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Chapter One. Sodium

The mechanical diving suit was as tight as ever. The clasps at the cuffs dug into my wrists, leaving marks that had long since hardened into calluses. The clasps had to be secure—seawater found its way into everything. I once heard about a coworker whose waterproof screws around the abdomen came loose. The immense ocean pressure forced seawater through the tiny opening, turning his solid steel diving suit into a churning death trap. It was like someone had installed a high-pressure water cutter inside, shredding him alive. He died a gruesome death.

The suit was bulky and heavy, its three layers thicker than bricks. Even someone as small as me became a hulking black iron beast inside it.

The nameplate on my chest bore my name—Yang Hejin. Twelve years on the job. ID number: Na1103857. “Na” stood for the metal element sodium. Lower-ranking labour categories—such as pipe workers, ocean miners, and divers—were all classified under the alkali metal tier, the “Sodium” class. In this “Iron Age,” we worshipped metallic elements the way ancient humans revered the land. The periodic table was our cultural totem.

One thing had always puzzled me: why were most water-related jobs classified as “Sodium”, given how violently sodium reacts with water?

Wang Duangang’s explanation convinced me. He said that in the era of heavy industry, the earliest labour strikes came from ocean miners because they were at the very bottom of the production system. If they went on strike, the entire industrial chain would collapse at its roots. Meanwhile, the elusive pipe workers and divers formed the first underground secret organisation, giving birth to radical resistance movements—the precursor to modern labour unions. The explosive “sodium-water reaction” was the perfect metaphor for the fierce history of these trades.

Speaking of Wang Duangang, that guy knew everything. Despite being on the job for only three months, he worked as skilfully as our most experienced veterans. He executed every operation effortlessly, and his crisis management skills were top-notch.

Today, we were diving to collect iron ore. My team consisted of me, Wang Duangang, and two veteran workers.

The airtight hatch of Chamber 422 opened, revealing a massive shaft beneath us—like a colossal missile silo. The four of us entered from different sides, descending rusted iron ladders. About ten meters down, we reached the seawater. Then we stepped onto the lift platform, which slowly lowered us thousands of meters to the ocean floor.

The full-iron diving suits felt significantly lighter underwater, yet the surrounding darkness made them seem oppressively heavy. The abyss was suffocatingly black. No light penetrated from the surface to the depths, because the sea above was completely sealed off by a vast, endless iron plate.

Through the glow of my headlamp, I saw an enormous iron chain stretching through the deep sea. Each iron ring was as large as a regulation soccer field. Thousands of rings formed an immense chain, extending for thousands of miles like a sleeping dragon. And this was only one of hundreds of anchor chains. These anchors held a floating iron island in place—Hainan Island, a landmass entirely made of metal.

During the descent, the two veterans contacted me via our private radio channel. Our four-person public radio had a separate, restricted frequency for just the three of us, deliberately excluding Wang Duangang from the conversation.

Old Lu said, “That Wang guy acts all high and mighty. I tested him yesterday, tried to rope him in, asked if he had a black-market account. He gave me a whole lecture about revolutionary discipline, like he’s the damn foreman or some kind of rules enforcer.”

Fang Tiezhu added, “Old Lu, I told you already. One look at that guy, and you can tell he’s trouble. He’s definitely got some kind of background. We need to be careful around him—smile when necessary, but don’t say too much.”

The two veterans were waiting for me to take a stance.

To be honest, I never cared much for gossip. But after spending years with the veteran workers, I had learned how to deflect and play along. I said, “Hey, Liu and Fang! Our ‘Iron Triangle’ is a fortress, but that fourth spot is just a revolving door. How many people have come and gone over the years? Give it half a year, and Wang will be packing up and leaving too. No need to get worked up over him.”

            They laughed and said my name—Hejin, meaning “alloy”—suited me well. A true alloy, I could blend with anyone, adapt anywhere, and always navigate conversations smoothly. Unlike Wang Duangang, who was all sharp edges and unyielding steel.

Our daily work was simple: descend into the oceanic mines, walk along the seabed, and inspect for anomalies. Giant mining machines gnawed at the ore veins, transporting raw materials to the Hainan sector. Their engines emitted deep, muffled roars through the seawater. Experienced “Iron Diggers” could judge from these sounds whether a machine was malfunctioning or if the mining path had deviated.

If the machines stopped, things got complicated. We’d have to crawl into the tunnels, clear out blockages, and assist the engineers in repairs if needed. But as technology improved, breakdowns became rare. For nearly a decade, our work had been easy, leaving us with plenty of free time to slack off.

Of course, “slacking off” didn’t mean fishing in the ocean. There were far more exhilarating things to do on the seabed. During that period, we left Wang Duangang behind and secretly took out the submersible off-road vehicle, sneaking into the forbidden zones beneath the sea.

Electronic nets and underwater radar guarded the restricted areas, but they were laughably ineffective. At worst, they registered our vehicle as a large fish. As long as we steered in a slightly erratic pattern, mimicking the movement of marine life, we could slip through unnoticed.

As we approached the zone, a familiar landmark emerged from the murky depths—the ruins of Canton Tower, once nicknamed the “Slim Waist” in ancient history. We knew it like the back of our hands, though most people on the Iron Continent would likely never lay eyes on it in their lifetime.

Following our usual routine, we split into three teams, scouring the new areas—ancient streets and apartment buildings that had been submerged for centuries.

Fang Tiezhu was the greedy one. He sought valuables, prying gold bracelets from skeletal hands encrusted with coral. But the best finds were always the diamond rings on nameless fingers. Old Lu preferred collecting mundane artifacts. He was fascinated by ancient light-industry craftsmanship—like the tiny metal ball inside a ballpoint pen tip. He was amazed that people of the past could forge such precision at a millimetre’s scale, unlike our era, which only excelled in heavy industry.

I was different. Metals didn’t interest me. Five years ago, I discovered a well-sealed jar of ancient grain seeds in a submerged bakery. Since then, I have been obsessed with plants. The Iron Continent had no flora—plants existed only in laboratories.

Regardless of what we found, the items had to be small enough to hide within the seams of our diving suits, avoiding detection by inspectors. The punishment for getting caught was a minimum of ten years in prison. For those deemed guilty of “retro-revivalist ideology,” the sentence was death—delayed execution, if they were lucky.

The black market was flooded with relics from ancient ruins. Beneath the surface of society, a growing nostalgia for the past stirred. The rulers of the Iron Age feared humanity’s deep-rooted attachment to land. History had proven that an excessive longing for earth could fracture the Iron Continent. Some radical “land fanatics” had even chosen mass suicide by drowning to protest against iron civilisation.

Modern civilisation had worked tirelessly to forge an emotional bond between humans and cold, unyielding metal. Heavy industry had been etched into our very bones.

Wang Duangang hadn’t caught us in the act, but he seemed to suspect something. I was extremely perceptive, and lately, his subtle behavioural shifts told me he was gathering evidence of our crimes. Given his cold, calculating nature, once he had enough proof, he would not hesitate to turn us in.

I was the closest to him—or, at least, I appeared to be. Skilled in flattery and reading people, I made sure to show just enough sincerity while keeping my true thoughts well-hidden. We talked often, and through these conversations, I realised that his mind operated on an entirely different level. He had remarkable depth and breadth of perspective when analysing issues. He wasn’t just someone with a background—he had a deep and powerful one.

He was searching for an opportunity to rise, a chance to make a name for himself. If he found a better path, he would take it. If not, betraying the three of us would serve as a perfect stepping stone for his ambitions.

This realisation left me tossing and turning, restless through the night.

Then, an opportunity finally arrived.

It was a mining disaster, a once-in-a-decade catastrophe. Due to an excavation error, a man-made trench at the mining site collapsed. The shockwave hurled miners several miles away, while a massive cloud of dust spread through the water, blocking out all light. Even as we scavenged for relics in the sunken city of Guangzhou, we felt the tremors of the collapse.

To avoid being marked as deserters and accused of dereliction of duty, we rushed to the site as swiftly as we could.

Wang Duangang, with his impeccable expertise, activated the rescue mode of Machine No. 1. Originally designed to extract ore upward, he reversed its function, directing high-pressure water jets downward. The force of the water dispersed the thick cloud of mining dust, preventing the burial of hundreds of workers.

He saved countless lives. As for us, we seized the moment. Before the murky water could clear and before radar scans could penetrate the scene, we disguised ourselves as victims of the disaster, blending in with the rescued miners.

At first, I thought we had gotten away with it. But then, I realised something terrifying—The Disaster Investigation Committee would meticulously analyse radar images of the entire mining zone. There had been a high-resolution radar vehicle stationed at the site. Our movements might have already been recorded.

My unease only grew as time passed. When Wang Duangang was rewarded and promoted to workshop director, my worries became unbearable. That was when I made the decision that changed my life forever.

I knocked on his office door, stepped inside, and placed a briefcase on his desk. Opening it, I pulled out several sealed cans of seeds, a few bags of soil, a stack of incriminating reports—along with a written confession of my crimes.

Now a director, Wang barely glanced at the documents. He looked as if he had already expected this moment. Then, with a solemn expression, he spoke the words that altered the course of my life.

“I hear you come from a family of farmers?”

“I don’t know. The Thought Bureau traced my ancestry once. It must have been my great-grandfather’s generation. They said my lineage was unfavourable and assigned me to start at the lowest level of labour.”

“But this job is the closest one to the earth. And without realising it, you’ve taken up your ancestors’ old trade once more. After the era of the Water Sphere, we now drift across the seas on the Iron Continent. To me, soil is an unfamiliar concept—I can only compare it to soft iron shavings. Being a farmer isn’t a disgrace. Nowadays, farmers cultivate in hydroponic farms and work in food synthesis factories. In fact, they’ve become workers, which is progress. As for me—my ancestors were true workers. Before them, engineers during the nation-building era.”

I was in awe of his lineage, feeling my own existence grow small in comparison.

“In a distant age, workers and farmers were the backbone of Red China. Farmers never disappeared. Workers, too, can be farmers. I prefer to think of deep-sea miners as farmers, tilling the ocean floor.”

His words shattered my inner conflicts, unravelling the contradictions I had struggled with for so long. In that moment, I saw him bathed in a radiant light—the glow of progressive thought and noble character.

Then, he asked if I would follow him and take on some administrative work.

I agreed.

Without hesitation, he tore up the confession and incriminating reports before my eyes.

As for the two veteran workers, they were merely given symbolic punishments under the guise of “workplace negligence” and forced into early retirement. They were never handed over to the authorities, and no one ever discovered the foolish things we had done.

Chapter Two. Iridium

This was an era that values efficiency—mining output and quality determine the prosperity of local mining groups. Wang Duangang, with his unique management model, elevated the mining industry of the Hainan sector to a national standard. Following his footsteps, I became the director of a subordinate equipment factory.

However, within just three years, industrial transformation caused the factory to be shut down on-site. By then, Wang Duangang had already been transferred to Xisha Steel Island as the highest committee member of the island council. I wanted to seek a cushy retirement job from him.

During the Great Flood, the 260 islands of the South China Sea were the first Chinese territories to be submerged and also the earliest bases for constructing floating islands. Xisha Steel Island had a particularly long history—it was originally built by linking decommissioned naval ships with iron chains. Over time, iron decks were added, and the term “Iron Domain” was born. Iron Domain officially replaced the land that humanity had depended on for three million years.

If the two major treasure islands in the southeast of China served as the largest mining bases, then the 260 islands of the South China Sea (especially Xisha Steel Island) were the main forces in border welding and defence maintenance.

In peacetime, the floating steel reefs drifted along China’s coastal waters, slicing off segments of their massive ports and welding them onto the Iron Domain’s coastal regions, thereby expanding the territory. In wartime, the steel islands formed defence fleets, repelling any invading forces. The hero Hao Quangang once piloted an iron reef to collide with an enemy nation’s steel island, merging the two and adding two thousand square metres to China’s territory.

At the age of forty, I was laid off and went to seek out Wang Duangang. But he did not assign me a job matching my former rank.

“What? A rust remover?”

“Intellectual youth need to be sent down to the grassroots for training. Within three years, you will surely be put to good use.”

Over the years, Wang Duangang and I had developed an unspoken understanding—once he made a decision, not even ten oxen could pull him back. I always ended up following his arrangements. I knew he kept his promises and wouldn’t treat me unfairly in the long run, yet deep down, I was extremely reluctant. After all, who would willingly return to physical labour at over forty years old?

The iron and steel industry was thriving, blazing with intensity. New industrial zones were springing up like dumplings dropping into a pot, rapidly expanding and spreading further across distant seas. Countries around the world were rushing into massive infrastructure projects, striving to expand their Iron Domain territories as much as possible before international law set definitive boundaries. Yet, I had drifted away from this grand narrative, reduced to performing the most insignificant task in the pitch-black depths—removing rust.

My daily job was to lurk beneath the Iron Domain—more precisely, beneath Chengdu, Sichuan—piloting a rust-removal submarine, scrubbing designated areas of iron plates and spraying them with anti-corrosion coatings. The submarine would release high-density compressed air, forming a bubble over two hundred metres in diameter, which adhered to the underside of the Iron Domain like an inverted Grand National Theatre. Under the glow of diving lamps, it resembled a giant deep-sea jellyfish.

The air bubble isolated the seawater, allowing us to walk on the iron surface using magnetic boots and remove rust with our tools. This job was not as exhausting as I had imagined; in fact, it had a certain poetic quality. There was no pressure to meet work quotas, time passed slowly, and the inverted gravity field made the Iron Domain above our heads feel like an endless plain underfoot. It was a boundless iron expanse, enclosed by a breathtaking dome of water. It felt as if we were standing within a divine kingdom, sheltered inside a multicoloured soap bubble within the palm of God.

I often paused to admire the scene, lost in the moment, and talk about life with the only woman on site.

Her name was Zhao Wuxiu, just a month older than me, so I called her Xiu Jie.

Xiu Jie had been doing this job since she was sixteen, which had shaped her into a person of solitude and tranquillity—nothing seemed to leave a ripple in her heart.

She once said that if she ever grew too old to continue working, she would take a small bubble from the main one, drift alone along the boundless underside of the Iron Domain, walking until she reached the horizon beyond sight. Until the air within the bubble was completely exhausted, she would lay there in a sorrowful yet beautiful stillness.

A bubble filled with only carbon dioxide could preserve a body indefinitely, preventing decay. She would become like a butterfly trapped in amber—frozen in her most beautiful moment, forgotten in the deepest layers of the world.

Her temperament deeply affected me, and I started keeping a diary, though I can’t recall exactly when it all started. Eventually, I fell in love with her. The two of us, both in our forties, once firm advocates against marriage, fell passionately in love during the months catalysed by rust remover.

Like all the women from the Great Steelmaking Era, she had muscles comparable to a man’s, but her character retained the gentle temperament of people from the South. We would sit together and listen to the radio, where the electromagnetic waves could penetrate the Iron Domain, although the signal was weak. The song we loved most was called “Iridium Love”, but because of the intermittent signal, we never heard it all the way through.

During this time, I heard the outside news through the radio. The steel industry was rapidly transitioning. The poor-quality steel once produced had caused cracks in some regions’ plates, and the traditional steelmaking methods had been phased out, leading to waves of layoffs. The country urgently needed to move toward high-quality steel.

I also heard many rumours about Wang Duangang.

One day, Xiu Jie played me a broadcast recording. It listed a string of names, including people in the categories of aluminium, copper, zinc, lithium … covering all the metallic elements of the periodic table. When it got to the names containing ‘steel”, I heard Wang Duangang’s name.

“ … Wang Duangang, the highest committee member of Xisha Steel Island … and others are involved in a bribery case, under investigation …”

At that moment, I was filled with mixed emotions: I was worried about my former leader’s fate, but I also realised that without Wang Duangang, I would likely be stuck in a grassroots position for the rest of my life. No one else could transfer me out.

Xiu Jie comforted me, saying she would leave a “grave” for me in the bubble. But that was hardly comforting!

I began listening to the radio every day, hoping to find an opportunity to turn my situation around. But what I heard was even more grim news. A nationwide “rust removal and anti-corrosion” campaign was sweeping across the country. Many people with strong wills were being swayed by enemy countries, slowing down the transition to “fine steel”. They were selling high-quality steel to foreign nations and even handing over key steelmaking technologies.

We were removing rust beneath the plates, while the people above were also “removing rust”.

Gradually, I began to doubt Wang Duangang’s character. Perhaps he was never noble like the sun I thought he was. Maybe he only pretended to be high-minded, while in reality, was a petty person driven by self-interest. I began to believe that my current situation was his plan to eliminate people around him who knew too much.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I threw all my energy into the rust removal, as if trying to scrub away years of filth and psoriasis, as if trying to wear through the Iron Domain and escape this deadlock. But I didn’t realise that this area had already been thoroughly cleaned of rust, and the next step should have been to spray anti-rust coating.

The anti-rust agent used there was a compound of iridium. Iridium itself is highly inert and has corrosion resistance hundreds of times better than other metals, but it is extremely rare. It could only be used in localised areas beneath super-large cities requiring huge weight-bearing capacities.

Xiu Jie once said her family had been rust removers for generations, and they understood a crucial truth: limited iridium could never cover infinite rust. The rusting process was an inevitable result of oxygen and time, a natural phenomenon that couldn’t be prevented. This meant that rust removal would never be a one-time fix; it had to be done repeatedly … She seemed to be talking about the work, but it also felt like she was talking about people.

I spent two more years here, removing rust five times in the same area. In the following year, when I returned to the original spot, the rust appeared again. Although the seawater had been diluted by melting glaciers, lowering the salt level, the corrosion of the Iron Domain by seawater remained severe. Whenever I thought about how generations had been removing rust here, how countless youth had been worn down, loneliness and fear would sweep over me. When I imagined having children with Xiu Jie and how my descendants would be doomed to repeat this endless cycle, I felt a crushing despair.

I fell ill—

But the good news was that Wang Duangang’s case had been overturned.

He personally came to my submarine room, dressed simply with no visible title, but the people with him were not clerks—they were navy officers.

I smiled bitterly and said, “Looks like you’ve made a comeback!”

He smiled too, though with a hint of weariness, and said, “You’re about to make your comeback too.”

“I know you’re going to use me again.”

“Old friend … ” For the first time, he addressed me this way. “We are each other’s stepping stones. You should look at the future. China, with its steel body, is growing at an astonishing speed. You and I will eventually meet at the top of the mountain.”

“But I’m already in my forties.”

“That’s the perfect age to make a comeback. Even the most fragile steel, once remelted, can still be forged into a sharp blade.”

After that, I was assigned a secret mission, codenamed “Rust Removal.” My identity remained that of a rust remover, stationed beneath Zhongsha Steel Island’s largest iron-nickel reef—Huangyan Steel Island—where I continued my work. I didn’t take any further action until I received formal instructions. Xiu Jie was unaware of my second identity.

In May of the following year, a signal came through my receiver, and the decoded message revealed that the operation had begun. The steps were already planned. I needed to leave the large bubble and enter a smaller one, traveling several kilometres from the submarine’s parking point. I would take out the prepared digging equipment and drill upward from the bottom deck.

Above me, Huangyan Steel Island was being driven by a group of defectors, veering off course and heading toward the Pacific Ocean, slowly breaking through the first mobile island chain. The defectors were planning to defect with assets, and once they entered the second mobile island chain, they would be out of reach. They intended to offer the steel island as a sacrifice to the enemy.

Due to the sensitive nature of this operation, I won’t go into further detail. I’ll summarise the events briefly: it took me a day to use hot-melting and laser cutters to drill through the 31st deck beneath the steel island, destroying the core components of its navigation system. This slowed the defectors, contributing to the success of the secret plan and helping to bring an international crisis to a close.

Few people know that behind the deceleration of the defecting steel island was a nobody named Yang Hejin.

But I was proud to be a small part of the grand narrative of China’s rise.

Chapter Three. Gallium

Xiu Jie asked me if I remembered how I wrote my first love letter. I really couldn’t recall, since most of the sappy lines were copied from the internet. But she still remembered one:
            “Even the most stubborn metal melts in your gentle palm!”

Any unromantic engineer type would say, “A low-melting-point metal like gallium can indeed liquefy with the warmth of a palm.” Fortunately, Xiu Jie didn’t just take it at face value—otherwise, our love might not have endured.

Before marrying Xiu Jie, I became the director of the largest smelting plant in the southern region, while Wang Duangang was promoted to head of the Southeastern Military District. Since the smelting plant was a part of the military-industrial complex, it naturally fell under military jurisdiction, and I received the best possible treatment.

I brought Xiu Jie to work at the plant. She was used to the lonely days of quietly removing rust in the depths of the sea and didn’t quite like the factory’s hustle and bustle. So she chose to work in the warehouse workshop on the lowest level of the Iron Territory continent, continuing her rust removal tasks. Each time she travelled from the surface to the bottom, the vertical elevator ride took half an hour, but she was never tired of it. Down there, only a steel plate separated her from the seabed where she once lived. Moreover, the temperature at the bottom was much cooler than on the surface.

The surface—essentially, the deck of the Iron Territory continent—was entirely covered in steel plating, making the national average temperature a staggering 50 °C. In a world dominated by greenhouse effects and the Water Sphere Era, a complete winter was a rarity. To control the surface temperature, heat-insulating layers had to be sprayed onto the plating regularly. Cleaners, besides their daily task of clearing waste, also had to repaint the insulation layer periodically. The coating, covering over eight million square kilometres, required three months’ worth of the country’s total rainfall—enough to fill sixty Poyang Lakes or equivalent to the annual discharge of the Yangtze River.

Now, all rivers flow from within the Iron Territory’s internal channels out to the sea, crisscrossing like densely packed blood vessels, designed to release heat from the steel land. Plumbers, responsible for maintaining these channels, live in narrow cylindrical pipes all year-round. Their bodies have become streamlined, their skin smooth, and they have adapted to breathing underwater. Biologists believe they are evolving toward a fish-like existence. They have lost their freedom above ground, yet gained the cool relief of the pipeline networks.

The hottest areas on the surface remain concentrated around the heavy smelting plants on the outskirts of major cities. From space, infrared thermometers reveal fiery glows covering Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, and the heavy industrial zones in the northwest and southwest—each blazing red circle marking a city-sized smelting complex. The blast furnaces operate ceaselessly, pouring molten steel into channels that flow to the coast, where they solidify into new iron territories. Like the hands of a fire god stretching out from a magma hell, the country’s borders expand ever further into the ocean.

My smelting plant sat atop one of the nation’s twelve major volcanic eruption zones, harnessing geothermal energy for iron production. Each year, our steel output pushed the national borders outward by two hundred kilometres.

Centuries ago, in order to trigger magma eruptions from the seabed and forge new continents on a drowned planet, China’s ancestors detonated tens of thousands of nuclear warheads beneath the sunken continental shelf. The twelve magma plumes they created—now known as the “Twelve Earthly Pillars”—became the massive columns that uphold the Iron Territory of China. In historical archives at the museum, I once saw ancient footage of that epochal act of creation. Each pillar loomed like an Olympus-sized mountain, and on their glowing surfaces, tiny specks of light marked the fledgling Guangzhou Iron City. Back then, all human constructions were no more than scallions floating in a simmering soup pot.

Compared to that grand age of creation, the era of Great Steelmaking seems almost childish. Yet even the industrial scenes I witnessed firsthand remain deeply awe-inspiring. Within my own plant, fourteen thousand steel furnaces of various sizes roared without pause. They were spread across the magma-formed deltas of the Pearl River, with the largest furnace towering twenty storeys high and stretching hundreds of metres in length—an upside-down ten-thousand-ton cruise ship. Molten iron poured forth like the Three Gorges Dam unleashing a flood, flowing into the Pearl River estuary, where sedimented iron formed new deltas. Sparks burst like fireworks, raining fire down from the sky. The sea boiled ceaselessly, and the rising steam reshaped the coastal climate.

Xiu Jie had no love for the grand narrative of the steel mills. She likened the smelting ports to “suppurating wounds that never heal”, called the blast furnaces “festering abscesses ready to burst”, and even described the near-complete steel map of the nation—shaped like a proud rooster—as “a gutted, unidentifiable creature”. Such thoughts were dangerous. As the wife of a renowned steel plant director, she should have chosen her words more carefully.

On one hand, I regretted our long-distance relationship across the metal plates. On the other, I felt relieved that she wasn’t by my side to affect my reputation.

She often sent me text messages. She liked writing poetry, and hers flow with a slow, tranquil coolness, a stark contrast to the fiery frenzy of the production frontlines.

She wrote:

“I long to be a comb jelly, gliding in an unhurried sway … moving forward, only by drifting back.”

“I fall asleep lying on the steel plates, no pillow needed. Through the layers, the echoes of the seabed are crystal clear … that is the sound of my heart beating after death.”

Her messages were always veiled in grey, dim and without light. Sometimes, as I looked out at the clusters of furnaces flickering like fireflies, at the smoke-choked sea, I couldn’t help but wonder—have I gained more, or lost more?

One day, her message read, “Tomorrow is our anniversary. If you can come down, that would be best. If not, I already expected it. Don’t dwell on it—focus on your work, your future, your responsibilities. After all, so many people need you … and I, I am just one.”

I asked several secretaries to analyse her words. None of them could decipher whether Xiu Jie’s tone carried more understanding or more resentment. My secretaries were all straightforward men of steel—excellent at writing production reports, but clumsier than me at matters of love.

At the time, I was caught in an inspection review and truly couldn’t leave. I had no choice but to send a female employee to visit her in my place.

I never imagined that, by nightfall, I would regret this decision for the rest of my life.

After sending off the inspection team during the day, I called Xiu Jie before returning to my quarters. Signals took time to travel below the plates—each sentence I spoke needed twenty seconds to receive a reply. That delay materialised the distance and divide between us.

I asked, “Did you receive the gift?”

Twenty seconds later, she replied, “If that can be called a gift, I’d rather not have it.”

“But it’s your favourite—amber!”

“If it’s not real amber, there’s no point in giving me a piece of yellowed plastic. Even a bar of soap would have been more sincere.”

She was right. This was an age of mass extinction, where trees were rare—where could I have found real amber? Even the relics left by the ancients were pitifully scarce.

Her voice carried a tangle of emotions. In the end, she said lazily, “Alright, you’re tired, and so am I. No need to waste call credits.”

Women’s words are never easy to decipher. I took her at face value and hung up, thinking that by tomorrow, everything would return to normal.

But then, my feet went numb.

No—not numb. My legs were trembling.

I quickly pressed myself against the iron domain. The tremors were growing stronger. Workers were pouring out of the factory gates, and the rooftops swayed. A strange metallic groan echoed from the distance, a layered crescendo of grinding steel, like the wails of demons from the depths of hell. Above, the clouds accelerated unnaturally in a single direction. To the north, the sea began to swell with eerie waves.

“Earthquake!” an old worker shouted, naming a disaster that appeared only in history books.

But how could an earthquake exist in a world with no land?

My mind leaped to the Twelve Earthly Branches. But for centuries, the dampers installed by our ancestors had functioned flawlessly—how could they fail now?

And yet, all signs pointed to catastrophe.

I thought of calling Xiu Jie. But as factory director, my first duty was to evacuate my workers and minimise steel mill losses. The problem was—we had no earthquake protocols. No emergency drills. For a moment, my mind went blank.

Snapping back to my senses, I ordered the night shift workers to shut down each furnace in turn, and close the floodgates. Workers on break were roused for evacuation. The tremors grew violent. Screws rattled loose from the flooring. Those standing in open spaces were tilting southwest, their bodies swayed by the unseen force—I knew then that the epicentre lay in that direction.

And then came the recoil.

A sudden force wrenched us back.

A deafening crash rang out. A tidal wave of molten iron surged into the distance—Furnace X310 had toppled.

That furnace alone held ten thousand cubic meters of molten steel—enough to fill ten swimming pools. And it was spilling toward Guangzhou, the most densely populated city in the nation.

The maintenance team reported in: hundreds more furnaces were on the verge of collapse.

Flames shot into the sky. A cold sweat drenched my back.

At that moment, the phone rang. But it wasn’t from the device I used daily. The phone in my pocket—only one person ever called me on it.

I answered with utmost respect. “Chief, I—”

Wang Duangang’s voice was rare in its urgency. “Emergency. Major decision. Open the emergency floodgate, now.”

“But—what’s happening? That’s—too dangerous!”

“No time to explain. Even if it makes you a sinner in history, this is the only way.”

I froze. The steel plant was surrounded by homes—southwest lay the bustling heart of Guangzhou, northwest held ordinary residential districts, the northeast housed migrant workers in the old industrial zone, and the southeast was filled with factory labourers. There was disparity in wealth, but life had no hierarchy. No matter which direction the molten steel flowed, it would be a violation of humanity itself—a real-life trolley problem.

That was why, from the very beginning, an emergency flood channel had been planned. It lay beneath our feet, avoiding all populated areas. The steel plant was originally built on hollow compartments designed to contain runaway molten steel. But after years of safety records unmarred by incident, the space had been repurposed—first into dormitories and recreational zones for workers, then later expanded to house their families.

I asked again, “You mean—downward?”

“Yes. Down. Only downwards can we protect the people.”

“But our workers and their families are down there. Give me thirty minutes to evacuate them.”

“Listen carefully. At least ten more shockwaves are coming. Time your evacuation and rescue well. Underground, there are five thousand people. In the city, twenty million. The northwest, northeast, and southeast together hold another ten million. This is a single-choice question.”

It was the hardest decision of my life. I accelerated the evacuation below while trying to erect quick-set steel barriers along the city’s borders. But the second quake toppled over a dozen more furnaces—molten iron surged toward the metropolis. There was no alternative.

At that moment, the world fell eerily silent. It was as if some invisible force enveloped me in frozen time.

I picked up my phone to call Xiu Jie. The signal below had been severed. I didn’t know if she had escaped. Perhaps she had chosen to stay put. Perhaps she would welcome a fate set in stone. I reassured myself—if nothing else, I hoped she would understand the decision I was about to make.

Suddenly, a strange calm settled over me. A courage from nowhere.

I broadcast my final command: prepare to open the emergency floodgate.

I never expected my workers to carry out my orders with such composure. The veteran employees even saluted me—fulfilling the oath they took the day they became steelworkers:

“When the nation is in peril, we stand firm. Wherever there is danger, there we will be.”

…

More than twenty years have passed.

Even now, I dare not recall the details of that day.

I dare not lie on iron surfaces, for fear of hearing the murmurs of the dead.

I fear facing my old comrades, afraid their wrinkles might weep with unspoken sorrow.

I flinch when people mention “steelmaking”—as if it was not steel we forged, but the blood of warriors.

We are all called martyrs now. We call each other “comrade-in-arms.”

Yet every time we shake hands in farewell, we can still catch the scent of the executioner’s blood lingering in each other’s palms.

If given the chance to choose again—I would still make the same decision.

But if given the chance to choose again—I would refuse to be the director of a steel mill.

Chapter Four. Nickel

I no longer have any contact with Wang Duangang. I tried to forget everything.

I rented a mobile steel island near the Pacific Ocean, filling it with marine clay and planting various ancient extinct plants. This place was located beyond both the continents, outside the jurisdiction of any law. I could freely cultivate the soil. People couldn’t even imagine that I planted a row of peanuts, dried them in the sun, and ground them into powder. The taste was far better than chemically synthesised printed food.

For me, at my old age, these days were incredibly pleasant.

But fate has a way of playing tricks on people—no, some people just like to play tricks on others. And that person was none other than Wang Duangang.

After much effort, he finally found me. I used a shovel to chase his speedboat away, not letting him land on the island.

 “After such a long separation, I didn’t expect to be treated like this at our reunion!” He laughed, his face now kinder, with rust-like marks on his once-steel-hard cheeks.

 “Just stand there and don’t move. If you have something to say, say it. Then get out.”

 “I heard you have peanuts to go with drinks; I happen to have some snow mountain pure brew made in a special farm in the Himalayas. Surely you wouldn’t refuse such a fine match?”

To taste wine from Mount Everest, the only crustal reserve in the Central land, I agreed to let him visit the island. That indeed was the best rice wine I’ve ever had—smoother than blended drinks, warmer to the heart. After a cup, I felt completely at ease, dizzy with the alcohol. Only then did Wang Duangang tell me the purpose of his visit.

I said, “Every time you come, you carry a heavy responsibility entrusted by the people. I end up working for you and following the footsteps of your misfortune.”

“This task is for you and you alone, and your name will remain forever.”

“Hmph—you’re joking with someone who’s about to die. What do I need fame for? While I still have a breath, you just want to exploit the last bit of my remaining value.”

He laughed loudly, but his expression gradually became serious as he said, “Don’t you want to know the truth behind the nationwide earthquake?”

The truth had always been hidden. There were various rumours—some said a secret organisation in the southwest of the Iron Domain was developing new weapons, others blamed it on asteroid impacts or alien invasions. The truth was very tempting to me. Under the haze of alcohol, I foolishly accepted his commission and became a temporary diplomat.

Before that, I had no idea what diplomatic affairs I was about to handle. I was only told it was related to disputes with neighbouring countries, and after returning home, I didn’t report directly to the embassy. Wang Duangang took me on a pipeline train, heading in the direction I dreaded most— the Pearl River Delta region. I kept to myself and observed. When we got off, many fellow countrymen greeted us, including old comrades from the steel plant. I avoided the reporters’ interviews and got into a small car.

From the driver, I learned that the country had slowed down steel production and shifted to environmental concerns. The United Nations had passed the “Steel Territory Non-Proliferation Treaty” to prevent countries from competing to expand their steel borders, which could lead to the global surface of the oceans being transformed into steel, threatening the marine ecosystem. According to international law, the area of each country’s steel domain could not exceed the original territorial range before the continental shelf submerged. After China’s rooster-shaped map took form, the country had faithfully complied with international demands.

Other countries, with outdated industrial capacities, had failed to restore their previous territorial scale, and China was now the country with the largest “territory” area.

The car stopped at the old steel plant site. A lot had changed. Green plants lined the streets, indicating the country had relaxed its restrictions on soil use. Wang Duangang said that after the steel era ended, the economy of Pearl River Delta shifted to finance and services, with a greater focus on environmental development. “Mountains of gold and silver are not as valuable as green mountains and clear waters.” The old steel plant had been transformed into a martyr’s cemetery, attracting many mourners each year.

The cemetery was actually underground. Beneath the surface, I saw an enormous metal vortex, a steel flood that had solidified into cold, solemn sculptures. Inside were countless passages reshaped by molten iron, like an ant empire formed from molten lead poured into an ant nest.

On the walls, there were countless twisted limbs, partly human, partly not, cast from molten iron, and many struggling faces “naturally” formed on the steel walls. I clutched onto Wang Duangang with a death grip, not just because the scene sent my heart racing in searing torment, but also because I was angry and dissatisfied with his arrangements.

 “You’re … ripping open my wounds and rubbing salt in them.”

 “Old Yang, don’t take it personally. I’m just following orders. Besides, it’s time to face this history. As for guilt, I feel more guilty than you. After the cemetery was built, I came here every month. Facing it and confessing has helped me find some peace.”

He took me to the deepest level of the “Iron Memorial” cemetery. I knew what awaited me there. My heart resisted fiercely, but my feet moved forward on their own. I saw a spherical crystal coffin. When she was surrounded by the molten iron, she had curled into a shape like a butterfly pupa. She once said that if faced with death, she would quietly lie in a bubble, becoming an amber-encased butterfly. She did it—and in a way more tragically beautiful than I imagined.

I asked Wang Duangang for half an hour alone with her. I sat beside her, saying nothing, doing nothing, just quietly being there. Until I left the tomb, I was expressionless. But later, Wang Duangang recalled that he vaguely heard me crying, and saw the tear tracks on my face. I neither confirmed nor denied it, for it no longer mattered.

For days after, I felt soulless and listless. Yet I was told to report to the embassy and meet foreign diplomats. I met the ambassador of a neighbouring country, who cautiously asked my opinion on the cemetery visit. I waved my hand, unwilling to respond, still unsure of why they were asking such intrusive questions.

It wasn’t until halfway through the meeting that I suddenly understood the purpose of the visit and the truth of the earthquake.

The neighbouring country, in expanding its territory, had exceeded international standards. Coupled with shifting tectonic plates, the entire continent collided with China. The two countries’ continents scraped against each other over a dozen times. A collision near the Himalayas caused iron plates to twist into a range of iron mountains, reaching the height of Mount Everest. The shockwaves spread nationwide, and the resulting consequences were devastating, with immeasurable loss of life and property. This event caused both countries to regress by fifty years.

I could barely contain my anger, my clenched fists crumpled the report in my hand into wastepaper. Wang Duangang must have been worried about an extreme reaction from me, so he made me face the tragedy beforehand to desensitise me. His method worked. I swallowed my anger, telling myself to prioritise national interests.

Six months later, on the most solemn of days, the initial draft of the agreement between the two countries was approved. I was about to board a train to Mount Everest, to the border, to sign a peace treaty. In the world order at that time, newly formed Iron Domain nations mostly followed isolationist policies. Their newly built floating platforms or iron continents did not border any other countries. This was likely due to a fear of the geopolitical dynamics of the pre-Iron Domain era. The newly formed Iron Continents preferred to develop independently.

Now, the neighbouring country and China, bound by the accident, were inseparable. Scientists had calculated that if the two continents were separated, ocean currents would cause them to collide again periodically, with earthquakes much stronger than the ones that had happened before.

Thus, after years of negotiation, the two countries decided to coexist. The word “coexistence” brought a touch of colour to an international community steeped in the darkness of isolationism.

That was my first time in the central highlands. Mount Everest is the last roof of the world, and Iron Domain China became the most stable continent in the world by securing itself around it. It’s now mostly submerged under sea, not as towering as imagined, but its structure, made entirely of stone and soil, still felt mysterious and foreign. Its sanctity cleansed my heart.

As the diplomat in the treaty handover ceremony, I exchanged documents with the high ambassador of the neighbouring country.

The next day, the headlines read: Ambassador Yang Hejin, Achieving the ‘Alloyed Beauty’ Between Two Countries.

What an “Alloyed Beauty”!

I believe that when Wang Duangang was considering candidates back then, he must have thought of me. Such an important historical event indeed required a striking name to solidify and define its significance. After all, as a key participant and victim in the disaster, I played an important role in soothing the trauma of both countries’ people. It perfectly echoed Wang Duangang’s words: “Only you are worthy, your name passed down through the ages.”

Now, the two countries are tightly bound beneath the foot of Mount Everest, becoming a stable and unshifting piece of international territory. Wang Duangang believed this would be the direction for the future development of the international community, with more countries willing to “weld” their borders with stable and prosperous China, achieving a world of unity.

This August, at 98 years old, I was invited to inscribe a monument at the border between the two countries.

I wore an exoskeleton and barely managed to walk to the “Alloy Mountain”—a mountain named after me, formed by the collision of two countries’ lands. Standing on the summit, I could see Mount Everest at eye level, and China’s territory stretched before me. That was the manganese-iron plain set for farming, and the future city of pure gold, where high-tech industries will gather. They erected a boundary marker made of nickel-iron alloy at the mountain peak. Beyond the marker, I measured the expanse of China’s territory.

I imagined that in the future, the generations born on this land would remember us, and remember that the steel territories were built with the blood and flesh of our ancestors, honouring every unnamed martyr.

I took the oxy-acetylene cutting torch they handed me, using it as a brush, and inscribed six words on the boundary stone:

One inch of iron, one inch of blood!