WeChat Moments post?
The image he posted was of a pair of pillows priced at 8,800 yuan. They supposedly used high-tech materials called “suspension substrate,” promising better sleep and neck support, with memory function. The silk pillowcases were embroidered with orchids, presumably symbolizing that those who slept on these pillows were noble gentlemen, as pure as orchids.
With the image, he added a simple caption – just one word:
“Heh.”
Those who didn’t understand might comment “Damn, 8,800 for a pair of pillows, that’s robbery,” but Zong Bisheng would get it.
That day, Zong Bisheng had pointed at him and cursed, calling him a pretty boy, an embroidered pillow, a good-for-nothing Liu Shan.
What kind of father talks about his son like that? Is being fair-skinned a crime? What’s wrong with embroidered pillows? Some people aren’t even good-looking enough to be called embroidered pillows, and these days, finely embroidered pillows are valuable items anyway.
As for Liu Shan – that comparison was really rich. Liu Shan’s father was an emperor, and his followers included Guan Yu and Zhuge Liang. But you? At best you’re just a small business owner, not much achievement but plenty of attitude. People might think you created Alibaba or something.
But he didn’t dare say any of this to Zong Bisheng’s face, so he just hung his head in silence.
His mother tried to mediate: “Let it go, at least our Hanghang never does anything illegal.”
Zong Bisheng’s eyes bulged like a goldfish’s: “Is that something worth mentioning?”
Why wouldn’t it be worth mentioning?
Among his circle of friends, some had assaulted people, some visited prostitutes, and some gambling, but had he ever done any of that? No, he had always remained pure and unsullied, earning him the nickname “Zong White Lotus.” He had been proud of this for many years, until later when “white lotus” suffered the same tragic internet-age transformation as “chrysanthemum,” sinking into obscurity, after which he never mentioned it again.
To this day, his most rebellious act had been riding a motorcycle, and even then he had strictly followed traffic rules on an empty suburban track.
Zong Bisheng coughed angrily, trembling as he pointed at him, pretending to be on his last legs at barely fifty as if Zong Hang had aged him prematurely: “Failed at studies, failed at work, look at how useless he is!”
Zong Hang sighed inwardly, thinking today’s fathers had unreasonably high expectations for their sons. They couldn’t always expect “heroic fathers to produce heroic sons” – they should also accept that sometimes sons turn out to be scoundrels.
Modern society is so competitive, resources so scarce, and opportunities for education and work should be given to those from less privileged backgrounds. He was lucky in this life, born to a father who could make money, so he righteously embraced his lack of ambition. His life goal was to spend his father’s money, living a fulfilling and positive life without causing trouble for the country or society.
If Jack Ma’s son became Jack Ma, and Warren Buffett’s daughter became Warren Buffett, with resources and wealth never redistributing, what would be the point of ordinary people working hard?
His lack of ambition was purely out of consideration for society’s sustainable development.
Finally, Zong Bisheng said: “Get out of my sight, you’re an embarrassment!”
Checking the time as he left, he had been scolded for exactly twenty minutes, all because he found work too tiring and quit his job on his own initiative, then tactfully suggested to Zong Bisheng that he might find him an easy, well-paying position in the family company.
Was that too much? Not at all – it was their family business, not like he was asking strangers for help.
But Zong Bisheng proved utterly ruthless – two days later, he informed him he’d be helping at a hotel in Siem Reap, with the title of TRAINEE.
When Zong Hang searched online, he discovered that Siem Reap was a city in Cambodia. Further searching revealed that Cambodia, like Thailand and Vietnam, was a Southeast Asian country. Then, holy crap – Cambodia had only ended its long civil war in ’98, barely entering a new period of peaceful development.
What did 1998 mean? By then, the Chinese people had been standing tall for many years, Hong Kong had been returned for a year, and he had already been old enough to run errands around the neighborhood.
His mother was devastated, seeing it as a form of exile, constantly worrying “What should we do?” and “It’s so poor there.” Zong Hang didn’t mind though – as long as he had money, he could live stylishly anywhere, no matter how poor. Besides, it was far from home, out of Zong Bisheng’s reach, where he could finally “raise his sword” against his father without restraint.
Yes, only when he was far enough from home, beyond Zong Bisheng’s reach, did he dare raise his head high and counter paternal authority.
The WeChat post was his first shot in this counterattack.
Embroidered pillow?
Heh.
The flight was smooth.
After landing, Zong Hang followed the crowd – most passengers were Chinese anyway, all heading the same way to get their immigration stamps.
At the immigration channels, people split into different lines – those with visas went straight into the queue, while those filling out visa-on-arrival forms and immigration cards clustered around tables.
A sign on the table showed the correct format for filling out visa-on-arrival and immigration forms.
Being his first time abroad, he wanted to be careful, so Zong Hang glanced at the standard format and found he had made one mistake.
The form required “WITH CAPITAL LETTERS,” but he had used lowercase.
Though he felt capitalization didn’t affect the information’s clarity, what if the immigration officer was particularly fussy? If there was an argument…
His English was mediocre – he’d even hired someone to take his CET-4 exam – and he didn’t want any trouble.
Zong Hang pulled a new form from the document holder and went to an empty table to fill it out.
Nearby, a thin, dark-skinned Cambodian man shouted in broken Chinese: “Five dollars, five dollars, help fill forms, five dollars!”
He was quickly surrounded by tour group uncles and aunties, instantly doing brisk business, his pen flying across papers.
The whole world knew Chinese money was easy to earn.
And Chinese money was easy to earn.
Since there was a long queue at immigration anyway, and he’d end up at the back even if he went now, Zong Hang wasn’t in a hurry. He filled out his form leisurely while mentally calculating that Cambodian man’s daily and monthly income until someone tapped his shoulder from behind: “Comrade…”
Zong Hang turned around irritably.
It was a skinny old man in his sixties, wearing a worn earth-yellow T-shirt with English logos, khaki shorts, leather sandals, a frayed messenger bag, with a large camouflage duffel bag at his feet.
Zong Hang asked warily: “What is it?”
Before traveling abroad, he had thoroughly studied various airport scams and was naturally suspicious of strangers who approached him.
The old man smiled apologetically: “Um… I don’t understand English, could you help me fill this out?”
Zong Hang jerked his chin toward the Cambodian man: “There’s someone over there who can help.”
The old man didn’t move, looking embarrassed: “That… he charges money…”
Zong Hang laughed.
What, did his face look like that of free labor?
He pointed at himself with his pen and said: “I charge too – five dollars!”
Then he went back to his own business.
The old man sighed and walked away dejectedly with his bags.
He came back shortly after, probably having failed to find anyone helpful and thinking the Cambodian’s price was too high. He held out a 10 yuan note: “Um… would 10 yuan be okay? Just for the immigration form.”
Since it was just a small favor, wouldn’t take many strokes, and he’d finished his form anyway, Zong Hang took the money: “I’m giving you a discount because we’re fellow countrymen.”
The old man nodded repeatedly, handing over his passport and plane ticket.
Zong Hang started filling in the basic information from the passport.
The old man’s name was Ma Yuefei, so the surname should be “MA” and the given name “YUE FEI.”
Born in 1965, same age as his father Zong Bisheng – same year but different fates. While Zong Bisheng lived comfortably at home, this uncle… judging by his bags, probably going abroad for work.
Reaching the “purpose of entry” field, Zong Hang asked: “What are you doing in Cambodia?”
The old man stammered: “Looking for my daughter.”
That should be “family visit” – how do you write that in English? Zong Hang thought briefly, then wrote “BUSINESS” with a flourish.
For the remaining fields like length of stay and contact address, he couldn’t be bothered to ask and just copied his information.
For ten yuan, that was service enough.
After finishing, they queued together.
At the immigration counter, which carried an air of solemnity, the officers performing their national duty maintained stern faces throughout, representing their country’s image. With foreign text everywhere, Old Ma clung even more tightly to Zong Hang: “Hey… young man, if they ask me questions, could you help me answer? I won’t understand.”
Zong Hang agreed casually, shuffling forward with the queue.
Old Ma couldn’t keep his mouth shut: “How are you getting there afterward? Taking a taxi? Want to share one?”
Zong Hang asked curiously: “What about your daughter? Isn’t she picking you up?”
Old Ma’s weathered face immediately crumpled: “I’m here to find her – she’s missing.”
Damn, so when he said “looking for my daughter,” he meant searching, not visiting.
Zong Hang had only seen news about Chinese people going missing overseas, and never imagined he’d be this close to such a case.
Old Ma unzipped his messenger bag and pulled out a flyer: “We’re all Chinese, if it’s convenient, please keep an eye out.”
Still shocked, Zong Hang took it automatically and quickly scanned it.
It was a missing person notice in both Chinese and English, with a color photo. The girl was called Ma You, 25 years old, with an email address listed as contact information at the bottom.
Old Ma explained: “I’ll add a phone number once I buy a local SIM card.”
What, he was planning to post missing person flyers in a foreign country?
Zong Hang tried to sound mature: “I think for this kind of thing, posting flyers won’t work, and you can’t handle it alone – this needs the embassy’s involvement…”
He instinctively glanced toward the airport terminal: “Is someone from the embassy coming to meet you?”
He remembered news reports showing embassy staff accompanying family members of missing persons everywhere they went abroad.
Old Ma seemed to have something difficult to say, hesitating before shaking his head.
Zong Hang thought this old man was being unrealistic: “You must go through the embassy. When they represent the country, there’s pressure on the local authorities to take the case seriously. Just posting flyers here, damaging their city appearance…”
Old Ma mumbled something.
Zong Hang didn’t catch it: “What did you just say?”
Old Ma wrung his hands, his face red as a monkey’s behind: “She… entered illegally…”
What?
Zong Hang stood frozen in shock.
The immigration officer, tired of waiting for the next person, impatiently waved at him.
Zong Hang snapped out of it, quickly grabbed his bag, and stepped forward, instinctively wanting to get as far from Old Ma as possible.
Ugh… illegal entry.
A criminal act.
Though he might lack ambition, he was a law-abiding citizen. Whether at home or abroad, he would remain pure and unsullied, it best to stay far away from such people.