One year later.
At Kunming Changshui Airport.
With plenty of time before takeoff, Zong Hang wandered around leisurely, eventually discovering a famous Crossing Bridge Rice Noodles restaurant. After much deliberation, though time was tight, he figured he could squeeze it out like water from a sponge.
This momentary decision led him to quickly take a seat, watching his watch while waiting for the array of small plates and a large bowl of hot broth to arrive. Following the server’s instructions, he added the meat ingredients first, then the vegetables, one by one, stirring frantically as time raced by through this waiting and mixing process. In the end, he couldn’t even savor it properly, slurping it down hurriedly despite the heat, too busy to even check the WeChat messages constantly arriving on his phone.
After finishing, his stomach full, he ran frantically. Fortunately, his luck held—when he reached the gate, the Siem Reap flight had just started boarding.
Zong Hang obediently stood at the end of the line, finally having time to check his messages.
The messages were all from the “One Happy Loving Family” group chat.
The first few were from Tong Hong, a series of animated expressions showing someone rolling up sleeves to show muscles, little figures drumming frantically, and two text messages. The first read “About to take off?” and the second “Go Hang-hang!” Below the second message was another animation of thunderous applause—all very spirited and joyful.
Then the tone changed completely.
Because Zong Bishing had posted.
First came a contemptuous face emoji with the text: “Garbage.”
As Zong Hang shuffled forward in line, he rolled his eyes irritably.
Reading on, the attitude and superiority practically spilled off the screen and into the airport.
“When I pursued your mother back then, I was quick and decisive. Even when she didn’t agree, I persisted. Brought her meat buns and osmanthus candy, held an umbrella for her in the rain, picked her up by bicycle no matter how late she worked, and even padded the back seat with soft leather so she wouldn’t be uncomfortable. One month—a piece of cake.”
“What kind of son are you, picked up from under a bridge? Didn’t inherit any of my good qualities, hemming and hawing over someone you like, and so pale too!”
Zong Hang was furious.
Criticizing his paleness again—was being pale wrong?
Recently, when Zong Bishing was building a new structure at his factory, Zong Hang accompanied him. Unexpectedly, Zong Bishing had enviously watched the brick-carrying workers and immediately criticized him: “Look at them, those strong muscles, that complexion—dark and gleaming, so manly. If you looked like that, maybe Sa-sa would be chasing after you, crying and begging.”
Zong Hang didn’t think so. When it came to dark and gleaming, who could compare to Wu Gui? Yet Yi Sa hadn’t chased after it.
As he went through ticket check and ID verification, settling comfortably into his seat, another message came through just as he was turning off his phone.
It seemed to be from Jing Xiu, asking if he’d departed yet, but his hand was too quick—before he could read it carefully, the phone screen had gone black.
The flight from Kunming to Siem Reap still took two and a half hours, showing no signs of getting faster—one year had passed, and while many things had changed dramatically, others remained steadfastly the same, unhurriedly following their old tracks.
After landing smoothly, Zong Hang pushed his luggage toward the exit. The arrival area was as crowded as ever. A Pa held a large bouquet in his arms and carried a welcome sign on his shoulder, even bigger and more elaborate than the one from the previous year. If he wasn’t mistaken, the characters for “Zong Hang” were even bordered with pink plastic rhinestones—the effect was, well, beyond words.
Upon seeing Zong Hang, A Pa couldn’t contain his joy and shouted: “Young Master!”
He called out while running forward with the sign, which swooshed through the air like a giant banana leaf fan.
They instantly became the center of attention.
Zong Hang quickly took the flowers to hide his face, peering through the leaves and petals at A Pa: “Alright, alright, don’t let people recognize me… Is Long Song here too?”
“Yes, he’s waiting in the car outside. This time, he’s still your entrance.”
Long Song sat waiting for Zong Hang in the Buick business van.
Originally, he had made up his mind that this time as a doorman, he would be serious, stern, and strict: last time, it was because he had been too accommodating and indulgent with the boss’s son that such a major incident had occurred.
Fortunately, it had been a false alarm, but past events serve as lessons for the future. This time, he was determined to…
Just as he was thinking this, he suddenly glimpsed Zong Hang approaching in the distance.
Long Song instantly forgot everything, excitedly jumping out of the car to greet him, his speech somewhat incoherent: “Zong Hang, are you… doing well? Oh my, looking good, looking good!”
As he spoke, he heartily patted Zong Hang’s shoulder.
Good—he seemed more robust now.
A year ago, when Zong Bishing informed him that Zong Hang had safely returned home, he thought he was dreaming. It wasn’t until he later spoke with Zong Hang on the phone that he knew the news was true. Now, seeing him in person brought different feelings: at times he seemed different from last year, but when he smiled, the corners of his eyes and eyebrows still curved with that same irrepressible childlike quality.
A thousand words reduced to three, repeated over and over.
Looking good.
Zong Hang smiled at him, then suddenly stepped back and gave him a respectful bow, saying: “I’m sorry, Brother Long, for causing you trouble last time.”
He had heard from Zong Bishing that Long Song had even resigned for a period because of his incident.
Seeing Zong Hang so formal, Long Song became embarrassed: “It’s nothing, it’s nothing. Your father gave us all raises, so everyone’s happy… Come on, let’s talk more inside.”
A Pa was still driving, Long Song took the front passenger seat, and Zong Hang climbed into the back alone. He glimpsed several newspapers beside him, with his photos prominently displayed.
Zong Hang asked curiously: “They’re still criticizing me after all this time?”
While starting the car, A Pa explained: “No, those are old newspapers. Didn’t you say you wanted to see how you were criticized? So I saved a few copies for you.”
Oh, that’s why. Zong Hang picked them up to look. There were several copies, indeed from a year ago, some in Khmer which he couldn’t read, others in Chinese, all with headlines brimming with anger.
—Shocking Disappearance Case Solved, All Just a Farce?
Even knowing the matter had blown over, facing these black-and-white interrogations still made Zong Hang’s scalp tingle.
Yi Sa had been right—one event often trailing many others, just as he had thought returning home would be enough, not knowing how many consequences would follow.
The first and foremost question was: What exactly happened? Where were you during those months?
After careful consideration, Zong Hang took all the blame upon himself.
The news quickly broke: There was no kidnapping, no mastermind—this was just a brain-dead rich kid who had long been at odds with his father, taking advantage of being alone overseas to deliberately stage a disappearance, breaking free, saying no to his controlled life, trying many thrilling things he’d never dared before, even illegally crossing borders.
As a side note, thanks to Zong Hang’s active cooperation and initiative in drawing maps, that smuggling route was immediately sealed off.
When this news broke, how could he not be criticized? He was denounced both domestically and internationally. During that period, Zong Hang didn’t dare leave the house, while Tong Hong and Zong Bishing received many consoling calls from friends, telling them to “stay calm” and that “raising children is like this—even at thirty, they might not be mature, let alone in their twenties.”
Fortunately, news is news—once old, it’s no longer news. In 365 days, there are always more shocking successors taking new heights, like buckets of cleaning water from left and right, washing away his impression in the public mind until it became increasingly faint.
Just like these old newspapers—unless someone deliberately dug them up, they would have gone with the torn-off calendar pages.
Long Song suddenly remembered something: “Oh, right, I saved you some newspapers from a few days ago too. There’s an old friend in there you’ll be interested in.”
As he spoke, he reached for a folded newspaper from the storage compartment under the dashboard, about to hand it back, when halfway through he suddenly remembered something and hit his head with the paper: “Wrong, wrong, this one’s not in Chinese, you can’t read it.”
Zong Hang took it: “If I can’t read it, you can explain it to me. What old friend…?”
He opened the newspaper.
There was a large photo of a person—an old man with graying hair and hunched shoulders, cowering on a speedboat with an armed police officer standing beside him, against the background of a burning houseboat.
Zong Hang didn’t recognize him: “Who’s this?”
As soon as he said this, Long Song was fine, but A Pa, who was driving, couldn’t help but say angrily: “Young Master, you forget the pain once the wound heals. Have you forgotten how you were beaten up last year? You had a broken finger that took almost a month to heal.”
Beaten up?
Zong Hang stared in disbelief, quickly raising the newspaper again, stuttering in shock: “That… that’s Old Man Ma?”
He had almost forgotten about this person. The last time he saw him, this Ma was still being held by the drug dealer Su Cai.
Long Song nodded: “That’s him. We saw the newspaper earlier but didn’t recognize him. Later, when many people were discussing this, they said his name was ‘Ma Yuefei.’ When I heard that name, it sounded so familiar, and then I realized—isn’t he the one who got you beaten up!”
Damn, the world is like a chess game with new moves in every round—Ma Yuefei, appearing unexpectedly in this foreign language newspaper.
Zong Hang’s heart pounded, but unfortunately, he couldn’t understand the text. He had to ask Long Song: “What happened to him?”
Long Song smiled: “I knew you’d be interested in this, so I specifically asked a friend at the police station about it.”
“This Ma Yuefei had a long-standing grudge with Su Cai. Seems his daughter stole Su Cai’s goods and ran away, so Su Cai captured him to force his daughter to show up.”
Mm, that’s about right—looks like this police station friend was reliable, not just making things up.
“But his daughter never appeared. They couldn’t keep holding him forever—killing him would be wasteful, and no one would buy him, so they put him to use, you know? The hardest, most tiring work, the kind where everyone could beat and scold him. The old man kept quiet, seemed compliant, and worked honestly, and after a while, Su Cai and his people got used to it and let their guard down.”
Zong Hang found himself inexplicably tense: “Then what?”
From what he knew of Old Man Ma, this person was not the compliant type.
“Who knew this old man was biding his time, waiting for an opportunity? Two months ago, Su Cai developed a big buyer. During their initial contact, both sides were already tense. He did something in between, causing conflict between the two sides, and the police received a tip… They took down two major drug lords at once. It was such a big incident, the news covered it for a whole week.”
Zong Hang was stunned for a long while.
That old man who had asked him to fill out forms at the airport to save money, who had gotten him beaten up to save himself—he had pulled off something this big alone?
Long Song seemed to see his confusion: “We all wondered if someone helped him, but he said he did it alone, no one else.”
The familiar facade of the Angkor Grand Hotel came into view again.
There weren’t many guests today, and the lobby was a bit quiet. Several young women with heavy makeup and alluring appearances hurried through the hall. Zong Hang glanced at Long Song: “Our hotel still offers these services?”
Long Song corrected him: “They’re not from our hotel—they’re from outside. All of Siem Reap is like this. If we speak up against it, we’d just be making trouble for ourselves.”
He handed Zong Hang the room key: “Here, same room as last time. Want me to take you up?”
Zong Hang shook his head: “You’re busy. I haven’t been here for a while, I’ll take my time walking up.”
He put the room key in his pocket and walked around the hotel. At first, he was nervous, afraid that people who had seen the news might recognize him as that brain-dead kid who played disappearing games, but after a while, he realized his worries were unnecessary—in this world, everyone is busy with their own lives, thoughts, and concerns; who would pay attention to him?
Passing a corridor pillar, he saw a woman in a long yellow dress with tiny flowers leaning against it, talking on the phone. Her perfume reached him before he got close, and Zong Hang guessed what she did for a living, quickening his pace to pass by.
But her angry voice still drifted over—
“I know, I still have three jobs today, have to run to several places, and the clients are stingy. I’m not even making enough to cover transportation.”
“Damn it, you think I’m Jing Xiu? Gotta go, gotta go.”
Jing Xiu?
Zong Hang stopped abruptly and looked back.
The woman had just hung up the phone and, seeing Zong Hang, was initially annoyed, probably disliking someone eavesdropping.
But seeing that Zong Hang was young and good-looking, she immediately saw an opportunity and changed to a smiling face: “Sir, would you like a massage?”
Zong Hang answered with another question: “You know Jing Xiu?”
“Who doesn’t know her?” The woman looked at him curiously. “Are you here… client?”
“No, no,” Zong Hang felt a bit awkward. “Just that I have a friend who was close to her before, asked me to check on her…”
The woman interrupted: “What’s there to check? She quit long ago, struck gold, and got out.”
“Where did she go?”
The woman looked at him condescendingly, and Zong Hang quickly caught on, reaching for his wallet.
Fortunately, he had exchanged some US dollars before coming. He first took out a ten-dollar bill, then wondering if it was too little, changed it to a twenty.
The woman seemed quite satisfied, snatching it and wrapping it around her slender index finger again and again.
When she spoke again, her tone and gaze were extremely envious.
“She was incredibly lucky. Last year, I heard she left with a client.”
“Everyone said she was foolish—how could such a client be serious about you, right?”
“But who knew, she just had that kind of fortune. Don’t know if he married her, but I heard he gave her a house and several million.”
“My goodness, what good deed must she have done in her past life? Let me tell you, she’s become our role model now. Everyone’s watching with wide eyes, wondering who’ll be the next Jing Xiu.”
…
Zong Hang smiled.
As he smiled, his thoughts drifted back.
Back to Taiyuan, to Ding Yudie’s home.
Ding Yudie showed him a video copied to the computer, saying it was Ding Xi’s final footage.
You couldn’t even see his face—the angle was wrong, only showing below the stomach. Due to the lighting, the dripping blood appeared black.
Ding Xi’s voice came through like this.
“Bet you didn’t expect that even as I’m dying, I’d do one last decent thing?”
“Hope someone comes up soon, don’t waste all this crawling I did like a dog.”
Then there was silence, just the sound of wind and snow and faint breathing. Zong Hang looked at Ding Yudie, who gestured for him to be patient—there was more.
Sure enough.
“Also, you Three Families are all rich, probably don’t care about this… give what I left to Jing Xiu, just tell her…”
Zong Hang perked up his ears, wanting to hear what message he had for Jing Xiu.
But his throat was unclear, he gave a hoarse laugh, and whatever message he wanted to leave, he never said it in the end.