Chapter 22: Someone Comes Paddling a Raft

The sword formed from five blades was not particularly large, yet ancient characters seemed to swirl around it, and the aura of the Five Sacred Mountains enveloped its blade, like thunder with the weight of a thousand mountains, stabbing toward the impenetrable coffin. A metallic clang resounded so loudly that my eardrums nearly ruptured. Fatty stood up and pressed down with both hands; the sword stabbed again. This time, its tip met the coffin, locked in stalemate.

“There's no way you're really that tough!” Fatty cursed, and with that, his bulky frame soared from the ground, leaping high, his foot landing atop the hilt of the ancient sword. He seemed determined to drive the blade into the coffin.

His posture was oddly endearing, reminiscent of a rooster standing on one leg. His face flushed deep red, hands pressed together, and though he weighed over two hundred pounds, he appeared as imposing as a mountain bearing down on the sword.

With Fatty’s thunderous pressure, the coffin began to falter, slowly sinking into the water, taking Fatty with it. When his silhouette vanished beneath the surface, a wave of anxiety swept over me. I didn’t fully grasp what was happening, but I sensed Fatty was outmatched. I turned to Grandpa Third and Chen Qingshan, saying, “Village chief, take Grandpa Third home quickly. I think Fatty’s gotten himself in real trouble this time!”

Chen Qingshan echoed, “Uncle, let’s go back?”

Grandpa Third chuckled, “I’m old bones, what’s there to fear? If you want to go, go ahead. I’m not leaving.”

Just as he finished speaking, Fatty’s figure burst forth from the water again—but this time, he was lifted up.

A gap had opened in the coffin lid, and from within, an arm emerged, holding up the sword’s tip, lifting both the blade and Fatty, who stood atop the hilt, clear out of the water.

I glanced back at Uncle Zhuzi—the arm was the very one that had once fought him for the fool’s corpse.

The sword’s tip looked impossibly sharp, yet pressed against that palm, it couldn’t pierce even a fraction. Uncle Zhuzi was right: looking at the arm and hand, it truly resembled a human limb. But what lay within the coffin, no one could say.

Fatty was soaked through, looking utterly bedraggled. He shouted to us, “Retreat, everyone! Go back! Brother King of Thieves, hurry and find Sun Zhongmou. I can’t hold out!”

Hearing these words from the brash Fatty, who always claimed he’d challenge my brother, was almost comical—yet I couldn’t laugh. I hurriedly took out my phone to call my brother, but just then, the arm suddenly thrust upward, flinging Fatty from the hilt. He spat a mouthful of blood and crashed into the water.

Then, the hand clenched.

The sword’s tip, lodged in the palm, began to fracture, splintering in the hand until the ancient blade was reduced to powder in the blink of an eye.

Fatty’s fate was uncertain; I could think of nothing else. I shouted, “Go! Everyone, go now!” Retreating, I dialed my brother’s number, fear for Fatty gnawing at me. He had fought valiantly tonight; with such skill, it was no wonder he was considered a master. His disarray was simply due to the coffin’s bizarre nature.

My brother’s phone rang, but no one answered. I had retreated to Grandpa Third and Chen Qingshan, and together we guided Grandpa Third backward.

But at that moment, the coffin that had knocked Fatty into the water suddenly stilled.

“Look,” Grandpa Third pointed at the water.

Through the mist rising from the surface, a lone figure appeared, poling a raft. He wasn’t tall, but his calm was unmistakable. From a distance, I couldn’t see the person clearly—but I recognized the bamboo raft.

It was the very raft my brother Sun Zhongmou used for retrieving corpses.

With my brother’s arrival, we stopped retreating. He glided across the water, gently poling his raft toward us. The coffin seemed wary of him, holding still, making no move.

My brother searched the water, used his pole to lift Fatty’s body onto the raft. Fatty was so heavy the raft nearly sank. My brother kicked Fatty’s chest, and Fatty rolled over, sputtering water and coughing. Afterward, he shouted, “What took you so long? You knew I wasn’t his match—why didn’t you stop me?”

My brother glanced at Fatty; his voice was always soft, and I couldn’t tell whether he replied. Next, he pressed the pole down, bending it till it nearly snapped, and used its spring to leap gracefully through the air, tracing a perfect arc.

He landed atop the coffin.

The arm, still since my brother’s appearance, suddenly swung, aiming to crush him. My brother’s toe tapped the coffin lid and he vaulted high, dodging the blow, twisting midair and descending headfirst.

He extended his right hand, forming two fingers, and, inverted, traced something atop the coffin lid—like drawing a talisman, but using only his fingers, not cinnabar.

After finishing, he slapped his palm onto the coffin lid, bouncing up again, landing neatly back on the raft. He raised his pole and began to leave, as if unconcerned with the coffin.

As his raft passed the coffin, the finger-traces on its lid suddenly shone golden, blindingly bright. The arm smoked and recoiled in pain, retreating into the coffin. As the lid closed, the stone coffin sank slowly, stirring up massive turbulence beneath the water, as if it were heading back toward the Twelve Ghost Caverns.

At last, everything dissipated. My brother’s raft reached the shore, and we hurried over. Fatty’s face was pale, flecked with blood—he looked utterly defeated—while my brother remained immaculate, untouched by dust.

“Get off,” my brother said.

“What on earth was inside?” Fatty asked, looking at him.

My brother shook his head. “I don’t know. Let’s go. It’s late.”

Fatty looked at him, holding back for a long moment. “You’re impressive, but if I hadn’t worn it down, you might not have subdued it so quickly! Still, I’m not convinced!”

He stepped off the raft, nearly stumbling. I moved to steady him, but he flushed and said, “I’m fine, I’m not that fragile.”

He disembarked on his own.

“You’ve suffered internal injuries; rest well or you’ll be left with lasting illness,” my brother said with a smile, then nodded to us and poled away.

Fatty, embarrassed, didn’t wait for us; he left alone once ashore. It was understandable—Fatty was clearly proud, yet when he was out of options and my brother solved things effortlessly, he couldn’t help but feel humiliated.

I bade farewell to Chen Qingshan and Grandpa Third. My brother’s appearance had obviously changed the way they looked at me, which I understood—my brother’s actions since returning had been nothing short of extraordinary.

I meant to go home, but passing by the school, I noticed a light in Han Xue’s room. I called out her name, but received no answer, so I approached. Inside, water splashed; I started to knock but hesitated. In that instant, I felt even more nervous than when facing the stone coffin, for I could tell Han Xue was bathing.

Han Xue’s figure was slender—though that wasn’t the point. The real allure was her fair skin, so pale I could barely imagine what temptation she must have presented, bathed in light.

I took a deep breath. Though reason told me I shouldn’t, another voice urged me to take just one peek—only one.

Our village school was still tiled-roofed, built decades ago, often in need of repairs to avoid leaking. Han Xue’s dormitory window was old wood, as was the blue-painted door. She had drawn the curtains tightly, but above the door were several gaps.

I stood on tiptoe, squinting through the cracks.

Han Xue was turned away, toweling her body.

I could see her long legs.

Her rounded hips.

Her flawless back, merging into her neck.

Everything matched my imagination—snow white, so pale I could barely breathe.

Suddenly, Han Xue turned her head. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, but her eyes flashed annoyance. I jumped, thinking I’d been caught, and froze.

Han Xue glared at me. “Like what you see?”

I swallowed. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

Then, realizing what I’d said, my soul nearly fled from my body.