The old market area was crowded, and traffic moved slowly. The two motorcycles, one following the other, blended in among other vehicles and pedestrians without drawing attention.
They soon entered the city center.
The streets suddenly became quiet, with few people lingering about, only the fleeting sounds of passing motorcycles remained.
Then they left the city.
The true Southeast Asia hit them head-on.
Humid and sticky, without electricity, the stilted houses along the road were pitch black, with orchids swaying under their eaves.
No dust rose behind the vehicles because the road had gradually become muddy. The rapidly spinning wheels only splashed up mud spots or muddy water. The dense jungle visible on the horizon at first quickly swallowed both vehicles and people into its silent depths.
Ding Xi followed at a distance. Actually, with so few people around, tailing became difficult. He hesitated about whether to catch up and reveal his identity.
Suddenly, the wind carried music wrapped in moisture.
He was stunned for a moment before realizing: that Yi Sa had probably turned on that recorder.
It was a very old song, but the melody was familiar. He listened intently, forgetting about his speed.
It was a Cantonese song, opening with the line “After sleeping for a hundred years, the people are finally awakening.”
The theme song from “The Great Hero Wong Fei-hung.”
Everything around was pitch black, the air filled with a mixture of exhaust fumes, mud, and the scent of trees. Without any traces of modern civilization, the melody easily created an illusion, giving a sense of time travel.
When Ding Xi came to his senses, he realized he was too close to the vehicle ahead.
But he immediately noticed it wasn’t because he had sped up, but because Yi Sa had slowed down.
She controlled the motorcycle with her left hand while raising her right hand, wearing fingerless gloves, high above her head. First, she spread all five fingers, then made a “six” gesture.
At this distance and with the vehicle’s lights, the hand signals were visible, even the gleam on her fingernails could be seen.
Her gesture swayed left and right three times, then turned front to back, with the thumb bent down and backward, raising the pinky finger, holding the position for a second or two.
Was this… a water ghost signal?
Almost simultaneously, Yi Sa quickly withdrew her hand, gripped the handlebars to make a sharp turn, and gunned the throttle. The motorcycle roared into the jungle.
Ding Xi followed without hesitation.
In the old days, people who made their living from rivers and waters had many taboos. They believed that in this world, the boundaries between the living and the dead were clearly defined, separated only by a single plane.
For instance, above ground belonged to the living, while below ground was for burying the dead.
Similarly, people could travel on boats above water, with the water’s surface belonging to the living, while below the surface belonged to the dead.
But sometimes, they needed to cross these boundaries for work, such as diving for fish, retrieving valuables, or recovering bodies.
They called the underwater realm “the other side,” where people couldn’t speak – partly due to physical constraints, and partly because humans carried yang energy, with their voices containing vital energy that would disturb the balance of “the other side.”
Once that balance was broken, terrible things could happen.
So they developed various hand signals to represent common communication needs, humbly calling these gestures “water ghost signals.” They pretended they were already “water ghosts” underwater, able to move freely between realms without hindrance.
When they became proficient, they used these signals not just underwater but also in underground caves and tunnels.
During the peak of these “water ghost signal” taboos, even ordinary boatmen and fishermen knew a few gestures. However, after liberation, like many feudal customs, this practice gradually died out, with only a few people still knowing how to use it.
The gesture Yi Sa just made was the most standard water ghost signal, saying “Follow me if you dare.”
Ding Xi knew his cover was blown, but he didn’t feel defeated – only excited.
He accelerated, keeping tight on the moving light ahead, squeezing his legs to counter the violent shaking from the rough terrain until his headlight suddenly illuminated a blood-red sign.
Ding Xi’s heart jumped, and he instinctively hit the brakes hard. He immediately knew he’d made a mistake – he’d braked too forcefully. The bike was just rented, they weren’t familiar with each other – neither bike to rider nor rider to bike.
Before he could react, the front wheel stopped dead, the rear swung up, and both rider and bike went flying.
In the darkness, the motorcycle spun through the air before making a dull thud against a tree. His body, out of control, slid along the ground as rocks and broken branches tore his clothes and skin.
When he finally stopped, his entire body ached. His mouth tasted of blood. When he touched his lips, skin peeled off his hand, and his mouth was also torn.
Ding Xi lay on the muddy ground for a while, then struggled to his feet despite the pain.
Yi Sa’s motorcycle sound, absorbed by the thick night and dense jungle, had become too distant to hear.
He stood for a moment, then carefully limped back along his skid marks, guided by his still-functioning headlight.
Not far away, the twisted motorcycle leaned against a tree trunk, its headlight beam cutting diagonally through the air, illuminating countless dust particles and tiny mosquitoes fluttering in its light.
At the end of the beam stood a square sign.
The sign was nailed to a wooden pole stuck in the ground, with a bright red background and ghastly white letters and images. The top line was in Khmer, unintelligible to him, but it didn’t matter – the picture and English text below conveyed the same message.
The image showed a skull with crossed leg bones at the neck.
The English read “Danger! Mines!”
Two words, two exclamation marks – unmistakably serious.
Beware of landmines.
This was a minefield.
In the Angkor tourist area, guides repeatedly warn visitors not to venture deep into the jungle, citing the latest statistics: in just the first eight months of 2016, over a hundred foreign tourists died accidentally.
The UN estimates that with current technology, it would take six to seven hundred years to clear all the landmines buried in Cambodia.
So here, landmines aren’t just war legends, nor are they distant threats.
Ding Xi spat out a bloody mouthful and smiled toward the deep jungle.
Before leaving, his godfather Ding Changsheng had instructed him to keep a low profile when meeting Yi Sa, saying she was very dangerous with a particularly strange temperament – a bodhisattva when in a good mood, a demon when not.
He thought Ding Changsheng was exaggerating, but now he realized she truly was ruthless.
Such a grand welcome gift she’d given him.
The next day was sunny and rainy.
But in a place like this, rainy weather could be considered good weather – at least it was a bit cooler. Zong Hang climbed out of bed, first checked himself in the mirror, and felt his injuries were improving – his face was becoming more normal again.
In good spirits, he couldn’t even brush his teeth properly, finding the bathroom too confining, he wandered into the guest room while brushing, then onto the balcony.
Just as he was about to express his feelings to the cloudy sky, Jing Xiu’s hushed voice came from nearby: “Keep it down.”
His toothbrush was electric, buzzing like a swarm of bees, which could indeed be disturbing.
Zong Hang quickly pressed the stop button, then turned around with a mouth full of toothpaste foam.
Jing Xiu was leaning against the railing, completely different from the previous night: she looked as if she’d been dipped in honey, appearing dazed with an unstoppable smile in the corners of her eyes – a smile full of contentment.
Zong Hang looked at the balcony’s glass door – it was closed.
No wonder she asked him to be quiet. Zong Hang wasn’t stupid: “He’s back?”
Jing Xiu nodded, her gaze somewhat distant: “Why do you think he came back?”
This question had been circling in her mind since the moment he lay down beside her in the middle of the night.
Zong Hang said: “Wait a moment.”
He rushed to the bathroom to rinse – toothpaste foam left too long in the mouth tasted strange.
When he returned to the balcony, Jing Xiu had composed herself, though still somewhat dreamy: “Do you think he came back for me?”
She had noticed the scrapes on Ding Xi’s face but still held onto some hope.
If it were her girlfriends, they would probably agree and affirm, then list various signs as proof that this was love.
But Zong Hang wasn’t like that. He just thought women’s imagination was incredible – give them a dipper of water, and they could imagine the entire Mekong River.
He believed that true-hearted women could emerge from the world of pleasure, but to say that clients were equally sincere…
He said: “He probably just had something come up and couldn’t leave.”
Harsh truths are hard to hear; Jing Xiu snorted.
Zong Hang said: “I’m saying this as a friend. I’ve noticed you’re a bit…”
He couldn’t find the right words to describe it: “If you’re emotionally rich, keep some cats and dogs, or find a reliable man. I’m not a woman, but even I know you shouldn’t invest your emotions in that kind of…”
He nodded toward the glass door.
Jing Xiu said: “That’s not necessarily true. There are always exceptions, and things depend on how you handle them.”
Zong Hang said: “Well, suit yourself. You’ll suffer eventually.”
Jing Xiu stared at him.
Zong Hang felt uncomfortable under her gaze: “What?”
Had he said something wrong? No, every word was precious advice, spoken with good intentions.
Jing Xiu said: “Zong Hang, you’re so young, should be at an age without restrictions, why do you live so maturely? Every word sounds like an old man passing on life experience to younger generations – is it all taught by others, you following obediently, and then using the same mold for others?”
In the afternoon, heavy rain poured down, and the swimming pool churned with countless streams of rain, like a boiling pot.
The rainy season here was like this, with daily bursts of intense rainfall.
Zong Hang threw himself on the bed, spreading out like a starfish.
He was thinking about Jing Xiu’s words.
Jing Xiu had just said it casually, but at his age, nerve endings were sensitive – a single phrase, a single scene could be enlightening.
It was true – how many of his thoughts, knowledge, and comments were truly his own?
None, they all seemed to come from others, those elders who were ahead of him, using their life experiences like clay in a terracotta warrior mold, patting left and right, shaping him to be proper and precise.
Those ready phrases about being “careful,” “this can’t be done,” “that’s not appropriate” – they were all from others. He accepted them completely, without digesting or chewing, like a megaphone, passing them on to lecture others.
Failure, complete failure.
Zong Hang was utterly dejected. This dejection made his body heavy, so heavy he couldn’t even respond when Apa knocked on the door.
Apa, probably thinking something had happened to him, rushed to the front desk for a spare key card and burst in.
The post-rain darkness and dusk’s gray intensified the room’s blackness, and the human shape on the bed perfectly matched the posture of someone who had given up on the entire world.
Apa was shocked, rushing over shouting: “Young Master, what’s wrong?”
Then he sighed in relief: although Zong Hang’s eyes were as blank as dead fish eyes, at least they still had some light.
Zong Hang spoke weakly: “Life is so meaningless.”
Apa had experienced such sudden depression before and knew Zong Hang urgently needed cheering up: “I heard from Brother Long that he’s contacted those two Cambodians who beat you, and they’re negotiating…”
Zong Hang closed his eyes and waved his hand, telling him to stop chattering.
Apa was at a loss, sat stiffly by the bed for a while, then suddenly his eyes lit up: “Young Master, why don’t we go drinking at the old market, those tuk-tuk bars – have you been there? I’ve never been, always just stood outside watching, never sat inside.”
He sighed: “Really want to go, but the drinks are expensive, I can’t afford them.”
Zong Hang finally opened his eyes a crack: “Want to drink?”
Apa nodded vigorously.
Zong Hang slowly sat up from the bed: “Then I’ll treat you.”
After circling the old market district’s streets several times, Zong Hang finally confirmed: that it wasn’t that the tuk-tuk bar had changed location, the location remained the same.
The business owners had changed.
Just leaving like that? Even a falling flower takes ten days or half a month.
He felt a slight melancholy at how things had changed.
But Apa was excited – tuk-tuk bars were foreign things that foreigners liked, and it was rare to have a chance to experience it, especially for free.
He ordered Cambodian beer and whiskey, quickly becoming brothers with the Cambodian bartender, leaving Zong Hang sitting elegantly alone.
That was fine too – undisturbed, a different experience. Tourists were like flowers and clouds, coming and going, just flowers blooming and falling, clouds gathering and dispersing…
Just as he was feeling poetic, the Cambodian suddenly said “Isa.”
Zong Hang’s heart jumped, his ears perking up.
Indeed, that person had mentioned this name several times, but everything else was in Khmer, chattering and giggling with Apa.
After a while, the Cambodian took out a piece of paper and drew something on it.
Zong Hang glanced sideways: the drawing looked like the sine curves that had extremely troubled him during his student days, with peaks and troughs, and marked dates.
Apa was grinning like a mouse that had stolen food or a cat that had caught a bird.
Zong Hang finally couldn’t hold back: “What are you talking about? Don’t you know your Chinese friend can’t understand?”