Guangxi Province, Guilin City.

Old Shengji Rice Noodle Shop.

Jiang Lian added vinegar to the rice noodle bowl in front of him. This was reportedly the shop’s signature dish, the bowl crowded with vibrant colors that were both rich and appealing: the translucent white noodles, the emerald green scallions, the vermilion braised meat, the dark brown pickled beans, and half a cross-cut braised egg.

Shen Gun excitedly carried his bowl over and asked: “How does it taste?”

He had ordered sour bamboo shoot noodles with an extra serving, a large golden pile heaped at the top of his bowl.

Jiang Lian said, “The flavor is a bit strange.”

Of course, it might have been the mediocre dining environment—noisy and crowded, with the plastic stool beneath him having a cracked leg that kept tilting to one side—that left Jiang Lian unenthusiastic. He had become wealthy overnight—he hadn’t lacked money before, but receiving wages from Master Gan was entirely different from having large sums of cash in his account, and naturally wanted to improve his quality of life. But Shen Gun kept dragging him to roadside stalls and making him ride public buses, euphemistically calling it “not losing touch with the masses.”

If this continued…

Jiang Lian had a new worry that he hadn’t had before: he feared that someday he might meet an unfortunate end before spending all his money, which would be most uneconomical.

Shen Gun said, “Strange is exactly right.”

He expounded knowledgeably: “Guilin rice noodles can be found all over the country, but based on my years of noodle-slurping experience nationwide, Shanghai’s Guilin rice noodles have a Shanghai flavor, Beijing’s Guilin rice noodles have a Beijing flavor—they’ve all been modified to suit local tastes. Those who claim to love Guilin rice noodles, when they come to Guilin to eat the real thing, find themselves unaccustomed to it.”

Jiang Lian wasn’t in the mood to discuss rice noodles. He looked toward the bustling little street: “When will the Wan Fenghuo people arrive?”

Shen Gun checked the oil-stained clock hanging on the wall: “Soon, they said one o’clock.”

“And the Guishan Estate people are picking us up at two?”

Shen Gun nodded: “Of course. Liu Guanuo has already arranged it. The mountain lodge there is called Xiulan Residence, and the person receiving us is named Lu Sanming, also called Lu Lutong.”

Before even meeting him, Shen Gun was already praising Lu Lutong, probably because he liked the nickname: “They say he’s a veteran who knows everything about southeastern and northwestern Guangxi. Guangxi has many Zhuang people, right? He can even speak the Zhuang language—what a perfect guide! I tell you, when visiting a place, having a local to lead the way saves at least half your worries.”

Saves worries?

Jiang Lian didn’t think so. He stirred his noodles with his chopsticks, turning the once appetizing bowl into an unrecognizable mess. “I don’t think this trip will save us any worries, especially regarding Yan Luo. He’s already dead—how can we investigate?”

Shen Gun criticized him: “Little Lian-Lian, now you’re being negative. Did you think everyone lives as long as your Master Gan? How old would Yan Luo be now? Even without the car accident, he would have been long dead anyway.”

The letter Yan Luo sent to Yan Laoqi had a postmark from Guilin City, Guangxi Province.

Jiang Lian had compiled all related information and even used computer simulations to generate images of Yan Luo’s appearance at fifty, sixty, and even seventy years old. Then, on Shen Gun’s recommendation, he commissioned someone named Wan Fenghuo at a “friendly price” of ten percent off.

According to Shen Gun, Wan Fenghuo was in the business of being paid to investigate information for people. No matter how secretive the information or how long ago the events occurred, as long as the price was right, he could dig up fragments of information from eight hundred years ago.

Jiang Lian had originally thought that finding someone would be a protracted affair, but things progressed unexpectedly smoothly. Two days later, they received the first round of information: Yan Luo had lived in Guilin under the alias Yan Sixi, and in his later years had worked as a sanitation worker. In 1993, while sweeping the streets, he failed to evade a fast-moving car and was killed.

Calculating the timing, it must have happened shortly after he mailed the letter to Yan Laoqi.

Jiang Lian found this outcome hard to accept: someone as ruthless as Yan Luo, who in his youth had associated with bandits and participated in robbery and murder, and who in his prime had abandoned his family, taking only a box when he fled—the setup had been so elaborate that it seemed he must surely accomplish some “great enterprise”—and then he died so ordinarily? And after sending Yan Laoqi a box of calligraphy and paintings, he became a sanitation worker?

Shen Gun, with his experience, urged him: “What they found is just surface information. To see the essence beyond the appearances, you’ll need to go there and ask in person.”

That seemed reasonable. Master Gan’s funeral was over, and it was time to get things back on track.

This time, Jiang Lian didn’t let Kuang Meiying and the others follow: her identity was both mysterious and important, and she couldn’t risk any more incidents. It was more secure for her to stay at the old residence with Wei Biao accompanying her—modern transportation was convenient anyway, and if they needed her, she could arrive within a day at most with just one phone call.

Just before boarding the plane, he received another call from Wan Fenghuo’s end, saying they had gradually uncovered some new information over the past couple of days, which would be included in the information packet for in-person delivery.

Jiang Lian was halfway through his rice noodles when he witnessed this in-person delivery.

The messenger was a young man in his twenties wearing a delivery uniform, with a document packet tucked under his arm. He first verified Jiang Lian’s ID card and fingerprints, and after handing over the packet, he opened his phone to record a video on the spot, saying: “Previously, we just took photos for proof when delivering items to clients, but now we have to record videos—it’s our responsibility to the customer.”

Jiang Lian had no choice but to awkwardly open the packet in front of the camera.

Shen Gun chatted casually with the young man: “You’re quite advanced now, aren’t you?”

The young man looked proud: “Of course. The boss says that only by keeping up with the times and improving user experience in every aspect can we expand our business. We now have a nationwide system where every case is uploaded, and colleagues from all regions can browse, comment, and suggest ideas. But don’t worry about privacy leaks; we’re very professional and only upload target photos and progress steps.”

As he spoke, he pulled up a stool and sat at the table: “Please take a look first, and I’ll explain. Feel free to ask questions anytime—those last few photos are complimentary; normally, once we find out the person is dead, that’s the end of it.”

Jiang Lian flipped through the documents one by one.

Most of the information he had already heard over the phone. The additional items were photographs.

Half were Yan Luo’s daily photos, judging by his age, all between his sixties and seventies, either sweeping streets or posing stiffly. The edges of the photos were yellowed, and several had traces of being torn off and reattached on the back—who knows where they had found and retrieved them. The other half appeared to be photos of a burned-down house.

Jiang Lian picked up two portrait photos that had been candid rather than posed, so the subject’s expressions and movements were more natural. After studying them for a while, he asked: “His leg… was there something wrong with it?”

It wasn’t exactly a limp, but the way he stepped seemed somewhat unbalanced.

The young man nodded: “Yes, yes, one of his legs had suffered frostbite. According to people who had seen him, he always walked with a slight drag.”

“Where did he get frostbite?”

The young man was taken aback: “Mr. Jiang, we’re only responsible for finding people. What you’re asking is too specific.”

After hearing this, Jiang Lian also felt he was being unreasonable.

Shen Gun leaned over and asked: “What’s special about frostbite?”

Jiang Lian said: “I just find it… strange.”

Although Hunan gets quite cold in winter, it shouldn’t be cold enough to cause “frostbite.” As for Guangxi, which is even further south, how could Yan Luo possibly get frostbite there?

He quickly flipped through the stack of documents: “We only know he was working as a sanitation worker around 1990. What about before that? Is there nothing?”

The young man said, “The reason we found this person so quickly is that he had been a sanitation worker, so there’s an employment record. Before that is harder to trace. A lonely old man, one meal hungry and one meal full, how different is he from a vagrant? Besides, look at the era when he fled—the whole country was in a state of disorder, which makes it difficult to investigate. According to people who had interactions with Yan Luo, the old man was extremely reclusive and never mentioned his background to anyone, but don’t worry, this is just the second round of information; we’ll continue finding ways to learn more.”

That would have to do for now. Jiang Lian looked at the other photos: “And what’s this? Yan Luo’s… residence burned down?”

The young man shook his head: “I just mentioned that when tracing someone, we usually stop at confirming their death, right? But something happened right after Yan Luo died, so we included it—in those days, death procedures weren’t so standardized, and since he had no relatives or friends, and was so badly hit, there was no need for him to go to the morgue. He was taken directly to the crematorium to wait in line for cremation.”

Jiang Lian had an ominous premonition: “Don’t tell me… the crematorium caught fire?”

The young man nodded: “Exactly. That night, there was only one staff member on duty at the crematorium. Around midnight, a fire broke out that burned down most of the crematorium. Subsequent investigation revealed that the staff member had started the fire. He claimed to have long-standing conflicts with management and had recently had his wages reduced, so it was deliberate revenge.”

Shen Gun muttered, “If he had conflicts with management, why burn down the facility?”

The young man responded: “Exactly! That’s why some people’s logic is hard to understand. And by starting the fire, he even burned himself to death. What was the point?”

Jiang Lian was startled: “He burned to death inside?”

“Yes. Although the crematorium was in a remote location, there were still residents nearby. When they came to fight the fire, they heard him screaming for help from inside the flames, but the fire was too intense for him to escape.”

He added, “This incident was quite sensational at the time. It was reported in the news, and many people knew about it.”

Jiang Lian suddenly asked: “Can those residents who rushed to the scene to fight the fire still be found now?”

The young man was caught off guard: “Huh?”

Then he stammered: “It… shouldn’t be difficult. But weren’t we looking for Yan Luo? Finding… finding residents is a different matter.”

Jiang Lian said, “It’s fine, I’ll pay the same rate. Just find them.”

The young man had just left with his new assignment when Lu Sanming arrived.

The street outside the shop was too narrow for a commercial vehicle to enter, so he had jogged all the way there. He wasn’t late—it was still five minutes before two o’clock—but his face was already full of apology as he shouted to Shen Gun from a distance: “I’m late, I’m late.”

This Lu Sanming was about the same age as Liu Guanguo—short, stout, and solid. The top of his head was completely bald, shining like a light bulb. His face was ruddy and often smiling; one could tell at a glance that he excelled at receiving and seeing off guests, no wonder they called him “Lu Lutong” (Smooth Road).

He led the two men toward the car while trying to ingratiate himself with Shen Gun: “Rare guests, rare guests! Our Guangxi… ah, it’s too remote, we haven’t had a VIP like you for many years.”

Shen Gun couldn’t resist the flattery, or perhaps he had never been flattered this way before, so he seemed somewhat smug, while pretending to be modest: “Not at all, not at all. I’m just slightly acquainted with Miss Meng.”

He even used the word “slightly”—Jiang Lian gave him an annoyed glance.

Lu Sanming was excited: “How could it be just ‘slightly’? Three-layered lotus petals—in all these years, only Assistant Meng has achieved that, and Assistant Meng has worked many years for it. I heard from Old Liu that you’re highly knowledgeable—how is Miss Meng? I haven’t seen her for a long time. The last time I saw her…”

He gestured at a height near his waist: “Last time I saw her, she was only… this tall. When you see her again, tell her to visit Guangxi sometime. We have many mountains here, and things have changed quite a bit.”

For some reason, Jiang Lian felt that Lu Sanming seemed somewhat dejected toward the end of his speech—that old-fashioned dejection of someone who had fallen out of favor.

Shen Gun said: “Certainly, certainly.”

Jiang Lian thought scornfully: What a big talker.

Shen Gun’s “three-layered lotus petals” might sound impressive, but compared to someone like Meng Jinsong, he was far behind: his entire interaction was with Liu Guanguo, and he couldn’t even speak directly with Meng Qianzi.

Thinking of Meng Qianzi, Jiang Lian felt somewhat dazed, as if after she left, she had been sealed in a beautiful crystal box with no news whatsoever—of course, she might not necessarily have been “confined”; perhaps she had moved in voluntarily, unwilling to open the door and come out.

Because, with her personality, who could stop her if she truly wanted to do something? So she definitely wouldn’t be confined—at most, she had confined herself.

Suddenly, he heard Shen Gun ask: “Are you in charge of things on the Guangxi side?”

Lu Sanming replied: “No, not with the Sixth Master around. How could it be my turn? But what can we do? Sixth Sister… she doesn’t manage anything, ah, well, let’s not talk about her. We’re here, get in, get in.”

The scale of Xiulan Residence was much more magnificent than Cloud Dream Peak, approaching five-star standards, showing that Guilin’s scenery truly was the best under heaven—their foundation was greater, and their facilities and equipment were superior.

Jiang Lian stayed in a luxurious king-sized room. Upon entering, he saw a welcome fruit basket with a card beside it. At first, he thought it was a welcome card, but upon closer inspection, he discovered it was a theater ticket for Cantonese opera.

Cantonese opera, also known as Southern opera, was a local theatrical style. Jiang Lian had never seen it before, but he instinctively felt that the tender, melodious Cantonese pronunciation and singing style would be especially pleasing to the ear. He checked the time—it was tonight—and then the seat: a VIP golden section.

Not bad. It seemed that Xiulan Residence had a partnership with the nearby Cantonese opera theater, providing tickets as a benefit for guests.

Jiang Lian took a shower, had a short nap, then pocketed the ticket and went out to find Shen Gun, wondering if he wanted to join.

As soon as he knocked on Shen Gun’s door and glanced inside the room, Jiang Lian knew there was no hope of his coming to the opera.

His room was covered with mountain maps, photo albums, and books spread all over the bed and floor, resembling a junk shop.

Jiang Lian frowned: “What’s all this…?”

Shen Gun’s face was radiant: “Little Lian-Lian, I just learned from Lu Lutong—do you know? Miss Duan, Miss Duan has been here before.”

Jiang Lian thought for a moment before realizing that Miss Duan referred to Duan Wenxi. Strangely enough, while Meng Qianzi consistently called her “Old Lady Duan,” Shen Gun insisted on calling her “Miss Duan.”

He said, “What’s so surprising about that? Hasn’t Old Lady Duan traveled throughout the country? She’s been everywhere.”

Shen Gun was excited: “That’s different! Miss Duan came here in the 1970s when she was already over seventy. Lu Lutong says she had people accompanying her the whole time, and they took many photos, so I asked him to find them all for me to see.”

So that was it. Encountering another of these “never met in person but sharing drinks across time” distant friends, Shen Gun probably wouldn’t budge even for ghost opera, let alone Cantonese opera.

Jiang Lian casually asked: “Are there any famous mountains in Guangxi? Did Old Lady Duan come here… to see the Guilin landscape?”

Shen Gun said, “There aren’t famous mountains, but there is the Guangxi Arc.”

Jiang Lian didn’t understand: “What lake?”

Shen Gun couldn’t explain clearly, so he pulled him over to look at the mountain maps.

With the map, it became much clearer.

It turned out that the mountains in Guangxi were strangely arranged, forming four huge concave arcs, like bent bows.

The first arc was: Jiuwan Mountains—Damiao Mountains—Danan Mountains.

The second arc was: Phoenix Mountains—Tianping Mountains.

The third arc was: Duyang Mountains—Daming Mountains—Zhenlong Mountains—Lotus Mountains—Dayao Mountains—Jiaqiao Ridge.

The fourth arc was: Daqing Mountains—Shiwan Mountains—Liuwan Mountains—Yunkai Mountains.

Among them, the third arc, viewed from the map, precisely intersected with the Tropic of Cancer, with the intersection point being Zhenlong Mountain. This arc had been named the Guangxi Arc by the famous geologist Li Siguang.

Jiang Lian looked closely at the mountain names and found them amusing: “There are Six Ten Thousand Mountains, Nine Ten Thousand Mountains, and Ten Ten Thousand Mountains, but where are the other ‘ten thousand’ mountains?”

Shen Gun shook his head: “There aren’t any others. Officially, there are only six, nine, and ten. But the mountain ranges in Guangxi are so deep and mysterious, perhaps they exist, and you just don’t know about them.”

Perhaps so. Jiang Lian pointed to Phoenix Mountain and Zhenlong Mountain: “Such remote places with imposing names like ‘dragon’ and ‘phoenix’—quite grand.”

Shen Gun circled an area between Phoenix Mountain and Zhenlong Mountain: “They say Miss Duan went here back then.”

Jiang Lian said, “I’ll be going then. I won’t disturb your… long-distance conversation with Old Lady Duan.”

Jiang Lian had dinner and strolled over, arriving just in time for the opera’s beginning.

It was a small theater, very old, with a distinct feeling of the 1980s and 90s. The stage was wooden, the curtains were dark red velvet, and the seats were red vinyl folding chairs. Jiang Lian quite liked the atmosphere, feeling as if he had been immersed in another time and space, calm and peaceful.

But others didn’t share his appreciation. Some who had come with tickets left upon seeing the venue, grumbling: “I knew you get what you pay for. The hotel gave these away for free—how good could they be?”

Before the show started, half of the remaining audience left because the announcer apologized: “Miss Qu isn’t feeling well today, so she won’t be performing.”

Miss Qu was probably one of the lead performers, and those people had come specifically to see her. Watching them leave in small groups, Jiang Lian thought to himself: Today, I’ll be a dedicated supporter of the supporting actors.

Everyone comes for the lead role—how lonely the supporting actors must be.