The village was more ordinary than imagined. The villagers weren’t isolated; despite so many strangers around their homes, they continued with their own business. Many elderly women had brought stools to sit in front of their doors, fingers working with black fabric, busy threading needles and embroidering patterns.
Jiang Lian couldn’t help but stop to watch. These embroidery patterns were much cruder compared to Su or Shu embroidery, but they had a natural, rustic charm. Usually, when embroidering, one would have a pattern nearby for reference, but these women had none. Yet they worked without even looking up, their hands never pausing.
Shen Gun, panting, caught up to him, afraid their friendship might develop a rift, and eagerly tried to make conversation: “Little Lian Lian, they’re embroidering.”
What an obvious statement. Jiang Lian ignored him.
Shen Bang and Shen Wangu also arrived. Shen Wangu eagerly tried to impress: “Uncle Gun, ask me about things here. I know everything clearly—my wife is Yao.”
Shen Gun was curious: “From here?”
“No,” Shen Wangu shook his head, but continued to show off his knowledge about the Yao people. “Her family left the mountains and assimilated into Han culture two generations ago. The locals here still maintain many old customs.”
“The Yao ethnicity has many branches. Based on clothing characteristics, there are ‘White Trouser Yao,’ ‘Blue Clothes Yao,’ ‘Red Head Yao,’ and so on. This village is Flower Yao. Flower Yao is especially skilled at embroidery.”
Shen Bang resented not having a Yao wife to discuss knowledgeably, but still actively contributed: “Ethnic minorities all like embroidery… either embroidery or weaving, that’s what they’re good at.”
Shen Wangu glanced at Shen Bang, thinking his comments were meaningless, which was good, as it made his knowledge seem more impressive.
When he spoke, it was all substance: “It’s strange, though. You call them Yao, but they’re completely different from other Yao people. The Yao typically worship Pan Wang, but Flower Yao don’t even know who Pan Wang is. They mostly worship ancient trees and mountain stones… In my opinion, the ethnic minority classification work was done too broadly.”
Jiang Lian had heard something about this.
Generally, people believe China has fifty-six ethnic groups—songs even celebrate “fifty-six ethnic groups, fifty-six flowers”—but the actual divisions were far more numerous.
For a group to be recognized as an independent ethnicity, they had to meet many conditions. The first was population size—they needed a substantial number. But when ethnicity classification work was being done, many small tribes with unique cultures and customs that didn’t fit elsewhere were discovered, numbering only hundreds or thousands. These couldn’t each be classified as separate ethnicities.
This gave the experts and scholars responsible for classification severe headaches. Finally, they could only categorize based on geographical proximity and other principles, incorporating groups where possible.
Flower Yao was probably classified this way—lumped into the Yao family even though they didn’t know Pan Wang.
Even so, there remained many “unidentified ethnic groups.” In the 2010 Sixth National Census, over 700,000 people fell into this category, the vast majority concentrated around Guizhou.
Shen Wangu added: “Also, there aren’t many Flower Yao in western Hunan, at most ten or twenty thousand. Most live on the other side of Xuefeng Mountain. In our Great Wuling area, this is the only Flower Yao village.”
Looking around, he continued: “The soil isn’t fertile here, water isn’t plentiful, and it’s too close to the deep mountains where wild animals roam. In ancient times, this wouldn’t have been considered a good place to settle. I don’t know why they chose to stay here.”
Shen Gun suddenly blurted out: “Coming from Xuandan Feng Lin… is this the closest village?”
Shen Bang rushed to answer: “Just looking at distance, it’s still far, but compared to other villages, it is indeed the closest—that’s why we chose to rest here.”
Jiang Lian became interested and looked around, noting many houses seemed quite old: “How long have they lived here?”
Shen Wangu shrugged: “That goes back a long way—generation after generation, ancestor after ancestor. This place was always isolated, and the Flower Yao worship ancient trees, right? Wherever an ancient tree takes root, that’s home. Let me tell you a trick: look around at the oldest trees. However old the oldest tree is, that’s how long they’ve been living here.”
Jiang Lian found this interesting and smiled: “Isn’t there a genealogy record or something?”
Shen Wangu said, “Brother Lian, that question shows your inexperience. They have no written language, only spoken language.”
No written language?
Suddenly, a small spark flashed in Shen Gun’s mind, but the light was too weak to grasp.
Shen Bang, not wanting to be left behind: “Not just Flower Yao! The Miao have no written language, the Tujia have no written language. Most ethnic minorities don’t have a written language. They say cultural inheritance is all passed down orally from generation to generation.”
“That’s not all.” Shen Wangu didn’t miss any opportunity to showcase his expertise. He pointed to the nearest elderly woman embroidering: “Flower Yao calls this ‘picking flowers.’ It’s also a form of cultural inheritance. They have no pattern to follow, yet they embroider freely. No matter how complex, they stitch it out effortlessly. Embroidering trees, small flowers, and birds is understandable, but sometimes what they embroider is very abstract. You have no idea what it is—only their shamans and priests can understand it.”
He concluded: “So don’t underestimate this embroidery. It’s a form of cultural inheritance. Who knows, those patterns you don’t understand might contain their history, heritage, beliefs, worship…”
Shen Gun’s mind was buzzing. He felt like something was about to take shape, but with each deep breath, the outline faded again.
Eventually, he couldn’t hear clearly what Shen Wangu was saying. He just stared blankly at the old woman’s embroidering hands. She must have been embroidering for many years; her movements were so skilled, the white cotton thread flew up and down, almost blurring, making one dizzy. This also made his already unclear mind even more confused.
Just then, a car horn sounded from the village entrance—three long, bright blasts. Shen Gun’s body jerked, bringing him back to reality.
Jiang Lian said, “Let’s go back, we need to continue our journey.”
As he spoke, there was a hint of regret.
He had wanted to find the oldest tree near the village. How old would it be?
For the rest of the journey, Jiang Lian shared a car with Shen Gun. Thanks to this new Lotus Petal member, the seats were more spacious and comfortable than before. The only problem was the silence: Shen Gun seemed to have lost his soul after visiting the Flower Yao village, continuously sitting with his mouth half-open and eyes unfocused.
Whenever anyone in the car spoke, he would stop them: “Don’t talk, I’m thinking. Quiet, quiet.”
How could it be any quieter? Everyone in the car was silent, even suppressing coughs. Jiang Lian grew bored and soon closed his eyes to sleep.
But he couldn’t sleep well. The mountain roads were difficult, and occasionally a sudden stop or bump would wake him up.
After one such bump, he opened his eyes and saw Meng Qianzi and Qiu Biying by the roadside. From their posture, it seemed Qiu Biying was letting Meng Qianzi ride the motorcycle.
Heavy motorcycles weren’t something just anyone could handle. Jiang Lian felt concerned and quickly moved to the window to look, but the car turned at that moment, and they disappeared from view in an instant.
He settled back in his seat, laughing at his needless worry: Since Meng Qianzi had been raised by seven mothers, she had probably ridden motorcycles during her time with Qiu Biying. Nothing would happen.
And so he drifted in and out of sleep as they wound their way along. By dinnertime, they finally returned to Yunmeng Peak.
The large group of people disembarking filled half the street where Yunmeng Peak was located. People were moving things, coordinating, assigning rooms, calling for dinner—the noise was enough to make one’s head ache.
As soon as Jiang Lian got off, he was lost in the crowd and the chaotically piled tents and equipment. Just as he was wondering what to do, he suddenly heard Kuang Meiying’s voice: “Jiang Lian!”
Looking toward the sound, he saw Kuang Meiying running toward him, constantly having to dodge and make way for others.
Judging by her complexion and figure, she had been doing well these days.
Jiang Lian smiled, his mood brightening considerably. He unconsciously raised his arms, ready for an embrace, but Kuang Meiying frowned when she reached him and stepped back with disgust, saying: “What’s this… did you just crawl out of a wild man’s den?”
Truthfully, after days of toil, climbing cliffs and mountains, he did look disheveled. But before setting out, Jiang Lian had made an effort: washing his face and neck with mineral water and combing his hair with his hands. He thought he looked presentable enough.
Unexpected to be rejected so quickly, Jiang Lian felt indignant but couldn’t help lifting his arm to sniff: “Do I smell that bad?”
Kuang Meiying’s disgust was multifaceted and difficult to express in one sentence. The “smell” wasn’t the most prominent issue, so she decided to focus on something else.
She circled him once, finally tugging at his clothes: “What happened to the back of your shirt? Are you wearing two pieces of cloth or just two sleeves?”
This was exaggerating too much. Although the back of his shirt was severely worn, he had checked countless threads and thin strips still connected it, barely maintaining the basic framework and dignity of being a shirt. To say he was only wearing two sleeves was too much.
Jiang Lian smirked: “You noticed the clothes but not the bandages? Can’t you show some concern? Where’s your conscience?”
Kuang Meiying giggled and pulled at Jiang Lian’s arm: “I did see them! I just haven’t had time to show concern yet. Come on, let’s eat first. I’ve already asked Wei Biao to get food for you. After you’ve eaten and drunk your fill, then you can thoroughly…”
She considered how to phrase it delicately: “clean yourself up.”
A dining hall had been set up in Yunmeng Peak’s backyard, specifically for guests. They had received notice before the convoy arrived and had prepared dinner in advance, even setting up a buffet table. When Jiang Lian sat down, the dining hall wasn’t very crowded, but after a few bites, he looked up to find it almost full.
He scanned the crowd but didn’t see Meng Qianzi and her group. Being important figures, they probably had private dining arrangements and wouldn’t squeeze in here.
Shen Gun wasn’t there either, but he did spot Shen Wangu carrying a takeout bag. Jiang Lian called him over and learned that Shen Gun was still thinking.
“Uncle Gun said it’s like giving birth—it seems about to come out, but still needs a final push. He’s so anxious he can’t even eat. I’m taking this packed meal up to him.”
Like giving birth—what a comparison…
Jiang Lian nodded and let him go deliver the food.
When asked about Kuang Tongsheng’s condition, Kuang Meiying looked worried: “I’ve been in contact with them morning, noon, and night. This time, it seems serious. The doctor said, at minimum three to five days, at most seven to eight days. Jiang Lian, should we go back first?”
Jiang Lian was silent for a moment: “I think there will be major developments here in the next day or two. I feel that bringing back something valuable would give Master Gan peace of mind when he passes.”
There was another reason he didn’t explicitly mention: Meng Qianzi was already helping him adjust the Mirage Pearl—such a precious item would naturally need to be used and then promptly returned. If he left now, would the Mirage Pearl just sit here waiting for him? He wasn’t a VIP.
Hearing the words “major developments,” Kuang Meiying didn’t react immediately. After a moment, though she knew she should be happy, her first reaction was that her eyes blurred. She finally nodded, her voice trembling: “Good, I’ll contact Great-grandfather tonight. If he knows this, he might feel better from the happiness.”
Wei Biao listened without interrupting. Kuang Tongsheng never revealed family secrets to him, and Kuang Meiying had told him not to ask, so he didn’t.
But he wasn’t stupid. He knew Master Gan relied heavily on Jiang Lian, and Jiang Lian’s efforts must be related to Kuang Meiying’s illness.
Now that there were “major developments,” it must be good news—otherwise, Meiying wouldn’t be so moved to tears. And if Meiying was happy, he was happy too.
Meng Qianzi was also busy. Returning to the Mountain Ghost group, the words “throne” represented many things, requiring every word and action to be cautious. Besides, it was rare to see Fifth Mother, so she had to eat with her, chat, and appreciate the Mirage Pearl. She couldn’t find time to get away.
When she finally found a moment to look for Jiang Lian, he had just gone to take a bath.
Wei Biao opened the door. He wasn’t skilled at social interactions and had little previous contact with Meng Qianzi—their only encounter had been his attempted kidnapping, which made him feel very uncomfortable. After saying “he’s taking a bath,” his face turned red, and he fell silent.
Meng Qianzi could have asked him to pass on a message, but that would make her seem like an errand runner. Having made this trip for nothing, not seeing anyone or getting any answers, she frowned.
The situation was awkward until Wei Biao did something surprising: he knocked on the door next door, called out Kuang Meiying, pointed to Meng Qianzi to indicate there was a guest to attend to, then returned to his room.
Kuang Meiying also felt nervous. She had always been afraid of Meng Qianzi. Although she knew they had reconciled, the reconciliation had been facilitated by Jiang Lian, creating a degree of separation.
Her voice was as soft as a mosquito’s: “Miss Meng, is there something you need?”
Meng Qianzi knew Kuang Meiying feared her, so she tried to smile kindly. But the forced smile felt like the big bad wolf’s, even to herself, so she gave up and simply said: “Tell him there will be rain tomorrow night… Ask him to make time to go out with me.”
Kuang Meiying understood about seventy to eighty percent, felt grateful, and quickly nodded.
Having delivered her message, Meng Qianzi didn’t leave. After hesitating, she said: “Jiang Lian told me about your situation. Your great-grandfather has had it difficult… I wanted to ask about Wei Biao.”
Wei Biao?
Kuang Meiying was surprised.
“He was adopted, too, right?”
“Yes,” Kuang Meiying said.
She felt confused and somewhat alert: why would Miss Meng suddenly take an interest in Wei Biao?
“He had a difficult life before, didn’t he?”
Kuang Meiying smiled unnaturally: “Yes… Those who wander outside all have a hard time.”
Meng Qianzi seemed very sympathetic: “Seems he suffered quite a bit. Does he remember his past? Like his parents… has he mentioned anything to you?”
“No,” Kuang Meiying said. “He was still young then. He doesn’t remember.”
Meng Qianzi made a sound of acknowledgment: “I see.”
Then she asked “casually”: “What about Jiang Lian? Does he remember?”
Kuang Meiying shook her head: “He remembers even less. When my great-grandfather adopted him, he was younger than Wei Biao, and by then, he had already been wandering for several years… Anyway, I’ve never heard him mention it.”
Meng Qianzi acknowledged this again and brought the conversation back to Wei Biao to end the exchange: “Wei Biao seems quite honest… I was just asking.”
As she turned to leave, she felt quite clever: when inquiring about things, one should misdirect and avoid directness. Starting by asking about Jiang Lian directly would be awkward if Kuang Meiying reported back to him.
Kuang Meiying stood there for a moment until she heard a door open. Looking back, she saw Wei Biao peering out, letting out a sigh of relief: “She’s… gone? What business did she have, coming to ask personally? Couldn’t she have just sent someone with a message?”
This comment hit exactly what Kuang Meiying had been thinking. She gave Wei Biao a cold look: “What business? How could you not know? You and Miss Meng seem quite close.”
Wei Biao was puzzled: “What relationship could I have with her? We’ve barely met.”
Could kidnapping… count as a relationship?
Kuang Meiying responded stiffly: “That’s for you to answer. Impressive—you’ve barely met, yet Miss Meng comes personally to inquire about you, wants to know about your parents and siblings, and even pities your childhood suffering.”
With that, she strode back to her room, slamming the door shut.
Wei Biao scratched his head for a while, then returned to his room dejectedly.
Wait—Miss Meng was asking about him, coming personally to inquire about his parents and siblings, and feeling sorry for his childhood wandering hardships?
Could it be…
Wei Biao’s heart skipped a beat: Could it be that Miss Meng was interested in him?
But he hadn’t done anything impressive in front of her, and his appearance wasn’t particularly advantageous. Then again, perhaps a young lady who had seen many handsome men didn’t care about superficial looks. Perhaps she had a discerning eye and recognized that he, Wei Biao, was extraordinary…
He felt somewhat vain. From childhood to adulthood, he had never received attention from girls. Jiang Lian, on the other hand, attracted them easily. But what did that matter? Jiang Lian only attracted ordinary girls, while he, Wei Biao, attracted high-quality ones…
It was just a pity that he didn’t have feelings for Miss Meng. He still preferred someone like Meiying.
Jiang Lian emerged from his bath with a towel around his waist, repeatedly drying his hair with another towel.
Wei Biao glanced at him, his sense of superiority palpable from several meters away.
What was going on? Jiang Lian frowned, his hair-drying motions slowing.
But he didn’t investigate further. After all, Wei Biao had always been petty and never looked at him kindly. He was used to it.
In the middle of the night, Jiang Lian was awakened by urgent knocking.
After the previous abduction incident, Jiang Lian had developed trauma about such late-night knocking. He sat up instantly, but his tense muscles quickly relaxed.
He recognized Shen Gun’s voice amid the knocking: “Little Lian Lian? Little Lian Lian!”
Wei Biao also experienced the transition from extreme tension to relaxation to annoyance: “In the middle of the night, won’t they let people sleep?”
Jiang Lian went to open the door.
Shen Gun stood at the door, face flushed, constantly licking his lips. His curly hair was disheveled from being pulled and grabbed countless times.
Looking down, Jiang Lian saw he wasn’t even wearing shoes—he was so anxious he had come barefoot.
Shen Wangu also accompanied him, showing signs of being dazed from staying up late.
Before Jiang Lian could speak, Shen Gun grabbed his arm: “Come, come, Little Lian Lian, let’s talk in my room. I’ve figured out a framework, a big one. I’m having trouble… believing it myself. My thoughts are jumbled. I need someone smart to help me confirm.”
Then he said to Shen Wangu: “Alright, alright, you can go.”
He pulled Jiang Lian along, almost at a jog. His bare feet made slapping sounds on the floor. Before even entering the room, he impatiently started questioning: “Little Lian Lian, do you know about Chi You?”
Shen Wangu’s room was right next to Shen Gun’s, so he wasn’t far away. Hearing this question, he casually answered: “Sure, that villain.”
Shen Gun froze mid-step and turned back fiercely: “Who! Who are you calling a villain?”
Startled by this reaction, Shen Wangu became more alert: “Chi… Chi You. Wasn’t he the one who opposed the Yellow Emperor and fought with him?”
Shen Gun angrily replied: “Nonsense! You’ve read too many fictional stories. How could Chi You be a villain? He was the leader of the Nine Li tribal alliance. We now call ourselves ‘descendants of Yan and Huang,’ but we’re also called ‘the common people of Li.’ This ‘Li’ originates from ‘Nine Li.’ Chi You, along with the Yellow Emperor and Yan Emperor, is considered one of the three great ancestors of the Chinese nation.”
With that, he slammed the door shut.
The room was very bright, and Jiang Lian took a moment to adjust. Eventually, he saw crumpled paper balls scattered across the floor and unopened takeout food on the table.
No wonder the smell was so unpleasant. Jiang Lian first went to open the window for fresh air before answering Shen Gun’s question: “Yes, I know.”
The Kuang family’s ancestral home was in Loudi, and legend had it that Loudi was Chi You’s hometown.
Turning back, he saw Shen Gun trembling as he held up a piece of paper.
The paper showed a map.
That’s not quite accurate—it was a very simple drawing, showing only the Yangtze River dividing north and south, with four circles labeled: Western Hunan, Guizhou, Guangxi, and Yunnan.
These four places had something in common: all were in the southwest, mountainous with difficult roads. For a long time, they had been relatively isolated, considered borderlands, barbarian areas, places of miasma.
Jiang Lian raised an eyebrow: “What does this mean?”
Shen Gun said, “Back then, the Yellow Emperor and Chi You fought a great battle. Chi You was defeated and retreated to western Hunan. Over thousands of years, tribes continued to migrate, mostly to forested areas, dangerous places, and borderlands. The general area is these places. Of course, they might have also migrated to Southeast Asia—back then, it was too early for current national boundaries.”
Jiang Lian nodded but still didn’t understand Shen Gun’s point.
Shen Gun said, “Don’t you find it strange? Many bizarre things happen in these places, all within this range.”
He pointed them out to Jiang Lian: “Gu sorcery is in Miao areas, most famously among the Hunan Miao and Black Miao of Yunnan; corpse transportation mainly occurs in western Hunan and Guizhou, occasionally crossing borders to adjacent areas but never further; cave dwelling is, needless to say, in western Hunan; Chenzhou talismans are from the Yuanling area of Huaihua… All within this range, all of them! Have you ever heard of Shanghai people transporting corpses? Or are Beijing people practicing Gu? No! It’s all in this area!”
He extended his finger, forcefully pointing at the areas marked on the paper, making the thin paper rustle loudly.
A strange feeling spread through Jiang Lian’s body: “Continue.”
“Those who retreated with Chi You into these areas were mainly Nine Li, Three Miao, essentially many ethnic minorities. Even now, some Miao areas still worship Chi You as their ancestor. They don’t have their own written language; everything is passed down orally from generation to generation. Let me ask you, in legend, who created written characters?”
This question has been mentioned quite often recently. Jiang Lian immediately replied: “Cangjie.”
“Exactly, Cangjie created characters, but Cangjie was the historian for the Yellow Emperor. So, isn’t it possible that because Chi You and the Yellow Emperor were rivals, after defeat, his tribes resisted everything that came from the Yellow Emperor’s side, including written language?”
Jiang Lian pondered for a moment. On the face of it…
“It’s possible.”
Shen Gun swallowed again.
“Without written language, they became accustomed to oral transmission, but they would also have continued using another record-keeping technique: knotted rope records.”
The paper fluttered from his fingers, but Shen Gun didn’t care. He just stared blankly and called out: “Jiang Lian.”
He no longer called him “Little Lian Lian.” Shen Gun was always like this—in extremely serious moments, he would address people by their full names.
“Remember today when Shen Bang said many ethnic minorities love embroidery? Are we thinking too conventionally? When we talk about knotted rope records, we imagine thumb-thick ropes… but what if the ‘rope’ is thread? Then what would records made from ‘knotted thread’ look like?”
Jiang Lian didn’t answer.
But deep in his heart, a voice was saying: It would be patterns—embroidered patterns that some could understand and others couldn’t.