Once thought to be forever out of reach, Nanling Village now lay right before their eyes.
The village nestled among towering mountains, its sparse thatched huts the only interruption in the vast expanse of green, like embers burning holes into silk.
A winding, muddy path hid among the shrubs beside a stone tablet. The ancient Nanling Village, like the answer to a riddle, waited silently at the end of the long road.
Meng Chao exchanged a glance with Tong Hao, and the two steeled themselves before striding forward.
At the village entrance lay a few meager fields, yet no one was tending to them. Now, the rice stalks withered, weeds ran rampant, and only a tailless rooster hopped along the ridges, pecking at the ground.
Towering ancient trees loomed lush and verdant everywhere, with houses scattered lazily among them. Most were old-fashioned thatched huts, weathered by a century of storms. Their walls were mottled with mold, their foundations sunken and crumbling. On the cracked wooden doors, faded and tattered New Year paintings could still be glimpsed, depicting distant, unfamiliar deities.
Many households were locked tight, their keyholes rusted. The entire village seemed stranded in the past, not a single wisp of fresh cooking smoke in sight.
The two stopped outside an old house, peering in through the collapsed wall.
The courtyard was overgrown with knee-high grass, long since turned into a haven for wild rabbits. Chicken and duck droppings littered the ground amid rotting plastic bags. A gaunt old yellow dog, skin stretched tight over its bones, lay beside a dried-up well, squinting in the scorching sun as it panted with its tongue lolling.
"Let's go," Meng Chao nudged Tong Hao with his stick. "Let’s find someone who can talk."
They wandered further through the village, their lips parched and tongues dry, until they finally encountered their first human.
It was a boy of about four or five, standing beneath a sprawling banyan tree.
He wore only a loose, washed-out yellow-green tank top that barely covered his bottom. His skinny legs, dark with grime, stuck out from beneath the hem, and his bare feet pressed carelessly into the mud.
In his hand, he clutched a slingshot made from a tree branch, taking aim at a bird perched on a bough. Hearing footsteps, he turned his head, took two steps back, and wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.
"Hey there, little guy."
Meng Chao bent down, hands on his knees, trying his best to appear friendly and trustworthy.
The boy blinked his big eyes, timid and silent, his left hand tightening around the slingshot while his right scratched at a mosquito bite on his thigh.
"Where are your parents?"
Just as Meng Chao was about to pat the boy’s head, a figure hurried into view from the end of the road, shouting sharply.
It was a woman, heavily pregnant, with a toddler of two or three cradled in her left arm. She ran while waving frantically at the boy, calling out to him.
She spoke in the local dialect, her words rapid-fire. Meng Chao couldn’t understand, but from the look of it, she was scolding the child. The boy frowned, reluctant, and retorted in the same dialect.
"Um, hello," Meng Chao smiled at the woman, trying to convey goodwill. "Excuse me—"
But the woman ignored him, as if the two men were invisible, and strode briskly past Meng Chao, stirring a gust of hot air in her wake.
She grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him back.
The child began to whine and fake-cry, refusing to move. The woman raised her hand and slapped him. Stung by the pain, the boy’s cries turned genuine, wailing loudly. The toddler in the woman’s arms, startled, also burst into tears, her face streaked with them.
Meng Chao and Tong Hao stood awkwardly where they were, unsure whether to intervene or stay out of it.The woman stiffened her face, forcing a fierce demeanor as she dragged her child away at a brisk pace.
The boy covered his face and cried, glancing back from time to time. The woman also turned to look, and upon seeing Meng Chao and the others still watching, she quickly averted her gaze and broke into a jog.
The figures of the adult and child soon vanished behind the trees.
The village returned to silence, save for the distant barking of dogs echoing from the unseen valley.
Meng Chao wiped the sweat from his face.
"Let's go. Keep searching."
Soon, they encountered the second person.
At the edge of the village, beside a dilapidated, crumbling thatched hut.
A short, withered old man, bare-chested, was bent over in the yard, rummaging for something. Every now and then, he would stoop with effort, pick something up, and bring it to his nose to sniff. With each movement, his protruding ribs became more pronounced, as if threatening to pierce through his skin.
"Uncle," Meng Chao knocked on the gate, "could you tell us how to get to Xu Caizeng's house?"
The old man was startled. He turned around, tilting his head as he looked them up and down in confusion. Then, setting down what he was holding, he wobbled unsteadily and retreated into the house.
Just as the two stood there, unsure what to do, the old man reappeared, leaning against the doorframe and beckoning them inside.
Meng Chao exhaled in relief and strode forward.
Tong Hao hesitated briefly before following.
Unlike the bright, glaring sunlight outside, the interior was dim and damp, making it hard to see.
Only after their eyes adjusted to the darkness could they make out the sparse furnishings.
It was an extremely crude dwelling, more like a shelter—walls made of straw mixed with yellow mud, a few pieces of outdated furniture from the last century, rotting blackened rice piled on the earthen floor, and wooden basins placed beneath the rafters, collecting rainwater.
The old man shooed away the flies and mosquitoes, then tremblingly handed them two chipped bowls, miming the act of drinking.
"Old sir," Meng Chao dredged up the Nanyang dialect he had once learned from the depths of his memory, "how old are you?"
The old man simply smiled at him, raising his hand again to repeat the drinking gesture.
Dead insects floated on the water's surface. Tong Hao licked his cracked lips and downed the bowl in one gulp.
Meng Chao noticed the abnormality in the old man's eyes—one was entirely clouded white, likely from severe cataracts.
He glanced around the thatched hut again. At such an old age, with failing eyesight—could he really be living here alone?
"Old sir," he tried again in dialect, gesturing as he spoke, "do you know Xu Caizeng?"
At the name, the old man froze, then slowly stood and walked outside.
"Boss, what’s going on?" Tong Hao poured himself another bowl of water, picking out the stray grass stems. "Did you just scare the old man off?"
"Was my pronunciation off?" Meng Chao muttered to himself. "Maybe I mispronounced something—hopefully I didn’t accidentally swear at him."
As they puzzled over it, the old man stepped back over the threshold, followed by a middle-aged man.
Gray undershirt, loose shorts, and a pair of blue flip-flops on his feet.
The middle-aged man stopped just inside the door, eyeing them warily before tossing out a line in dialect.
Meng Chao quickly stood and handed over his identification.
The man took it, turning it over in his hands for a careful inspection. When he looked up again, he was smiling and had switched to Mandarin.
It wasn’t perfect, but at least it was understandable.
"Officers, what’s the matter?" The man in the gray undershirt glanced at the old man. "What’s my uncle done now?"
"Is he your relative?"The old man stood to the side, hanging his head like a child, rubbing his hands against his pants in silence.
"My father's younger brother."
The man in the gray sweatpants seemed a bit uneasy, his smile barely holding up. His narrow eyes darted around, surreptitiously gauging Meng Chao's expression.
Meng Chao patted him on the shoulder. "Don't be nervous. We're just passing through, stopping by for some water."
The man visibly relaxed and quickly arranged for everyone to sit, directing the old man to scrounge up four stools.
Meng Chao decided to ease into the conversation, letting the man lower his guard completely. Sipping water, he made casual small talk.
"Not many people in the village, huh?"
"It was never big, but now it's even worse."
The man offered a cigarette—a strong, harsh local brand. Meng Chao wasn’t much of a smoker, but to build rapport, he took it and leaned in to borrow a light.
"Everyone’s gone to the county town," the man exhaled smoke, stretching out and crossing his legs. "The village was always small—at its peak, maybe 20 households. Now?" He counted on his fingers. "Only seven or eight families left, all the old, weak, women, and children who can’t leave."
Suddenly remembering something, he asked, "By the way, what should I call you two?"
"I'm Meng Chao, and this is Tong Hao. Just call him Xiao Tong."
"Officer Meng, nice to meet you. I’m Xu Jiadong, also the village chief here. You can call me Lao Xu."
At the mention of being village chief, Xu Jiadong couldn’t hide his pride, though he feigned a sigh of concern.
"Ah, if it weren’t for this title tying me down, I wouldn’t stay either. It’d be so much better to leave—more money, easier life."
He took a drag and waved his hand, the cigarette tracing a pale arc in the dim, cramped room.
"No choice. I’ve got a strong sense of responsibility," he puffed out his chest. "The village needs me, so I sacrifice myself to stay and serve everyone."
"See that, Xiao Tong?" Meng Chao winked at Tong Hao. "Capable, responsible, visionary—no wonder his name’s Jiadong. A pillar of the family and the nation. Without a chief like him holding things together, this village would be in trouble."
Xu Jiadong was clearly pleased, his grin widening as he waved off the praise, though his words grew more animated.
"By the way, Officer Meng, how did you get here?"
Meng Chao shook his head and recounted their arduous journey.
"There’s a road behind the hills. Nanling Village might be backward, but it’s not completely cut off."
Xu Jiadong patted his knee like an old friend.
"Not long ago, a few nearby villages pooled money to build a cement road—much more convenient now. Next time you come, find a guide. It’ll save you a lot of wandering. You must’ve taken such a roundabout way today."
"Yeah," Tong Hao shot a glance at Meng Chao. "So much wasted effort."
Meng Chao took a drag and quickly changed the subject.
"Chief Xu, how does the village make ends meet?"
"Just a hundred or so betel nut trees. We used to grow sugarcane too, but after offending the Bao family, they stopped buying from us. It’s too much hassle to sell elsewhere, so fewer people grow it now."
"What about the elderly in the village?"
"Depends on their kids’ conscience. Those working outside send money back every month."
"Tough life."
"Yeah, it’s hard for everyone."
With the pleasantries exhausted, Meng Chao felt it was time to reel things in."Is there an elderly man named Xu Caizeng in your village?"
Xu Jiadong froze for a moment before clapping his hands and bursting into laughter, pointing at the rigidly seated old man. "This is Cai Zeng, my father."
Meng Chao and Tong Hao couldn't help but take another look. By sheer coincidence, they had stumbled upon the key figure—Xu Caizeng.
At that moment, the old man sat motionless on the small stool, like a piece of root carving.
Even the smile on his face seemed frozen, as if carved into place, devoid of life.
"My father's eyesight is poor, and he's too old to work. He usually relies on the village for support."
"It seems someone has been sending him money regularly?"
"Ah, yes! You're well-informed, even knowing that. Every month, the post office delivers a sum of money. But since my father has trouble getting around, we give the money to the neighbors or to me, the village head. When we go to town, we buy whatever he needs and bring it back."
"Do you know the person sending the money?" Meng Chao fixed his gaze on Xu Jiadong, carefully observing his expression. "Ni Xiangdong."
"No, I don't."
His response was natural, showing no obvious signs of deception.
Meng Chao feigned surprise. "Huh? Isn't he from one of the nearby villages?"
Xu Jiadong lit another cigarette, taking a long moment to think before shaking his head.
"Nope, never heard of him."
"Do you know why he's been sending money all this time?"
"No idea. Maybe he pities a lonely old man. People say wealth breeds kindness, right?" Xu Jiadong exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Maybe rich folks just like donating to something. I'd say my father's lucky to have been chosen by a big benefactor."
Listening to him, Meng Chao recalled Ni Xiangdong's rundown apartment in Qindao.
Tsk. He didn’t look like any big benefactor.
He signaled to Tong Hao, who pulled out a photo from his bag and handed it over.
"Take a look. Does he seem familiar?"
The photo was selected from the stack of surveillance images, deliberately cropped to exclude Cao Xiaojun's corpse, zooming in only on Ni Xiangdong's face. It was the only recent photo they had of him.
"Whoa, what happened to his face? Burns or—" Xu Jiadong took the photo, recoiling slightly as he examined it, clicking his tongue. "Such a shame for a decent-looking man."
He hastily handed the photo back, clearly telling the truth—the two really didn’t know each other.
"But officers, what exactly is this about?"
Xu Jiadong flicked his cigarette ash, giving them a sly wink.
"Just say it straight. No need to beat around the bush. You didn’t cross all these mountains just for a drink of water, did you?"
Tong Hao tensed, but Meng Chao remained composed, ignoring the question and leisurely countering, "When we came in, you said, 'What’s wrong with Father now?'" He deliberately feigned confusion. "Has your father been involved in something before?"
"Not my father—his damned son."
Xu Jiadong gave a bitter smile.
"That bastard’s misdeeds nearly destroyed our entire village."
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