Chapter Fifty-One: Chen Dongfang

This incident only strengthened my resolve to keep my distance from Tang Renjie. Though those two photos with my father had sparked the faintest glimmer of trust and goodwill toward him, the death of Third Grandpa plunged me into fear. I finally understood why Uncle Zhuzi had repeatedly warned me—so it was true, people could die. Even in a law-abiding society like ours, there were still those who dared to kill.

After leaving Fatty’s place, I headed straight for Sanlitun to find my eldest brother. The outside world was in utter chaos, yet he remained calm, as if nothing could shake him. Perhaps only he could hold steady in times like these. I shared Fatty’s thoughts with him, because if we really wanted to lie in wait for our enemy, we’d need his help.

“It’s not time yet,” he said after a moment of thought.

“Then when will it be time? Today it was Third Grandpa who died. Who will it be next?” I stared at him. His composure made me feel safe, but I was truly afraid now.

“It absolutely won’t be you,” he replied.

I wanted to say more, but my brother waved his hand dismissively. “You should head back. Tell Fatty that if the time comes, I’ll make a move.”

It was clear he didn’t want to talk to me today. After ushering me out, he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes—a sign he wouldn’t say another word to me. There was no point in staying, so I left.

Not long after I left my brother, before I had even reached home, my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar and from Shanghai. I answered, and a deep male voice said, “Yezi, this is Chen Dongfang.”

My mind went blank for a moment, but I quickly remembered who he was.

“Uncle Dongfang, my condolences. About Third Grandpa...” I began.

Chen Dongfang was Third Grandpa’s son who lived elsewhere. He hadn’t been back to the village in years, reportedly busy with big business in Shanghai.

“I already know everything about my father’s passing. The dead cannot return to life, I understand that. Find yourself a quiet place now; there are some things I—or rather, your Third Grandpa—need to tell you,” Chen Dongfang said.

I parked my electric scooter and found a secluded spot, curious about what he wanted to say. In fact, I was already surprised he even knew my number.

“I’m ready, Uncle Dongfang. It’s quiet here,” I told him.

“Three days ago, my father called me. He said he might die soon,” Chen Dongfang said in a low voice.

His first words left me stunned.

“Surprised, aren’t you? I also know that a few days ago, you had a disagreement with your Third Grandpa over the feng shui spring,” he continued.

The connection between these two statements made me laugh in spite of myself. “Uncle Dongfang, did Third Grandpa tell you that if he died, I’d be the murderer?”

“No,” he replied.

“Then what did he say?” I asked.

“My father knew that Chen Shitou buried a dead child under the feng shui spring. He called to tell me that if he died, you and your brother Sun Zhongmou mustn’t touch the Dragon Head Stele. That’s not just a simple feng shui spring—it’s a talisman left by an elder to suppress the corpse king of the twelve ghost caves,” Chen Dongfang said.

His words surprised me yet again, but they also confirmed Fatty’s theory—Third Grandpa really did know everything.

I hesitated before saying, “Honestly, Uncle Dongfang, your call came a little late. We’d already guessed the Dragon Head Stele’s purpose, but by accident, we removed it from the spring. Afterward, the dragon’s eyes bled. Fortunately, an expert sealed the eyes with talismans and put the stele back.”

When I finished, Chen Dongfang fell silent for a long time. At last, he sighed. “The thing my father feared most has happened. Yezi, go find Chen Zhuzi now—that’s my father’s last arrangement. Tell him I called you; he’ll know what to do.”

There was a compelling finality to his words. I nodded. “Alright.”

“And one more thing: I hope you’ll manage to keep my father’s body from being cremated before I return, no matter what happens. I know you have many questions, but I’ll explain everything once I’m back,” he said.

Because of Chen Dongfang’s call, it felt as if there might be a turning point in all of this. It was clear that both Third Grandpa and his son had a thorough understanding of everything concerning Fudigou. From the clarity of Chen Dongfang’s words, it was obvious he had thought everything through.

“Apart from Chen Shitou, tell no one about this—not even Fatty, and not even your brother Sun Zhongmou. In Fudigou, my father trusted only you and Chen Zhuzi,” he said, and then hung up.

His call left me excited, but his last words made me deeply uneasy. I still harbored a trace of suspicion toward Fatty, but now Chen Dongfang was telling me not to fully trust even my brother Sun Zhongmou. That struck a chord deep within me. I didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to admit it, but deep down, I did have doubts about my brother—his actions were always shrouded in mystery.

I took a deep breath, rode my scooter home, and found my sister Han Xue had gone to school, my mother was busy in the fields, and my grandfather sat alone in the courtyard, smoking his old pipe. He looked up, his clouded eyes filling me with an unprecedented sense of dread. I didn’t know if it was because of the sense of danger Chen Dongfang’s call had left me with, or because I’d discovered something deeply hidden about my grandfather.

I parked the scooter, said goodbye to my grandfather, and left. I wandered around the village for a while. Everywhere, people were discussing Third Grandpa’s death and the bleeding Dragon Head Stele. At last, when no one was around, I slipped into Uncle Zhuzi’s house.

Once inside, I called softly, “Uncle Zhuzi, are you home?”

“Come in,” he replied, his voice as low and somber as ever.

I entered the main room and, finding no one there, pushed open the door to the inner room. There, I saw Uncle Zhuzi polishing an incense burner. When I glanced at the table by the bed, I nearly jumped in fright.

On his table, where there had always been two photos of his late wives, now stood a black-and-white photo of himself, placed between theirs.

“Don’t be scared, I’m not a ghost,” Uncle Zhuzi said with a bitter smile.

“Uncle, what’s this? It’s unlucky!” My heart ached suddenly, as if this man who had cared for me for nearly twenty years was about to leave.

“There’s nothing unlucky about it. The dying always prepare their coffin and burial clothes in advance. I’ll be needing this soon. Don’t just stand there, Yezi—sit,” he said, patting the bed beside him.

I walked over and sat down. He finished cleaning the incense burner, set it on the table, then took my hand in his own—his rough, callused hand—and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Child, you’ve grown up. The first time I held you, you were so tiny I was afraid I’d hurt you or make you cry.”

His words made my tears flow uncontrollably. I gripped his hand with both of mine and choked out, “Uncle, I’ll leave now. I won’t ask anything, won’t try to find out anything. I can give up looking into all of this! But please, just stay alive—don’t do anything rash. If anyone wants to hurt you, I’ll beg my brother, I’ll beg Sun Zhongmou—I’ll get down on my knees if I have to! You have to live!”

He closed his eyes, and two silent tears rolled down his weathered face.

He shook his head. “Child, it’s too late.”