Ni Xiangdong stared at the persimmons on the branch and pulled out the last cigarette from the pack.
The year was drawing to a close, and the north wind howled across the barren mountain. What was meant to be bare was bare, what was meant to fall had fallen, leaving only withered branches and dead leaves scattered everywhere. The last remnants of life were the scattered dwarf pines and the few fruits clinging stubbornly to the tips of the persimmon tree.
Perhaps his own fate was like those persimmons—unlikely to survive the winter.
He hadn’t caught the peeping Tom. That man knew the mountain paths better than he did.
He couldn’t chase further downhill. If he kept running, he’d enter the range of surveillance cameras. Until he figured out a way forward, this rugged, desolate mountain was undoubtedly the best hiding place.
On his way back to the abandoned house, he chain-smoked fiercely, trying to use nicotine to jolt his mind awake and untangle a path to survival from the chaos of his thoughts.
Who was the peeper outside the window?
The killer who murdered Xiaojun? The old man walking his dog earlier? The former forest ranger who used to live here? Or just some unlucky passerby?
No matter who it was, one fact remained unchanged: he had been the one sneaking up the mountain, glancing around like a thief, carrying a box. If the police came after him, he’d be the prime suspect, unable to escape interrogation.
What should he do now?
Calling the police seemed like the best option—after all, he wasn’t the killer.
But would anyone believe him? Right now, the evidence and witnesses were stacked against him.
And he couldn’t go to the police station. He couldn’t afford any further entanglement with the law.
That accident from years ago replayed in his nightmares every night, like fine cracks spreading across a frozen lake. For eleven years, he had trod carefully, step by step, always mindful of the price he had paid to crawl inch by inch toward the other side of fate.
He absolutely refused to go back to that life.
Abandon the body and run?
No, the box must have his fingerprints on it. There might even be traces of him on Cao Xiaojun’s body.
That was unavoidable. After all, the two of them had once worked together as movers, going in and out together, even living and eating together for a time. It was inevitable that something of his would be left on Cao Xiaojun.
He couldn’t just leave behind evidence that would incriminate him. He couldn’t give the police a reason to arrest him.
Burn the place down? Destroy all the evidence in one go?
But then the two cases would be too similar. If it caught the attention of the police back in his hometown, things would only get messier and uglier.
At this point, there was only one viable solution: make it as though the murder had never happened.
Or at least, make it appear that way.
Yes, no body, no murder.
Even if someone reported it, the police would only treat it as a missing person case. That would buy him some time to figure things out.
Wu Ximei might grieve for a while, but that was inevitable. Besides, he could take good care of her—out of sympathy, guilt, or some other unspoken feeling.
With that thought, Ni Xiangdong made up his mind.
The most urgent task now was to find a place to bury Cao Xiaojun’s body, along with any evidence that could implicate him.
He dragged the box for a long time, sweating profusely in the cold winter night.
The withered branches in the mountains weren’t enough to conceal his figure, but fortunately, the darkness was thick enough to shield him from unwanted trouble.
He tripped and fell into a knee-high thicket of winged euonymus. When he saw what had tripped him, he couldn’t help but laugh.
Even the heavens were on his side.Before him lay an oval-shaped hole about half a meter wide, its origins unknown—perhaps dug by animals or humans. Ni Xiangdong crouched low, peering inside. The tunnel twisted and turned, disappearing into the pitch-black depths below. The area was overgrown with shrubs, save for a single crooked persimmon tree.
He surveyed the rotten persimmons littering the ground with satisfaction. Fallen fruit was good—it meant no one came here, making it the perfect spot to dispose of a body.
Ni Xiangdong exhaled deeply, broke off a branch, and used it to widen and deepen the hole, leveraging the natural slope of the land.
Deep enough to bury a dead man.
He was no stranger to this sort of thing.
With his task complete, he leaned against the persimmon tree and lit the last cigarette in his pack, watching the tendrils of smoke curl upward and dissolve into the clouds.
When the cigarette burned down to the filter, he knew it was time to move.
"Brother, don't blame me for being ruthless," he muttered as he dragged the crate into the hole. "The guilty will pay for their crimes. Whoever killed you—go haunt them, not me."
The crate's occupant, Cao Xiaojun, naturally had no reply.
The first handful of soil, mixed with roots and pebbles, pattered onto the crate with a dry rustle. Ni Xiangdong paused, his second scoop of dirt hovering midair.
Suddenly, he felt like a monster.
Ever since the incident, his mind had been preoccupied with clearing his name and making a clean escape. He hadn't even had time to grieve for Xiaojun's wrongful death—no, he hadn't even thought to grieve.
The thought of Xiaojun lying alone in this remote hollow twisted Ni Xiangdong's gut. His lips trembled, and he broke into wrenching sobs.
Fragmented memories flickered through his mind. Realizing this was their final farewell, he suddenly wanted one last look at Xiaojun, to properly say goodbye to this hometown brother of his.
He pried open the crate again.
In the moonlight, he saw a figure curled up inside.
But it wasn't Cao Xiaojun.
Ni Xiangdong's weeping cut off abruptly. His stomach lurched, its contents churning violently.
Xiaojun's body had vanished, only to be replaced by another dead man.
The stranger wore a uniform—likely a mountain patrol guard.
But how had a guard ended up dead here?
The man was taller than Cao, his limbs bent at unnatural angles. Someone must have forced him into the crate with brutal strength, likely breaking bones in the process.
Ni Xiangdong's head spun.
When had this second murder occurred? While he'd been chasing the intruder? Could there have been a third living person at the scene besides the voyeur?
At this thought, he sprang to his feet, scanning his surroundings warily.
The woods that had just provided him cover now felt sinister and treacherous. He knew—someone was watching his panic with amusement.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" Ni Xiangdong's roar echoed through the night. "I've done nothing to you! Why set me up?"
Something tugged at his sleeve.
He whirled around and followed his trembling hand's gaze to the young guard in the crate.
Still breathing faintly, making wet, gurgling sounds.
"Save me... big brother... please," the boyish face pleaded through tears and blood. "I don't want to die... please... help me."
From the foot of the mountain came the approaching wail of police sirens. Flashlight beams sliced through the darkness.
Suddenly, Ni Xiangdong heard the howl of the past—the sound of ice cracking, of a decade-long tightrope walk ending in catastrophe.
He knew it had all come full circle.Whether he liked it or not, he had to walk that path again.
The young security guard's voice gradually weakened, his expression shifting from pleading to terror. He saw the man's face clearly, watched as the man turned away indifferently, only to return with a stone clutched in his left hand.
Ni Xiangdong raised the stone overhead, his face expressionless.
"Ah—"
A short, sharp scream startled the birds from their slumber. They scattered in panic, only to quickly settle on nearby branches and drift back into sleep.
The sound of hurried footsteps grew closer.
Ni Xiangdong finally stopped, panting heavily.
He looked up at the cold crescent moon in the sky—the same kind of moonlight as on that day in his memory.
Hah, maybe this was just fate.
Straightening his clothes, he walked toward the approaching footsteps with a self-mocking smile, stumbling unevenly through the dark.
Tap, tap, tap.
The mountain wind blew, shaking the branches of the persimmon tree. The last remaining fruit fell onto the overturned wooden crate and shattered into a pulpy mess.
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