When Nie Jiuluo left the braised meat shop, she deliberately looked up at the sign above.

Lu Xiaobing.

She liked this name—it was good. “Little Soldier” had an air of honest diligence about it, much more approachable than grandiose names like “King of Braised Meats” or “Master of Marinades.”

She didn’t rush to get a taxi. The cold air hadn’t moved south yet, and the temperature was perfect for walking—she needed to walk for a while, to step out of that story about Di Xiao and back into ordinary life with its warm, mundane bustle.

Now, her only worry was Dog Tooth.

In three months, or at most half a year, Dog Tooth would surely wake up. Once he did, she wouldn’t be able to continue her peaceful “vacuum” anymore.

Then again, there was still Yan Tuo between them: if Dog Tooth revealed the truth, it would expose Yan Tuo’s lies too, and Yan Tuo would surely do something about that.

For some reason, Yan Tuo’s final expression and his last question made her feel he was somewhat pitiful—perhaps there was more to his story than met the eye.

But her heart quickly hardened again. What was there to pity? Whether there was a hidden story or not, a Chang ghost was still a Chang ghost. A thief who steals is still a thief—the police just catch them, leaving it to judges and journalists to worry about whether the thief deserves sympathy or has some tragic backstory.

She raised her hand to hail a taxi.

When she got home, Sister Lu had just gone to bed but got up and put on clothes when she heard movement, asking if Nie Jiuluo wanted something to eat.

Nie Jiuluo waved her off, gesturing for Sister Lu to go back to sleep, then walked straight through the courtyard, pushed open the hall door, and after a few steps, feeling tired of her high heels, kicked them off and went upstairs barefoot.

The studio was really big. Though it contained many things, sometimes late at night when she looked around, it still felt empty.

It felt particularly empty now.

Nie Jiuluo sat at her work desk and pulled out a long strip of light gold paper to write down today’s events.

One met with Yan Tuo and settled accounts.

Two, Lu Xiaobing’s food was quite good and worth going to again.

Three…

There were no three, she couldn’t think of anything else.

She dropped the pen, folded the paper into a star, and walked to an old double-door cabinet against the wall.

The cabinet doors were carved with Shen Tu and Yu Lei, China’s earliest door gods, both with slightly open mouths forming holes.

Nie Jiuluo inserted the star into Yu Lei’s mouth, paused, then bent down slightly and opened the cabinet doors.

Inside were two large boxes of folded paper stars.

They were two custom-made open glass jars, left and right. The label on the left read “2002-2012,” the right “2013-“; the left was almost full, the right half full; the stars on the left were dimmer, the paper more aged, while those on the right were much brighter.

Nie Jiuluo took a deep breath, reached into the left jar, and, like drawing from a prize pool, stirred around several times before pulling out two small stars.

Opening stars was best done with some ceremony. She turned off the main lights, switched on the floor reading lamp, then sat on the sofa beneath it and carefully opened one.

—”Zhu Wei pulled my pigtail, made me cry, the teacher made him apologize, to make a good impression on the teacher, I said it was okay. Zhu Wei, if I don’t destroy your whole family, I’m not human. 2002.3.20″

Nie Jiuluo burst out laughing.

Who was Zhu Wei? She had no memory of them at all.

But it was good—even when bullied as a child, she was never spiritually crushed.

Nie Jiuluo was still smiling as she opened the second star, but as she unfolded it, her smile gradually faded.

This one was from May 6, 2003. Honestly, it wasn’t that long after the previous one, but she remembered it too clearly—she could even recall some details: after writing this one, she had broken her mechanical pencil’s plastic case and drunk a glass of watered-down white liquor to show her determination to burn her bridges.

—”For the happiness of my life, I’ve decided to negotiate with Jiang Baichuan.”

…

Jiang Baichuan—it was time to give Jiang Baichuan an update.

Nie Jiuluo opened the “burn after reading” app but hesitated as she typed: if she told Jiang Baichuan that she had let Yan Tuo go without stopping him, he would certainly make a fuss. Better to avoid the trouble—after all, she and Jiang Baichuan weren’t superiors and subordinates or close partners—paying debts was enough, she just needed to fulfill her duty to inform.

She considered for a moment, then typed: “Today received a call from an unknown number, it was Yan Tuo.”

A few minutes later, the reply came back with two words: “Call me?”

Nie Jiuluo typed: “Okay.”

The phone rang immediately. Jiang Baichuan’s voice was somewhat excited: “What did he say? Did he reveal any valuable information?”

Nie Jiuluo said, “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. He didn’t say anything useful. He knows some things about Di Xiao, but not everything. From what I can tell, he knows about Di Xiao’s origins, the Chantou Army, and the existence of the Dog Family People, but he doesn’t know about the Dao Family or the Whip Family. He also asked me how to kill Di Xiao, and I said I didn’t know.”

Jiang Baichuan said bitterly: “He still claims he’s just an ordinary person who happened to find Dog Tooth… I knew that kid was up to something.”

Nie Jiuluo made a sound of agreement. She hadn’t lied—Yan Tuo did know these things, she had told him. Jiang Baichuan only needed to know what Yan Tuo knew, not who had told him.

“Also, I asked about Sun Zhou. Yan Tuo said Sun Zhou isn’t with them.”

Jiang Baichuan laughed coldly: “That kid’s full of lies, who knows what’s true and what isn’t.”

Nie Jiuluo: “I don’t think he was lying. The scene was on fire that day, everything was chaotic. You thought Sun Zhou was taken by them, they thought Sun Zhou was still with you—isn’t there a third possibility that Sun Zhou escaped during the chaos?”

Jiang Baichuan paused for a few seconds: “I suppose… that possibility can’t be ruled out.”

Nie Jiuluo said: “Sun Zhou was already sprouting roots, and now he’s out of control. The situation will only get more dangerous. You’d better send people to look for him—it won’t be good if something happens.”

Jiang Baichuan agreed readily, then said: “What about you? Since Yan Tuo escaped, we haven’t been able to track him down. This phone call might be a prelude—I suspect he’s planning something big.”

Nie Jiuluo’s gaze fell on the large bag she had brought back: he had planned something big, but it was already done.

“Second Nie, you should still be careful. How about this—I’ll send some people over. Don’t worry, they won’t know about you, they’ll just stay in that area. I’ll leave you a number, and if you need help, you can call them. One good man needs three helpers—it’s convenient to have people to help in emergencies.”

This suggestion was reasonable and thoughtful. Refusing would hurt their relationship. Nie Jiuluo smiled and said, “Alright.”

Jiang Baichuan had made the call from the balcony. When he hung up, he checked the time—11:30.

It was almost time for Sun Zhou’s meal. He needed to check on him.

The balcony is connected to the bedroom. He opened the glass partition door. Que Cha was half asleep and, hearing the noise, thought he was coming to bed, but saw through sleepy eyes that he opened the bedroom door and walked out instead.

Que Cha: “Going out?”

Jiang Baichuan: “Not out, down.”

Que Cha made a sound of acknowledgment, turned over, and quickly fell back asleep.

…

Jiang Baichuan went all the way down to the basement.

This villa complex wasn’t designed with basements, but since the house was his own and he could dig however he wanted, most homeowners had expanded downward. Jiang Baichuan had added one floor below, which he rarely used but had found very useful lately.

The basement was about 100 square meters, divided into three bedrooms and a living room, complete with kitchen and bathroom. A pump was installed for oil and wastewater.

Entering the room, he heard the rhythmic sound of chopping. Big Head, wearing an apron, was raising and lowering his knife over a cutting board: on it lay red meat, both pork ribs and liver.

Jiang Baichuan went over: “All fresh?”

Big Head: “Of course. I told the seller I’d complain and return anything that had been frozen and thawed.”

As he spoke, he finished chopping and brought over a stainless steel bowl, piling the meat into it and sticking a fork on top.

Jiang Baichuan took the bowl: “I’ll take it in, you go about your business.”

He carried the bowl to the innermost bedroom and knocked. Unlike the other rooms, this one had a padlock installed outside, though it was currently open.

The door opened, and Shan Qiang poked his head out: “Oh, Uncle Jiang.”

As he spoke, he stepped aside, revealing Sun Zhou sitting on the bed behind him.

Sun Zhou was watching TV but looked toward Jiang Baichuan when he heard him, his gaze immediately falling on the red meat in the bowl. His face showed disgust.

Compared to before, he had become much more gaunt. Previously a decent-looking young man, now he somehow looked ratlike, especially around the eyes, where the flesh sagged, adding to his deteriorated appearance.

Jiang Baichuan smiled warmly: “Sun Zhou, how are you feeling today?”

Sun Zhou immediately complained: “Uncle Jiang, can you stop making me eat… this stuff?”

He pointed at the bowl of meat in Jiang Baichuan’s hands with a nauseated expression: “Shouldn’t it at least be cooked? Raw meat has bacteria, maybe even tapeworms. I feel sick just smelling it—is this even fit for human consumption?”

Jiang Baichuan spoke gently: “It’s for treating your illness, just bear with it.”

Mentioning treatment only made Sun Zhou more resentful: “Uncle Jiang, at first you used fire to cauterize, and although the burning hurt, I felt better afterward. Why did you stop?”

Jiang Baichuan was very patient: “Treatment comes in stages. Don’t you trust us? You think this is just raw meat, but we’ve added things to it—it has medicinal properties. If you don’t believe us, go to the hospital for treatment. You’ve been there before—what happened? Your wounds grew so much hair, and you were confused. If it weren’t for us, could you have gotten rid of the hair and regained your clarity?”

Sun Zhou fell silent.

This was true.

That day, driven by curiosity, he had walked into that cornfield. He hadn’t planned to go far, but something kept pushing him forward: he wanted to find evidence proving nothing serious had happened the night before, that he had nothing to feel guilty about.

He saw blood stains and broken stalks. Though frightened, the bright daylight gave him the courage to continue. He walked faster and faster and finally found a hole in the ground.

At that time, the hole wasn’t open—its entrance was covered with a mound of dirt, looking like a giant version of an ant hill.

Sun Zhou was clever enough to pick up a stick and poke open the pile of dirt.

It was pitch black inside, with no movement. He bent down to look: he saw two gleaming things floating there, like two luminous green grapes.

A mountain dweller would have immediately recognized this as a wolf and become alert, but Sun Zhou wasn’t one—growing up in the city had left him lacking awareness of mountain creatures. He reacted a beat too slowly, and suddenly two arms shot out from inside, gripping his shoulders like steel claws and dragging his upper body into the hole.

Sun Zhou felt like he had entered hell—it was pitch black, damp, and foul-smelling inside, but more terrifying was the constant clawing and biting.

He struggled and resisted with all his might but still felt he would die there, so frightened he could barely speak, only seeing those two ghostly eyeballs dancing around him. Then suddenly, someone grabbed his legs and dragged both him and that thing out of the hole, while shouting angrily at the creature.

Sun Zhou never saw who pulled him out. He only saw the thing that was dragged out with him: he couldn’t tell if it was human—its face was blood-red and terrifyingly distorted, baring stark white teeth.

However, the thing seemed to fear the light, or perhaps it feared the person who had arrived more, as it instinctively shrank back.

His first reaction was to run! Run fast!

He ran out of the cornfield, got into his car, and drove at breakneck speed. His wounds alternated between numbness and itching, his head between ice-cold and swollen. At some point, he suddenly thought: should he go to the hospital?

So he went.

At the hospital, things felt strange—why did the corridor twist like a worm? Why was the floor so uneven? Why did the nurse’s face behind the registration counter keep changing from square to round?

Later, when he saw the doctor, they asked: “Dog bite?”

Strangely, an image of a fierce yellow dog flashed through his mind, and he answered: “Yes.”

The doctor instructed a nurse to bandage him and give him an injection. Afterward, he stumbled out to his car. In the seat, his phone screen flickered like a frog about to jump—he quickly reached out to catch it but missed, falling face-first onto the seat and falling asleep.

So everything he told Nie Jiuluo was true, or at least, he believed it was true.

He slept until evening. When he sat up straight, he didn’t know where to go. Feeling his pockets, he found a room card and remembered he should go there for the night.

He started the car with his mind still foggy, drew several angry honks along the way, but miraculously avoided any accidents. When his car entered the hotel parking lot, a white SUV was also entering. He was first and the white car was behind, but his mind was so muddled that after stopping his car, he enthusiastically waved to that person, politely and slowly, like someone who had drunk three jin of liquor, slurring: “You first, you first.”

That person looked at him for a while and said: “You go first.”

…

Uncle Jiang was right—hadn’t he tried hospital treatment without success?

Wasn’t it thanks to Uncle Jiang and their “fire therapy” that he had awakened from his drifting, confused state?

Uncle Jiang wouldn’t harm him, right? Besides, he was just a small-time driver—what would anyone gain from harming him?

Sun Zhou suppressed his nausea and looked at the bowl of meat again: “Is it medicine?”

Jiang Baichuan said: “In traditional Chinese medicine, bat droppings are medicine, chicken crops are medicine too. Don’t mind that it’s disgusting—good medicine tastes bitter… it’s good for your condition.”