Nie Jiuluo was pragmatic: “That’s not necessarily true. If it was something especially good, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, missing it would be quite regrettable.”
That statement was… hard to refute.
Yan Tuo thought for a moment: “Well, the opportunity’s already missed—that’s what happens when you’re sleeping… Let’s talk about important matters.”
Important matters? There were so many, they needed to be prioritized.
Starting with the most urgent, Nie Jiuluo began with the pump house: “What happened to Han Guan and Chen Fu?”
Fortunately, he had documented everything with photos. Yan Tuo pulled them up and handed them to Nie Jiuluo: “Scroll through, there are about ten photos. His body was very light, completely withered. I doused it with gasoline, set it on fire, and threw it into the pump well.”
Nie Jiuluo scrolled through one by one, occasionally zooming in on details. Finally, she nodded: “This… should be fine. He can be considered dead.”
This was good news. Excel entry number 015, Han Guan, could be thoroughly deleted.
“How did you kill him? Where was the vital point? The crown of the head?”
Nie Jiuluo nodded: “There are two vital points—the crown of the skull and the seventh vertebra of the spine. Fatal wounds to these areas will keep them ‘dead’ for at least three to six months. That’s where I struck Gou Ya back then.”
Yan Tuo: “Only dead for three to six months, not permanently? Then Han Guan…”
Nie Jiuluo hesitated: “My knife is different.”
Ah, so that was it. Yan Tuo probed further: “What if I used your knife? Could I kill them?”
Nie Jiuluo’s answer was cryptic: “That depends on the circumstances. If you stole my knife, you couldn’t kill them. But if you borrowed it with my sincere permission, then you could.”
What a temperamental knife. Yan Tuo raised an eyebrow: “Has your knife gained sentience?”
Nie Jiuluo lowered her eyelashes: “Believe it or not.”
If it was a matter of believing or not, he might as well believe. It was her knife, her rules. Besides, why steal when you could borrow?
Yan Tuo returned to the main topic: “Then if they’re not wounded in the skull crown or seventh vertebra, just ordinary fatal wounds like a throat stab or heart puncture, and it’s done with regular knives or scissors, how long would they stay ‘dead’?”
Nie Jiuluo: “You need to understand—throat stabs and heart punctures are fatal to humans, but for Di Xiao, they’re just ordinary wounds, not fatal. Ordinary wounds heal much faster. A throat stab just stops breathing, a heart stab just stops the heart temporarily. From stopped breath to breathing again, from the stopped heart to beating again—that happens quite quickly, three to five days, maybe ten to fifteen days, depending on their constitution.”
Yan Tuo’s expression changed. He said: “Wait here a moment.”
He stood up as he spoke, and before the words had fully left his mouth, he was already out the door.
Nie Jiuluo was confused and turned to look toward the door. She heard the security door opening, followed by rapid footsteps going downstairs.
The wait was fine—she was tired from talking so much anyway.
Nie Jiuluo leaned back against the cushions, taking slow but deep breaths to regulate herself. After a while, she picked up one of the sculpture books and tried to remove the plastic wrapping, but with only one hand free, she struggled to make any progress.
She wrestled with the book, bringing it to her teeth—her teeth were much more efficient, tearing the wrapper open with a single rip.
Just as she was about to repeat the process with another book, the door opened outside, followed by the sound of rolling luggage wheels approaching. Nie Jiuluo quickly put down the book and arranged herself gracefully against the cushions.
After all, she was an “artist,” and tried to maintain an artistic image.
Looking back, she saw Yan Tuo pushing in a large wheeled suitcase. He closed the door and locked it.
Nie Jiuluo lowered her voice: “Is there… someone in there?”
Yan Tuo glanced at her: “In your mind, is my suitcase only used for carrying people?”
Isn’t it? Nie Jiuluo wondered silently, keeping her eyes fixed on the suitcase.
Yan Tuo laid the suitcase down by the bed, entered the combination, and with a soft click of the lock, opened the lid. Inside was a large cloth bag containing something substantial. He reached out and pulled back one corner of the bag.
Nie Jiuluo thought to herself, see, it is a person.
And a “familiar” one at that—Chen Fu, with a dark complexion, looking deathly, his mouth sealed with tape.
Nie Jiuluo took a deep breath and slowly bent down to look.
There was a bloody hole in Chen Fu’s throat. Of course, several days had passed, and the wound was no longer bleeding freely. It had turned almost dark brown, and around the wound, like spider’s silk, dozens of chaotic silver threads had formed.
Relieved, Nie Jiuluo exhaled and painfully leaned back: “It hasn’t healed completely yet. When the threads form a complete membrane and start to swell, that’s when it’s almost done.”
Then, somewhat surprised: “Where did you keep him? In your car?”
Yan Tuo nodded with a bitter smile: “Nowhere felt safe, so keeping him with me seemed most secure. I kept him at home for the past couple of days and couldn’t relax for a moment. I was lucky—if I’d been stopped by police for inspection, well… no amount of explaining would have helped.”
Nie Jiuluo asked: “Do you want him dead?”
She was willing to do it, especially since most of her injuries were courtesy of Chen Fu.
Yan Tuo shook his head: “I want to get some information from him, but… he refuses to talk.”
After speaking, he fixed the cloth bag and closed the suitcase lid. He initially meant to push it under the bed but thought that seemed creepy. Putting it in the corner felt like someone was crouching there, so he finally left it in the living room temporarily.
When he returned to the room, he suddenly thought of something: “Would you like some water?”
Last time at the braised food restaurant, he had served her quite a few cups of tea.
Nie Jiuluo didn’t want to drink, considering she couldn’t easily use the bathroom, but talking so much had made her throat dry. After a moment’s hesitation, she said: “Just a little.”
Yan Tuo frowned, as if not understanding why she only wanted a little, then suddenly seemed to get it and couldn’t help but laugh softly, saying: “Alright.”
His laugh irritated Nie Jiuluo. In her annoyance, she tore open another book’s plastic wrapper with her teeth, gathering the torn plastic in her palm and rolling it into a small ball, making it crinkle continuously.
She heard Liu Changxi asking Yan Tuo: “Little Tuo, where will you sleep tonight? The sofa isn’t comfortable, would you like to squeeze in with me?”
Yan Tuo: “Isn’t there a bed in the room? I can stay overnight there.”
Nie Jiuluo glanced at the canvas folding bed set up for Auntie, thinking Yan Tuo would barely be able to turn over on it, and with those spindly legs, the bed frame might collapse under his weight.
After a while, Yan Tuo came in carrying two cups of water.
His was plain water, while hers was more sophisticated—a reddish brew with red dates, wolfberries, and longan, suitable for someone recovering from injury and needing blood replenishment.
Both cups were still quite hot, so he set them on the bedside table to cool.
With Han Guan and Chen Fu temporarily taken care of, there were still many matters to discuss. Nie Jiuluo proceeded chronologically: “Then what? How did you save me? Did you take me to a hospital? Did anyone find out?”
Yan Tuo answered with an unexpected question: “Do you know about Kua Fu?”
How could she not? Out of caution, Nie Jiuluo still asked for clarification: “You mean Kua Fu who chased the sun?”
Yan Tuo made an affirmative sound.
Nie Jiuluo was puzzled: “Isn’t that just a myth? Even elementary school students know it.”
“Tell me about it then.”
Seeing Yan Tuo’s expression wasn’t frivolous, Nie Jiuluo seriously recalled: “I think it’s about a giant who raced with the sun, wanting to catch it and make it behave. Anyway, he kept chasing, couldn’t catch up, got thirsty, and eventually died of thirst.”
That was more or less the gist of it.
Yan Tuo looked thoughtful, his expression quite serious: “Mm, alright, now I know your level of understanding.”
Nie Jiuluo was speechless.
It’s a myth—what levels of understanding could there be? At most, she told it simply while others might use more flowery language.
Yan Tuo lowered his head and pulled another book from the bag by his feet.
The spine read: “Chinese Myths and Legends” by Yuan Ke.
Nie Jiuluo gave it a sidelong glance: “What, being printed in a book makes it high-level?”
Yan Tuo seemed to have anticipated this question and first showed her the title page: “This author has passed away. He was a contemporary master of Chinese mythology who began systematically studying Chinese myths in 1946 and was once chairman of China’s Mythology Association. He wrote over twenty specialized works on mythology, and his works have been included in foreign textbooks. So his books are closer to scholarly texts than mere legends.”
Oh, so it was high-level. Nie Jiuluo noticed the subtitle on the cover: “Chinese Myths and Legends—From Pangu to Qin Shi Huang.”
But she still didn’t understand why they were suddenly discussing mythology, unless…
“Does it mention Di Xiao?”
Yan Tuo shook his head: “What would you think if I told you Di Xiao are descendants of Kua Fu?”
Nie Jiuluo had no thoughts because she didn’t understand at all. She couldn’t comprehend how in just a few days, Yan Tuo had assigned Di Xiao an ancestor. Surely he hadn’t met Kua Fu while tracking Di Xiao last night?
Yan Tuo said: “Your understanding of Di Xiao comes from the Qin Shi Huang era and the Cantou Army, which is indeed ancient. But as you said yourself, Di Xiao was already a legend during the Qin Dynasty. This means their origins must go back further, their roots predating the Qin Dynasty.”
Though that made sense, Nie Jiuluo couldn’t help but say: “But there are no historical records from before then.”
Because of her Cantou Army background, she had specifically studied the Records of the Grand Historian—of its 130 volumes, 126 covered the Qin to Western Han periods. Pre-Qin history only occupied four volumes, barely dozens of pages to cover the Five Emperors, Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties—imagine how brief it must have been.
Without historical records, how could one trace origins?
Yan Tuo said: “When there are no historical records, we can look to myths. Many believe that while myths appear fantastical and unrestrained, they contain truth, just deeply hidden beneath layers of embellishment and exaggeration.”
He opened to a previously folded page, showing her several lines marked with a highlighter.
[This Kua Fu clan were originally descendants of the great deity Houtu. Houtu was the ruler of the underworld, the Dark Kingdom… This was a black realm, hence called the “Dark Kingdom.” The famous giant Tu Bo guarded its gates.]
Kua Fu clan? Kua Fu wasn’t just one person, but a clan?
Nie Jiuluo was incredulous: “How did you suddenly think of Kua Fu?”
Yan Tuo said: “I’m not that clever. I didn’t think of Kua Fu—I heard the name from their mouths. They called themselves ‘Kua Fu’s descendants, sun-chasing lineage.’ When I was buying books for you at the bookstore, I asked the staff to recommend some mythology books, especially ones mentioning Kua Fu.”
“There isn’t much material—most are children’s comic books with content similar to what you described. I finally found this relatively professional book, and even though it’s thick, it only has two or three pages about Kua Fu. But just these few lines made me think of a lot.”
He took out a pen and circled the words “Houtu”: “Does this sound familiar?”
Nie Jiuluo shook her head: “I’ve never heard of any great deity Houtu, though in period dramas I often hear the phrase ‘Imperial Heaven and Houtu.'”
Like in phrases such as “Heaven above and Earth below, I swear brotherhood with so-and-so…”
Yan Tuo: “Right, that’s what I thought of too. I looked it up, and ‘Imperial Heaven and Houtu’ refers to Heaven and Earth. Houtu is Earth. Let me rephrase it: ‘This Kua Fu clan were originally descendants of Earth.’ Doesn’t that make more sense?”
Nie Jiuluo froze, feeling a subtle chill spread across her skin.
Di Xiao emerged from the earth, Kua Fu’s descendants, the Kua Fu clan, descendants of Earth—it all seemed to… connect.
Yan Tuo continued reading: “This was a black realm, hence called the ‘Dark Kingdom.’ Wasn’t the Dark Kingdom in ancient times a reference to the underworld? The underworld is underground, without light—isn’t it ‘black’? Di Xiao have always stayed underground, aren’t they living in a black realm?”
Though it was Yan Tuo who had been speaking, Nie Jiuluo found her lips had gone dry. She picked up her cup, forgetting about rationing her water intake, and took a large drink: “It does seem to… make sense.”
With this foundation laid, the rest was easier to explain. Yan Tuo sighed, picked up his cup, and took a big gulp of water: “I’ll tell you everything that happened from the pump house until now on my end, and you need to explain how you encountered Han Guan and Chen Fu, and why you almost died there. Is that okay?”
No problem—the events from both sides needed to be pieced together.
Nie Jiuluo nodded.
But Yan Tuo seemed uncertain: “Can your body… handle it?”
Nie Jiuluo: “That depends on the situation. If you ramble on without getting to the point, no matter how interested I am, I might not be able to stay awake.”
Yan Tuo silently accepted this jab, then added: “I’ll cover everything you’re concerned about—Jiang Baichuan, Gou Ya, all of it, so don’t worry. I’ll be as detailed as possible, and you can record if you want, I don’t mind. Feel free to interrupt or ask questions anytime. There’s a lot to cover, so we’ll likely get thirsty—I’ll pour the tea myself.”
These words sounded oddly familiar to Nie Jiuluo, and finally, she remembered why.
Well, well, someone could hold a grudge.
What a coincidence—so could she.
She silently made a mental note.