Buying clothes and a phone were just excuses. Yan Tuo drove out of the residential complex, heading straight for Dali Keng township, to the pump house by the reed marsh.
From the residential complex to the pump house was about a half-hour drive.
He had indeed turned back before receiving Nie Jiuluo’s “reed marsh” message. At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it—only that since Nie Jiuluo knew he had left but still asked “How far have you gone,” she must have had something important to discuss. Rather than continue driving only to be called back, it made more sense to turn around, saving time, effort, and fuel.
As fate would have it, his direction proved correct. The reed marsh was about forty minutes from Shi He County, positioned between Shi He and Xi’an. This meant he had to pass the reed marsh on his way back to Shi He—the main reason he could arrive in time. Additionally, Lu Xian’s residential complex was in the suburbs, about ten minutes from downtown. Forty minutes minus ten equaled thirty minutes, making Lu Xian’s location closer than the hospital.
It’s generally believed that after cardiac arrest, there’s a “golden four minutes”—beyond that, the chances of survival become extremely slim. Though Nie Jiuluo’s situation seemed dire today, countless strokes of luck were on her side. The danger lay in how one wrong step or moment’s delay would have meant her death. The luck was in how every step he took was correct, every moment precisely timed.
As darkness fell, Yan Tuo pressed down on the accelerator, silently praying that heaven’s favor would last a bit longer and that everything around the pump house remained undisturbed. If anyone had wandered in out of curiosity, the lid would be blown off, and things would spiral out of control.
Fortunately, when he arrived, the area was pitch black, and peaceful except for the tall grass swaying in the wind.
***
Yan Tuo slowly drove closer.
First, he spotted the Tiguan that Chen Fu and Han Guan had driven—when he left earlier, worried the car might draw attention in the field, he had deliberately parked it behind a partially collapsed mud house and covered it with half a roof’s worth of thatch. Thank goodness the car was still there, the thatched roof still draping over it.
Then he saw the pump house door, which he had secured with a car chain lock and blocked with a stone.
Yan Tuo let out a long breath. He turned off the engine and lights, sat quietly for a moment, then grabbed his tool bag and got out.
After unlocking and entering, he first swept his flashlight around. The interior still bore the aftermath of the fight, chaotic and messy, except for one thing.
The well.
He had recovered it with wooden planks more securely than before, adding a discarded pump shaft on top for good measure.
Yan Tuo walked over, set down his tool bag, and tucked his gun into his waistband. He propped the flashlight at an angle for light, then bent down to move the pump shaft and push aside all the wooden planks.
A stale stench mixed with the smell of blood wafted up. Yan Tuo fanned the air near his nose, then picked up his flashlight and pointed it downward for a look.
Because the pump well was abandoned, it had gaps at the top. Ropes were tied to two of these gaps, both stretching down deep into the darkness. The well was too deep for the light to reach the bottom, making it impossible to see clearly.
Yan Tuo carefully examined the ropes. One hung still while the other occasionally trembled—this made sense, as when he had lowered the two people head-first, one had appeared dead while the other was merely unconscious.
He hooked the flashlight’s loop to his coat collar, rolled up his sleeves, and braced one foot against the well’s edge for leverage before grabbing the still rope and pulling.
As soon as he applied force, his heart skipped a beat.
Something was wrong. This rope held Han Guan, who weighed over a hundred and fifty pounds and should have been dead weight. Why was it so light?
It felt like it had lost more than half its weight.
Had the person escaped, reset everything, and left a trap for him?
A chill ran down Yan Tuo’s spine, and he reflexively looked back.
The room was silent, pitch black outside. The car’s body reflected a ghostly glow in the weak moonlight.
No one burst out to attack him.
Listening carefully, there were no unusual sounds in the surroundings either.
Yan Tuo steadied himself and continued pulling the rope, quickly at first, then slowing down when he estimated the body was about ten meters from the well’s mouth, checking cautiously.
The shape still appeared human.
Closer now, he could see shoes and pants that seemed correct, though upside down.
In the final meter or two, Yan Tuo steeled himself, yanked “Han Guan” out of the well’s mouth, and then jumped back two steps, drawing his gun.
Han Guan’s body fell to the ground, shoes dropping off one after the other. He lay face down, motionless, limbs still bound—for safety, Yan Tuo had wrapped several extra layers of tape around his mouth and various parts of his body.
Everything appeared unchanged, and the tape bindings were indeed his handiwork. Initially relieved, Yan Tuo relaxed slightly but still felt something was off.
The hands.
It was the hands.
Yan Tuo stared at Han Guan’s hands. Asian skin tends to be yellowish-white, and even darker-skinned men aren’t particularly dark, but now Han Guan’s bound hands are almost brownish-black.
Not only that but they were shriveled and atrophied, with the skin showing scale-like bumps similar to those on chicken feet.
Yan Tuo’s heart pounded. He holstered his gun, stepped forward to crouch down, hesitated, and then pulled off one of Han Guan’s socks.
As expected, the foot and lower leg disappearing into the pant leg were the same—shriveled and blackened, with toes curled inward. No wonder the shoes had fallen off when he dropped—the feet had shrunk several sizes and couldn’t hold them anymore.
Yan Tuo turned Han Guan over.
The turn made the looseness of the clothes obvious.
The face was even more horrifying. Though only “dead” for a few hours, when rigor mortis should have set in, it hadn’t. He looked as if he’d been starved for months, with all flesh gone, leaving only skin stretched over bone. Even the bones seemed to have shrunk, making his previously well-fitting clothes extraordinarily loose, framing an absurdly small head.
No wonder the weight felt so much lighter.
Yan Tuo had a gut feeling: Han Guan was dead.
Thoroughly dead.
But why? The blood wound in his throat? Was piercing the throat the key to killing a Di Xiao? Seemed too simple.
Yan Tuo couldn’t figure it out, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. He took out his phone and used its flash to photograph Han Guan’s corpse: front, side, detail shots of various parts, close-ups of the wounds.
These were all data, all information—understanding could wait, just collect everything first.
When photographing the top of the head, he noticed an unusual reflection on Han Guan’s crown. Looking closer, Yan Tuo discovered another wound there, different from the throat wound, with mucus accumulated around its edges.
Not daring to touch it with his hands, he broke off a splinter from the wooden planks and gently probed, then pulled back.
As expected, the mucus stretched into long strands, with a nauseating brownish-yellow sheen, swaying in the air like spider silk.
After finishing the photos, Yan Tuo put away his phone and went to pull the other rope.
This one held Chen Fu, noticeably heavier. Not only heavier, but Chen Fu seemed to have awakened and was constantly struggling, making the rope shake violently.
By the time he pulled Chen Fu out, Yan Tuo was drenched in sweat.
Chen Fu was bound much more securely than Han Guan. Besides ropes, Yan Tuo had used two rolls of black tape, wrapping him like a cocoon or mummy, even covering his eyes. Only his protruding nose was exposed for breathing.
Like a fish out of water, sensing danger nearby, he continued to struggle and thrash even after falling to the ground.
This one was alive—perhaps he could provide some answers.
Yan Tuo considered, then took scissors from his tool bag, cut through the tape covering Chen Fu’s eyes, and ripped it off.
The rip took several eyelashes with it. Chen Fu’s eyelids flickered in pain, but he quickly focused his gaze on Yan Tuo, making muffled sounds through his gag, clearly having something to say.
Yan Tuo ripped off the tape covering his mouth.
Chen Fu took a deep breath and said unclearly, “I… I remember now, I recognize you. You’re the one by Sister Lin’s side.”
Yan Tuo didn’t respond immediately. If Lin Ling hadn’t stolen that list, he wouldn’t have known any of these people, yet Chen Fu knew him—proving these people were very familiar with Lin Xiku’s inner circle.
After a pause, he said, “Since you recognize me, you can wait to die, or be imprisoned until death.”
Chen Fu’s whole body shuddered as he burst out cursing, “You little beast, you dare plot behind Sister Lin’s back!”
Yan Tuo smiled coldly. “Hasn’t she been plotting behind my back all these years? That’s right, I’m going to stay by her side and plot until I clean out every last one of you—Xiong Hei, Feng Mi, Zhu Changyi, all of you.”
Chen Fu’s mind exploded, leaving him speechless. He never imagined that after all their precautions, the greatest threat would come from within—Lin Xiku had such a bomb planted right beside her.
He suddenly remembered Han Guan and struggled to look around. “Han… Han Guan, what did you do to…”
Before he could finish, he saw Han Guan.
The shock was severe. Chen Fu’s pupils dilated and his body froze. “You… you killed him? How did you kill him? Are you… are you Feng Dao?”
Feng Dao?
Yan Tuo found this term oddly familiar.
Then he remembered the rhyme.
With blade and hound through Qing Rang they stride,
Ghost Hand’s whip makes pearls shine bright.
Mad Dog leads the van,
Mad Blade commands from within.
And Lin Xiku’s words: “Whatever method you use, try to find out who Feng Dao is.”
Chen Fu thought he was Feng Dao.
Before Yan Tuo could process this, Chen Fu had already corrected himself: Impossible, Lin Xiku raised this little beast, he couldn’t be Feng Dao.
“You… you’re working with Feng Dao? What about that woman? It’s that woman, that bitch, no wonder!”
Chen Fu nearly slammed his head against the ground in frustration, his eye sockets almost bursting with blood: They’d been tricked! Lin Xiku, Xiong Hei, all of them had been tricked! The one lying paralyzed in the hospital wasn’t… wasn’t…!
He had almost killed her, just a little more and he could have eliminated this threat to the clan. If only this little beast hadn’t suddenly appeared. No one knew his true nature, and he would continue pretending, returning to Sister Lin’s side as if nothing had happened…
Chen Fu used all his strength to try to escape and raise the alarm, but his will exceeded his ability—bound as he was, he couldn’t even crawl. He desperately wriggled his body, trying to inch forward like an earthworm or viper.
However, Yan Tuo kicked him over with one foot.
Chen Fu lay on the ground, breathing heavily, his chest heaving so violently it made the tape wrapping crackle. He vaguely felt he might be finished, almost biting through his gums in hatred, until finally breaking into maniacal laughter.
Yan Tuo stood motionless, looking down at his performance.
After a while, Chen Fu’s laughter suddenly stopped, and he raised his head viciously: “Your father’s dead, isn’t he?”
Yan Tuo grunted in affirmation.
Chen Fu’s face split in a broad grin. The blood trails had dried on his face, and as he smiled, the dried blood cracked, making his ugly face particularly horrifying. “Your mother also… oh no, she was crushed by floor slabs, paralyzed for twenty years now, still not awake?”
Yan Tuo said, “Not awake.”
These people knew him and his family’s situation and probably discussed it casually among themselves.
Chen Fu said, “You have a sister…”
Yan Tuo remained outwardly calm, but he felt all his blood slowly rushing to his head.
He said, “Where is my sister?”
Chen Fu said, “Your sister…”
He opened his mouth, slowly extending his tongue—flesh-pink, large and thick, twisting up and down, perhaps just to taunt and disgust him. Yan Tuo had never noticed Di Xiao’s tongues before, and Lin Xiku and Xiong Hei’s kind wouldn’t stick their tongues out at him dramatically. Now he saw this tongue seemed to emerge from the throat, longer than a human’s, and while the top initially appeared normal, it gradually bristled with staggered short spines.
Blood rushed to Yan Tuo’s head as he grabbed a nearby board and struck Chen Fu’s mouth violently, shouting, “Where is my sister?”
The blow left Chen Fu’s mouth and nose a bloody mess, unrecognizable as a mouth. His tongue could no longer curl up, and two teeth had fallen out, but he was still laughing.
Yan Tuo grabbed his chest and landed a punch on his face, then another, still asking, “Where is my sister?”
The more he hit, the more Chen Fu laughed; the more pain, the more heartily he laughed.
Finally, choking on blood, he mumbled unclearly, “Your sister… you’ll never see your sister again in this life.”
Yan Tuo’s descending fist froze in mid-air, his fist and forearm trembling involuntarily.
But Chen Fu suddenly seemed to remember something and managed to open his eyes—his face was so swollen from the beating that his eyes were just laughable lines.
His line-like eyes sparked with an eerie smile as he groaned out, “No, there’s a chance. I wish you… an early reunion.”