Dai Hao’s expression changed the moment Laughing spoke, instantly tensing up the previously relaxed atmosphere.
Dai Hao said, “This is your turf, Laughing. I won’t interfere. Master Xiao and I are just friends—I don’t know him well.”
I signaled to Xie Xiaoyu to stay still. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I said, “I’m just here for fun. I only came because I caught the scent of the old man.”
Laughing smirked. “What a coincidence, huh?”
I chuckled. “The world runs on coincidences. If I hadn’t saved you today, your car crash might’ve killed you. Even if you’d survived with minor injuries, those chasing you would’ve finished the job. Don’t Hong Kongers value loyalty? Is this how you treat your savior? If you suspect I’m an undercover cop, at least show me some proof.”
Laughing pulled out a 1997 commemorative five-dollar coin from his pocket. “Enough talk. I believe in fate. If it lands on heads, I’ll spare your life.” With a flick of his thumb, the coin spun high into the air. He caught it and slowly revealed the result—heads. Immediately, he holstered his gun and led his men out, dragging the unconscious bald man along. Slaps echoed down the hallway as they presumably disciplined him.
Dai Hao laughed. “Hong Kongers are superstitious. Master Xiao is just a feng shui master—how could he be a mainland cop? Ridiculous. Now, where were we?” Yu Qian stepped forward. “Professor, this isn’t the place to talk. Let’s move somewhere else.” Dai Hao glanced at me. I nodded in agreement.
After several detours to shake off any tails, we finally settled in a small, dimly lit house with windows covered in newspaper, ensuring no one could see inside. Dai Hao pushed Dai Zhong’s wheelchair with deep concern and filial piety. Though Dai Zhong had been trapped in a crystal coffin with seven steel nails embedded in his back, he remained docile, emitting only faint traces of corpse energy—easily masked in a crowd.
I asked, “Professor Dai, where’s your family from originally?”
“Baoding, Hebei,” he replied. Hebei, the land of ancient warriors, was where Dai Zhong had grown up before the Japanese invasion scattered him across the land. He eventually enlisted in the Burma Expedition and died far from home, his bones never laid to rest. Before being sealed in the coffin, he had wept, his loneliness palpable.
I knelt before Dai Zhong and bowed deeply—such a hero deserved my respect. His lips twitched slightly, his pitch-black eyes flickering. Dai Hao fed him a bottle of blood, then another.
“Why not return General Dai to his homeland?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Dai Hao said. “Earlier, you got a message too, didn’t you?”
Back to business.
Dai Hao pressed me, and though reluctant, I admitted I’d received a cryptic note in my hotel—just like him. His read: *Bring the earth-nurtured corpse. Solve the mystery on Qingming Festival.* The destination? Hong Kong. That’s why he’d brought Dai Zhong here, while Yu Qian had come to meet local drug dealers.
I was stunned. I’d assumed Dai Hao was here for profit, but someone had summoned him.
I told him I’d received a similar message—via water-revealed text in a magazine at the Regent Hotel. The difference? Mine instructed me to bring the jade corpse. Same deadline: Qingming Festival.
Dai Hao proposed an alliance, confessing he was after a golden urn rumored to hold a tantalizing secret. Despite his wealth, the urn had drawn him in.
I declined. “I already have a partner—Hua Changsheng. I can’t work with you, Professor. My apologies.”
As I left, Dai Hao asked, “Did you spend that $100,000 I gave you?”
The question drove home the gap between wealth and poverty.
Back at the Regent Hotel near 3 a.m., the taxi driver eyed Xie Xiaoyu. “Your girlfriend’s… odd. Doesn’t seem human.” I paid him. “She isn’t.”
After a few sleepless hours battling cockroaches (how did Ling Ling Qi survive his first night here?), I checked out. The owner called after me, “Come back sometime! Everyone who stays in that room becomes legendary.”
I bought GPS trackers for Xiao Jian, Xiao Mao, and Xie Xiaoyu—better late than never. Now, all that remained was waiting for Hua Changsheng’s family.
Under the blazing sun, I feared Xie Xiaoyu would wither, so we took a bus to Admiralty and checked into a nicer hotel. There, I spotted Yanzi Li San disguised as an old woman—his telltale eye spacing gave him away.
After a nap, we explored Hong Kong: the Golden Bauhinia Square, the University of Hong Kong. The campus’s scholarly aura soothed the ruthlessness life had carved into me. For a moment, I wished I could stay forever.
Xie Xiaoyu, oblivious to human life, might be endangered by the upcoming revelation. Under a tree, amid the crowd, I pondered the epiphany I’d had before the Buddha’s relics at Famen Temple—enlightened yet eternally conflicted.
I wanted a photo to remember us by. As I fumbled with my phone, Zhou Liangliang appeared in sleek black. “Let me take it.”
He’d been tailing me since Hedong’s Fengling Ferry. “Why?” I asked.
“Photo first,” he said, snapping a shot that instantly uploaded to my Weibo (@XiaoJianLovesXiaoMao). The caption read: *Xiao Jian’s a dog. Xiao Mao’s a cat. I’m human. She’s someone from far away.*
“Why follow me?” I pressed. “Aren’t you here to kill Guo Weixin?”
After a long pause, he asked, “What’s the world of zombies like?”
Baffled, I stared. A killer—one of humanity’s oldest professions—asking about the undead?
“Zombies are forsaken by the three realms. Ageless, deathless, senseless—just endless darkness. Though there are rare exceptions.”
Zhou Liangliang fell silent for a full minute before speaking words that struck me as the most beautiful love poem:
“Turn me into a zombie. Then Furong and I will be the same. Then we can be together.”
I warned him of the hunters, the torment, the eternal hell awaiting them.
He replied, “I’ve lived in hell every day of my life.”
Against my better judgment, I agreed.
“Good,” he smiled, teeth gleaming. “Furong’s in Hong Kong too.”
For a moment, he was just a boy under the phoenix trees, hand in hand with his love, both smiling purely.
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