Chapter Thirty-Four: Returning Once More

The rain outside the window did not cease that night, nor did Zhang Qinglin find any rest. Beside him lay the pipe he’d retrieved from beneath his pillow, in his hands he clutched the notebook, and the map that had slipped from the Upper Tang Eight Steeds painting, taken back from Jiang Xinyue’s bag.

What he held now was of utmost importance, yet some questions remained insurmountable puzzles in his mind.

First was Jiang Xinyue’s disappearance. On their second day in Wuzhou, she had vanished. Today she recounted how, after entering her room that day, someone knocked at her door. She found no one when she opened it, only a slip of paper.

On it was scrawled: Leave here immediately.

The writing was hurried, but what shocked her most was that it was Uncle Jiang’s handwriting. She had intended to find them, but as soon as she stepped out, she spotted a familiar figure at the corner and immediately gave chase.

She followed into a pitch-black alley where she was attacked and rendered unconscious. When she awoke, she was imprisoned in a strange cave—the very underground wine cellar beneath South Mountain she had described.

Who had imprisoned her there?

Was Uncle Jiang truly in Siyue County?

Then there was the stone pendant his father wore in his dream—how had Uncle Jiang come by it?

And today, Zhao Ruilong, who had saved him—according to Xinyue, Zhao had used a long needle to stop his bleeding in an instant, and after drinking Zhao’s prescribed medicine, his wounds healed swiftly.

But Old Seven was acting oddly, seeming somehow displeased with Zhao Ruilong. Did they have unresolved grievances?

All these mysteries swirled in Zhang Qinglin’s mind.

Early the next morning, Wanqing came to him carrying a bowl of steaming porridge.

Zhang Qinglin was already at the table, packing his bag. Accepting the porridge, he said, “Thank you again for saving us. Yesterday… I shouldn’t have said those things…”

“I’ve long forgotten what you said. But there’s something I ought to warn you about,” Wanqing replied.

He swallowed a spoonful of porridge and asked, “What is it?”

“There’s something off about Old Seven. You must be careful.” Her gaze was steady—she must have noticed something.

“Why do you say that?”

Wanqing did not answer, but continued, “Just be careful around Old Seven. And this—my cousin asked me to give you this. She said it might help…” Wanqing took a photo from her pocket and handed it to him.

Zhang Qinglin hesitated as she placed the photograph before him.

He picked it up, his clear eyes reflecting the faces captured on the image—one was his father, the other a man whose features lay shrouded in the haze of memory.

Who was he?

At that moment, “Qinglin, I need to talk to you…” Jiang Xinyue entered, her steps faltering for a second at the sight of Wanqing and Zhang Qinglin together.

He stood to face her. Wanqing picked up the bowl, glanced at him, and headed out. She paused at the door, looked at Xinyue, and said, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

“Xinyue, what is it?” he asked.

Jiang Xinyue watched Wanqing leave, annoyance prickling in her chest—why was Wanqing always hanging around Qinglin? So irritating.

Hearing him call her, she smiled and walked over.

He held the photograph in one hand, the other pressing the wound on his shoulder.

Jiang Xinyue caught sight of the photo and exclaimed, “Isn’t that Uncle Zhang? You really look like him when he was young, Qinglin! And this old man… isn’t that Grandpa Yao?”

“Grandpa Yao?”

“Yes, the old herbalist. Dad told me that when you were a child and sick, Grandpa Yao treated you.” She pointed at the white-haired man in the photo.

Zhang Qinglin was deep in thought when a commotion outside caught his attention—it sounded like Dazhuang.

Dazhuang was running about the yard, shouting wildly, with Old Seven in pursuit. Cheng Che hurried out to see what was happening.

Zhang Qinglin heard Dazhuang repeatedly calling for his grandmother. After a brief discussion, they decided to return to Dazhuang’s house, and then took him to bid farewell to Zhao Ruilong.

Zhao Ruilong was watering flowers in the back garden. Upon hearing they were leaving, he arranged a car for them—surprisingly generous for a county party secretary.

As the group stepped out, Wanqing joined them, insisting on coming along.

They sped along the rain-soaked roads outside Siyue County in Zhao Ruilong’s car, water spraying, mud splashing.

Dazhuang stared ahead, body tense, rocking with each jolt of the vehicle.

Zhang Qinglin leaned against the window, gazing at the clear sky, yet feeling a deep sense of regret. He had found his grandfather’s pipe, but it was broken.

Cheng Che, up front, regaled Jiang Xinyue with stories of his and Qinglin’s adventures since they’d split up.

Old Seven sat beside Dazhuang, his eyes shifting constantly; he hadn’t spoken a word since leaving Zhao’s residence.

Wanqing drove effortlessly, steering the car deep into Siyue County, to the steep-walled district.

The car stopped at the entrance of Steep Wall Alley. Cheng Che woke Zhang Qinglin, who hazily got out and followed them into the lane.

Number 18, Wu Residence—still the red brick gate, but now standing wide open.

Dazhuang, overcome with excitement, rushed into the yard, calling for his grandmother, darting between rooms.

Re-entering the courtyard, Zhang Qinglin noted the wild vegetable garden now withered, new weeds sprouting from cracks in the wall. In just days, it had grown so desolate.

They searched the entire house, but found no trace of the old lady. Dazhuang crouched beneath his grandmother’s window, murmuring her name as he banged his head softly against the wall, staring blankly ahead.

Zhang Qinglin entered as well—nothing inside had been moved. As he turned to leave, he saw Old Seven standing by a cabinet, staring intently at a photo in the corner of a large frame.

Old Seven’s face was grave, fist clenched. Turning abruptly, he limped outside, seeming not to notice Zhang Qinglin at all.

“Old Seven?” Sensing something was wrong, Zhang Qinglin hurried after him.

At the stone table, Old Seven’s expression had changed. Facing the gathered group, he said, “I’ll go buy us something to eat.”

“Hey, Old Seven, don’t go—you’re still injured. I’ll go,” Cheng Che said, seeing Old Seven lift his leg awkwardly.

Old Seven grabbed his coat. “It’s fine, I’m almost healed.”

Jiang Xinyue watched Old Seven leave with evident distaste. “Cheng Che, keep telling me—how did that scorpion end up on your hand?”

As Zhang Qinglin was about to follow Old Seven, Dazhuang suddenly stood up, face contorted in terror, staring straight ahead and shouting, “Bad man… bad man… Grandma… run…”

His outburst startled Cheng Che and Jiang Xinyue into silence; they quickly stood to look.

Zhang Qinglin went to comfort Dazhuang. Ever since leaving the mine, Dazhuang had seemed unhinged—who exactly was the “bad man” he spoke of?

“Cheng Che, what’s wrong with him? Didn’t you say he was senile? He seems more like a lunatic to me. Maybe we should take him to a hospital,” Jiang Xinyue said, hiding behind Cheng Che.

“We don’t know where his grandmother is. He has no family left—we can’t abandon him. Dazhuang, don’t be afraid. There are no bad people here. Come, I’ll help you find Grandma…” Zhang Qinglin took hold of Dazhuang’s trembling arms and led him inside.

“Dazhuang is pitiful. He’s been with his grandmother all his life and now this… Xinyue, it’s alright,” Cheng Che said softly, shaking his head as he watched them go in.

Ashamed, Jiang Xinyue murmured, “I… I’ll go check on them,” and followed inside.

Left alone in the yard, Cheng Che looked around, scratching his head. “Huh… feels like someone’s missing… Where’s Wanqing?”