Chapter Ninety-Five: Half Truths

A sudden spark of inspiration lit up Zhang Qinglin’s mind. He had thought of a way to deceive Wu Mingshi without arousing Sister Xiao’s suspicion: fabricating a fake contract.

Suddenly, footsteps approached from behind. Zhang Qinglin tensed, the sounds growing louder. Before he could turn around, he heard a voice:

“Hey! What are you doing? You there, don’t move!”

Several flashlights shone directly onto Zhang Qinglin, their beams piercing his eyes and making it difficult to see how many people were approaching.

“Which village are you from? What are you doing sneaking around our fields in the dark?” An old man brandishing a hoe pointed it at Zhang Qinglin, scolding him.

Zhang Qinglin looked at the group; they were all farmers holding various tools, evidently ready for work.

“I’m not from any village here. I was just wandering and happened to come here. I’m leaving now—won’t delay your work.”

Zhang Qinglin had only taken a couple of steps when a short-haired man blocked his path. “Stop right there. Are you sent from above to evaluate the area for tourism development?”

Quickly, Zhang Qinglin replied, “Tourism development? You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m just a tourist staying at the inn over there.”

“What inn? There’s no inn for miles around here. Looks like you really are some kind of developer. Everyone, surround him—don’t let him run!” The short-haired man’s eyes gleamed sharply as he stared at Zhang Qinglin.

“He must be a developer! Look, he’s already trampled our crops,” someone else shouted as they hurried over, pointing at Zhang Qinglin.

Zhang Qinglin scanned his surroundings. It was pitch dark except for the flashlights shining on the few men before him. Suddenly, something felt off.

He glanced again at those encircling him. Two wore sleeveless vests and shorts; others were in thin jackets over undershirts, and some were bare-chested in simple trousers, their faces dark and weathered.

Their attire starkly contrasted with his own: Zhang Qinglin wore a thick wool sweater and a heavy coat, typical for early winter. Yet this winter seemed to have come unusually early.

A biting cold wind swept through, raising goosebumps all over Zhang Qinglin’s body. Just as he wondered if he was seeing things, a hoe struck his shoulder with a sharp blow, sending searing pain through him. He staggered and collapsed onto the ground.

“Xiao Ping, go check him out. Bring all the valuables here,” the short-haired man ordered with a sly glance, signaling a younger man to his left.

The young man hesitated, shrinking back, but after a kick from the short-haired man, he reluctantly approached Zhang Qinglin, crouched down, and began searching his pockets.

“Where exactly are you from? You’re clearly not the owner of this land,” Zhang Qinglin said, clutching his aching shoulder.

Xiao Ping pulled out some items and showed them to the short-haired man. “Brother Qian, here’s an ID card, a letter of introduction, and a wallet.”

Zhang Qinglin stared blankly at the things in Xiao Ping’s hand. Why were these items on him? Instinctively, he touched his clothes—and to his shock, the clothes he was wearing weren’t his own.

What was going on? Before he could make sense of it, someone grabbed him and lifted him up. The short-haired man strode closer, sneering, “So you’re one of Ma Ye’s men daring to come here? Looks like you don’t want to live. Tell me—where is Ma Ye?”

Two fists suddenly smashed into Zhang Qinglin’s cheeks.

His head spun and felt heavy. He staggered toward the darkness on his right.

“I don’t know Ma Ye. Who are you people?” Zhang Qinglin swayed but managed to stand upright, his gaze fixed on the source of the voices. The scene before him sent a chill through his body.

Near where he had been standing was a man of short stature, wearing a checkered shirt, black trousers, and black-rimmed glasses, looking scholarly and refined.

The short-haired man slapped the bespectacled man several times, knocking his glasses to the ground.

“You don’t recognize Ma Ye? Then what’s this letter of introduction doing here?” the short-haired man growled.

Others nearby joined in, shouting, “Speak up!” “Talk!”

The man with glasses squinted, trembling as he looked at the letter. “This is from my teacher. He sent me to the village to conduct a market survey.”

Upon hearing this, the short-haired man’s expression darkened. He kicked the man in the stomach angrily. “You’re the only greenhorn sent? Impossible. Are there others?”

He gave a meaningful look to his companions, who immediately surrounded the man and began beating him mercilessly.

Watching the bespectacled man battered and bruised, Zhang Qinglin wanted to help but found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move. No matter how loudly he shouted, no one responded.

He could only watch helplessly as they dragged the man away. As the man was lifted off the ground, something fell from his body—a small object resembling a stone.

Once the group vanished into the darkness, a strong wind blew past, and Zhang Qinglin finally felt his body relax and regain movement. He hurried to the spot where the man had dropped the object, crouched down, and searched briefly before picking it up.

As the moon emerged from behind the dark clouds, Zhang Qinglin saw that what he held was not a stone but a finely carved pixiu, a mythical creature symbolizing wealth and protection.

Suddenly, his vision went black, and he lost consciousness.

When he woke, he found himself leaning against a large tree.

Cheng Che crouched beside him, eyes full of concern. “Old Zhang, you’re awake. Finally, you’re awake.”

Zhang Qinglin held his throbbing forehead and sat up. “What happened to me?”

“I saw you leave the inn and noticed something was wrong. I followed you but lost track of you. When I found you, you were collapsed in a clearing. No matter how I called you, you didn’t respond. So I carried you here.”