Zong Hang was having a rather pleasant dream.
He dreamed he had returned home and was singing in a KTV room. The LCD screen was playing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance,” and he was gripping the microphone, singing with complete emotional investment while his friends huddled together looking at photos on his phone—
“So this is Angkor Wat? Wow, I want to go too…”
“Why do foreigners like to eat fried tarantulas? The taste is too strong.”
“Hey, who’s this girl?”
It was a photo of Yi Sa.
Zong Hang said: “Met her drinking at a bar.”
His friends all exploded with excitement: “Then what? What happened next?”
Zong Hang said carelessly: “Too forward, not my type…”
After saying this, he smiled with a sense of superiority.
As he was smiling, his mouth corner suddenly felt painful, like the kind of pain from dry, cracked skin.
A man’s voice floated above his head, spitting saliva onto his face: “Look at this kid, sleeping with such a lecherous smile…”
Before the words finished, Zong Hang’s face took a heavy hit that made his jaw twist sideways.
The dream was knocked away, and reality gradually squeezed in.
His nose was filled with strange smells: fishy, damp, steam, machine oil, coconut milk, tom yum soup, and body odor.
His body was swaying, not like a car’s movement but rocking side to side, as if on a boat…
A boat?
Zong Hang broke out in a cold sweat.
He struggled to open his eyes.
His eyes were swollen from being beaten, making the world narrow and blurry, with a sneering face swaying in the blur.
Zong Hang tried hard to remember what had happened.
It seemed someone had kidnapped him – a car came speeding up, the door opened, they grabbed him in, then sped away. He struggled and shouted “No ice,” took a punch to the face, and lost consciousness.
Then… he ended up here?
No, he seemed to have briefly regained consciousness once in between. The hangover hadn’t cleared then, his mind was foggy, and he heard someone ask: “Where’s your father?”
He had answered hazily: “At home.”
…
Was this related to Zong Bishing? Were these enemies his father had made while investing in Cambodia?
He had a rough idea now – it was like in the movies, children paying for their father’s debts.
Zong Hang tried to sit up when suddenly a sharp cold line pressed against his face.
It was the person with the sneering face, holding a fruit knife and gesturing across his face.
Zong Hang desperately tried to pull his face back: “Hey, don’t, don’t…”
Because of his wealthy background, Tong Hong had specifically sent him to attend lectures on “How to Respond Intelligently to Kidnapping.” The lecturer summarized three “tries “: try to cooperate, try to appear weak, and try to find opportunities to escape.
The first to die were always those who acted tough. Once a rabbit is caught in the wolf’s den, don’t think baring your teeth and kicking your rabbit legs will turn things around.
Every word resonated deeply with Zong Hang – of course, he should try to cooperate, otherwise what if they beat him? He was most afraid of being beaten.
Just like now, if the kidnapper got upset and carved up his face, this face would be ruined for life, even plastic surgery couldn’t fix it.
That person laughed loudly, using the flat of the blade to pat his face, and was almost scrunched up in fear: “What a coward, scared like this.”
Saying this, he stood up and stabbed the knife into a watermelon on the nearby table.
The melon was fully ripe. With a crack, it split from the point of entry to the bottom. The man didn’t even use the knife anymore but held it between his teeth as he broke the watermelon into four or five pieces with his hands, reaching out to pass them to those around him.
Zong Hang nervously raised his eyes to look.
This was a fishing boat, not large, open on all sides, with thick canvas forming an awning above. There must be a diesel engine at the rear, as the boat maintained decent speed, puttering forward.
The cabin was a mess, with everything scattered about – empty instant noodle cups and beer cans rolling everywhere. Besides him, there were three people on the boat. The one who broke the melon was Chinese, and the other two appeared to be Thai.
The distinctive Thai language with its bone-melting, muscle-relaxing tones was simply too recognizable.
Outside was a great lake, the sun was fierce, water everywhere, with dazzling white light reflecting off the surface. Looking at it too long made one dizzy and brought fearful thoughts of being tied to a stone, thrown into the lake’s heart with a splash, never to surface again.
The three men ate the watermelon in big bites, none being particular about manners, juice running down their necks from their mouths. Someone started spitting seeds at Zong Hang, and the other two followed suit, treating him like a garbage bin.
Soon, Zong Hang’s face and body were covered in juice.
He secretly told himself to endure, then stammered a question: “Are you after money?”
The lecturer had said to try to “establish a connection” with them – relationships all start from nothing.
The melon-breaking man threw away the rind, licked the juice from his hands, and smiled as he asked back: “Who doesn’t want money?”
After speaking, he looked straight ahead.
Zong Hang instinctively looked forward too.
In the distance, dense black dots began to appear, like someone had scattered sesame seeds across the lake’s surface.
As the boat drew closer, Zong Hang finally saw clearly.
This was another water village, but larger in scale. Dilapidated houseboats and stilt houses were densely packed, like a suddenly emerging water fortress.
The melon-breaking man casually picked up a broken fishing net by his feet and threw it over Zong Hang: “Screaming for help won’t do any good, try if you don’t believe me.”
The net’s holes were each as big as a fist – covering him with this thing showed their complete disregard, they weren’t afraid of him being seen at all.
The fishing boat entered the village, weaving between the buildings. Sometimes the waterways were so narrow that one could jump across into someone’s house.
He saw bathtubs floating beside houseboats, with naked children curled up and sleeping soundly inside;
He saw vegetables, plastic bags, bottles, and cans forming floating garbage patches on the water’s surface, with blood water mixed in many places – the innards of freshly slaughtered fish;
He could also see the faces of people on the boats, mostly Southeast Asian, either fierce and savage or dull and numb, ignoring the fishing boat, showing no curiosity.
Soon, the fishing boat pulled up to the side.
This was a cluster of residences, made up of more than ten houseboats and stilt houses. Unlike the isolated dwellings they had passed earlier, these boats were grouped – with walkways and ladders connecting the houses, and a platform rising above the water at the edge, used for growing vegetables and as a dock.
Several women were squatting barefoot at the edge of the platform washing clothes. The two Thai men jumped onto the platform first, using hooks to pull the fishing boat closer.
After the boat was secured, the melon-breaking man grabbed the back of Zong Hang’s shirt and lifted him: “Come on, time for a father-son reunion.”
Father-son reunion?
Zong Bishing… had been captured too?
Zong Hang stumbled as the man pushed him along, his mind in chaos.
Zong Bishing had been captured too, then what about Tong Hong? She must be terrified or crying herself to death. How big of a grudge was this, to capture both father and son? And these kidnappers were violent – had they beaten Zong Bishing? At his age, and being used to such a privileged life, if they punched him…
Although there were conflicts between father and son daily, those were internal matters. Zong Hang suddenly felt blood rushing up, his eyes reddening. When the locked wooden door opened, he practically burst in with spasming legs.
In the dark corner, someone rustled and stood up.
Their eyes met, and a phrase flashed through Zong Hang’s mind.
Although Tong Hong had taught him since childhood not to curse, and to use polite language, he still wanted to say—
F*ck your entire family’s ancestors for eighteen generations!
It was Old Ma, Ma Yue Fei.
Yi Sa stood at the platform edge of Chen Tu’s houseboat eating rice noodles.
She had gone to the deep lake early in the morning to release the Black Ghost – the Black Ghost needed regular release and training, and the more complex and tricky the water flow environment, the better.
After releasing the Black Ghost, she came to find Chen Tu first. The Black Ghost’s feathers were wet after several rounds of diving, and it stood at the stern with wings spread wide to dry, the wingspan over a meter long, looking like an inflated black sail, quite imposing.
Chen Tu was out collecting payments and hadn’t returned yet. His hired help, Li Zhen Xiang, knew Yi Sa hadn’t eaten and made her a bowl of Vietnamese rice noodles in pork bone soup, with two thin green mint leaves sprinkled on top, giving it a very special flavor.
Yi Sa ate while watching Li Zhen Xiang busily moving back and forth.
She was Vietnamese, in her forties, ordinary-looking with a flat face, and liked to work barefoot, her feet dark and thick.
Li Zhen Xiang carried out a basin from the kitchen, full of pig lungs – apparently to feed A Long and A Hu.
Yi Sa wanted to follow and watch the fun.
Just then, an engine sound came from behind – boats with such powerful engines weren’t common in this village.
Looking back, sure enough, it was Chen Tu’s boat.
Almost every household in the floating village had a boat. Yi Sa had one too, the smallest and most basic kind, floating on the water like a thin long leaf. Chen Tu had once mocked her, saying putting an engine on such a broken boat was like putting a gold flower on a mangy dog’s head – truly a waste of an engine.
The engine was just an external auxiliary propeller, second-hand, costing less than 500 yuan – the fact that such equipment could be compared to a gold flower showed how shabby the boat was.
In comparison, Chen Tu’s boat was much larger, made of fiberglass with stronger power, as it was used for transporting goods. Every time it ran at full power, the large splash of water at the stern looked like a white rabbit’s fluffy tail.
As he approached, Chen Tu slowed down to dock: “Yi Sa, I just met Ma Jiu on the way, he didn’t know you were back. He said a young man from mainland China came, surname Ding, specifically asking for you. I wasn’t clear about the situation, so I told him to bring the person to my place first.”
Yi Sa nodded: “Yes, there is such a matter.”
Her tone was calm, her expression lazy, as if Chen Tu was talking about something ordinary, like “it’s hot today” or “it’s going to rain.”
Chen Tu’s curiosity was piqued, and he kept glancing at her. In this floating village, having someone come looking for you was rare, and someone looking for Yi Sa was unprecedented.
As far as he could remember, she had always been a loner.
Yi Sa knew he was glancing but pretended not to notice: “I need your help with something. My motorcycle is on shore, help me bring it back. The rain has been heavy these days, don’t let it get ruined.”
Chen Tu mocked her little boat again: “Your mangy dog can’t carry it anymore, right? I told you to get a new one.”
Yi Sa jumped into his cabin: “Won’t change it, I only stay here a few days a year anyway.”
Chen Tu turned the boat around and was about to start the engine when he killed it again, nudging her with his elbow and gesturing ahead: “Hey.”
At the end of the waterway, Ma Jiu’s small sampan was slowly rowing in. It was a three-way intersection where several boats were waiting to pass, creating a temporary traffic jam.
Someone was standing on the small sampan.
Chen Tu picked up the binoculars hanging on the rudder and looked in that direction, muttering: “Where did you find this wild man, chasing all the way here.”
Yi Sa giggled and asked him: “How does he look?”
Chen Tu said: “Broad-shouldered and strong-waisted, not bad, good for breeding, could have two kids in three years no problem.”
Chen Tu had been a veterinarian and always viewed people with a livestock mentality.
Yi Sa thought to herself: You’re wrong about that, this man is destined to be childless.
Ding was one of the three surnames of the Water Ghosts, but Ding Xi was adopted. Being adopted meant he couldn’t use the Ding surname, couldn’t learn the Ding family’s skills, and couldn’t approach the Ding family’s secrets.
Unless he willingly chose to remain childless, to be alone for life – he could have women but couldn’t marry, couldn’t have children.
This rule was set by the older generation, probably thinking that “among the three unfilial acts, having no offspring is the worst.” If someone was willing to betray their ancestors and end their lineage to join your family and take your surname, then making an exception to accept them was acceptable.
But Yi Sa felt such people were somewhat frightening. Those who could abandon secular life and human love for their desires were either possessed of great wisdom or great malice.
Her gaze deepened, hiding wariness and carrying inquiry, watching the small sampan paddle closer stroke by stroke.