Diao Zhuo returned to Xi’an from Lhasa, and within a few days received an invitation from headquarters to travel to Beijing, where he was to give a summary address on rescue operations at that month’s regular meeting. He Zhengren, senior advisor to the Beidou Rescue Corps, said he wanted to include the successful case of the Qiang Tang search-and-rescue in the Beidou Rescue Yearbook, and hoped the team would write up a detailed written report of the rescue operation.

After the meeting, He Zhengren walked out of the conference room alongside Diao Zhuo, the two of them moving slowly down the corridor toward the exit. He had been both a witness and survivor of the geological survey team’s accident years ago; his leg had been injured in the crash, and now that he was past sixty, the pain flared badly whenever it rained.

Back then, the survey team had been operating on limited funds, and the two project groups had traveled separately — one group in a sedan, the other in a minibus. When He Zhengren recalled the accident, he said that Rao Qinghui and he had each led one of the two project groups, and the two of them had ridden in the sedan along with their driver, Zhang Chenguang. Midway through the journey, a male and female tourist flagged them down, asking for a lift. Rao Qinghui said there were still seats on the minibus and had them board that vehicle instead. Later, it seemed some kind of argument had broken out on the minibus. Rao Qinghui got out of the sedan and climbed onto the minibus to mediate — He Zhengren hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Not long after, the sedan was struck from behind by the minibus with tremendous force. Despite his own injuries, He Zhengren crawled out of the car and called the police. The minibus rolled several times before plunging over the edge, and only Rao Qinghui and Song Fan — who had been thrown clear mid-roll — survived.

While Rao Qinghui lay bedridden and lingering between life and death, Lu Yang and He Zhengren came to visit him on several occasions, asking after his condition. At the time, Diao Zhuo had still been very young. All he could remember was that whenever Lu Yang came, his grandfather — though unable to speak — would show unmistakable joy in his eyes. Whenever He Zhengren came, his grandfather would close his eyes as though asleep, or as though he simply did not wish to see him, and the moment He Zhengren left, he would open them again.

After Rao Qinghui passed away, Lu Yang stepped down from his teaching post and pursued independent research. He Zhengren, hailed as Rao Qinghui’s successor, took over the project team’s survey data and devoted himself to researching and writing reports on the aquamarine deposits. Based on his findings, he identified the No. 6 Pit at Xinjiang’s Keketuohai, discovering an aquamarine deposit there. A raw ore specimen extracted from the site was acquired by an American jeweler at auction; from it was cut a piece of aquamarine weighing 9,999 carats. The resulting sculpture, known as “Starway No. 1,” garnered worldwide acclaim and is currently housed in a Washington museum. A few years ago, He Zhengren retired from his research position and was invited to serve as an advisor to the Beidou Rescue Corps.

He Zhengren had long known that Diao Zhuo’s mother had remarried, and now asked with easy openness: “How are things — is your mother keeping well these days? And your grandmother?”

“They’re all right. The old folks just keep bringing up the past, and my grandmother has never stopped thinking of my grandfather.” Diao Zhuo answered, instinctively reaching for his cigarette case, then remembering that He Zhengren didn’t smoke and tucking it away again. He also found himself thinking that Ba Yunye didn’t seem to care much for the smell of cigarettes either.

“You can tell those two must have been deeply devoted to each other in their time — husband and wife, and the closest of friends. When the old man passed, she lost the one person she could talk to about the things that mattered most. Of course she finds it hard to move on. If there’s anything your grandfather left unfinished — any ambition or wish — you younger ones should do your best to help see it through.”

Diao Zhuo was a perceptive man. Turning the words over in his mind, he sensed that there was more being said beneath the surface. He feigned obliviousness and gave an easy, noncommittal nod. “Of course. Every Qingming Festival, she goes to the cemetery herself — never misses a year, all these years without fail. She even ran into Professor Lu Yang there once.”

He Zhengren thumped his thigh with his fist, limping along unevenly. “Professor Rao’s death was an enormous loss to our field — an absolute blow. Even now, I find myself reflecting and blaming myself. When I saw in the rearview mirror that the vehicle behind us had started to swerve, I should have stopped immediately. That’s why, to this day, I still cannot forget or make peace with what happened. An entire car full of experts — and I heard there were two hitchhiking tourists as well — some dead, some injured, just like that. What a tragedy.”

Diao Zhuo’s brow tightened. “Aside from what Song Fan described, there’s no other concrete evidence. And Song Fan was only a tourist who boarded the minibus partway through — is it possible his account was taken out of context, or that there was a misunderstanding? Perhaps it was nothing more than an academic dispute.”

“I don’t believe Xiao Jun would have done anything so reckless either, and Xiye was always a driven, motivated young woman by any measure. Still, apparently some of Xiye’s close friends mentioned that she did seem to have feelings for your father that may have gone beyond ordinary collegial affection. I’m not entirely certain of Song Fan’s exact words — it was something I heard secondhand from someone who was present during the statement-taking afterward…” He Zhengren shook his head, and seemed on the verge of saying more, but just then he saw his car waiting at the entrance, and extended his hand with a look of mild regret. “Professor Lu’s health hasn’t been good these past few years — find a free moment and go see him. Today is Sunday, and the housekeeper happens to be off. I’ve arranged to have dinner with someone. Another time, I’ll have you over to my place. Do send my regards to your family. Goodbye.”

Diao Zhuo extended his hand in return. “Will do. Thank you.”

He Zhengren turned and got into the car. Diao Zhuo cast a glance at the license plate — an expensive Audi A8. Back in his university days, he and a few classmates had been invited to He Zhengren’s home, and it had been plain to see that the man surrounded himself with understated luxury.

“Professor He, shall I take you home, or to the private kitchen restaurant you usually go to?” Li Haozhang asked. He served as He Zhengren’s driver and bodyguard. He had drifted through the shadier side of society in his younger years and had a scorpion tattoo on the back of his left hand — removed by laser at He Zhengren’s insistence.

He Zhengren glanced at Diao Zhuo through the tinted window, his expression freezing over in an instant. “Home.”

The car pulled slowly away. Diao Zhuo pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. Perhaps it was the particular quality of Beijing in this season — stifling heat mixed with humidity — but he hadn’t slept well the night before, and a morning spent under the air conditioning had left him with a pounding headache.

He had always harbored a nagging suspicion that there was far more to the story of the crash — the theory that his father and Ba Xiye’s affair had led to an internal dispute that triggered the accident. Of the witnesses and survivors of that crash, only three remained: He Zhengren, Zhang Chenguang, and Song Fan. Whether the truth would ever fully come to light, he couldn’t say.

YN, N, M, 8… What on earth did it mean? 8… Diao Zhuo’s brow furrowed sharply. What if the syllable his grandfather had been murmuring on his deathbed wasn’t the number eight at all, but the surname “Ba”?

Perhaps he ought to find a suitable moment to sit down with Ba Yunye and have a proper conversation.

The Audi A8 pulled into a residential compound on the outskirts of Beijing, its exterior styled in a classical architectural aesthetic. Li Haozhang asked carefully: “Diao Zhuo went all the way to Qiang Tang — and just happened to meet Ba Yunye? Quite the coincidence.”

“The two of them are now on opposite ends of the country. By all accounts, they have very little contact, so it’s clear nothing that shouldn’t have happened between them did. Someone from a family like Diao Zhuo’s — the educated, intellectual type — how could he possibly get any closer to Little Ba? The gap between them is like the difference between the clouds and the mud. There’s not a single point of overlap in their work or their lives.” He Zhengren sent Li Haozhang off and remained in the rear seat, reading through the rescue account Diao Zhuo had written.

A short while later, he received a call. He lowered his voice: “Confirmed to be in Qiang Tang? It seems this trip was quite productive… I’ll need to have a good look at Diao Zhuo’s search records.”

The voice on the other end of the line said: “I can say with certainty that Diao Zhuo has no idea Ba Yunye is holding onto Ba Xiye’s effects. The two of them haven’t grown close enough for something like that to be shared between them.”

“Hmph… Song Fan disappeared after heading to the Badain Jaran Desert, and now Zhang Chenguang has also dropped off the map. You’re the only one who’s remained reliable. Tell me — do you think Zhang Chenguang realized he was being tailed and played along, then collected his payment and faked his own death to flee? He’s been earning well these past few years — more than enough to see him through the rest of his life…”

“I warned him — told him to get out quickly. But the man knew Ba Yunye was watching him, and still let greed get the better of him. He was determined to go up the mountain and complete the transaction. Renlong Duoji is truly formidable — Zhang Chenguang is practically a ghost, yet he managed to track him down and catch him every single time.”

“In any case, the outside world believes Zhang Chenguang perished on Yuzhu Peak — let’s just let him stay dead. As for those foreign buyers, if they didn’t kick up a fuss with the middleman, his goods have likely already been passed along. And the foreign one who died — that was probably a genuine accident.”

The voice on the other end said: “Let’s not waste our concern on foreign buyers. It’s that Zou Kaigui who worries me. I suspect he picked up some job from a middleman somewhere — looking for the Heavenly Lake. Let me give you a word of advice: cut ties with this kind of unreliable lower-level contact as soon as possible.”

“The Zou Kaigui matter is outside my knowledge. Let’s not go into that. There are still two photographs whose shooting locations haven’t been identified. Keep watching.” With that, He Zhengren ended the call, his expression easing slightly.

As the follow-up investigation results continued to emerge, news reports said that police, examining the financial transactions in Zou Kaigui’s accounts, had discovered that in addition to Ye Xun, he had also made a sizeable transfer to someone known by the alias “Old Boat.” The identity of Old Boat was not elaborated upon in the news — only that through Old Boat’s testimony, Chinese police had joined forces with foreign law enforcement to dismantle an overseas poaching syndicate. The group had originally operated across Africa, killing a significant number of elephants and rhinoceroses over many years, before eventually expanding operations into Asia with their sights set on Tibetan antelopes. It was difficult to imagine what would have happened had Zou Kaigui actually stumbled upon the Heavenly Lake — the fabled gathering place of Tibetan antelopes in vast numbers — and handed an overseas poaching outfit a clear target and route. How many rare highland creatures might have suffered because of it?

Zou Kaigui had entered Qiang Tang in pursuit of Tibetan antelopes, and died in Qiang Tang because of Tibetan antelopes. Whether that represented some form of cosmic justice, no one could say. It was no wonder people said that Hoh Xil was the tender softness that nurtures life, while Qiang Tang was the desolate stillness where life finally comes to rest.

As for Ye Xun — he had left behind too little evidence. Whether one considered his supposed desire to witness Tibetan antelopes in the wild, his financial support of Zou Kaigui’s crossing of Qiang Tang, or his forcible assault on Xiao Zi — none of it could be proven beyond doubt, and the question of legal consequences would have to be pursued through a prolonged process. His charitable foundation, however, had very few willing supporters left; his wife had also filed for divorce. His personal reputation and his company’s public image had been utterly destroyed.

The question of death compensation for Zou Kaigui remained unresolved and had now given rise to fresh complications. When his younger brother, Zou Tongkui, learned that the compensation sum stood as high as twenty million yuan, and that the named beneficiary was Ye Xun — leaving him with not a single cent — he turned hostile at once. He went to police and disclosed that Zou Kaigui had considered Zou Xiaowen a burden, had pushed her into the sea years ago during an ocean voyage, then fabricated a story about her having been abducted, and subsequently conspired with Ye Xun to exploit public goodwill in order to serve their own private ends.

Public opinion shifted dramatically overnight. Countless internet users began condemning Zou Kaigui, saying he bore responsibility for deliberate homicide, had deceived society, and had illegally entered a protected area. Given all of this, they argued, the twenty million yuan should not be paid out. In response to such claims, the insurance company was in the process of reviewing the relevant laws and policy terms — a protracted ordeal, by all indications, lay ahead.

Unlike most other internet users, Long Ge had no interest in Zou Kaigui’s insurance payout. He added the links to the follow-up reports to his browser bookmarks, murmuring a name under his breath: “Old Boat…”

He took out his phone, glanced around — the courtyard was empty but for him. He found a number and dialed. “Mingliang, they’ve caught Old Boat… What’s the news on your end?… Ha. Same as what I figured. Never mind — Old Boat was never a significant player to begin with. Don’t worry, I’ll keep a close eye on things here. If anything comes up on your end, don’t be stingy about keeping me in the loop.”

He ended the call, leisurely working his prayer beads between his fingers, gazing with unfocused eyes at the wooden garden furniture in the courtyard. A bitter smile drifted unexpectedly across the corner of his mouth. “Zou Kaigui — so you were nothing more than a small-time lackey all along…”

On his final day in Beijing, Diao Zhuo went to visit Professor Lu Yang. Just as He Zhengren had said, the professor’s health was dire — he had recently taken his medication and remained in a deep, unbroken sleep. From his children, Diao Zhuo learned that the doctors had indicated the professor did not have much time left.

After that, he returned to Xi’an. On one occasion, a gathering of friends — clearly a gathering with ulterior motives — saw him walk into a reserved private room knowing, with about seventy or eighty percent certainty, exactly what was going on.

They were trying to set him up.

Diao Zhuo’s phone was full of unanswered friend requests and unreplied messages. After his last relationship had ended, a number of young women — some he knew, some he didn’t — had somehow gotten hold of his contact information.

As if he weren’t getting enough female attention on his own, a few of his close friends — perhaps under pressure or encouragement from his family — had apparently taken it upon themselves to play matchmaker.

Dongbo, who worked for a fashion magazine and fancied himself an excellent judge of character, leaned over to introduce her quietly: the young woman across from them was his distant cousin on his father’s side, fresh out of university, working at a public institution. Big eyes, fair skin, petite and demure — the kind of girl who could drive a man to distraction when she pouted. He said she was exactly Diao Zhuo’s type.

She used to be.

So why did looking at her feel so strange now?

Diao Zhuo’s head was completely full of that brazen woman, and he could not shake her loose. She was like a vine — when she’d first wound her way up, it had been so loose and effortless, as though one touch would send it tumbling free, so he’d let it coil and climb. By the time he thought to pull away, it was already too late. Time had flowed on like water, but her image and her smile had only grown clearer: the striking features of a face that carried another heritage’s beauty, thick lashes curling upward, a gaze with a slight edge of aggression to it, the steady resolve she showed when firing a pistol, and… the two faint dimples where her lower back curved into her hips.

Damn it all.

By the end of the meal, anyone with eyes could see that Diao Zhuo had eaten without a shred of enjoyment.

Using the excuse of needing a cigarette, he excused himself from the dinner early and walked alone through the summer night in this ancient city — capital to thirteen dynasties. A breeze rustled the ginkgo leaves lining both sides of the road, filling the air with a soft, whispering sound. It was a weekend, and Weiyanglu Road was livelier and more raucous than usual. From somewhere far off came several throaty lines of Qin opera — the famous “Second Visit to the Palace” — raw and uninhibited, full of the untamed spirit of the northwest.

As he neared the Anyuan Gate, he stopped and gazed out at the ancient city wall blazing with light.

Looking back, there is only the reading of old books — when will we walk hand in hand into the ancient capital of Chang’an?

The moment the last exam was over, it meant the long-anticipated summer break had arrived once again. The buses from North Yang Institute of Technology heading toward the city center and the high-speed rail station were packed to capacity, every passenger a student eager to get home.

Zhang Tian’en was still in his dormitory, unhurriedly packing up his books and clothes. The other three students in his room had long since headed out to fight for a spot on the bus.

“I don’t want you to go! Stay and keep me company!”

Out in the corridor, Meng Xiao’ai — the most admired girl in their college, whose home happened to be right here in the city — was pouting at her boyfriend, Su Zheming. Zheming’s family was in Zhu Men City, some impossible distance away, and with two months apart looming ahead, the young couple in the throes of new love were clearly dreading the separation.

Zhang Tian’en glanced out at the scene. Xiao’ai was crying in soft, plaintive sobs, while the tall and handsome Zheming murmured gentle reassurances, the two of them occasionally lost in an embrace and a kiss.

He was tall and lean himself — but his features were unremarkable, the kind that disappeared into a crowd. Nothing like Zheming, who drew female attention wherever he went. He and Xiao’ai were both in the student council’s external affairs department, and he had once quietly harbored feelings for her — though whether she had deliberately kept him at a distance or simply never noticed his affections, she had never warmed to him.

As the two of them walked off wrapped in each other’s arms, Zhang Tian’en felt nothing stir in his chest. He simply thought: Girls are all pretty pragmatic about it — either you need money, or you need to be good-looking, or you need to have something going for you. Otherwise, getting a girl’s heart is an uphill battle.

The next semester would be his fourth and final year, which meant far more free time — enough to find an internship somewhere, or start looking for a job outright. But he was different from his classmates in that regard. He preferred to immerse himself in his own passions.

He was an adventure enthusiast. His idol was Bear Grylls from the survival series Man vs. Wild, and he had watched every season from one through seven so many times he could practically recite them from memory. His dream was to be just like Bear — to travel the world’s uninhabited wastelands and forbidden zones, relying purely on his own survival skills to endure whatever lay within them.

He had a grand plan: to spend the next two months meticulously researching and mapping out a route, while also doing a trial run — taking on Tiger Leaping Gorge alone to sharpen his nerve and test his limits.

As he headed out the door with his bags packed, he nearly ran into Zheming, who was standing there looking glum.

“Hey, Tian’en — any plans for this summer break?” Zheming asked, and couldn’t help venting a little: “It’s too boring staying home — it’s just helping my parents mind the shop. I heard you go traveling every summer break. You even did a trek through Tibet last year. Are you going somewhere again this summer?”

Zhang Tian’en didn’t particularly like it when people called what he did “traveling.” Was he in the same category as those tourists who slept on the bus and stepped off just long enough to take photos?

He had no intention of telling Zheming his actual plans, and simply said: “Thinking of heading to Tiger Leaping Gorge.”

“Tiger Leaping Gorge…” Zheming immediately looked it up on his phone and exclaimed in admiration: “That looks incredibly exciting! If I have time, could the two of us go together?”

Zhang Tian’en hesitated for a moment, then agreed without much thought.