Yunnan is a place known for its ancient towns.

Ever since Lijiang became popular and Dali flourished, all the surrounding areas that could be developed into ancient towns have been dolled up and presented to the world. With each having its own unique characteristics, they’ve managed to make a name for themselves one by one. The old saying calls it “securing your mountain territory,” while the newer expression is “capturing the tourism market” or “stabilizing the visitor flow.”

The visitor flow boosted two basic industries: restaurants and inns.

Brother Mao’s Inn was one of the outstanding establishments among the many inns in a certain ancient town.

By now, Brother Mao had been running his inn in the ancient town for five or six years.

Earlier, he had operated a youth hostel in Gannan, but later complained that it was too cold in winter there, the peak season was too short, and despite putting in all his effort, he couldn’t make much money throughout the year. In a fit of frustration, he packed up and moved his business to the ancient town.

As fate would have it, the ancient town favored him. The inn took off immediately—booming with business, recouping the investment in three years, and then following an upward curve, continuing to prosper…

Even today, it remains bustling, and the outlook is good.

The inn was divided into front and back sections. The back was for accommodations, while the front part had been converted into a bar. If the bar only served drinks, it would be lost among the masses—no, lost among the crowd of other bars. So, Brother Mao racked his brains to give the bar its unique character. Every few days, he would introduce a theme, such as telling ghost stories or playing murder mystery games, inviting guests to participate. After a round of laughter and merriment, both the host and guests would be thoroughly satisfied.

Tonight’s theme was “My Amazing Friend.”

Everyone was enthusiastic, taking turns to speak, but in the latter half, someone changed the concept from “amazing” to “extreme,” turning the gathering into a complaining session.

Someone revealed that their friend loved to peel the skin off their feet, but not completely. They would leave the skin dangling on the sole of their foot. After peeling off enough skin, at first glance, it looked as if their foot was stepping on petals of lotus flowers…

This metaphor would make even lotus flowers want to turn into pumpkins.

Another person complained that their friend liked to collect the grime from their body sweat, rubbing it until it formed ashy strips, then preciously collecting them in a glass bottle, waiting to accumulate enough to mold a miniature version of themselves…

Brother Mao had actively participated at first, but later could only sit and stare wide-eyed as he listened, shuddering repeatedly. He thought to himself that he must be getting old, as the tastes of young people these days had become so extreme.

Finally, at eleven o’clock, the gathering dispersed. Brother Mao busied himself cleaning up the tables, while the group that had contributed countless nauseating stories lingered, still chatting in small clusters.

As Brother Mao was aligning the tables, a round-faced girl of seventeen or eighteen approached him and asked, “Boss, is that person you mentioned called Shen Gun real?”

Brother Mao replied, “Of course.”

Over the years, he had made many strange friends, but when it came to the most “amazing,” he believed no one could compare to Shen Gun. How peculiar this man was! In his twenties, he had declared that he would travel to various places, searching for supernatural stories, and become the number one expert in the spiritual world. Remarkably, he had kept his word, never stopping his journey. Whenever he heard strange stories or legends, he would carefully record them in his notebook. After twenty or thirty years, he had accumulated several sacks full of these records.

At first, Shen Gun didn’t mind the burden, dragging a sack of notebooks as he traveled over mountains and rivers. It wasn’t until a few years ago, at the urging of his friends, that he began digitizing these written records one by one.

The girl clicked her tongue in amazement: “What about now? Does he still travel around?”

Brother Mao said, “No, he’s resting. Says he’s organizing his materials and researching topics or something like that.”

Shen Gun had originally had no fixed residence, but later, thanks to a friend, he acquired an old-style mansion in a place called “Misty Town” in Yunnan. However, he didn’t live alone—besides him, there was also a strange character with a yin-yang face living in the mansion.

The girl seemed a bit disappointed: “Why did he stop traveling?”

Brother Mao casually replied, “He got old, I suppose.”

Interests never remain unchanged, and as the saying goes, “Year after year the flowers are similar, but year after year people change.” After several cycles of years, people naturally become quite different from how they were before.

The girl disagreed: “That’s not right. It’s not like he just got old in the last two years. Wasn’t he already old more than ten years ago?”

To a teenage girl, whose youth could still be pinched to yield water, someone in their late thirties was considered decrepit, someone in their late forties was nearly in the grave, and anyone over fifty belonged to another world altogether. By her logic, Shen Gun had indeed been old for more than ten years already.

The speaker meant nothing by it, but the listener took it to heart.

After cleaning up, it was nearly midnight. Brother Mao leaned against the bar, poured himself a glass of erguotou in the empty room, took a sip with its sharp pungency, and pondered over the matter carefully.

Shen Gun truly hadn’t gone out for some time.

It was a bit unusual.

In the past, Shen Gun was the type who would go investigating at the slightest hint of something strange. But at some point—perhaps after his last trip to Hangu Pass?—he suddenly became picky. When told about strange occurrences somewhere, he would impatiently interrupt after just a few sentences, complaining, “This isn’t what I’m interested in,” as if he were standing at attention, waiting specifically for some tailor-made major event.

Even last year, when someone from the Northwest sought his help through various connections, saying they had discovered something amiss beyond Yumen Pass, fearing it might be another realm, he hadn’t budged—in the past, he would have been overjoyed and hurried over without delay.

What was going on? Shen Gun didn’t used to be so selective.

Then again, if this was “boring” and that was “uninteresting,” what exactly was he “interested” in?

Some things shouldn’t be overthought; like drinking, the more you think, the more it goes to your head.

Brother Mao couldn’t help but call Shen Gun.

No one answered.

This wasn’t surprising. Shen Gun often didn’t answer his phone. If you complained about it, he would justify himself: “What’s the problem? My time is precious and must be used effectively. How could I have the leisure to watch my phone all day?”

But for Brother Mao, this unanswered call felt like punching cotton or grasping at air—extremely unsatisfying. After thinking for a while, hesitating for two seconds, he dialed another number.

The mansion had a landline, and someone would answer—because that yin-yang face, ever since moving into the mansion, never went out, with a world even narrower than that of a young lady in ancient times who was confined to her boudoir.

Sure enough, before long, someone picked up the phone on the other end, with a hoarse voice.

“Hello?”

Brother Mao felt a bit anxious. He hadn’t seen the person with his own eyes, but he had heard Shen Gun’s description: “Like two completely different people’s faces each split in half, then hastily glued together,” “The left side is a normal man’s face, the right side looks like it was molded from clay, stiff in expression, with furrowed brows and angry eyes, proud and overbearing, and upon closer inspection, carries an extremely sharp feminine air,” “Little Mao, you’ll have nightmares if you see it.”

Now, the voice coming through the receiver belonged to that legendary yin-yang face.

The voice sounded normal enough.

Brother Mao swallowed: “Mr. Shi?”

“Mm.”

“Is Shen Gun… there?”

“No.”

Not there…

“Gone for a walk?”

Misty Town was nestled against mountains full of mysteries. At night, Shen Gun liked to take his silver-eyed bat for a stroll, much like ordinary people walking their dogs after dinner. The mountain paths were rugged, and if one wasn’t careful, they might wander too far.

“No, he went out.”

Went out?

Brother Mao didn’t immediately comprehend what “went out” meant, probably because Shen Gun had truly been resting for too long.

So this unexpected “went out” suddenly carried the exciting implication of returning to the jianghu.

Once he understood, Brother Mao’s blood began to bubble with excitement, and his voice became animated: “Why did he go out?”

The yin-yang face’s voice was as rigid as stone: “He wanted to go out.”

This answer wouldn’t satisfy Brother Mao: “He hasn’t moved for years, then suddenly leaves without saying goodbye. There must be a reason, right? Did something special happen before he left?”

The yin-yang face paused for a few seconds on the other end, as if trying hard to recall.

When he spoke again, his voice remained calm: “The home internet subscription expired, so he went to the county service center to renew it.”

Brother Mao perked up his ears—

“While paying, he overheard someone next to him on the phone. That person said something that happened to catch his attention.”

Good, the story had begun. Brother Mao freed one hand and poured himself another glass of alcohol, preparing to sip it while listening to the tale.

But the yin-yang face stopped there.

Brother Mao couldn’t stand people who told only half the story. This wasn’t a paid subscription; why create suspense?

He pressed: “Then what?”

The yin-yang face said: “Nothing more. After hearing that sentence, he decided to follow that person. He hurriedly called me to give a few instructions, not even coming back to pack his luggage.”

Brother Mao was stunned for a while: “So you’re saying he left directly from the county service center?”

“Mm.”

“Left in such a hurry that he didn’t even come back to pack his things?”

The yin-yang face didn’t respond. He felt he had made himself clear, and Brother Mao was just repeating his statement in the form of questions, which was completely redundant.

“Then… what exactly did that person on the phone say?”

The yin-yang face said: “Don’t know.”

Brother Mao was exasperated: “You didn’t ask?”

The yin-yang face answered: “I don’t care.”

He waited a moment, figuring Brother Mao had nothing more to say or ask, then hung up the phone.

The landline was mounted on the wall, next to a wooden window. The window paper was already torn and gone, with no new paper put up yet. Through the bare, half-rotted wooden grids, one could see that fog had risen again on the back mountain—white fog, slowly gathering from all directions, like countless decrepit ghosts, unhurriedly attending a meeting.

He truly didn’t care. In this world, there was nothing left worth his concern.

That night, after searching without finding answers, Brother Mao went to wash up reluctantly. However, by the time he lay in bed, he had calmed down and convinced himself: let it be, like rain falling or a mother marrying off her daughter.

After all, it wasn’t the first time Shen Gun had gone out. He would return in three to five months with fascinating stories to tell. Rather, it was Brother Mao himself who, now with a family and business, was no longer the old Mao who could drop everything and rush a thousand miles just to help a friend.

Beside him, Miss Mao was sound asleep, her breathing light and rhythmic. Brother Mao gradually felt drowsy in this ebb and flow of breath, sighing about family burdens—they were indeed burdens, but also sweet responsibilities.

Then he had a dream.

He dreamed of Shen Gun, carrying a sack, trudging through the thick fog not far ahead. Brother Mao chased after him desperately. Though the distance didn’t seem great, he could never catch up, and could only call out breathlessly: “Gun! Gun!”

Shen Gun finally turned around, with his messy curly hair and black-framed glasses. One of the temples was broken and wrapped with white thread, wound round and round.

Brother Mao asked him: “What did the person next to you say when you were paying for the internet at the county service center?”

Shen Gun didn’t answer, just stared at him steadily, then called out: “Old Mao.”

Brother Mao’s heart skipped a beat as he set aside his playful attitude and immediately adopted a serious demeanor—Shen Gun usually called him “Little Mao,” rarely using “Old Mao.” This form of address was always followed by something of great importance.

Sure enough.

Shen Gun said, “Actually, I’m looking for a box.”

Brother Mao was puzzled: “What box?”

Shen Gun gestured with his hands to show him, saying: “A box this long and this wide, which has been stolen.”