Chapter 177: Where Has the Ox Gone?

Chen Tutu said nothing, her trench coat flowing as she left, her beauty breathtaking. As she passed through the revolving door, she glanced back at me, her eyes full of disappointment.

I had no words to defend myself. Looking at Song Youwei, his gaze felt familiar. Then it hit me—half a year ago, when I was eating vegetarian food with Wu Zhen at the temple in Songxi Village, the village secretary, Song Chuxi, had asked if his son, Song Badou, could pass the civil service exam.

Could Song Youwei be Song Chuxi’s eldest son, Song Badou’s brother? When he mentioned Songxi Village earlier while discussing his family tree, it must be him.

My pride felt trampled. I turned and headed upstairs, Song Youwei following. The front desk clerk was stunned, secretly posting on Weibo and tagging friends.

That night, I couldn’t calm down and booked a separate room. I texted Chen Tutu, explaining I was on a mission, but she replied with cold silence.

The next morning at 8 a.m., I went to pick up the leader. Song Youwei was already waiting outside, his expression complex. I ignored him. Uncle Jianguo came out, yawning but looking refreshed from a good night’s rest.

County Magistrate Chen’s face was pale, his gaze oddly fixed on Uncle Jianguo. He seemed to want to say something but held back, his legs wobbling slightly. Zhu Ruhua, the green-clad spirit on my shoulder, whispered, “This handsome magistrate’s not bad, just lacks stamina.”

I chuckled. “Sounds like you had fun last night.”

Zhu Ruhua smirked. “Hoping for nights of passion, love lasting till the end of time.”

As we left Weiyang Hotel, a car started moving. A bearded man in his fifties waved frantically, shouting, “Magistrate! Magistrate!”

Chen lowered his window. “Isn’t that Dr. Hu? What’s wrong?”

Song Youwei told me this was Hu Qianlin, a famous doctor specializing in difficult cases, a master of gynecology, claiming to have cured five thousand cancer patients.

Hu Qianlin said, “Magistrate, I haven’t fully treated your condition. I’m uneasy.”

Chen praised, “Dr. Hu, your heart’s truly that of a healer. Get in the car behind us.” Hu nodded and climbed in.

I drove, with Song Youwei in the passenger seat, Chen and my leader, Ruan Sanjia, in the back. We headed to Ning County. Chen conveyed the Jiang City meeting’s directives, focusing on ensuring a warm winter for poor households. He finalized a plan: low-income and five-guarantee households would receive eight jin of rice, sixteen eggs, and two hundred yuan in relief funds, allocated by the county finance bureau. Party members were to lead, prioritizing implementation, emphasizing ideological commitment and action, eliminating inaction, and ensuring media coverage captured every tearful moment of gratitude from the masses.

His speech earned applause.

However, Deputy Finance Director Bao Juhua objected, suggesting the government building needed repairs, proposing to reduce the eggs to fifteen per household.

Chen, embracing democracy, called a vote. It settled on five jin of rice and fourteen eggs per household. The meeting ended, and we dined at Baisheng Pig’s Trotter Shop.

That afternoon, Uncle Jianguo suggested visiting Luport Town incognito. Chen accompanied us, with Song Youwei explaining local customs and scenery.

Hu Qianlin tagged along, citing the Yellow Emperor’s Inner Classic: “Qi arises from sinews and bones; life lies in movement.” He rambled ten thousand words on exercise therapy.

Chen whispered, “I asked about kidney-tonifying methods. Why all this talk?” Hu nodded, slipping him a small bottle.

At Luport Town, Uncle Jianguo, low-key with glasses, followed Chen through the streets. We reached Xia Jinrong’s two marble factories and a nearby coal mine. Jianguo remarked, “Nice environment, but production’s too crude, ruining the countryside’s natural beauty. National green production policies aren’t being followed. This isn’t suitable for new rural investment.”

Chen asked, “How much is this project worth?” Jianguo raised five fingers. “At least five hundred million.”

Song Youwei explained, “Economic development often follows this path—develop first, manage later. The national push for leapfrog development is a good remedy.”

At the coal mine, two people atop a tall tower were whispering.

I started filming with my phone, capturing the terrain and feng shui layout, checking for strange animals. If human-to-animal transformation was real, the creature might be here.

Observing the mountain’s flow, I sighed. This place faintly gathered energy, likely a convergence of a dragon vein. China’s dragon veins originate from Kunlun Mountain, splitting into northern, southern, and central veins, with countless smaller branches, as Yang Junsong described in The Dragon-Shaking Classic. This must be a branch vein’s convergence point.

Studying the terrain, I searched for animals.

I had doubts—human-to-animal transformation sounded too sinister, even for modern science.

Suddenly, a mournful cow’s cry echoed from the mine, shaking my heart, filled with sorrow like a cowboy’s tears.

Chen, puzzled, asked, “Why do the sheep here sound like that?”

Good grief, it’s a cow, I thought, mentally rolling my eyes.

As we spoke, a group emerged from the mine, wielding steel rods, looking menacing. Song Youwei shouted, “Who are you?”

Without a word, they cursed, “Who the hell let you take photos?”

Uncle Jianguo shook his head. “Such barbarians.”

Chen’s face darkened, asserting his authority. “Who are you? Get your boss.”

But they knocked him down. I shielded Jianguo and ran, while Song Youwei, Chen, and Hu Qianlin were bound and taken away.

Circling Luport Town, I saw two old cows sunbathing. I collected some cow tears.

That night, Jianguo and I sneaked into the mine. Outside was an open area with coal piled like hills. The east had workers’ dorms, the west an office with thugs, and a kitchen nearby.

Song Youwei, Chen, and Hu Qianlin were tied up in an empty room, mouths gagged.

Two men chatted. “That idiot says he’s the magistrate?” The other laughed, “Do I look like the governor?”

“Damn right you do.”

One approached Song Youwei, smirking. “Pretty handsome. Wonder how he tastes.” The other, disgusted, stormed out.

I pulled Jianguo to check for the cow—could it be man-made?

The lights were dim. We grabbed two miner’s lamps and shovels, heading into the mine. Wooden supports lined the deep shaft, with no elevator. After a few steps, it felt like the mine could collapse.

Fifteen minutes in, we heard work sounds. Jianguo and I stayed quiet to avoid detection. Deep inside, no people were visible, but something was laboring.

I took out the cow tears, having Jianguo apply some. Then we saw seven emaciated ghost figures working, wearing liberation shoes. They were organized: some dug coal, others loaded it, and some cleared hard rocks.

Each movement was desperate.

These laboring ghosts, driven by deep resentment, were real. Xia Jinrong had lured us to feed these seven ghosts. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe ghosts could be used for labor.

Each ghost’s foot bore a strange mark, faintly resembling a centipede.

It was the Flying Centipede’s symbol. Xia Jinrong had mentioned the Flying Centipede instructed him to raise ghosts for work.

The Taoist who tried to trap us must be Ji Ruyue’s junior brother or son.

Jianguo whispered, “What now?”

I replied quietly, “The seven ghosts will return to Xia Jinrong’s house to rest. We’ll follow them later. For now, let’s find the source of that cow cry from this afternoon.”

Jianguo asked, “What about Magistrate Chen?”

I smirked. “Official-business collusion—rare to see them turn on each other. You’re not in love with him, so why care?”

Jianguo, knowing I was teasing, said seriously, “I’m not into Chen. But that secretary’s got a thing for you, all resentful and complicated. You didn’t mess with his ‘chrysanthemum,’ did you?”

I kicked him, cursing, “I’ll tear your mouth off one day.”

We crept out of the mine. By 9 p.m., we were in the open yard. Searching around, there wasn’t a cow—or even a cow hair—in sight.

I hadn’t misheard that afternoon. How could a cow vanish in such a large place? Only coal trucks had left.

Jianguo asked, “Could the cow have been killed?”

I panicked. If a human was turned into a cow, killing it would be murder. We headed to the kitchen. Under faint light, a puddle of water had frozen, with blood visible beneath the ice.

I touched the ice, tasted it, and shook my head. “Not cow blood—it’s pig.”

The kitchen was a mess: pots, pans, and bowls scattered, cabbages and blackened potatoes in a corner, a shovel in a large pot, and a barrel of rancid gutter oil.

Half a pig carcass lay there, but no trace of cow or beef.

Strange—Chen thought it was a sheep, but there was no sheep either, just pig meat, cabbages, and potatoes.

Jianguo whispered, “Cars are coming—several of them.”

From the kitchen, I saw vehicles with headlights approaching. People in the buildings stirred. We slipped out, standing by the door.

Xia Jinrong stepped out of a car.

He opened the back door, and two people emerged—a man and a woman.

The man had an ordinary square face.

The woman wore black clothes and pants, her face hidden behind a menacing red mask.

Jianguo swayed. “Master Xiao, help me—I’m dizzy.”