After collecting his luggage and switching on his phone with a new SIM card, several WeChat messages flooded in at once. Zong Hang didn’t bother checking them, heading straight for Moments instead.
The post he made before his flight had generated quite a buzz – some cursing the merchant’s greed, others jokingly begging the rich guy for support. But beneath this liveliness lay a hint of desolation: Zong Bisheng hadn’t commented, not even leaving a single “Bah!”
He quickly switched to check his messages – nothing from Zong Bisheng there either.
The most recent message was from his mother, Tong Hong, asking: “Hanghang, have you arrived?”
What’s with “Hanghang”? He was nearly twenty-three, yet still called Hanghang. Zong Hang grumbled internally but dutifully replied: “Yes, arrived.”
One couldn’t argue with Tong Hong. She had a nickname – “Lin Daiyu” – due to her chronic frailty, emotional richness, and sensitivity, traits that only intensified with age. Though she never buried flowers with a hoe, she would tear up at the slightest breeze, falling flowers, or even the sight of a chicken being slaughtered.
The first time Zong Hang protested against the nickname “Hanghang” was during puberty. Tong Hong stared at him for a long while, her eyes slowly reddening as she said, “The child I raised painstakingly for over a decade, and now I can’t even choose what to call him.”
Then she couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, would cry while doing laundry, and make midnight calls to her girlfriends lamenting, “What’s the point of living anymore?”
Since then, Zong Hang just let it be. After all, Master Cao wrote it hundreds of years ago: what’s the point of arguing with Lin Daiyu? Just go along with it and comfort her.
The other messages were from his mentor in Cambodia, Long Song.
Yes, mentor – Zong Hang didn’t understand the term at first and had to look it up in the Youdao Dictionary. Many foreign companies implemented a mentoring system for new employees: besides their direct supervisor, they’d be assigned an experienced employee with no direct work relationship to guide their personal growth and monitor their mental health.
Though Zong Bisheng had the air of a nouveau riche and his enterprises reeked of township enterprise style, he loved aligning with international standards, priding himself on dropping English terms. Performance wasn’t called “performance” but “KPI”, and mentors weren’t called “shifu” but “mentor.”
Long Song told him to head to the airport exit after settling in, saying someone would be there to pick him up with a very obvious pickup sign that couldn’t be missed.
Far from home and father, even the air carried a tropical fragrance. The exit area was crowded, and the largest, most flamboyant pickup sign was prepared for him: “Zong Hang” surrounded by printed balloons, flying flowers, and red hearts.
In a good mood, everything looked pleasing. Zong Hang felt Southeast Asian people’s enthusiasm radiating from this gaudy display.
Moreover, the seventeen or eighteen-year-old crew-cut boy Apa holding the sign shyly called him “Young Master.”
Were Southeast Asian forms of address so old-fashioned? Though it didn’t quite match his socialist character, it somehow felt pleasant to hear.
The Buick business van picking him up was parked nearby, with a man of typical Southeast Asian appearance leaning halfway out, waving at him. His hair was parted seven-three and oily, his smile dark yet warm, even wearing the same striped shirt as in his WeChat profile picture.
This was his mentor, Long Song.
Once in the car, the Buick merged into traffic heading out. A Bentley drove in front, while a tuk-tuk puttered behind – he’d heard about Cambodia’s huge wealth gap but didn’t expect such a direct demonstration.
In the back seat, Long Song and Zong Hang smiled at each other repeatedly. After the initial small talk about the flight and weather passed, an awkward conversation loomed.
Zong Bisheng had called Long Song, saying his son was useless, Tong Hong always protected him too much, making him hard to discipline. Having him around was too irritating, so “might as well send him far away for a while,” “help me toughen him up,” and “just let him suffer a bit.”
What nonsense – the hotel was a joint venture, Zong Bisheng was the big boss, and Zong Hang’s status made him royalty. How could he be toughened up? Moreover, right after Zong Bisheng hung up, Tong Hong called: “Long Song, old Zong is just angry, in two months at most, I’ll have him call Hanghang back. These two months will trouble you, please take good care of our Hanghang. This child has always been a homebody, never been so far away before…”
By the end, it sounded like she was wiping away tears.
Long Song initially thought this wouldn’t be difficult – just a short-term internship, let the parents teach him a lesson. Only then did he realize he’d taken on a hot potato?
After leaving the airport, Zong Hang was surprised to find dirt roads, with low houses on both sides and dense power lines overhead. If not for the text on signboards, he might have thought he’d traveled back to 1980s China.
Zong Hang searched for a topic: “My English isn’t great, will it be hard to communicate here?”
This question was common among Chinese hotel guests, and Long Song had a template answer ready: “Don’t worry about that. Cambodia already has many Chinese people, and after Siem Reap developed tourism, many Chinese came to invest and work here. Chinese tourists arrive by the busload, many locals speak Chinese well, and even those who don’t can manage a few phrases. You’re already bilingual, which is excellent.”
Zong Hang: “Oh…”
Then silence fell.
The car entered the city proper, buildings became more structured, traffic increased, tuk-tuks were visible everywhere, and large billboards appeared showcasing the pride of Siem Reap and all of Cambodia – Angkor Wat.
Zong Hang said: “That Angkor Wat…”
Finally another topic! Long Song quickly responded: “Our hotel has cars, you can go anytime. You can’t see all of Angkor in one day, there are too many ancient sites. You should at least get a seven-day pass.”
Silence fell again.
Long Song pretended to clear his throat, while Zong Hang wanted to bite his fingers.
After deep thought, he found another topic: “I met someone at the airport whose family snuck in here illegally. I didn’t talk much with him.”
Long Song immediately nodded: “Yes, it’s better to be careful when traveling abroad. Some tourists can be quite complex. Zong Laoban told me many people hiding from debts or crimes in China escape here. You did right, best to avoid such people.”
After speaking, he noticed Zong Hang staring at him.
Long Song nervously asked: “What’s wrong?”
Zong Hang couldn’t hold back any more: “Brother Long, I can’t keep things bottled up. I know my dad asked you to mentor me, you must have asked around about me back home, right?”
Long Song smiled awkwardly.
He had indeed asked around, and different people gave similar answers: Zong Laoban’s son was just ordinary, without much ability or ambition. Since childhood, only his looks were praiseworthy. At least his character wasn’t bad – though he had many bad friends in his circle, he never got corrupted.
Seeing his awkward smile, Zong Hang understood: “Just treat me like I’m here to play, don’t pressure yourself. I’m a person without great ambitions, just average ability, living a casual life. If my family has money, I live well; if not, I live poorly… Brother Long, saying this, do you look down on me?”
Long Song, who regularly received hotel guests striving to prove their abilities and skills, encountered for the first time someone openly admitting their uselessness. He found it refreshing rather than contemptible: “You’re still young, unsettled. Maybe you’ll have great abilities in the future.”
Zong Hang said: “Me? Really?”
He couldn’t even respect himself. He put his hands behind his head, sprawled casually against the seat back, making himself comfortable.
Long Song watched him smile, feeling the atmosphere had become more natural, both host and guest at ease.
Zong Hang’s type would be called “second generation,” right? They say second-generation kids typically fall into three categories: “an extra elite,” “an extra playboy,” or “an extra mouth to feed.”
Zong Hang was neither exceptional nor terrible, but Zong Bisheng’s strong personality definitely couldn’t accept a mediocre, incapable son.
He said: “I understand now. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to send you back soon.”
Zong Hang suddenly became anxious: “No, Brother Long, did you misunderstand my meaning?”
He sat up straight: “Please find a way to keep me here longer… You know my dad, Zong Bisheng, true to his name, wants victory in everything. I have to comply with him, otherwise he’ll scold me endlessly. Then there’s my mom, need to comfort her about everything. At home, I have to please one and comfort the other, two Buddhas above my head, life is too oppressive.”
Tong Hong wouldn’t even let him travel without worry, fearing car crashes, derailments, and plane disappearances, so she insisted he attend university in their city. Year after year, while his friends traveled abroad, he was stuck at suburban farm stays: today picking strawberries in the countryside, tomorrow fishing for small fish, the day after feeding chickens and ducks.
At this rate, becoming a new-age farmer was imminent, but even so, Zong Bisheng complained about him, complained he hadn’t tanned from working in the countryside, saying: “Can’t you just look a bit rougher?”
How to look rougher? Teach him how to be rougher! He’d even changed the poster by his bed from Korean star Kim Sung Joo to Li Kui, how much rougher could he get?
Just thinking about it made him feel bitter. He clasped his hands above his head, repeatedly bowing to Long Song: “Brother Long, please think of something, keep me here longer, let me catch my breath. In the future when I take over my dad’s business, I’ll double your salary, I promise.”
Apa, the driver, couldn’t help but laugh.
Zong Hang remembered to include everyone: “You too, I keep my word.”
Long Song didn’t know whether to laugh or cry: “Alright, sit properly, I’ll think of something.”
Zong Hang, hands still clasped above his head in mid-bow, suddenly looked up with joy spreading across his face: “Really?”
As he spoke, his eye-c corners and eyebrows curved upward, showing childish charm.
Long Song began to like Zong Hang. Cambodians believe in Buddha, generally maintaining peaceful mindsets and living life at a slow pace, without fighting the world. They don’t see “success” as particularly important: as family members, having a good temperament and getting along well is enough.
Siem Reap isn’t large, with only over a hundred thousand population. In China, it wouldn’t even match a small country, but they’re blessed with the world’s unique Angkor Wat.
The airport is only a few kilometers from downtown, and after chatting briefly, the hotel came into view.
Zong Hang had expected to see a five-star joint-venture hotel but realized at arrival he’d thought too much. As they say, things reflect their owner’s character – he shouldn’t have had high expectations for Zong Bisheng’s style.
The hotel, called “Angkor Grand Hotel,” ranked between two and three stars. Six stories high, built in a square around a central swimming pool, he estimated it had five to six hundred rooms. Tall coconut trees stood at the entrance, with a row of tuk-tuks beneath. Male drivers and servers wore dark green short-sleeve shirts, while female receptionists and servers wore water-pink cheongsams with large red flowers in their coiled hair.
Long Song introduced it to Zong Hang: “Siem Reap has hotels of all-star levels. We offer good value for money, succeeding through volume. We have good relationships with major Chinese travel agencies, mainly receiving tour groups. For individual travelers, we advertise right at the airport entrance, with cars waiting to pick up guests for immediate check-in…”
As he spoke, they entered the lobby, filled with elderly tourists wearing yellow caps, a tour guide waving a flag calling out: “Come, come, Anhui friends, Anhui group gather up…”
Long Song first took Zong Hang to his room to rest, as international travel is tiring, and freshening up with a shower was necessary.
The rooms were all similar, without much difference in grade. Zong Hang stayed on the third floor in a king room. Opening the door revealed reddish-brown carpet, reddish-brown old furniture, a marble washstand, and a painting of Yunnan Dai women splashing water hung above the bed, heavy with retro style.
The window was floor-to-ceiling, covered with large white gauze curtains. Opening them revealed it wasn’t a window but glass doors leading to a small balcony with rattan table and chairs, overlooking the central swimming pool.
Looking around, all pool-facing rooms had small balconies, and quite a few people sitting there enjoying the breeze.
Looking down, several white figures swam through the crystal water. Though their figures weren’t particularly aesthetic, Zong Hang watched cheerfully, full of enthusiasm for everything on his first trip abroad.
Just as someone in the pool was doing the backstroke, belly up, and Zong Hang was about to wave “hi,” a message came on his phone.
Opening it, he saw it was from Zong Bisheng, just one sentence: Delete that garbage you posted!
Zong Hang stared at it for a while, suddenly burst out angrily, slapping the rattan table: “No, I won’t!”
His voice was a bit loud, and on a nearby balcony, a woman who had been busy with something turned to look at him.
Zong Hang instantly deflated: before coming abroad, he’d read many travel guides and found many people dissing Chinese tourists for being loud in public places. He’d secretly vowed to show the high quality of China’s younger generation.
But now… had he been loud in public? He couldn’t believe he’d already tarnished China’s image on his first day.
Feeling guilty toward his compatriots, Zong Hang awkwardly nodded at her and retreated into his room.
The wind blew, lifting and dropping the white gauze curtains.
The air was humid and hot, splashing sounds came from the swimming pool.
The woman lowered her head again, giving a dry chuckle, saliva dripping from her mouth corners, mixed with dark brown blood, soaking through the rattan table surface, dripping to the ground.
She gripped the carving knife tightly in her hand, continuing to carve characters on her arm.
One stroke, one line, another stroke, another line.
They’re coming.
They’re about to come.