Nie Jiuluo’s trip to Shihe wasn’t actually for inspiration or nostalgia. When Yu Rong led people to clean up South Ba Monkey Head, besides discovering the deformed Ground Owl, they also found the box of clay soil that Lin Xiru had hidden. She had mentioned this to Yan Tuo, but at the time everyone was busy with various matters, and they had forgotten about it.

Only recently had Nie Jiuluo remembered this. A large box of clay soil, extremely heavy—anyone could guess Yu Rong wouldn’t have taken it abroad.

When asked, sure enough, Yu Rong had sealed the soil in several sacks and left them in Banya Village, in the small building where Que Cha had lived.

Nie Jiuluo planned to retrieve this soil and, to the best of her ability, sculpt a statue of Nüwa. She would later dedicate a special place for it in her courtyard, half in commemoration and gratitude, half in worship.

After breakfast, the two drove off, heading straight for Banya Village.

It was the familiar old route, inevitably bringing up old stories. Nie Jiuluo teased Yan Tuo about always carrying live people in his trunk, while Yan Tuo retorted about her acting skills that had him living at the pig farm for so long.

As they were bantering, a wedding car overtook them on the right, pulling up alongside Yan Tuo’s car.

Yan Tuo made an “oh” sound: “Seeing a wedding car when heading out—wonder what kind of omen that is.”

He had asked Nie Jiuluo about marriage, and she had directly said she had no plans for the next few years. He didn’t rush or press her, but whenever the opportunity arose, he would tease her about it indirectly.

Nie Jiuluo refused to take his bait. Instead, she was rather curious: usually, wedding cars came in long processions on the streets, rarely alone.

The wedding car’s driver glanced over and suddenly brightened: “Oh, Miss Nie!”

What was this? She had an acquaintance here?

The other person seemed to notice her confusion: “Me, me, I’m Old Qian!”

This driver was Old Qian who had been assigned by the travel agency to serve Nie Jiuluo after Sun Zhou’s incident.

Usually, drivers served countless guests and forgot them just as quickly, but Nie Jiuluo was different.

She was young and beautiful, an artist, somewhat too open-minded, had picked up a man halfway through her trip, and then that man had disappeared—indirectly bringing Old Qian a considerable profit.

Old Qian’s impression of her was particularly deep.

Since they’d met an acquaintance…

Yan Tuo turned the wheel to change lanes, pulling into the parking lane to allow them to chat.

…

Old Qian jogged down from his car.

After all, she was an artist, rarely seen in these small places, and an old client—he couldn’t help but be enthusiastic.

He approached the car window, smiling like a flower: “Miss Nie, here for creative work again…”

Before he could finish, he suddenly glimpsed Yan Tuo and his mind went blank, forgetting the rest of his words.

Wasn’t this that supposedly wealthy man with special psychological quirks, which made his behavior… rather strange?

After all this time, why was he still around? Had a casual fling turned into long-term service?

As a veteran in the tourism service industry, Old Qian knew he shouldn’t pay attention to clients’ private lives. He quickly averted his gaze, though his expression remained inevitably odd.

Such a handsome man and beautiful woman, both well-off—why couldn’t they just date normally? Why let them fall into such a sick and twisted relationship? Truly beautiful on the outside but rotten within—how the world had declined, how morality had deteriorated.

Nie Jiuluo had no idea of his thoughts, and just pointed at his car: “A happy occasion at home? Congratulations!”

Old Qian quickly shook his head: “No, no, a colleague from the travel agency is getting married. I’m part of the wedding convoy, so my car was requisitioned…”

Nie Jiuluo smiled: “Then we won’t delay you, hurry along. If you’re late, the bride won’t be happy.”

Old Qian chuckled and nodded, but as he was about to leave, suddenly remembered something: “Speaking of the bride, Miss Nie, you might know her.”

She might know her.

How strange, since when did she have so many acquaintances here?

Nie Jiuluo asked: “Who is it?”

Old Qian said: “Sun Zhou’s former girlfriend, Qiao Ya. After Sun Zhou disappeared, then we heard he went for treatment, terminal illness or something, they broke up.”

Hearing Sun Zhou’s name suddenly gave Nie Jiuluo a sense of distance in time. It took her a while to nod vaguely.

She knew about this. Jiang Baichuan had handled it. Besides arranging for Que Cha to pose as medical staff to take Sun Zhou away, there had been an aftermath to deal with. Sun Zhou’s parents had divorced when he was young, and he had grown up with his grandparents. Now the elderly had passed away, and his parents had long since formed new families, paying little attention to this son. The matter had simply faded away.

Old Qian continued endlessly: “But it’s fate, you know. When Qiao Ya went to clean out Sun Zhou’s office, she met her current partner, and they hit it off, compatible in every way…”

Nie Jiuluo smiled perfunctorily: “That’s… that’s good.”

…

Long after Old Qian left, Nie Jiuluo finally recovered.

The car was too quiet. She murmured: “It’s been a long time since I heard Sun Zhou’s name.”

Yan Tuo made a sound of agreement: “His arm probably still needs two more years to grow back completely.”

Yu Rong often said that in a few years, she wanted to try going to the underwater grottoes to see if she could bring Sun Zhou back.

Yan Tuo didn’t dare express his true thoughts: he felt Yu Rong wouldn’t be able to bring Sun Zhou back. Now it seemed no one else in this world would go to receive him either. He might as well rest in peace in the underwater grottoes—at least in dreams there were no storms, in sleep, there were no worries.

Banya Village was still as quiet as before. Most young and able-bodied people had left for work elsewhere, and most school-age children were away studying. Those remaining were either elderly or idle, and… simple-minded.

Yan Tuo drove through the village, passing by the pig farm. After the fire, it hadn’t been rebuilt, just whitewashed to cover the scorch marks that were too unsightly.

The building’s main door was locked, but this wasn’t a problem for Nie Jiuluo. She took out her toolkit, selected a Z-shaped lock pick, and went straight for the keyhole.

Although the street was empty, this was still too blatant. Yan Tuo coughed lightly and shifted to shield her.

Just as they were working in perfect coordination, someone suddenly jumped out from behind the wall, shouting: “Stop right there, you little devils! Hands up!”

Nie Jiuluo jumped in fright, and a vein throbbed in Yan Tuo’s forehead.

However, he quickly regained his composure.

This was another old acquaintance. He gestured for Nie Jiuluo to continue, indicating he would handle everything, then turned to smile at the newcomer: “Captain Ma, it’s me, the guerrilla force.”

The person was Ma Hanzi.

Just like when they first met, he was barefoot, carrying a gun, with a meal box slung over his shoulder and a soup ladle stuck in his waist, looking fierce.

Yan Tuo felt emotional—after more than a year, so much had changed, yet Ma Hanzi was still fighting the Japanese.

But Ma Hanzi had gained experience in his struggles. He sneered as he exposed Yan Tuo: “You spy pretending to be guerrilla forces! Yesterday you burned our house, today you’re back to sweep through!”

Yan Tuo was momentarily speechless. While his acting skills were decent, faced with Ma Hanzi’s peculiar logic, he couldn’t find the right words to respond.

At this moment, Nie Jiuluo suddenly shouted from behind: “Number 12345!”

Number what? Who was being numbered?

Before Yan Tuo could react, he heard Ma Hanzi shout: “Present!”

Then he stood at attention, heels together, straight as a ramrod.

The atmosphere instantly became bizarre.

After shouting “Present,” Ma Hanzi himself seemed confused. He scratched his head and tilted his neck to look at Nie Jiuluo, and as he looked, his lips began to tremble. When he spoke, his voice was filled with mixed joy and sorrow: “Commander! Commander, you’re back?”

What? Yan Tuo felt completely lost.

As he recalled, Ma Hanzi did seem to have a commander whom he always consulted, whether fighting Japanese or confronting Westerners.

Ma Hanzi excitedly rushed to Nie Jiuluo’s front, probably constrained by rank difference, not daring to shake hands, just standing there overwhelmed with emotion: “Commander, have you brought the troops back?”

Glancing at Yan Tuo beside her, his overflowing enthusiasm found an outlet. He grabbed Yan Tuo’s hand, shaking it excitedly: “This must be the troops! Comrade, you’ve worked hard!”

Yan Tuo: “…”

With the Commander and troops coming from afar, crossing mountains and rivers, they naturally couldn’t let them get tired. Ma Hanzi volunteered enthusiastically, helping carry sacks from the building and car, working with great vigor.

Yan Tuo watched from the side, finding it particularly amusing. He asked Nie Jiuluo: “When did you become Ma Hanzi’s commander?”

Nie Jiuluo said: “When I was little. Uncle Jiang brought me to South Shaanxi, and we came to Banya. That’s how I know this place. There weren’t any other playmates in the village then, so I played with him.”

She pointed at Ma Hanzi: “When I left, he cried his eyes out. I told him I was going to fight the Japanese, and that he should guard the base well. Sooner or later, I’d return with the troops.”

When they left Banya, it was dusk. Ma Hanzi ran after the car, reluctant to say goodbye for a long time. Looking through the rearview mirror, he stood against a golden-red sunset, creating quite a poetic scene.

On the main road, Yan Tuo asked Nie Jiuluo: “Before getting in the car, you two were whispering for so long—what did you talk about?”

Nie Jiuluo leaned back against her seat: “What else? Just told him the front lines were intense, that I needed to bring supplies as reinforcement, and asked him to keep guarding Banya.”

Yan Tuo frowned: “Is that right? Always deceiving him.”

Nie Jiuluo gave him a look: “How is that deception? You don’t understand—people like Ma Hanzi have their own world…”

She tapped her temple: “You just need to play along. He has a mission, responsibility, and things to do. He lives happily. No need for your sighs of pity.”

Just then, her phone rang.

Yan Tuo glanced at her phone: “The Good News Bird is back?”

These past few days, Old Cai had been constantly bringing good news, so Yan Tuo had given him this nickname—Good News Bird.

Quite fitting.

Nie Jiuluo said lazily: “Just saying the response is good, more praise, more compliments. So boring.”

Yan Tuo held back his laughter: “Luo, getting a bit Versailles, aren’t we?”

Nie Jiuluo snorted. Well, it was true.

Too much praise becomes tedious.

She put the phone on speaker so Yan Tuo could experience the Good News Bird’s chirping.

From the other end, Old Cai’s voice was excited as if on adrenaline: “Luo, good news! We’ve got a zone buyer!”

Nie Jiuluo sat up straight: “Really?”

Zone buyers—she’d only heard about them, never actually experienced one.

According to Old Cai, art buyers came in three types.

First were single-piece buyers, who liked individual pieces and were willing to pay appropriate prices to collect them.

These were the most common, representing the mainstream of exhibition purchases.

Second, were zone buyers, who would be attracted by the layout and atmosphere of a particular exhibition zone and purchase all pieces in that zone at once.

This was why exhibition design was particularly important—like the principle of buying the box for its decoration, beautiful settings were equally attractive.

The third type was purely legendary, called “whole city buyers,” referring to those who’d buy all exhibits outright. This was practically impossible, firstly because the price was too steep, and secondly, because of varying aesthetic preferences—one person might like one or several pieces from an exhibition, but liking everything was too extreme.

Even a veteran like Old Cai rarely handled zone purchases. His voice changed with excitement: “Yes, that zone has four of your pieces. I want to discuss with you—I’m thinking of asking five million, with an absolute bottom line of three million.”

Nie Jiuluo was quite shocked: “Five million?”

Her works’ market prices had been hovering between one and several hundred thousand, rarely breaking three hundred thousand. Now suddenly jumping to this price, even she wasn’t confident.

Yan Tuo suddenly interjected: “What’s five million?”

Nie Jiuluo glared at him.

This privileged rich kid with multiple companies and shops under his name—how could he understand what five million meant?

Yan Tuo smiled at her: “Don’t forget who our Luo’s godmother is. I’d say fifty million would be too low.”

Nie Jiuluo continued glaring at him but gradually broke into a smile.

Old Cai spoke proudly from the other end: “Luo, you’ve seen too little of the world. Look at Jeff Koons’ Orange Balloon Dog—sold for 52 million dollars! And Giacometti’s Chariot—90 million, also dollars! Where are you now, to be scared at this price? Indeed, Yan Tuo has a broader vision. Don’t worry about it, I’ll handle it. If it doesn’t work out, no problem—the last three stops in Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, that’s where the big deals happen.”

Old Cai returned to the exhibition hall with composed steps, perfectly maintaining an air of calm indifference to glory or disgrace.

By this time, the hall had been cleared, and the lights dimmed—part of the curatorial design: using low light to create a serene atmosphere that better highlighted the sculptures’ texture and layers.

In a corner at the end of the hall stood a young man with long hair, very fair-skinned, wearing an oatmeal-colored casual suit, with chain-linked gold-rimmed glasses on his nose. Below the lenses were long phoenix eyes, slightly upturned at the corners, narrowed like a fox’s.

He was studying a flying Apsara statue with great interest.

Old Cai called out: “Mr. Yan.”

The young Mr. Yan turned around: “What’s the word?”

Old Cai’s face showed difficulty: “Well, I just spoke with Miss Nie. She’s not very keen on selling, and regarding the price… won’t consider anything below five million.”

The young man frowned slightly: “Five million is quite a lot? I looked into it—it wasn’t this price before.”

Old Cai smiled: “As you said, that was before. How can before and after be the same?”

The young man pondered: “It’s not a small sum. Let me think about it some more.”

Old Cai nodded: “No problem. Collecting is about fate.”

…

The young man walked out of the exhibition hall and down the steps.

It was almost dark, twilight gathering and encircling layer by layer, like a black lid about to seal shut overhead.

He made a phone call while walking: “Uncle, they want five million. I checked online—this artist’s previous work only sold for three hundred thousand. Four pieces for five million, averaging four or five times more—isn’t that too extreme?”

An elderly voice came from the other end: “Art pieces are valued for their collection potential. Today it’s five million, future resale is uncertain. Go ahead and settle it.”

The young man was somewhat unwilling: “Actually, you’re only interested in that landscape sculpture. Why buy everything? I can go back and negotiate—buying it alone would probably cost just one or two million.”

The voice replied: “Buy them all together. Don’t let people think you’re particularly interested in that one… don’t want to cause trouble.”

The young man laughed: “Uncle, is your old antique-collecting habit acting up again?”

He’d heard this uncle used to love collecting antiques. When sourcing items in the countryside, he’d never directly show interest in what he wanted. He’d pick up unimportant pieces, haggle endlessly, and finally add what he really wanted, saying: “I’ve bought so much, surely you can throw in one more?”

Uncle said you had to appear casual, not letting people see your particular interest. Otherwise, they’d raise the price or even hold out for more.

But that landscape sculpture…

The young man snorted. He thought it was the most subpar piece in the exhibition, like a real estate sales office’s sand table model, just piles of earth and water features.

“Uncle, what’s so good about that one?”

After a long while, the other end replied: “Nothing particularly good. Just that the scene it depicts… looks a bit like my hometown. When you’re old, you tend to… get homesick.”

The End

Author’s Note: Another journey together comes to an end. Goodbye, my dear readers!