Chapter One: Saving a Life Upon Arrival

Stepping out of the airport, Qiu Fengyu took a deep breath. He looked around at the airport's surroundings, which appeared rather old and worn. There was no sign that this was the airport of the world's number one superpower, America.

"Alright, my friend, this is where we part ways. I brought you to America, gave you a green card, everything's settled. I'm heading north now—you're not going the same way, are you?" A man in his fifties, an Eastern European, extended his hand to Qiu Fengyu at the airport exit.

"Uh, of course not. I'll be heading south. At the moment, I'm completely a drifter..." Qiu Fengyu released his grip. He had no real connection with this wealthy Ukrainian old man; he had simply saved his life during the conflict in Crimea and asked him to bring him to America.

"You're no drifter. You'll have money, then buy a ranch. This is Texas; you can be a cowboy, young man—though not the gun-slinging kind. Oh, and you'd better apply for your Social Security number and driver's license as soon as possible, or you'll find it impossible to get by in America. Well then, friend, safe travels!" The Ukrainian waved to the two tall men standing by a Mercedes, who looked like bodyguards. One of them approached, carrying a paper bag. The Ukrainian took the bag, glanced inside, and handed it to Qiu Fengyu.

"This is yours, what you deserve—twenty thousand dollars!" With that, he picked up his own luggage and strode to the car. The other bodyguard took his bag and opened the door for him. He got in, and the Mercedes sped away, quickly disappearing from sight.

To become a cowboy? It didn’t sound so bad. Qiu Fengyu walked along the highway, lost in thought. Twenty thousand dollars was the reward for saving the old man’s life, but it was far from enough to buy a ranch. Still, Texas was full of ranches, the Ukrainian had told him that on the way.

"Does twenty thousand dollars make me rich? Back home, that's just about 120 to 130 thousand yuan," Qiu Fengyu calculated silently as he tucked the cash into his backpack. "Maybe I should find a place to settle down first, then look for a job." He looked up at the blue sky and white clouds, at the winding asphalt road stretching ahead into the unknown. He tightened his backpack's straps and continued on his way.

Abilene, a small town in Paso, Texas.

The town had just over seven hundred residents—a true small town. But though it was small, it had everything it needed. The streets were wide, there were four grocery stores, a supermarket, a bakery, a barbershop, two fast-food joints, a watch shop, a bar, and a hotel. There was also a primary school, police station, post office, hospital, church, and a bus station—everything one could need.

Surrounding the town were vast, endless ranchlands. Paths led from the town to various ranch owners’ homes, scattered around the outskirts, but not too far away. Further out, a river flowed by—this was the Rio Grande.

This was also a popular spot for suburban leisure and sightseeing. Here, you could buy food from ranch-run takeout shops, grill your own barbecue, even hunt or graze livestock. So there were some visitors, mostly city folk on vacation. It had something of a "farm tourism" atmosphere.

The ranch nearest to town belonged to Josh Britt, who had been rather troubled recently. Since last October, drought had plagued the area, forcing him to sell his cattle as early as July and reduce his stock even further. This meant his income was dwindling, yet he still had to keep the ranch running—a worrying situation that forced him to tighten his belt and live frugally.

He rode his horse out to check on the ranch again, taking advantage of the not-yet-hot weather. The sun would set soon, and he hoped to be home before then. Thoughts of his wife and children waiting at home eased his worries a little.

The horse made its way down a rough, narrow, rocky path at the foot of a hill. As he followed the trail, Josh felt something wasn’t right. He pulled his rifle from the saddle holster, raised it, and shouted aloud, “Who’s there? Come out! I’ll shoot, I swear! You’ve trespassed on private land!”

The grass rustled, and three dark-skinned men emerged—two short and plump, one tall and powerfully built. None were armed; they raised their hands. One of the short men spoke up, “Sorry... We didn’t mean to trespass. We just got lost…”

“Damn Mexicans!” Josh Britt cursed under his breath, lowering his gun and laying it across his saddle. “Alright, Mexicans, get out of here. I don’t care if you’re illegals, but don’t ever show up on my ranch again, or my gun won’t be so polite. Go on, get out!” He jerked his head at the three men.

“Of course, we’re leaving right now!” said the short Mexican, exchanging a look with his companions. As they turned to go, the tall one suddenly drew a revolver and aimed it at Josh.

“Damn Yankee, get off your horse!” the short Mexican snarled. “Drop your gun—no tricks, or I’ll blow your brains out. That’s right, hand it over. Slowly—good, that’s a good boy…” He grabbed Josh’s rifle, then, without warning, smashed Josh across the head with the butt.

With a dull thud, Josh Britt’s world went black and he collapsed to the ground.

Night had fallen. In the ravine below, a campfire burned. The three Mexicans sat around it, wolfing down dry, flavorless tortillas—not the well-stuffed kind served in restaurants, just coarse and tasteless.

One of them, after a few bites, spat on the ground. “This stuff is awful. I swear, if I ever make money in America, I’ll never touch this crap again.”

“If you’re not eating it, give it to me!” the big man snatched the rest and stuffed it into his mouth in a few bites, still unsatisfied. The short Mexican turned his gaze to Josh Britt, who lay nearby, hands and feet tied behind his back. His eyes glinted viciously.

“What should we do with him?” the big man asked the short one, wiping his mouth.

The short Mexican made a throat-cutting gesture. The other two were startled, looking at him in shock and shaking their heads. “No, we can’t do that. We came to America to make money, not to kill,” the big man protested, shaking his head emphatically. The third quickly nodded agreement.

“Make money? Sure, and this is how we’ll do it.” The short Mexican sneered, waving the revolver. “You want to work for money? With nothing? If we’re caught, we’ll be deported, maybe jailed. If this Yankee wakes up, he’ll call the cops. We’ll never get out of here. But if we bury him here, no one will ever know. By the time he’s found, no one will know it was us.”

His argument seemed to make sense. The big man’s eyes shifted toward Josh Britt, now with a darker intent. Tied up, lying on his side with his own sock stuffed in his mouth, Josh struggled in panic, terror filling his eyes as he tried to plead.

“Sorry, gringo. If you live, we suffer. You shouldn’t have come down this road,” the short Mexican said, raising the rifle butt to bash in Josh Britt’s head, convinced it would smash open like a watermelon.

“Wait, man…” the big one interrupted. “Something’s not right.”

“What? What’s not right? Don’t interrupt me!” the short Mexican snapped. “Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off first.”

“Alright, alright…” The big man, clearly intimidated, fell silent, but his eyes remained fixed on the grass nearby, wary.

The short man raised the rifle butt, ready to strike down at the helpless Josh Britt. The brief hope that had flickered in Josh’s heart vanished; he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, “God, forgive my sins…”

“Wait—this time I really mean it. I saw something in the grass—could be an animal, or maybe someone else…” The big man spoke up again, this time lowering his voice and glancing uncertainly at the short one.

Annoyed by the interruption, the short man yelled in frustration, then shoved the rifle at the big man. “Go check. If there’s nothing… I’ll shoot you myself.”

The big man stood and, without another word, crept toward the grass. In the firelight, the brush looked murky and menacing. He moved forward step by cautious step, his silhouette growing faint in the darkness. It seemed nothing was there. Still, he advanced a few more paces and was swallowed by the night.

Watching the big man disappear, the short Mexican grew uneasy. He shouted, “Hey, you bastard, if you find anything, get back here quick!”

No response. Only silence.

“Hey, Malachi, damn you, at least fart or something so I know you’re alive. Otherwise, I’ll shoot your ass!” the short Mexican called.

Just as he finished speaking, a shadow rose from the grass, raising a revolver and firing three shots. All hit the short Mexican, who fell dead without a sound, his eyes wide with confusion, as if he hadn’t understood how he’d been killed.

The other short man, who wore a hat, turned to run, but the dark figure charged out like a leopard, tackling him to the ground, forcing his face into the dirt, twisting his arms behind his back and binding his hands tightly with a strip of cloth.

After securing him, the shadowy figure rolled Josh Britt onto his back in the firelight. Josh saw, looming over him, a tall, strong young Asian man with black hair and a wide, toothy grin, who pulled the foul sock from his mouth.

“Who are you?” Josh Britt gasped, catching his breath.

“Qiu Fengyu—oh, or in the American way, Fengyu Qiu.” The man flashed a big white smile.