Que Cha woke up in the middle of the night, feeling the latex mattress beside her slight shift. It was Jiang Baichuan getting up.
She remained still, harboring resentment—she had quarreled with Jiang Baichuan before going to bed and vowed not to show him any kindness for the next couple of days. But her ears betrayed her, perking up to catch every movement Jiang Baichuan made: he pulled out a chair and sat at the desk, turned on his computer, put on his headphones, and the room’s lighting changed as he started watching videos again.
Que Cha bit her teeth in frustration: here she was, a beautiful woman in her prime, accompanying an aging man, yet he didn’t know how to cherish her. He had promised to show her around Xi’an properly, but instead, he remained distracted every day, constantly preoccupied with matters in Ban Ya.
That dog of a man, did he think she would stay forever tied to his old tree? After all, their relationship had no clear status, and there were plenty of strong young men around. She could choose anyone she wanted.
Lao Dao would be good—strong and vigorous, certainly more lasting than someone surnamed Jiang. Shan Qiang’s looks weren’t as good, but he was young, just in his early twenties, like fresh grass. And Xing Shen…
Her thoughts wandered when she thought of Xing Shen.
***
Que Cha first met Xing Shen in Ban Ya.
It was raining that day when Sister Hua took her to see the newly cleaned small building—she hadn’t expected much from village accommodations, so she was quite satisfied with what she saw.
After all, being in a village, having clean windows and tidy rooms was already quite impressive.
She opened the window to look at the countryside scenery.
The rain wasn’t heavy.
In the mountains, when the rain falls lightly, fog tends to form—the view was misty, and even Ban Ya right below appeared hazy and indistinct, like an ethereal painting.
A man walked past below, holding an umbrella.
That was Xing Shen.
Que Cha hadn’t paid much attention to him at first, only thinking the scene looked like an ink painting, with man and landscape complementing each other beautifully. Then Sister Hua came over and told her, that was Xing Shen, such an outstanding figure, but what a pity—he was blind.
Blind?
Que Cha stared at Xing Shen.
For a blind man, she thought, how strange that he needed no assistance, used no white cane or guide dog, yet walked more gracefully than most people, even carrying an air of tranquil detachment like “taking life as it comes in the misty rain.”
…
Que Cha turned over restlessly.
These past days, she had been complaining about Ban Ya being dilapidated and desolate, “enough to make one sick with boredom.” She had pestered Jiang Baichuan for a long time before he finally agreed to take her back to the bustling world.
But thinking about it now, Ban Ya had its merits.
At least she had met Xing Shen there, hadn’t she?
***
Jiang Baichuan remained completely oblivious to Que Cha’s thoughts. These days, his mind was entirely occupied with the three “people” secretly imprisoned in Ban Ya.
Opening the folder, there were countless short videos—this was what he had demanded: all interactions and conversations with these three people must be recorded.
The mouse hovered over videos labeled with different dates and names before finally selecting one.
The video opened with several seconds of darkness and unsteady footage. Yan Tuo struggled to sit upright in the chair, then turned his head to spit out bloody saliva.
His face and neck were covered in blood stains and bruises, his cheeks slightly sunken from being forced to go without food and water for several days. Under the light, the shadows on his face appeared particularly heavy.
The questioner was Jiang Baichuan, though he wasn’t visible in the frame.
Jiang Baichuan: “How did you find Gou Ya?”
Yan Tuo looked directly at the camera, trying to smile but too weak from hunger: “Found him. I had a company dealing in Chinese medicinal materials, also involved in funding direct sourcing—providing money for people to go to remote areas to look for wild medicinal herbs. Cultivated ones are always somewhat inferior.”
At this point, he licked his lips.
A hand appeared in the frame, splashing a small cap of water onto Yan Tuo’s face. He desperately tilted his head up, sticking out his tongue to lap up whatever he could reach.
The small amount of water didn’t provide much relief; instead, it made him hungrier, causing his body to tremble slightly.
“Once, when they went mountain collecting, I had nothing to do and went along. That’s when we found Gou Ya. We thought he was lost and wanted to do a good deed by taking him home, but he couldn’t tell us his name or address. The collection wasn’t finished, so we took him with us.”
Jiang Baichuan: “Then what?”
“Then we discovered he was different from normal people in some ways, or rather, stronger. In business, we inevitably have some unsavory matters that need someone willing to cross lines to handle them. Someone like Gou Ya, with no identity or records, was perfect.”
Jiang Baichuan: “Where did you find him?”
Yan Tuo raised his head, licking his dry lips again: “Give me a map of the area, and I’ll point it out to you.”
Jiang Baichuan paused the video here, zooming in on Yan Tuo’s face, then zooming in further until the pixels blurred and his eyes were barely recognizable as eyes.
He felt Yan Tuo wasn’t telling the truth, but had no way to refute it: no matter how much they beat or tortured him, Yan Tuo stuck to these few sentences.
Jiang Baichuan frowned deeply, and after a long while, clicked on the second video.
This time the subject was Sun Zhou.
He wore only shorts, had cloth stuffed in his mouth, and his limbs were bound with bandages. He was spread-eagled and fixed to an iron bed frame, his eyes showing terror as he struggled desperately, veins bulging on his forehead from agitation.
Sister Hua appeared in the frame, holding a bundle of wooden sticks about three inches long and as thick as lotus roots. She dipped the stick heads in an oil jar, then moved them toward an oil lamp to light them. The stick heads burst into orange-red flames with hints of rusty green, nearly two feet high.
Sister Hua brought the flames close to Sun Zhou’s face.
This was nothing short of live roasting. Sun Zhou’s body jerked violently, struggling more intensely. The camera zoomed in on Sun Zhou’s face, close enough to see the wisps of white vapor rising from his burning flesh and hear the sizzling of oil.
Jiang Baichuan paused the video a second time, zooming in on Sun Zhou’s face until his bulging eyes filled nearly half the screen.
Even through the pixelation, one could clearly see several bright red bloodlines crossing through the pupils of both his eyes.
Jiang Baichuan shook his head, muttering softly: “He can’t be saved.”
The last video he opened was of Gou Ya. As he clicked it, his throat tightened slightly, his lips becoming dry—though he had watched all these videos before and should have been mentally prepared, his body still showed stress responses precisely because of that preparation.
Like Sun Zhou, Gou Ya wore only shorts, but he was unconscious, due to his severe injuries: Nie Jiuluo had cut him in three places—neck, arms, and thighs—to verify his identity as a “Di Xiao.” To temporarily incapacitate him, two more cuts were made: one stabbing the crown of his head, another severing his spine.
Thus, including his previous left eye injury, Gou Ya had six wounds in total.
The video showed his front and face. At first glance, his left eye socket appeared whitish, and there was a small white tip on his crown. The close-up revealed these were covered in something resembling silk cocoons or spider webs, wrapped tightly.
There was no need to watch frame by frame—all six wounds were in the same condition. Jiang Baichuan jumped directly to 2:39.
The screen showed a close-up of Gou Ya’s left eye wound, still tightly wrapped in white cocoon silk. The cameraman’s breathing was heavy, his voice unusual: “I’m filming his blind eye. Previously the eyeball was destroyed, but look carefully now, this cocoon membrane has started to bulge…”
To help viewers understand the “bulging” effect, the camera angle shifted to eye level, and indeed, as described: the membrane beneath seemed to be filling with air, gradually swelling upward, looking ready to burst…
A phone rang, set to vibrate for the night, so it just hummed on the desk like an agitated toad.
Afraid of disturbing Que Cha, Jiang Baichuan quickly closed the video and took the phone to the balcony.
The night was deep, but being a city, the perpetual lights diluted the darkness. Cars moved along the roads below, and in the distance, the heavy silhouette of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda was barely visible.
The call was from Shan Qiang, speaking urgently and quickly.
Jiang Baichuan listened quietly: “Unofficial channels?”
“Yes, Uncle Jiang, isn’t it intriguing? They just posted it on WeChat groups, Moments, and forums, and didn’t use any official channels at all. They claim to have filed a police report, saying the company is anxious and independently offering a reward to find people, but I asked my friends at the police station—nobody received any report. Filing a police report? Must have been in their dreams.”
Jiang Baichuan made a sound of acknowledgment: “And then?”
Shan Qiang hesitated a bit: “Da Tou and I were thinking of pretending to be insiders and making contact with them. As the old saying goes, if the mountain won’t come to me, I’ll chase after it…”
“If the mountain won’t come to me, I’ll chase after it”—the adaptation of this phrase had a lively, rustic feel to it.
Jiang Baichuan gave a soft laugh.
It had been two weeks since receiving the three pieces of “cargo” from Nie Er, and truthfully, these two weeks had been like hitting a dead end—no progress at all. Most people had left, leaving only Sister Hua and four or five others to maintain Ban Ya.
Gou Ya remained unconscious, Sun Zhou was under “treatment,” and Yan Tuo had confessed, though his confession was impeccable—he owned many businesses, benefiting from a profitable father. Not only did he have a Chinese medicine distribution company, but also sourced cultivation farms. His mother, Lin Xirou, was indeed a long-term vegetative patient; they had photos to prove it, showing a withered, shrunken old woman near death. The frequent phone calls were true because Yan Tuo was a filial son, with caregivers regularly updating him about Lin Xirou’s condition…
“Impeccable” had two meanings here: either it was genuinely true, or the other party had crafted a perfect setup.
Jiang Baichuan’s instinct told him it was the latter. The waters behind Yan Tuo were deeper than he’d imagined, much deeper.
After a long silence, he finally said: “Making contact is necessary, but we need to plan it carefully.”
***
The clay pot lid clattered from the boiling steam—the tremella soup was ready.
Sister Lu turned off the heat, ladled out a bowl into a black lacquered tray with gold designs, and carried it out.
This was an old Republican-era courtyard house, though it didn’t strictly follow the period’s architectural style. It had a blend of Chinese and Western elements, with the main building being a two-story structure. The location was quiet despite being in a busy area—looking up, one could see the commercial buildings of the city center.
Sister Lu was a housekeeper who usually only provided in-home services. Earlier this year, she took this job when the agency told her about a young female client surnamed Nie who needed a live-in housekeeper. The salary was high, the work wasn’t demanding—just cooking and general cleaning.
Sister Lu had jumped at the chance, and after starting, she felt truly fortunate: good accommodation, good food, a light workload, and an easy-going client…
Such good fortune couldn’t be bought even with endless prayers.
Miss Nie had gone to southern Shaanxi for inspiration last month and might have caught a chill. Since returning, she’d been coughing with a cold, so Sister Lu made her tremella soup every night to soothe her throat and moisten her lungs.
It was raining heavily outside, but fortunately, the house had eaves all around the courtyard, forming a covered corridor that kept one dry when moving between rooms. Sister Lu followed this sheltered walkway to the main building and went inside.
The first floor was a living room, unlit but still visible thanks to light filtering down from the second floor, casting a faint glow on the spiral staircase to the left.
Sister Lu climbed the stairs. Miss Nie was a sculptor who worked with various types but specialized in traditional Chinese clay sculpture. The second floor served as both her studio and living space.
The second floor was much brighter, designed as an open space without partitions. Two large tables dominated the area—one was a workbench holding axes, saws, hammers, wire, wooden frames, sculpting knives, and various tools that might make a layman mistake it for a carpenter’s bench. The other was a sculpting turntable with a rotating platform in the middle, allowing 360-degree rotation of sculptures to save effort when working on details.
Throughout the room, sculptures of varying heights were displayed—some finished, some in the drying stage, and others temporarily abandoned mid-work when she wasn’t satisfied. She would cover these unfinished pieces with clear plastic sheets and regularly spray them with water to maintain their plasticity, waiting for future inspiration to continue.
…
Nie Jiuluo wasn’t working; she was quietly looking through a photo album. She had changed into a pearlescent silver silk robe for bed and sat in a comfortable pose.
Sister Lu set down the tray and glanced at the album. It was an old album with yellowed edges, but the people in the photos were young and vivid.
Nie Jiuluo was looking at a wedding photo.
Sister Lu immediately recognized their relationship with Nie Jiuluo from their features: “Oh, are these your parents?”
Nie Jiuluo made a sound of agreement and tilted the photo toward Sister Lu: “Do I look like them?”
Sister Lu nodded repeatedly: “Yes, you’re beautiful like them—you got the best of both parents.”
Nie Jiuluo smiled, touching her face: “Really?”
The housekeeping company’s policy was for employees to focus on work and minimize conversation, especially avoiding inquiries into employers’ private lives. Additionally, since Nie Jiuluo often traveled for inspiration, Sister Lu knew nothing about her family life despite working there for some time.
However, it seemed appropriate now to have a casual conversation, especially since Nie Jiuluo appeared receptive to the topic, smiling warmly.
“They… don’t live with you?”
Nie Jiuluo said: “My mother died in an accident long ago. My father was too heartbroken to move on, so he jumped from a building.”
Sister Lu was caught off guard, her mind freezing momentarily before blurting out: “What a good man.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to slap herself—their deaths were so tragic, and she was praising it as “good”?
She stammered an explanation: “No, I mean, in TV shows, usually when men die, it’s women who follow in death, rarely the other way around—your father… must have been someone who valued love deeply.”
Nie Jiuluo looked at the photo, her voice neutral: “A good man… maybe, but not necessarily a good father. When he jumped, he probably forgot he still had a child to raise.”
Sister Lu was mortified beyond words: she had no idea how to continue this conversation.
Nie Jiuluo noticed her discomfort and looked up with a smile: “It’s fine, I’m not sensitive about this, and I don’t hold it against my father. Just sharing some thoughts.”
She might not have been bothered, but to Sister Lu, this felt like a major “work mistake.” She awkwardly made a few more comments before practically fleeing downstairs.