He was not good at lying, but the rest of his life became one grand deception.
Ma Zai's wails spread the news of "Xu Qingli's" death throughout the village. The moment the Bao family raised their knives and clubs to strike the charred corpse, he fled along the mountain path toward distant villages.
The burned areas on his face stung fiercely. Something dripped down, blurring his left eye. He dared not touch it, letting the blood and sweat flow freely down his neck, staining his clothes.
But the greater torment now came from the gnawing hunger in his belly.
As dawn broke, the pale, smoky light of day revealed a landscape of blue-green trees, interspersed with thatched huts as impoverished and dilapidated as those in Nanling Village.
Not daring to enter the village recklessly, he circled the outskirts until he finally found a dead chicken beneath a Brucea javanica plant.
The chicken had been half-eaten by some animal, its innards hollowed out, leaving only an empty cavity now covered in a thick layer of flies.
Xu Qingli staggered toward it, but his knees gave way, sending him sprawling to the ground. Ignoring the pain in his legs, he crawled forward, panting and trembling, stuffing the rotting flesh—along with the insects on it—into his mouth, gulping it down ravenously. A feather caught in his throat, choking him to tears.
With his belly filled, his life was temporarily sustained, and only then did he spare the energy to care about the wounds on his face.
The swelling and pain grew unbearable, the sweat stinging like embers still burning beneath his skin. He couldn't even squeeze out tears anymore, left only with ragged gasps. As the sun climbed higher, he leaned against a tree and made his way to a pond, kneeling at the edge and plunging his head into the water.
Xu Qingli had never read medical books nor had any professional knowledge. He only vaguely remembered that in the past, if someone in the village was scalded by hot oil while cooking, they would always soothe the burn with cold well water.
Water was good. Water cleansed all things and would not defile a person. The elders had always said so. Eyes closed, submerged, he silently prayed the gentle waves would wash away the bacteria and pain.
The cool water temporarily eased the burning, and only when he could hold his breath no longer did he lift his head.
Droplets rolled off, and his vision cleared. It was then that Xu Qingli noticed a woman crouched on a rock across the pond.
She had been washing clothes with a wooden basin but stopped when she saw him, now staring at him in shock.
Xu Qingli froze. He recognized this woman—she was also from Nanling Village, married into this place a few years ago.
It was over. If she recognized him, all the suffering he had endured would be for nothing.
His mind raced, scrambling for a way to deceive her. But to his surprise, the woman recoiled as if she had seen a ghost, shrieking as she abandoned her clothes and fled back to the village.
The woods fell silent again, the pond's surface like a mirror reflecting his face.
Xu Qingli looked down and saw his own appearance for the first time.
It was a face utterly unfamiliar—charred and cracked, oozing blood, the left side of his hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes all burned away, leaving bare, raw skin. Blood and pus clung to his cheeks, and blisters of varying sizes slowly rose to the surface.
Horror and dread overwhelmed him. His stomach churned, and he vomited everything he had just eaten.
But there was no time to cry. Sounds came from the direction of the village. He swayed to his feet, wiped his mouth, and set off once more on his path of escape.Xu Qingli was out of options. He had no money, nor the courage to seek medical treatment.
All he had now were a set of old clothes stripped from a corpse, a fake identity, and the hundred yuan he had stolen that night. With that money, he first bought himself a bowl of noodles, ate a decent meal, then took a bath. At a small pharmacy on the outskirts of the county town, he bought a roll of gauze and haphazardly wrapped his wounds.
After eating his fill, he sniffed the scent of soap on his body, his heart brimming with hope.
Yes, he had hit rock bottom, but now he would surely climb his way back up.
However, things did not unfold as he had hoped.
He couldn’t find any work—no employer wanted to hire a shady, unidentifiable stranger.
A hundred yuan didn’t last long, and soon it was gone. He had no extra money for fresh bandages. The weather was hot, and his wound became repeatedly infected, refusing to heal. After a few days, blood and pus crusted over, sticking to the filthy gauze, emitting a foul stench. Wherever he passed, people covered their noses, their faces twisted in disgust.
On the fourth day Xu Qingli couldn’t pay for his room, the innkeeper finally threw him out.
He pleaded humbly, over and over, but the owner remained unmoved, threatening to drag him to the police station if he didn’t leave. At those words, Xu Qingli fell silent, nodded, and turned away without a word, merging into the bustling, unfamiliar streets.
With nowhere to go, he wandered aimlessly.
By day, he scavenged through trash bins for scraps of food. By night, he slept on the roadside. Occasionally, he managed to collect a few empty plastic bottles, selling them for spare change to buy a hot meal.
It felt like his days in the mountains had returned—only now, instead of drifting through wilderness, he drifted through crowds. He was still alone, destitute and helpless, cut off from the joys of the world.
One late night, as usual, he curled up on the steps of a shop entrance to sleep, covered with scavenged cardboard. Half-asleep, he was jolted awake by a kick.
Opening his eyes, he saw two thugs standing before him, looking nervous.
“Who’s this?” one muttered, glancing around.
The other gave Xu Qingli a sidelong glance and clicked his tongue.
“Probably just some crazy drifter. Doesn’t matter.”
He delivered another kick.
“Get lost. Don’t block the way.”
Xu Qingli picked up the cardboard and scurried off, stealing glances back at the two men as he went.
One kept watch while the other pulled something from his pocket, crouched down, and fiddled intently with the lock. Soon, the rolling shutter door lifted just enough for them to slip inside. When they emerged, their arms were laden with cigarettes and liquor.
He had stumbled upon thieves.
Xu Qingli’s heart pounded. The two soon walked toward him, their arms full. There was no avoiding them, so he hunched his shoulders, trembling, and kept up his act as the madman.
One of them stopped, eyeing him up and down.
“Hurry up, what’s the hold-up?” the other urged impatiently.
“Tch. The way he looks, living’s just suffering.” The man paused, then tossed a pack of cigarettes at Xu Qingli. “Consider it a gift. Go smoke it. Live it up while you can.”
Xu Qingli kept up his act until the two were far gone, disappearing around a street corner.
He picked up the pack of cigarettes—and the piece of wire they had discarded. Turning it over in his hands, he fell deep in thought.
From that day on, he developed a new hobby. While collecting scrap, he also began scouting for suitable targets.He often ventured deep into the alleyways, waiting until no one was around to find a suitable lock to practice on.
He had seen lock-picking many times before. Those people would first wipe the lock clean with a cloth, pour oil or pencil lead shavings into the keyhole, bend a wire into a hook, and then insert it, slowly probing while keeping watch and listening for the faintest click. That sound meant the wire had aligned perfectly with the lock’s mechanism—just a gentle twist, and the door would open.
By the sixth house he tried, the door swung open.
Xu Qingli suddenly realized he had a talent for crime. Excitement, shame, thrill, and panic swirled inside him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or whether this was his downfall or his rebirth.
All he knew was that from that day on, he eagerly awaited the dead of night. Under the daylight, he was just a homeless man everyone avoided. But in the silent darkness, he became a proud king—every door in the county town turned into an offering, a humble tribute from the world, waiting for him to accept, waiting for him to open.
His first successful break-in was at a rice noodle shop. He slipped inside unnoticed, devoured all the noodles in the kitchen, and even took some with him, enjoying several days of full, round bellies.
After that, he grew bolder—stealing from restaurants, convenience stores. He told himself he’d never take money, only food. That way, he wouldn’t stray too far from his principles, and the losses to the shops would be minimal, never enough to warrant a police report. No one would come after him.
But after a while, even that wasn’t enough. If he was already taking risks, why not aim for bigger gains?
He started stealing bicycles, then electric scooters, even studying car locks. A few times, in dark alleys without surveillance, he smashed car windows and sold the stolen bags for cash.
Slowly, he secured a fixed dwelling—under a bridge on the outskirts of town. Though plagued by mosquitoes, at least it shielded him from wind and rain. His demands were simple: just enough to survive.
Today was a good day—his birthday.
He stole an old motorcycle and sold it to a scrap dealer for sixty yuan. With the money, he bought a boxed meal with meat and returned to his “home” under the bridge. The food had already gone cold.
Sitting cross-legged on a salvaged mattress, he had just snapped apart his chopsticks when several pairs of feet stopped in front of him.
Not wanting trouble, he picked up his meal and ducked aside, head lowered. But someone grabbed his hair and yanked him back, slamming him against the wall. The meal toppled to the ground.
“F*cking bastard, causing trouble on my turf.”
The man forced his face up, pausing briefly at the sight of the bandages, but his tone remained harsh, his grip unrelenting.
“Who do you run with?”
Xu Qingli stayed silent. He didn’t want to provoke them—just end this quickly.
“Who sent you to mess with my business, huh?” The man slapped him across the face. “Don’t you know this area’s under my protection?”
“I didn’t do anyth—”
“Talking back, you psycho! What’s with that look, you got a problem?”
Another man swung a brick down, striking the wound on his left cheek.
“You little sh*t, you’re asking for death!”
He tried to fight back, but outnumbered, he was quickly overpowered.
As wooden sticks and bricks rained down on him, he gradually stopped crying out in pain, just curling into a ball, arms wrapped around his head.Xu Qingli's consciousness began to drift. It suddenly occurred to him—wasn't he curled up in the same position twenty-five years ago, nestled in his mother's womb, anticipating the world he was about to enter?
Had this world always been so cold and cruel?
Did everyone grit their teeth just to survive?
Or was it only him?
Seeing him no longer moving, those men gradually stopped their assault.
Under the dimly lit bridge, only the sound of ragged breathing could be heard.
"Damn, running into trash like this is just bad luck."
"Dirtied my hands. Let's go drink later, wash away the bad vibes."
Someone crouched down, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head up.
"Stupid idiot, get the hell out of here," a glob of spit landed on his face. "If I see you again, I'll beat you to death and throw you into the sea for the fish."
Xu Qingli knelt on the ground, apologizing over and over, endlessly, until those men had long gone. Yet he remained in that position, forehead pressed to the ground, murmuring "I'm sorry" again and again, on and on.
A scrawny yellow dog, tail tucked between its legs, whimpered as it ran over and greedily devoured the food scattered on the ground. He raised his hand to hit it but stopped.
What difference was there between him and it?
He crouched beside the dog, picking up the cold rice with his hands. The meat had been trampled into the mud, reduced to a mushy mess.
Sobbing, he stuffed the rice into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow despite the lump in his throat. After all, this was his first meal today. After all, today was his birthday. He couldn’t go hungry—who knew when his next proper meal would come?
He tried to focus on the bright side—wasn’t it over now? Even though he had taken the punches, he had endured. He was still alive. He kept consoling himself, but tears still slipped down his cheeks. Covering his mouth, grief and resentment surged out. His quiet sobs turned into wails, then into hysterical weeping as he clawed at the bandages on his face.
What had he done wrong? Why did everyone hate him?
He had thought that returning to the human world would give him a fresh start. But he never imagined—this was only the beginning of hell.
When in his life had he ever known even a sliver of warmth? Beaten by his father, bullied by classmates, despised by coworkers, robbed of love, smeared with false accusations. To survive, he had disfigured his own face, eaten garbage on unfamiliar streets, slept under bridges.
Suddenly, he remembered that day of parting—the dimly lit second-floor room of the inn, the faint fruity fragrance that clung to Baozhen.
She had reached out a hand, gently smoothing down the unruly hair at the back of his head.
"Big brother, you must live well."
Was this half-human, half-ghost existence "living well"?
Time and again, he had knelt, believing that if he was humble enough, others might spare him a path to survival. But he had been wrong. The weak only invited more slaughter. The strong devouring the weak was an ironclad law. A coward's blade would only be swung at those who were unarmed. He should have realized this sooner—just like that night in the mountains, when he set the fire ablaze, he should have understood.
Don’t hold onto any hope. This world is one big slaughterhouse. No one gets to stay clean. No one gets to leave alive. Either you eat, or you get eaten. There was never a third choice.
He should have known.
But it wasn’t too late now.
He tore off the bandages, letting his festering, bleeding wounds be exposed to the air.
Every time he had been humiliated before, he had stayed silent. But now, the suppressed silence inside him roared and howled, deafening.The bus station was empty, the orange lights casting a glow into the night sky. Xu Qingli found a corner to sit in, elbows resting on his knees, indifferently rubbing the blood off his hands and sniffling as he waited for dawn.
Just moments ago, he had gone to the night market and found the gang of thugs who had beaten him up, gathered around a food stall.
He grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it down without hesitation.
Without a single word, under the stunned gazes of the onlookers, he grabbed a second bottle and smashed it again.
That bottle, which had never been swung at Bao Desheng’s head, now shattered over theirs.
Clutching the broken shards, he stabbed them into the abdomen of the third man who charged at him. The man howled and collapsed, writhing on the ground, clutching his stomach.
Covered in blood, eyes bloodshot, he sneered coldly at the crowd. Glass shards were embedded in his right hand, but he paid them no mind.
He was waiting—waiting for the others to rush him, waiting to be arrested, waiting to die on his birthday.
But no one stepped forward. The thugs’ faces were twisted with fear. As he advanced, they retreated.
Testing the waters, he picked up a wallet from the table. To his surprise, no one stopped him. He walked away unscathed.
Now, sitting unharmed in the corner of the bus station, Xu Qingli replayed the surreal events in his mind.
He felt like he had glimpsed some rules, some laws of this world—but what exactly they were, he couldn’t quite articulate.
Only one thing was clear to him: every day from now on was a day he had bought with his life.
Since he was alive, he might as well live boldly, taking each day as it came.
He would take the earliest bus out of here. He would go find Tian Baozhen.
At dawn the next day, the drowsy ticket seller shuffled slowly into the booth, about to yawn when a large hand suddenly slapped against the glass in front of him.
“A ticket. The first bus out.”
“What’s the rush, making such a racket this early? In a hurry to get to your—”
But as the ticket seller caught sight of his face, he swallowed the curse on his lips, pressed his mouth shut, and began pounding the keyboard with force.
“Where to?”
Xu Qingli’s gloomy eyes scanned the bus schedule before he slapped down a bloodstained bill, his lips twisting into a smirk.
“Northbound.”
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