The Hunt

The caller claimed to have seen Ni Xiangdong enter the compound but never come out.

The ramshackle courtyard sat on the city outskirts, its red-brick walls bordering a stretch of farmland.

It was the dead of winter, the land barren. A few low, sagging greenhouses slumped in the cold, their torn tarps patched with duct tape, flapping noisily in the wind.

The flat, open terrain made it difficult for anyone to hide.

Yet Meng Chao preferred to err on the side of caution—he knew the man they were after was no ordinary fugitive.

The task force members formed a perimeter, tightening their encirclement as they closed in on the courtyard.

Meng Chao led four officers as they strode into the yard.

To the left stood a storage shed, rakes hanging on the wall and piles of corn strewn across the ground. To the right, a withered tree stood surrounded by a few free-range chickens pecking and clucking before scattering in a flurry of wings.

At the center-back of the yard sat a rectangular concrete bungalow, its door adorned with a crooked, chipped diamond-shaped "fortune" character pasted upside down.

The house was eerily silent.

Meng Chao and Tong Hao moved swiftly, positioning themselves on either side of the door. A shared glance conveyed their readiness.

Taking a deep breath, Meng Chao raised his hand to knock—but before he could, the door swung open on its own.

Yet the person who stepped out wasn’t Ni Xiangdong, but an unfamiliar old man.

His faded navy-blue Zhongshan jacket hung open, revealing a glossy black padded coat underneath. His rough, cracked hands gripped the doorframe for support as he shuffled forward in worn-out Liberation shoes, struggling to step over the threshold.

"I was the one who called the police."

The old man’s hair was gray, his face gaunt and weathered like dried wood, wrinkles carving deep furrows that made his age impossible to guess. Only his light brown eyes, flickering occasionally, held a trace of warmth—proof he was still among the living.

"No need to search," the old man said, grabbing Tong Hao’s arm as the officer tried to push past him. "He’s not here. Not inside."

"Where did he go?"

The old man hesitated, blinking before finally raising a trembling hand to point east. "Uh... maybe that way—"

"Don’t bother. It’s a lie."

Meng Chao shot the old man a glance, suppressing his anger as he turned away, signaling the team to stand down.

"From the moment we got the call, Ni Xiangdong was already gone," he said, facing the old man again. "You lured us here to divert police resources and buy him time, didn’t you?"

Striding away, Meng Chao scanned the yard and noticed fresh tire tracks in the mud—yet there wasn’t a single vehicle parked in sight.

Straightening up, he raised his voice slightly.

"Where’s the car? Did you lend it to Ni Xiangdong for his escape too?"

The old man opened his mouth to protest but only smacked his lips twice, hanging his head as he panted heavily.

"This is a crime. You’re an accomplice," Tong Hao snapped. "He’s a murderer—do you know how many lives he’s taken? How many more people you’re putting in danger?"

Meng Chao waved a hand. "Take him to the station first—"

"Arrest me, then!" The old man suddenly grew agitated, flailing his arms and nearly shoving his hands in Meng Chao’s face. "Arrest me! I’m old—I’ll serve his sentence, take his punishment. Just shoot me!"

Meng Chao stepped back, exchanging a look with Lao Ma, who quickly moved in, pulling Tong Hao aside before gripping the old man’s shoulders and half-guiding, half-pushing him back into the house.

"Uncle," Lao Ma said, "tell us—why did you make a false report?""Officers, I called you here to clear things up. There must be some misunderstanding," the old man patted the bench. "It couldn't be Dongzi, absolutely not. I know him—"

"Did he threaten you?" Tong Hao followed in, pulling out his notebook again. "Forced you to lie for him?"

"No, no," the old man stood up in a fluster. "That's not it at all."

Lao Ma waved at Tong Hao and gently pressed the old man back onto the bench. "Please cooperate with us. Tell us everything you know."

The old man rubbed the hem of his shirt, gasping for breath, and after a long while, finally spoke.

"I owe him. I'm repaying his kindness."

The old man's name was Sun Chuanhai, nearly seventy years old, having farmed all his life in the countryside.

His first trip to the city was to collect his son's body.

He had two sons, but he only acknowledged the younger one publicly.

As he put it, the elder son was a curse from a past life—never behaved since childhood, and grew up even more useless. He ran off to gamble, racked up a mountain of debt, and fled overnight. For years, there had been no word of him, dead or alive.

Debt collectors came daily, coaxing and threatening, taking anything of value from the house, big or small.

When there was nothing left to take, they changed tactics—sending people to harass, to smash, to follow them around hurling abuse all day, stirring up such a ruckus that the family couldn't hold their heads up in the village.

Sun Chuanhai's wife was already in poor health and thin-skinned. The stress and anger made her seriously ill. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and eventually couldn't even leave her bed. Months of injections and medicine added another hefty expense.

"Only the younger son was good."

The old man snapped out of his memories, nodding pleadingly at the group, desperate for their understanding and trust.

"My younger son was truly good, really. His mother often said it was a pity such a good boy was born into our family, wasted on us."

The younger son was named Sun Xiaofei, obedient and well-behaved since childhood, growing even more filial and sensible by his teens.

Mentioning Xiaofei, a rare light returned to Sun Chuanhai's face, as if his withered life had briefly revived.

He proudly declared that Xiaofei was bright, hardworking, and excelled in school. Many teachers knew him, saying he was college material.

"But it all went wrong because of his brother," he said, the light fading as he thought of the elder son. "Xiaofei's life was ruined by that good-for-nothing older brother."

Xiaofei couldn't bear to see his father, old as he was, begging everywhere to clean up the mess. After high school, he refused to continue his studies, insisting on going to work, laboring on construction sites in the city.

Sun Chuanhai was heartbroken. He knew construction work was backbreaking, earning pennies with blood and sweat.

But Xiaofei just smiled and said it was fine—tiring, but the pay was good. He was young; his strength would return after a night's sleep. A few more job sites, and soon his brother's debts would be cleared. Then the family could reunite and live properly. Once things settled, he'd go back to school.

"He loved books, that boy. Quiet, studious," Sun Chuanhai's smile twisted into a sob. "Oh, my boy, my boy."His tears were trapped in the wrinkles.

"My boy fell from the building, steel bars pierced his belly. It hurt, oh how it hurt. The belly—all his organs were inside.

"That day it was pouring rain, cars couldn't get through, and the supervisors all hid. I heard it was Dongzi who carried him running to the hospital.

"They weren't close before. Dongzi was a man of few words, never liked talking much with anyone.

"My boy had his own friends, but when trouble came, they all backed off. Only Dongzi stepped up, carried him all the way to the hospital. When there wasn't enough money for surgery, he covered it too."

The old man covered his face with large hands, tears streaming through his fingers.

"My boy... when they got him there, he was already gone. All his blood had drained out. Drained to death. My boy died from the pain."

The wind outside the window stilled, leaving only the old man's wails in the room. His grief was an ocean, its tides endless.

In the listeners' minds, Sun Xiaofei fell once more, collapsed in a pool of blood, died once again.

The bystanders' comforts were meaningless. Meng Chao lowered his head smoking, unsure what to say. All he could offer now were sighs.

Sun Chuanhai gradually stopped crying, hiccuped loudly, wiped his nose, paused, then picked up the thread again—this time speaking stiffly, as if forcing strength into his words.

"Dongzi helped with the funeral arrangements too. I kept it from his mother—she was bedridden anyway. Even if she knew, she could only worry helplessly.

"But there were always busybodies running their mouths. Eventually she found out. Cried for a full day and night until she had no strength left, then clutched her chest screaming in pain. The clinic doctor hadn't even arrived when her eyes went wide and she was gone.

"People die, but debts remain. Old Sun here never liked owing anyone anything. Truth be told, I've thought about dying too. But I've got my pride—can't let the villagers look down on me. Before I die, I've got to repay what I owe.

"Over sixty years old, but what choice did I have? Went looking for work again. Who'd hire me? Eventually Dongzi took pity, cosigned for me, got me night work with him as stagehands.

"You know what stagehands do? Fancy name for hard labor—treated like donkeys or oxen. Wherever there's events setting up stages, we haul steel beams and planks on our backs. Can't do it daytime, disturbs business. Have to work nights in the dark, usually finishing past midnight.

"Nobody wanted to partner with me, said I was too old, afraid they'd lose out. Only Dongzi. Brought me liquor, shared his cigarettes. Ah, back then, the two of us would huddle in the truck, splitting half a pack of smokes through the night."

The old man fell silent, and the others followed. Only their breathing remained, close enough to hear.

"I've had a bitter life. The only good person I ever met was Dongzi."

The old man smiled through tears, wiping his face with his palms.

"Officers, give me two more days. After I sell this batch of vegetables, I'll have almost repaid everything. Come for me then—I'll go with you, really. I won't run. Once this debt's cleared, I can rest easy."

"Old sir, we're not here to arrest you," Lao Ma handed him a tissue, "but Ni Xiangdong is indeed a murder suspect. With three victims now, we need your cooperation—""It can't be him, officer, it just can't be," Sun Chuanhai slapped his thigh emphatically. "Go ask around—anyone who's worked with him will tell you what a good man he is."

"Go see his home—living in worse conditions than mine. Everything's the cheapest—food, drinks, even his cigarettes are the lowest grade."

"Won't even spend money to get married. What's he saving for? Donates every penny like an addiction—gives it all to some lonely old man. Tell me, could such a saintly person commit murder? Impossible, absolutely impossible."

He clutched Meng Chao's hand desperately.

"Besides, he and Xiaojun were close as brothers. Go ask anyone—truly, go ask—who wouldn't tell you they were thick as thieves?"

As he pleaded, sudden commotion erupted outside the courtyard. Tong Hao stood to look and saw seven or eight people jostling their way into the yard.

The door burst open as the crowd surged in, bringing with them the northern wind that swirled around Meng Chao and his team.

The newcomers stood silent, clutching something in their hands, faces flushed, breath visible in white puffs.

"What are you doing here?"

"We're his coworkers—got Old Sun's call and came to testify—"

"We all want to testify—"

"Dongzi's a good man—brings pork to this widower every month."

"He jumped into the sea to save my son."

"He donated money when I was hospitalized—"

Their voices exploded simultaneously, a chaotic porridge of overlapping claims. The crowd grew restless, some thrusting whatever they held high above their heads, straining forward.

"Officer, you might doubt one man's word, but all these people—they've all received his kindness—they wouldn't lie," Sun Chuanhai said, beginning to kneel. "I'll stake my old life on it—"

Others followed suit. Only then did Meng Chao see clearly—the object held aloft was a red paper with "GUARANTEE" boldly outlined in black marker, beneath which sprawled a collection of crooked signatures.

"Officer, we all vouch for him. Dongzi's a good man—he could never have killed Cao Xiaojun."