Chapter 60: A New Cycle

From the sound of it, there was another person in Wang Han’s office.

Shen Yihu could no longer care about politeness. He pounded on the door and shouted, “It’s Shen Yihu! Chief, open the door! Open it now!”

The door swung open from the inside, revealing a man in an old-style tunic, who nervously defended himself, “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me! I was just discussing health preservation with the chief.” The man glanced at me, slightly surprised.

I smiled and said, “The mountains may not turn, but the waters will. Never thought I’d see you again.”

Stripped of his Taoist robe and long hair, now clad in a tunic, the Flying Centipede, Ji Ruyue, stood in the chief’s office with a righteous air.

Seeing me with Shen Yihu, Ji Ruyue, afraid I might frame him, grinned like a blooming chrysanthemum. “Ah, Master! My apologies for last time. Please don’t hold it against me.”

Shen Yihu barged in and yelled, “Xiao Qi, get in here!”

Wang Han’s body was gradually turning green, his hands swelling grotesquely. His eyes had also turned a deep emerald as he violently bashed his head against the wall, exactly like Sun Junliu’s condition.

A gurgling sound came from Wang Han’s throat, rendering him speechless as his eyes continued to green. I had seen Wu Zhen’s head turn into a watermelon, but compared to this mantis poison, that little snake was nothing—like a small fry meeting a crime boss.

Shen Yihu asked, “Can we save him?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure.”

The Flying Centipede chimed in, “In my humble opinion, this is a poison curse. Only the caster can undo it. Forcing a counter-curse without the right method is futile. Unless you have a Golden Silkworm Gu to drive out the Mantis Gu. But even the Miao people rarely possess such a Gu. Traveling thousands of miles to find one would be too late.”

Shen Yihu looked at me for confirmation. I nodded. “He’s right.”

A man of action, Shen Yihu immediately grabbed the office phone and arranged for a large business van and a stretcher to be brought to the chief’s office.

Wang Han’s agony intensified, yet his throat remained blocked, preventing even a scream.

I told the Flying Centipede, “You take his head, I’ll take his feet. It’s best if no one else interferes.”

The Flying Centipede grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

He seized Wang Han’s head while I pinned down his thrashing legs. The floor was slick with green fluid oozing from his mouth, reeking of rot. As we lifted him, a jet of green liquid splattered across the wall, staining the calligraphy that read “Justice for All.”

The stretcher was wheeled to the door and covered with a large sheet. Together, we heaved the hefty Wang Han onto it, concealing him with another sheet before swiftly loading him into the van.

Dust swirled behind us as we sped to the hospital, where we placed Wang Han beside Sun Junliu and uncovered him.

Sun Junliu, watching the convulsing, mute Wang Han on the stretcher, burst into wild laughter. Throughout their twisted dealings, she had always been the underdog—her final desperate strike had seemed as futile as an ant trying to topple a tree. Yet, in the end, she had succeeded.

Wang Han had wanted her dead simply because she claimed to possess an incriminating video.

Sun Junliu recounted how, at twenty, she had performed “Ode to the Motherland” at a school-organized event honoring local police officers. Wang Han, present that day, had been smitten by her youthful beauty.

After graduation, he arranged her job, showered her with luxury cars, designer bags, and exotic trips. Anyone could see the unspoken exchange—her body was the currency.

Nine precious years passed, transforming the girl into a woman.

Gradually, Wang Han lost interest in her and sought out two dance students instead. During those nine years, Sun Junliu had two abortions, leaving her barren.

The madness festered into a demon within her. If only she had refused Wang Han’s advances from the start, insisting on a normal life—marriage, children, growing old with a loving husband—none of this tragedy would have befallen her.

I couldn’t help but think of Song Xiaoshuang. Had she, too, grown weary of small-town life, only to be caged by another?

Sun Junliu spoke deliberately, “I only learned how to cast the curse, not how to lift it. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t save him. He tried to kill me twice. He betrayed me first—don’t blame me for returning the favor.”

Wang Han’s organs rapidly failed. The sheets turned green as if a male mantis had been devoured by its mate. The oxygen tube did nothing.

Suddenly, a female mantis leaped from Wang Han’s belly, dissolving into smoke in the sunlight.

His death marked Sun Junliu’s triumphant revenge.

Leaving the hospital, Shen Yihu, the Flying Centipede, and I were taken in for questioning. Wang Han’s death was officially ruled as poisoning by his mistress. The authorities dismissed the notion of curses as mere folklore, unworthy of belief.

Soon, Wang Han’s rivals dredged up his misdeeds: ordering a nightclub owner to commit murder and keeping three mistresses, funding his lavish lifestyle with ill-gotten gains.

In the end, Wang Han was posthumously honored as a fallen public servant.

Sun Junliu, a Sichuan native, had been Ma Shuangxi’s unrequited love. His death, too, was for love. Fortunately, like the natural order where the female mantis survives after mating, Sun Junliu lived—though she was later convicted of poisoning and executed by firing squad.

I skipped her trial. She had warned me that the Flying Centipede was the one who sold her the cursed item, urging me to be wary of the “Taoist.” When I pressed her about who taught her the curse, she refused, fearing dire consequences if she spoke. I didn’t push further—her fear seemed genuine.

Zhang Tong and Liu Wo called with news about the skull: it belonged to a child who died in a car accident seven years ago, the sole fatality while the parents survived. The skull had been stolen, likely by the Flying Centipede. Once the police handled the remains, the haunted porcelain doll in the family home finally settled.

I went to the Weiyang Hotel to confront the Flying Centipede, only to find the Taoist conference had ended. After giving his statement about Wang Han, he had fled, fearing exposure over the skull and Sun Junliu’s potential testimony.

His escape frustrated Xie Lingyu the most. She had planned to hire actresses to stage a scandal about a Taoist soliciting services without payment, but her scheme collapsed.

Everything is interconnected, all part of an endless cycle.

With Zhang Zongbao and Zong Xiao’s wedding approaching and little left in Jiangcheng, Junge invited me to join him. Xie Lingyu, exhausted, agreed it’d be a good break.

I couldn’t refuse. After so much darkness and sorrow, a trip was welcome. Zhang Zongbao’s hometown was just two hours south of Jiangcheng.

Tieniu and Liu Jibao coaxed Yu Yuwei into coming, framing it as a countryside sightseeing trip with no gifts required. She laughed, treating it like a road trip. The two men tuned up the Wuling van, replacing the clutch spring.

We set off at dawn. Xie Lingyu and Yu Yuwei, oddly both holding black umbrellas, rode with me, the cat, and the dog in the Wuling. Liu Jibao, who claimed he wanted to play with the dog, was rebuffed by Xie Lingyu and ended up in Junge’s modified white Fukang, which left us in the dust.

By nine, we reached Zhang Zongbao’s town. Luckily, it was overcast, so Xie Lingyu didn’t need to hide indoors. Zhang Zongbao, a warm-hearted young man, was out fetching his sweet bride, Zong Xiao. Their new riverside home, nestled between mountains and water, resembled a countryside villa.

I envied them.

The Zhang family welcomed us with a private table. Toasts flowed freely, with guests praising us for traveling so far. Junge held his liquor like a champ.

At three, Zhang Zongbao returned with his bride. The wedding festivities lasted until six. With summer’s long daylight, we made it back to Jiangcheng by eight.

Xie Lingyu, still energetic, reopened the flower shop. As I sat down, Liu Jianguo called—the paper villa and figurines were ready for inspection. I left immediately, braving the rain.

A taxi with a flat tire pulled up. Junge, drunk and asleep in his car, left Tieniu to handle the repairs. The driver, Shi Dake, recognized me and launched into his ghost story—the transgender person who crawled out of a grave, in love with a male doctor who eventually killed them before committing suicide.

I chuckled. “A tale of love and hate. What happened to the doctor?”

Shi Dake slapped my shoulder hard. “The doctor said, ‘If you were a normal man, I’d love you.’ The transgender replied, ‘Then cut off my breasts—it’s just 10,000 baht.’ The doctor killed himself after.”

A morbidly amusing ghost story. Once the tire was fixed, Shi Dake drove off.

I took the Wuling to collect the paper villa and figurines. Rain seeped through the window, cold against my face.

I told myself: One last visit to Ji Qianqian, then I’d leave Jiangcheng for Yunnan and Tibet in search of the Seven-Orifice Exquisite Heart.

But how would I explain this to Xie Lingyu?