At the mention of progress, Shen Gun immediately wilted.
These past few days, he had been focusing his efforts on two leads: Shaman Ba Mei and Yan Laoqi.
Shaman Ba Mei had fulfilled his promise, yet also made Shen Gun lose all hope.
The fulfillment was that Shaman Ba Mei, after racking his brains and agonizing contemplation, had finally decoded another sentence; the loss of hope came because the shaman had fallen ill—as of today, he had been feverish for two days, talking nothing but delirious nonsense.
Ma Juanhong felt deeply guilty and had brought gifts to Ten Heads Stockade yesterday to visit him.
Jiang Lian found it strange: “Getting sick during seasonal changes is normal, isn’t it? We can continue once he recovers.”
Shen Gun shook his head with a bitter smile.
Mountain folk were mostly superstitious. When Shaman Ba Mei fell ill while attempting to decode the embroidery chart, he inevitably became anxious, feeling he had done something forbidden and received divine punishment. Besides, Shaman Ba Mei had become a Yao Mountain shaman not through education or self-study, but through innate talent—hadn’t everyone seen how, without his ritual mask, he was just an ordinary old man curing meat in the mountain stockade?
This sudden fever was suspicious, just like the mystery of the Tibetan epic King Gesar chanters: some illiterate shepherds, after a high fever or waking from sleep, suddenly could recite epic poems millions of words long—Shen Gun had a strange intuition that after this illness, Shaman Ba Mei would never be able to look at the embroidery chart again.
He felt deeply guilty, believing it was his relentless pushing that had forced the shaman to repeatedly challenge his limits, resulting in this backlash.
Jiang Lian also felt somewhat emotional, and after a pause, asked: “So what was the new sentence he decoded?”
Shen Gun sighed: “It’s about those seven beast bones.”
The sentence was: Eyes may be deceived, but hands will help you recognize them.
Jiang Lian said, “Knot records… record things in such an artistic way?”
Shen Gun replied irritably: “Knot records document events. What the shaman saw was a feeling—he just described that feeling, and Ma Juanhong translated and relayed it. Understand?”
He understood.
Eyes may be deceived, but hands will help you recognize them.
Jiang Lian frowned.
This seemed to mean that even if those seven beast bones were presented before him, he wouldn’t recognize them by sight, only by touch…?
This was rather bizarre—how could he possibly identify them by touch? Some blind people could distinguish relatives’ faces by touch, but that was purely because they were intimately familiar with their relatives’ facial features. But who could identify bones they had never seen or touched before?
No wonder Shen Gun looked like frost-beaten eggplant—this “progress” was far too insubstantial.
Jiang Lian changed the subject: “What about Yan Luo?”
Shen Gun became even more dejected: “Little Lian-Lian, did you think Yan Laoqi was Yan Luo’s grandson or at least a relative? Would that finding Yan Laoqi reveal Yan Luo’s situation?”
Indeed, but his tone made Jiang Lian uneasy: “Aren’t Yan Luo and Yan Laoqi related? Is their resemblance just a coincidence?”
Shen Gun said: “That’s not it, they are indeed grandfather and grandson…”
Jiang Lian’s heart eased slightly—
“But Little Lian-Lian, you’ve overlooked the dramatic changes of the era.”
What did he mean?
Jiang Lian suddenly thought of something, his heart pounding rapidly: “Was he eliminated during the Western Hunan bandit suppression campaign?”
Shen Gun said, “No, that’s not it.”
Damn, Jiang Lian almost laughed from frustration: “Stop pausing for breath, tell me everything at once!”
This shout made Shen Gun behave himself, and he related everything he had learned about Yan Luo these past days.
Yan Luo had never officially joined any bandit stronghold.
Which meant this man had a dual identity. On the surface, he was a scribe who took odd jobs—writing letters, invitations, banquet menus, festival couplets, and occasionally being hired to keep accounts on boats. But secretly, he had connections with bandits, helping people scout targets, devise plans, and even directly participating in crimes.
There are no walls that don’t let wind through. Gradually, this became known privately, but Yan Luo firmly denied everything, and without evidence, nothing could be done to him.
He was clever. During the Western Hunan bandit suppression campaign, he had already gone straight, so he wasn’t affected.
But later, during the political movements that targeted landlords, wealthy businessmen, and bad elements, many people, either to protect themselves or to earn merit, made accusations. Yan Luo couldn’t deny it anymore. Well, those sordid affairs would eventually be exposed, and once exposed, it would mean execution.
Yan Luo thought long and hard, finally deciding that fleeing was his best option.
He ran.
Jiang Lian didn’t quite understand: “He ran away? Where to? Did he come back later?”
After all, his grandson Yan Laoqi lived permanently in Western Hunan.
Shen Gun gave a derisive laugh: “You’re still too naive, Little Lian-Lian. You think he fled with his entire family? Wrong! This Yan Luo was ruthless. Fearing information leaks, he told no one and fled alone. Parents, wife, son—he abandoned them all.”
Jiang Lian gasped: “He didn’t just leave for good, never to return to Western Hunan, did he?”
Shen Gun answered with literary flair: “Indeed, this departure was like a kite with its string cut, like a stone sinking into the boundless sea—he never returned to Western Hunan.”
Fuck!
Jiang Lian finally understood why Shen Gun had been so dejected. This drop from peak to valley, from great hope to complete disappointment—he felt deflated, too. No, not just deflated, he felt withered.
He heaved a long sigh, leaning back against the sofa, letting out a moan-like sigh.
After coming full circle, they were back at the starting point.
Shen Gun cleared his throat: “I haven’t finished yet, there’s a bit more to the story.”
Jiang Lian couldn’t even be bothered to lift his head. He stared at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, thinking how its countless intricately extending branches resembled the complexity of this situation, impossible to untangle: “Go on.”
“Yan Luo had fled, right? A bad element disrupting socialist construction couldn’t just disappear. The local brigade and revolutionary committee investigated for a while. According to information provided by a production team accountant, the night before Yan Luo escaped, the accountant had a stomach upset and went to the outhouse in the middle of the night. He happened to bump into Yan Luo and vaguely saw that Yan Luo was carrying a box on his back.”
Jiang Lian suddenly raised his head: “A box? Was it that…”
He swallowed the rest of his words. Not necessarily—perhaps he was carrying calligraphy or paintings. In those days, many people smuggled themselves overseas, where calligraphy and paintings could be converted to cash.
But Shen Gun gave him a definitive answer: “Listen further, I think it probably was.”
He continued directly: “Not a travel suitcase—from its form, it was an old-style box. In those days, people traveled with bags or sacks, rarely carrying boxes on their backs. So the accountant didn’t think about escape, and besides, he was rushing to the outhouse, so he paid no attention. Only the next day did he hear that Yan Luo had abandoned his family and fled.”
Jiang Lian’s throat went dry: “Did Yan Luo… figure something out?”
He must have!
If Yan Luo had kept that box after the Kuang family massacre because he found it strange and worth studying, then this time, fleeing alone, unable to care even about parents, wife, and children, yet specifically carrying a box—it was too intriguing.
Shen Gun nodded: “The Kuang family massacre happened in the 1940s, and he fled Western Hunan in the 50s or 60s. All in all, Yan Luo had been studying this box for over a decade…”
Jiang Lian continued: “And Yan Luo likely had ready-made materials. From the Kuang family’s possessions, Black Three took only gold and silver valuables, while Yan Luo handled scrolls, books, and manuscripts—if the Kuang family truly was one of the ancient families that divided the box, their documents might have contained some records that Yan Luo happened to see.”
Those records must have been extremely valuable, or rather, extremely tempting to Yan Luo.
Jiang Lian could barely contain his frustration: The Kuang family was also worth thorough investigation, yet having the true descendant right beside him provided no valuable information—this massacre that completely severed the family lineage was truly… damn it all!
He asked urgently: “Do you know where Yan Luo fled to?”
Shen Gun shook his head: “In this vast world, he could have gone anywhere, but…”
He changed tack: “Do you know how Yan Laoqi rose to power?”
No idea. Jiang Lian was getting impatient: “Through fighting and bravery?”
Shen Gun gave him a sidelong glance: “You’re wrong again. Fighting and bravery only produce thugs and hooligans, not a Western Hunan hegemon. To be called a hegemon, one must have money. But given Yan Laoqi’s background, during every political movement, he would have been a target for investigation and criticism—where would he get money? This story was told by Yan Laoqi himself.”