Maruo Xing sighed, “I usually have no one to talk to, but seeing you makes me want to speak. Ordinary creatures will naturally emerge when pressured—just like spineless people who surrender under pressure. But those with true backbone won’t come out no matter how much you push. Your method works for catching snakes, but not for special insects. My way is still better.”
I had to agree. No wonder the few times I’d summoned insects before, only earthworms, snails, and small snakes showed up. Except for that one time in Zheyin Mountain when a massive serpent king emerged, the rest were useless.
I shouted, “You all must be tired. Why not head back first?” A few snakes crawled a couple of steps before freezing stiff. I dug some soil and covered them.
Just then, a snail appeared at my feet. It must have been asleep for a long time and, afraid to disobey, hurried over after my call.
The snail looked oddly adorable, its antennae like little signal towers. It was also quite large. Holding it in my palm, I noticed the shell it carried and chuckled. “A homeowner, huh?”
Maruo Xing suddenly looked at me and said, “Xiao Qi, I heard that in the city, a tiny plot of land costs tens of thousands. Is it made of gold?”
I placed the snail into a bamboo tube and laughed. “That’s the capital for you.”
The snail adjusted to its new “prison,” seemingly indifferent, and retreated into its shell. After sealing the lid, I tucked it away. The jade ruler at my side emitted a faint blue glow.
I hoisted Bai Yueming onto my back.
Maruo Xing said, “Don’t be discouraged. Seems like we won’t catch anything valuable today. Let’s rest and try again tomorrow. Though a snail does count as an insect—easy to raise, loves strawberries, lettuce, and greens.”
I replied, “No, I just feel a bit sorry for the snail.”
Many times before, when I’d summoned insects, the snails had always been the most obliging. No matter how slow they were—whether sleeping, eating, or even mid-business—they’d come when called. So this time, I decided to keep this one.
Who knew such a small act would lead to unexpected rewards?
By nightfall, we reached Gushu Village in Jiangxi, where scattered lights flickered.
Nestled between two mountains, Gushu Village was a small, open settlement. Leaving required a rough motorcycle ride downhill. About seventy or eighty households lived here, connected by two feeble power lines. Most homes had small satellite dishes for TV, modest televisions, and elderly couples.
From afar, the village looked like a faint constellation.
From the heavens above, it might resemble a nebula—or just a vast, indistinct blur.
Maruo Xing clapped my shoulder. “Move it! What’re you staring at?”
I sighed. “Life’s so long. Staring at lights is just another way to live.” He chuckled. “You’re such a fool.”
As we entered the village, a large dog barked at the entrance. Maruo Xing tossed it two pieces of rabbit meat. “Xiao Huang, take me to your place.” The dog barked twice and led us down a narrow stone path to a house.
The owner, a man in his fifties, greeted us warmly. Maruo Xing had helped him with feng shui before and often stayed here during mountain trips.
Inside, I noticed a row of meticulously arranged snake bones on the wall—strangely beautiful.
Maruo Xing called out, “Xiao Qi, this is Mr. Gudun. Say hello.”
Gudun bore a faint resemblance to Hong Kong actor Louis Koo. I greeted him, “Uncle Gu, sorry to disturb you so late.”
He grinned. “No trouble. Just two more chopsticks and a bed. Make yourself at home.”
Mountain folk were hospitable. Gudun’s wife, Su, cooked wild game and brought out a glass jar containing a live snake—still squirming. “The road’s cold. Have some of this to warm up.”
Maruo Xing took a cup, but I declined. Clearly, Gudun had a deep connection with snakes.
After dinner, the two men chatted while I, exhausted, prepared for bed. Su made up fresh bedding and brought a basin of hot water for my feet. She waited outside until I finished, then took the water away.
Such kindness left me deeply grateful.
Lying down, I sensed something amiss—a slow, faint presence, as if many things were coiled nearby. I opened my eyes sharply. Snakes. They must be hibernating beneath or around me.
Then Su appeared at the door again, gesturing for me to follow.
Baffled, I wondered if the village had a custom of keeping guests warm at night—by sharing beds?
Wrapped in my blanket, I asked, “Auntie, what’s wrong? Why are you laughing?”
She shook her head, murmuring and urging me outside.
Unease prickled my skin. The dim light revealed Maruo Xing and Gudun passed out drunk, snoring loudly. Realizing she needed help moving them, I complied.
But Su kept motioning, her words finally clear: something about a child.
Bai Yueming! I’d forgotten him entirely. If I were responsible for kids, they’d probably end up sold to another province.
Panicked, I searched—no sign of him. The village was dark, the wilderness vast. Where could I look?
Su brought the dog, letting it sniff Bai Yueming’s blanket. It dashed outside, circling the yard before stopping at a small shed. Rustling sounds came from within.
I drew my jade ruler, its glow illuminating the scene. Behind a sturdy iron door, Bai Yueming crouched on the ground, gripping several snakes, his mouth smeared with blood. Severed snake heads littered the floor.
Horrifying.
Turns out Gudun kept a snake den for his livelihood.
I carried Bai Yueming out, his clothes stained with blood and an odd stench. After cleaning him up and changing his clothes, I kept him close, fearing he’d escape again.
The unease grew. He was a ghost infant—he needed blood.
“Dad. Mom,” Bai Yueming called.
I ruffled his hair. “You little rascal. To live in the human world, you must adapt. No more stealing blood.”
He sucked his thumb and drifted off.
The next morning, I compensated Gudun for his losses. As we left, he and Su stood at the door, waving with strange smiles.
Maruo Xing called, “We’ll be back tonight!”
I asked why he’d drunk so much.
“Old friends should drink heartily,” he said. “Why? See a ghost last night?”
I sighed. “His wife was… odd.”
Maruo Xing dismissed it. “Just a hardworking, obedient woman. Nothing strange.”
Maybe I was overthinking.
The village buzzed with New Year preparations—pigs squealed as they were slaughtered. Maruo Xing bought a bottle of fresh pig blood for Bai Yueming.
I warned him, “Last night, this brat went out biting snakes. We can’t spoil him.”
Maruo Xing shrugged. “Let him enjoy it. He won’t get chances like this later.”
We spent the day combing the mountains but found no treasures—just venomous centipedes and snakes. Maruo Xing harvested a few gallbladders, offering me one. I declined the “tonic.”
Two miles later, I noticed an intriguing landform—a potential feng shui site. My compass spun wildly. Surrounded by mountains, a semicircular hill faced south: the “Moon Emerging from Clouds” formation.
Then a chilling wind blew from the southeast—unnatural in winter’s northwest gusts.
Following it, I found a tomb with a polished granite marker. Squatting, I read the names: Gudun’s grandparents, buried in 1973, with the tomb erected fifteen years prior.
Names covered the stone, including Gudun’s three sons’ birthdates and praises for the deceased—virtuous, loyal, filial.
Suddenly, the golden compass spun violently.
Something was wrong.
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