Chapter 69: The Black-Robed Man with an Earring

I smiled and said, “No investigation, no right to speak. I think the female demons have taste too.”

Lin Dawei raised his glass to toast me. “Well said, brother. I’ve told him before—even if there were female demons up there, they wouldn’t fancy a weakling like him. No manly spirit at all.”

Lin Danan remained silent, his cold eyes fixed on me.

The two men, following Geng Dengfeng’s orders, had gathered most of what I needed. However, since donkeys weren’t available locally, they couldn’t get donkey dung balls and instead brought two bottles of virgin boy’s urine.

I inspected the items and nodded. “Good work, comrades. I know this wasn’t easy.” Collecting these things had been a hassle, and the two men clearly had grievances. I wanted to give them some money, but Geng Dengfeng refused. Uncle Jianguo stepped in and quietly handed them two packs of cigarettes—knowing how tough military life was, he understood the relief a smoke could bring.

That night, I asked Uncle Jianguo to recount the entire incident in detail, especially the finer points.

Having been here multiple times, Uncle Jianguo didn’t need a local guide and knew some basic Vietnamese.

Early the next morning, with all supplies packed—dry rations and water strapped to our backs—we prepared to set off. Lin Danan had cut his hair short overnight, now resembling Lin Dawei in demeanor. Holding a map, he insisted on joining us.

Lin Dawei started berating him again, telling him to stay put.

Lin Danan remained calm. “I’m an adult. I take responsibility for my own actions. Officer Lin, please don’t interfere with my freedom.”

Lin Dawei snorted. “Fine, go die somewhere far away. I won’t care.”

After about ten minutes of arguing, Lin Danan ended up joining us. He had originally planned to venture into the mountains alone in search of the legendary female demons, so traveling together worked out.

Our car stopped at the foot of Zhe Yin Mountain. Uncle Jianguo laid flowers and poured several bottles of baijiu at the base of a memorial. After agreeing with Geng Dengfeng to return within a week, our group of three—plus Xie Lingyu—set off. I carried Little Rascal and the kitten on my back as we entered the dense forests of the Sino-Vietnamese border.

Not long after ascending, Uncle Jianguo unpacked his bag, retrieving a set of components. He then pulled another set from my bag and swiftly assembled two handguns. “Our country doesn’t allow firearms, but metal parts are fine,” he said.

I chuckled. “Crafty old fox.”

Uncle Jianguo handed me one gun, kept the other for himself, and gave Lin Danan a sharp blade.

“I don’t know how to use a knife,” Lin Danan protested.

“Carry it anyway,” Uncle Jianguo said. “The mountains are full of dangers—monsters, venomous snakes, poachers, drug traffickers, hunters, even bug masters who release insects. Better to be safe.”

Lin Danan reluctantly accepted a Swiss Army knife. Uncle Jianguo packed up and warned everyone to keep quiet to avoid alerting wild animals or revealing our position.

I tucked the pistol into my waistband, feeling a mix of anticipation at the thought of meeting Ruan Sanjia—the Vietnamese bug master with a centipede or gecko dangling from one ear.

Uncle Jianguo led the way while I took the rear.

I had some experience dealing with wild ghosts in the forests between Hubei and Jiangxi as a child, but compared to this dense jungle, that was like playing in a sandbox.

Thick miasma hung in the air, and the ground was covered in layers of rotting leaves. A single mosquito could be deadly—far from the lush, picturesque scenery it appeared to be.

Lin Danan walked in the middle.

Xie Lingyu moved effortlessly through the forest, wearing the hat I bought for her, looking elegant as ever.

After a while, Uncle Jianguo suddenly raised a hand, signaling us to freeze.

Voices speaking Vietnamese drifted from ahead. He whispered that we might have stumbled upon poachers—two men who had been wandering the mountains for days, their tempers worn thin. If they spotted us, a fight would break out immediately.

One of the Vietnamese men grumbled, “Aren’t there supposed to be many ethnic minorities in Yunnan? No women gathering herbs or chopping wood? We could’ve had some fun.”

Through the thick foliage, we saw two men holding shotguns, with machetes at their waists—still stained with what looked like blood.

Uncle Jianguo whispered, “They’ve likely killed before. We’ll wait here until they pass.” I quickly quieted the kitten and puppy, hiding behind a large boulder.

Lin Danan, terrified, crouched trembling on the ground, not daring to lift his head. I couldn’t help but compare him to Lin Dawei—one a hero, the other a coward.

I flicked off the safety of my pistol, aiming ahead.

The two poachers sat on a rock, drinking water, when a sharp buzzing sound erupted behind them. A pair of winged creatures—Seven-Star Bugs—flew straight at them.

The noise was maddening, as if the bugs were arrogantly announcing their presence, ready to strike anyone in their path.

Uncle Jianguo signaled for silence, letting events unfold.

One poacher laughed. “Damn, these mosquitoes are huge. Let’s see how they handle buckshot.” He fired.

The Seven-Star Bugs dodged effortlessly, evading the bullet with unnatural speed.

The gunshot startled birds into flight, filling the forest with chaotic cries.

The other poacher mocked his companion’s poor aim.

As they bickered, the bugs suddenly opened their mouths and lunged like poisoned darts, each targeting one man.

The poachers tried to dodge, but it was too late. The bugs latched on, paralyzing them instantly. Within minutes, their bodies swelled grotesquely, turning a sickly blue.

The bugs, now sluggish, flew off their victims. Uncle Jianguo muttered, “These Seven-Star Bugs are even deadlier than twenty years ago.”

Xie Lingyu warned, “Someone’s coming. Stay hidden.”

A black-robed figure emerged from the opposite thicket—head wrapped in a turban, large earrings dangling, moving with eerie grace.

The two deadly bugs perched on his shoulders, resting. The poachers, now rigid, eyes wide with terror, silently pleaded for mercy as the man approached.

Without a word, the robed figure grabbed their ankles and dragged them away with terrifying strength, as if hauling dead ducks.

I whispered, “Was that Ruan Sanjia?”

Uncle Jianguo shook his head. “Too young. Ruan Sanjia would be around fifty, like me.”

We waited another half-hour until the figure vanished from sight. Only then did Uncle Jianguo let us move. Lin Danan, stiff from crouching, nearly collapsed when he stood.

The poachers had left behind their shotguns. Uncle Jianguo took one and handed the other to Lin Danan. He picked up a few cigarette butts—definitely Vietnamese. A bloodstained machete confirmed the men had killed before.

A chill ran down my spine. The mountains felt darker now, shrouded in mist. We ate by a rock—I fed the kitten and puppy dried fish while chewing on compressed biscuits.

Lin Danan, exhausted from his first jungle trek, slumped wordlessly.

Uncle Jianguo offered us tobacco leaves to chew for energy. I tried it—it worked. Lin Danan spat his out immediately, swearing never again.

Uncle Jianguo unfolded a detailed military map, marking spots where remains might be found.

I said, “We can’t rely on maps alone.”

After resting, we pressed on, climbing a slope with similar terrain to what Uncle Jianguo remembered.

I stood on a rock, scanning the area.

Years of accumulated death energy could hint at remains, but the fog made it hard. Many died here—some shot by narcotics officers, others mauled by beasts.

Eventually, we unearthed two skeletons.

The first, saturated with moisture, had died within the last few years—too recent to be Uncle Jianguo’s comrade. Beside it lay a sandalwood nameplate, still intact, engraved with the character “Guo.”

The second skeleton, barely seven meters away, was a monkey—its bones darkened, a rusted dart nearby. It had died from poison, around the same time as the man. Its hands were tightly curled, as if clutching something when it died.

The scene suggested the man, in his final moments, urged the monkey to flee. But the monkey hadn’t gotten far before being struck down. Whatever it carried had been stolen.

Staring at the monkey’s curled fingers, I felt a strange familiarity.

I called Xie Lingyu over. She shrugged. “Maybe it was holding a cup of water.”

I pulled out the copper jar I carried and placed it in the monkey’s grasp.

It fit perfectly.