Chapter 222: The Beginning of the New Year

After the old man winked at me, things took a turn. I’d never had such luck before—within two hours, I had eight consecutive wins with pure suits and mixed pairs, raking in so much money that my hands grew tired from counting.

Of course, I deliberately let my mother win a couple of rounds, and her luck wasn’t bad either. Yi Miao’s face had turned ashen, his title as the “Peanut Roasting Master” crumbling in an instant, and his reputation as a mahjong expert hanging by a thread—he hadn’t won a single hand in seventeen straight rounds.

Yi Miao picked up a tile and rubbed it between his fingers for five minutes before hesitantly tossing it out and declaring, “Red Dragon.” I flipped my tiles over and laughed. “I win!” I had been waiting for that exact tile to complete my hand.

Lian Xiaoyao grumbled, “Your move was terrible—now I have to pay up too.”

Finally, Uncle Zhao Benshan’s comedy sketch came on, and it was genuinely funny. Even the ancestors watching burst into laughter, clearly enjoying themselves. There were a few more comedic performances afterward, all pleasant to listen to, though they mostly revolved around the joys of a harmonious society and the theme of husbands being henpecked—nothing particularly original.

By midnight, when Li Yong’s long face appeared on screen to lead the countdown, my father, now sober, carried fireworks into the yard and lit them as the clock struck zero.

Whoosh—they shot into the sky.

The night erupted in a dazzling display of fireworks—beautiful, fleeting, and brimming with happiness. Little Rascal and the cat wandered out too. Little Rascal nuzzled against the cat, who, perhaps sensing the festive mood, didn’t shy away.

I found it amusing. Little Rascal wasn’t even two years old, but the cat was different—it had emerged from an ancient tomb, so it must have been quite old by now. Watching them together, it felt like a grandmother tolerating her mischievous grandson.

If they’re happy, why should I overthink it?

Each firework cost eighty yuan, and we had two sets of sixty. After the first one finished, we lit the second. The sky rained down colorful paper scraps, dense as a downpour, while distant stars twinkled in the vast darkness.

Suddenly, I understood what that artsy girl had once said:

*I’m lonelier than fireworks.*

That must have been what she meant.

From a human perspective, fireworks might seem lonely because they’re fleeting, blooming only at night—when emotions run deepest.

It’s only at night that we truly feel solitude.

And loneliness, like cancer, can sometimes be incurable.

After the show ended, the ancestors returned to the ancestral hall. They had come to watch the celebration tonight and even helped me win a fortune at mahjong. Silently, I prayed they’d return next New Year’s Eve. I opened the gate to see them off.

Little Rascal barked twice—if his yin-yang eyes were open, he must have seen them too.

Standing at the yard’s entrance, I watched as the double-decker turtle bus lit up, ready to depart. The giant turtle’s eyes were enormous, its thick tongue visible in its gaping mouth. I counted carefully—eight legs on each side, meaning it probably moved faster than an actual turtle. Otherwise, a real turtle would take millennia to reach the underworld.

I wondered which of the Ten Yama Kings had designed such a vehicle. From my perspective, though, it had a distinctly Chinese aesthetic. Among the Four Divine Beasts, one was Xuanwu—not exactly a turtle, but similar, with a snake coiled on its back.

I’d never seen Xuanwu myself, only in myths. Maybe it was all just human imagination.

The bus’s lanterns burned bright red. The masked driver honked the horn again, urging the spirits—mostly elders returning for the New Year, but also younger souls taken by accidents or illness—to board. Their reluctance was palpable.

But once the horn sounded, they had to leave. The realms of yin and yang only mingled during certain festivals. When I was little, I remembered an old woman standing by my bed, tucking me in. Now, I realize it might have been my late grandmother.

Many spirits cast one last glance at their homes before boarding, only to break into silent sobs inside—ghosts don’t shed tears, but their sorrow is real.

The driver grumbled, “Enough. New Year’s is a time for joy, not tears.”

But where there are tears, there’s also laughter.

Life is a tapestry of both—complete only when woven together.

I carried Little Rascal back inside to keep him from disturbing the departing spirits. By one o’clock, the bus lurched forward, vanishing hundreds of meters away in an instant, its glow swallowed by the darkness—returning to the underworld.

Of course. They had lives to resume too.

Just like me.

…

On the third day of the New Year, as agreed, I went to the city to meet Secretary Jia. Yi Miao and Lian Xiaoyao came along, and I brought Little Rascal and the cat—Xie Xiaoyu naturally joined us too.

I told my parents to stay home and call me if anything happened. If Feng Shiqiao showed up again, they should let me know.

My father reassured me, “Don’t worry. I’m here—your mother won’t be bullied.”

Jiangcheng was the provincial capital, but I was headed to a prefecture-level city called Jiangnan, close to it. Secretary Jia was the municipal Party secretary there, and my town fell under Jiangnan’s jurisdiction.

A two-hour bus ride brought us to downtown Jiangnan. After checking into a hotel, it was only noon. I dialed Secretary Jia’s number, and he answered himself.

After brief pleasantries, he said he’d send someone to fetch me and would call once arrangements were made.

Hanging up, I asked Yi Miao about the difference between a municipal Party secretary and a mayor.

Yi Miao explained that, in theory, the Party secretary held the highest authority—overseeing administration and personnel appointments—while the mayor focused on economic development, implementing policies set by the secretary. However, since mayors were usually appointed by higher authorities, the secretary couldn’t easily remove them. Moreover, mayors typically sat on the municipal Party standing committee, where major decisions were made collectively. If a mayor was shrewd enough to sway the committee’s majority, the secretary could effectively be sidelined, and the mayor would become the de facto top leader. Friction between the two was common.

I hadn’t thought much about it before, but now it seemed daunting. If power struggles were involved, a small fry like me could easily become collateral damage. Secretary Jia’s “special friendship” problem—dragging me into it—might not end well.

After a quick lunch, my phone rang with a license plate number and location. I told Yi Miao to look after the pets, strapped on my jade ruler and compass, and set off.

At Jiangnan’s People’s Square, an unremarkable Toyota waited. The license plate wasn’t local.

I knocked on the window, and the door opened. I slipped inside.

The driver, the same one from before, wore sunglasses and had thick, muscular arms—clearly strong. The car started moving as soon as I got in.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

The driver remained expressionless, silent, navigating through several turns before suddenly swerving. I wondered if we were being followed.

After a few more intersections, with no suspicious vehicles in the rearview mirror, he finally spoke. “I’m Fu Dong.”

I smiled. “I’m Xiao Qi. So, working for a big shot must be tough, huh?”

Fu Dong barely reacted, muttering only a noncommittal “Not bad.” The car eventually stopped in an upscale residential complex—prime Jiangnan real estate, probably priced around seven thousand per square meter, steep for a second-tier city.

Following Fu Dong to the third floor, I noted his compact but sturdy build. Still off-duty, he wore a jacket that accentuated his ruggedness.

At the door, a wave of lavender fragrance hit me—definitely not Secretary Jia’s style. This was the scent favored by girls aged seventeen to twenty-five. The occupant was likely a young woman.

If I wasn’t mistaken, this was the teacher-training college student involved in Secretary Jia’s “special friendship.”

Youthful, vibrant, full of sunshine—she must have been sweet-faced, dreamy, and popular among male students.

A Van Gogh *Starry Night* print hung on the wall, hinting at a deep-seated loneliness. Fu Dong didn’t enter, simply closing the door behind me and leaving.

Secretary Jia emerged. “Xiao Qi, take a look around. Anything seem off to you?”

I nodded, scanning the space. Nothing seemed amiss—no hex dolls, no cursed needles, no feng shui traps. Lavender, a giant Totoro plush, and *Starry Night* suggested a simple, kind-hearted girl unlikely to resort to dark arts.

Then I remembered Sun Junliu—she’d raised gu insects and a ghost child. She must have seemed innocent once too.

Maybe I needed to look harder. If gu were involved, Secretary Jia might be in mortal danger.

Just then, the toilet flushed.

Out stepped Chong Lao Si, pale and gaunt as if starved for days. Spotting me, he forced a smile. “Master Xiao! You’re here too!”