The village wasn’t large, and neither was Ruan Sanjia’s house. Tea bowls were already set out inside, tended to by an elderly woman.
Back when Zheyin Mountain was recaptured, Ruan Sanjia had fled into the forest, where he was rescued by a herb gatherer named Dao Jiuniang. She brought him back to the village to recover, but with no medicine for his wounded left arm, it ended up crippled.
Later, Dao Jiuniang bore Ruan Sanjia two sons—one named Ruan Yue, the other Ruan Nan—names that carried his longing for his homeland.
Still, I was curious why such a formidable man hadn’t returned home after healing. It wasn’t something I could ask outright. When Dao Jiuniang looked at Ruan Sanjia, her eyes held warmth, a silent vow of lifelong devotion, as if fate had bound them together.
Perhaps he cherished her love too much to leave, especially now with two sons.
When the hot tea arrived, Lin Danan rushed in, alarmed. Leaning close, he whispered, “Why is Miss Xie missing?” I reassured him, “Don’t worry, I know where she is.”
Twenty-five years ago, Ruan Sanjia and Uncle Jianguo had clashed once, neither gaining the upper hand. Instead, they developed a grudging respect, a kind of hero recognizing hero, or in modern terms, something charged with intensity.
Ruan Sanjia offered Uncle Jianguo tea. As Dao Jiuniang left the room, he murmured softly, “Take me away from here.”
Uncle Jianguo shot him a skeptical look—was this a joke? But before he could press further, Dao Jiuniang returned with a plate of fruit.
Ruan Sanjia swiftly changed the subject. “I know you’re here to find your comrades’ remains. My old commander, Hu Yin, was never recovered either. Help me search these vast mountains for his bones.”
The golden-yellow fruit tasted incredibly sweet, rich and fragrant, filling my body with warmth.
I asked, “What’s this delicious fruit called?”
Dao Jiuniang, with her broken Mandarin—she’d learned some from Ruan Sanjia over twenty-five years—explained eagerly, “Not many grow in the mountains. Most sprout near corpses. The fruit is incomparably sweet.”
Lin Danan, who’d been reaching for one, froze mid-air and discreetly withdrew his hand.
Her smile unsettled me. As a child, I’d heard of “corpse fruit”—plants that grew where fallen soldiers, Japanese or Chinese, lay unburied. Their leaves bore black rings like death marks, bearing tiny fruit no bigger than a thumb.
Perhaps the misty Yunnan mountains nurtured them better, making them larger.
I didn’t know if there were taboos, but I forced myself to finish the rest, stomach churning.
“Men talk, women leave,” Ruan Sanjia declared. Uncle Jianguo glanced at Lin Danan. “Danan, you’re not here for sightseeing. Go explore the village.” Dao Jiuniang obeyed without question.
Lin Danan hesitated until Ruan Sanjia’s glare sent him scurrying out.
Uncle Jianguo pointed at me. “He’s the feng shui master. I rely on him.”
Ruan Sanjia’s sharp eyes sized me up, then dismissed me as too green. But he praised my cat and dog, calling them rare spiritual creatures.
If I guessed right, Ruan Sanjia was a snake charmer—a “snake master.” There’s an old Chinese fable about a farmer who saved a frozen snake, only for it to bite him once revived.
Outside, someone seemed to be eavesdropping—likely Dao Jiuniang.
I smirked. “If not for your critters chasing us, we might’ve found those five heroes’ remains already.”
Ruan Sanjia sneered, skepticism and disdain in his eyes.
Yet Uncle Jianguo agreed to help find Hu Yin’s remains. The plea to leave was never mentioned again.
Later, Uncle Jianguo whispered, “What was that about?” I was just as puzzled. With a devoted wife and two sons, why would he want to leave?
After a quick lunch, I had Uncle Jianguo pull out a compass. Calculating our position, we realized we were over 100 kilometers from Malipo—having fled nearly 70 li (35 km) in panic that morning.
Almost as fast as a forced march.
Uncle Jianguo warned, “We can’t stay long. Ruan Sanjia’s a snake handler—cold-blooded. He says he holds no grudges, but I fear a bite in the end.”
I nodded. By afternoon, Ruan Sanjia had vanished. The hundred-odd villagers glared at us, clearly unwelcoming.
Exploring deeper, we found a cave with a spring. Lin Danan suggested entering, but Uncle Jianguo vetoed it.
Later, Ruan Sanjia returned with his sons—one being the black-robed man who’d killed the poachers. They carried two tightly bound “dumplings” of vines, reeking of blood—likely the unfortunate hunters.
After a hushed exchange with Dao Jiuniang, Ruan Yue and Ruan Nan hauled the bundles toward the mountain cave.
Ruan Sanjia apologized, “Business delayed me. Rest here tonight; tomorrow, I’ll guide you into the forest.”
Unease gnawed at me. We were effectively detained, surrounded by his snakes.
Nightfall brought heavier dampness. A bonfire blazed in the yard as villagers feasted on wild boar and a delicacy—king cobra stew. Lin Danan and I recoiled, but Uncle Jianguo devoured it, praising its flavor.
Village girls served wine. One brushed Lin Danan’s arm, making him blush. Their giggles and chatter were unintelligible but clearly about him.
Ruan Yue and Ruan Nan performed with venomous snakes, twisting them into S and B shapes. The spectacle, once terrifying, now felt numbingly routine. I couldn’t decipher their control—herbs, willpower, or something else?
Dao Jiuniang toasted us as “guests from the homeland,” revealing their Chinese roots.
Drunk, Ruan Sanjia dismissed my questions about the “Seven-Orifice Exquisite Heart,” consulting elders who also denied knowledge of it.
I sipped the village-brewed liquor cautiously, wary of the night’s unknowns.
Darkness thickened, the air alive with imagined hisses.
Assigned a shared room, we settled on rough hemp bedding, towels the only store-bought luxury.
Lights out, the buzz of insects filled the silence. “Uncle Jianguo, asleep?” I whispered.
He sat up abruptly. “We’re being watched. I don’t trust this.”
Footsteps retreated outside—an eavesdropper. Peering through night vision, I spotted Ruan Nan fiddling with what looked like a satellite phone before vanishing mysteriously.
No ghosts or ominous auras lingered—just unease.
“Stay alert,” Uncle Jianguo warned, extinguishing the lamp. Lin Danan’s snores soon rose, exhausted as a stray dog.
At 1 a.m., Uncle Jianguo shook me awake. “We leave. Now.”
Lin Danan groaned, “Go without me. I dreamed of a siren—she told me to wait.”
Damn it. Now?
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