Chapter 10: The Colonel with the Ferocity of a Tiger

Xing Xiaolong was the sort of optimist whose cheerfulness masked a stubborn and competitive streak. He rarely fussed over trivial matters, nor did he spend his days lamenting when faced with hardship. Yet, as with all who are fiercely proud and obstinate, he possessed his own set of quirks.

If Xing Xiaolong uttered a kind word, he would never repeat it.

He had felt he was at fault, so he set aside his pride, lowered his guard, and took the initiative to greet the young man and express his apology. But the youth’s arrogant indifference made Xing Xiaolong’s gesture feel like warmth wasted on cold stone.

Now, Xing Xiaolong was done with pleasantries.

Two men, both with stubborn tempers and a keen sense of dignity, found themselves locked in silent combat within the confines of a three-square-meter holding cell—glaring at each other, neither willing to speak.

Xing Xiaolong had begun to suspect a few things. He had hoped to use the opportunity to learn the young man’s name, to confirm his suspicions, but his attempt at a greeting was coldly rebuffed, leaving the situation even more tense. Thus, his query for the name was left unasked.

“If my guess is right, this world is likely a secondary dimension manifested from a film, or perhaps a parallel universe. But with so many movies starring Wu Jing, which one have I landed in? I’m most familiar with Wolf Warrior 2, but this Wu Jing is clearly too young—just a teenager. It’s obviously not Wolf Warrior 2. This is truly vexing.”

Unable to converse with the Wu Jing look-alike, Xing Xiaolong could only ponder silently.

He had spent his school days gaming, and his time in the military had only cemented his habits. Tedious and time-consuming dramas held no appeal for him; he never watched them, nor had time to spare.

There are many like him—avid gamers who rarely watch films or TV—and Xing Xiaolong was simply one among them.

He knew Wu Jing had made countless movies, but his knowledge of this world was scant. He recalled the young man calling his girlfriend “Xiaoxiao” earlier—a clue. The youth, a character played by Wu Jing, was less than twenty years old in this world—another vital detail.

The remaining information suggested that this was a parallel world much like the real one, not a virtual reality.

If someone who loved dramas had these three clear hints, they could quickly deduce which film or series world this was. Armed with foreknowledge of the plot, they would thrive here.

Regrettably, Xing Xiaolong was the rare exception.

He had entered this world with a “golden finger” for special training, yet was utterly unfamiliar with its cinematic origins. These three seemingly obvious clues were completely useless to him.

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Unbeknownst to him, half an hour had passed.

Xing Xiaolong and the youth remained locked in their silent standoff; neither would yield—both were stubborn to a fault.

Just then, a young police officer appeared at the observation window, ignoring Xing Xiaolong entirely and calling out with a smile, “He Chenguang, you may come out.”

“He... He Chenguang?”

Xing Xiaolong silently repeated the name, feeling a surge of familiarity. He was sure he’d seen or heard it somewhere before—someone must have uttered it in his presence. Yet, the sense of recognition was all he had; his mind held no concrete details. It was like the urge to sneeze when your nose itches, but the sneeze never comes—a frustration that made Xing Xiaolong want to lash out.

The officer had come only for He Chenguang, ignoring Xing Xiaolong altogether—a blatant display of favoritism.

Already irked, Xing Xiaolong’s mood soured further; he shouted in annoyance, “Are you all just wasting time? Can’t you handle things properly? Why only call him out? Why not question us both together?”

“What are you shouting about? You still have the nerve after fighting in public? You’d better keep quiet. When it’s your turn, you’ll be called.”

The officer showed no smile to Xing Xiaolong, scolding him sternly before opening the cell door.

“I’m off then. Goodbye, old man, enjoy yourself—I won’t be keeping you company, ha ha.”

He Chenguang, with an unusual background, knew he was being bailed out; the interrogation would be waived, and he could go home. Meanwhile, Xing Xiaolong, labeled a street thug, would face a mountain of questioning—a prospect that delighted He Chenguang.

He left with a parting jab at Xing Xiaolong.

“Don’t get too smug. We’ll meet again.”

Though Xing Xiaolong knew nothing of the plot, he was certain that any role Wu Jing played would be the protagonist—the “chosen one” of this world. As for himself, sent here by the CF Mall with a golden finger, he was sure he wouldn’t be relegated to a mere background character.

Following this logic, Xing Xiaolong deduced that he and He Chenguang would inevitably cross paths again. Whether as friends or foes, only fate could tell.

He Chenguang left with his girlfriend and did not return to the holding cell.

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Without anyone to pull strings for him, Xing Xiaolong was locked up from morning until afternoon—nearly five hours, without even a meal.

Whether it was the police’s tactic to wear down a suspect’s patience before questioning, or trouble he brought upon himself by insulting the officer, or some other reason, Xing Xiaolong remained unfazed. His purpose in coming to the station was clear, and he wasn’t in a rush—waiting a bit longer didn’t matter.

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At four in the afternoon, just as the station was about to close, a policeman finally remembered there was a suspect still locked up, and took Xing Xiaolong to the interrogation room.

The opening questions were routine—name, age, gender.

Xing Xiaolong, knowing none of these details, had gone to great lengths, even fighting with He Chenguang, to get himself brought to the station. But he could only shrug at the officer’s questions.

The officer assumed Xing Xiaolong was being deliberately difficult and was so frustrated he nearly dented the table.

In the end, whether from anger or a desire to punish this street thug, the interrogation was abandoned, and Xing Xiaolong was returned to the holding cell, after which the officers went home.

Still, business was business—before leaving, they sent over a meal.

Starving all day, after a fight as well, Xing Xiaolong finally tasted his first meal in this world—a simple plate of eggplant and green beans, but he devoured it ravenously.

A day without food and a scuffle in between—anyone would be famished.

After his meal, dusk had fallen.

Only a few duty officers remained, and Xing Xiaolong thought his chances for the day were over—he’d spend the night in the cramped holding cell.

But before eight o’clock, he was escorted to the interrogation room once more.

This time, the man seated across from him was not a station officer, nor even a higher-ranked detective rarely seen by regular suspects.

It was a man of about forty, his features carved with resolve and cold intensity, clad in a crisp military uniform. On his shoulders gleamed the insignia of a colonel—two stripes and three stars. He sat with the presence of a tiger, exuding an aura that filled the room.