The Hunt

Summer had arrived after all.

After three consecutive days of thunderstorms, that day turned out to be a rare clear one.

Early in the morning, the scorching sun hung overhead, blazing down on the earth with a harsh white glare. The sky was a deep blue, without a trace of wind or shade. The surroundings were bathed in a radiant light edged with gold, yet everything seemed lifeless—drooping, wilted, and sluggish.

The air was stifling and sweltering. The slightest movement sent rivulets of sweat trickling down one’s body, clothes clinging uncomfortably to the skin. Even the breeze stirred by a waving hand felt hot.

The area around Qindao Prison was sparsely populated, with only vast fields, dense trees, and a stretch of asphalt road cutting through.

Yesterday’s rainwater had long since evaporated, leaving the road surface glistening with heat. From a distance, it shimmered white, merging with the billowing clouds at the horizon.

With a creak, the turning of the door hinge shattered the absolute silence.

The bluish-gray prison gate opened a crack, and Xu Qingli stepped out slowly.

He stood at the entrance, squinting as he adjusted to the light outside.

The clothes he wore had been given to him by a prison guard—ill-fitting but at least clean. He had accepted them with profuse thanks, stripping off his prison uniform and slipping them on directly.

His luggage was light, barely filling a single handbag.

Inside were a certificate of release, a skills certification, a Reintegration Guide , and the 400 yuan in travel expenses provided by the prison. No letters, no personal belongings, nothing sent by relatives or friends.

Now, shielding his eyes with his hand, Xu Qingli looked around, but of course, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

In this world, his only remaining family was his frail, aging father, thousands of miles away. And in his father’s memory, he was nothing but a disgraceful son, a ghost who had vanished over a decade ago.

Though he had known no one would be waiting outside the iron gates, the sight of the empty wilderness still left him with a pang of melancholy, stirring a faint sense of grievance.

The police had never found enough evidence to convict him of murder, and those who knew the truth were all long dead—no witnesses, after all, for the dead couldn’t betray secrets. Combined with his show of remorse in court, the judge had ultimately sentenced him only for desecration of a corpse.

In the years that followed, confined within four walls, beneath a web of electric fences, under constant surveillance, he had endured day after day, forcing himself to play the model prisoner—reforming earnestly, striving to excel, polite and kind to everyone. His efforts had earned him multiple sentence reductions, until finally, the day of his release arrived.

The iron gate closed behind him, sealing away a nightmare.

Xu Qingli didn’t look back—it was the rule. Turning around here was considered bad luck.

He simply stood there, staring for a long time at the plane tree across the way, unable to believe he had truly returned to the world of the living. The sunlight beat down on him, scorching his back, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Yet he didn’t feel stifled—only warm.

Tilting his face upward, he tentatively stretched his limbs, breathing in the long-lost taste of freedom.

He had won. He had outlasted them all. The heart that had hung in suspense day and night finally settled.

From this day forward, he no longer had to play the role of Ni Xiangdong. He had reclaimed his name, reclaimed the identity that had been missing for so long—Xu Qingli. The police had cleared his name: Bao Desheng’s death was not his doing. His wrongful conviction had been overturned, and he was finally allowed to return home.For a moment, a whirlwind of emotions surged in his chest. There were so many things he wanted to do. He needed to get a new ID card, find a decent and stable job, save up money properly, and see a doctor to treat the scar on his face.

Right, he had to hurry home first—to see his father, check on his health, and tell him about all the hardships he had endured during his years of wandering outside.

He also wanted to tell those gossipy neighbors back home that he, Xu Qingli, was no murderer. If they didn’t believe him, he’d take his father and leave. But where would they go?

After some thought, Qingdao seemed like a good place—mountains and sea, and he was already quite familiar with the area. Yes, worst case, he could settle there with his father and try the local seafood...

As Xu Qingli walked toward the station, his mind raced with scattered thoughts, and his mood lifted with each step. He even chuckled to himself. The future seemed boundless and bright, as vast and clear as the open sky above the wheat fields.

Swinging his luggage, he strode forward. But as he walked, his smile froze.

He noticed three shadows on the ground.

Before he could turn around, everything went black. His balance faltered, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

With a thud, he crashed onto the scorching asphalt, his left cheek pressed against the burning surface. His arms were wrenched behind him, stirring up tiny dust particles. A cold, metallic click—the unmistakable feel of handcuffs clamping around his wrists. The sensation was all too familiar.

“What—?” Panic seized him, his voice trembling. “Officer, what’s going on?”

Struggling to turn his head, he saw a familiar face—Tong Hao. Behind him stood four or five armed police officers. Xu Qingli suddenly understood and thrashed violently, kicking and twisting, but they pinned him firmly to the ground, rendering him immobile.

“What are you doing?!”

“Xu Qingli, you are under arrest on suspicion of intentional homicide. Do you understand?” Tong Hao’s voice was much hoarser than before.

“I don’t understand! On what grounds?” He strained his neck, glaring furiously, his face flushed crimson. “Where’s the evidence? You have no evidence! This is wrongful arrest!”

“We’ve found the rock you used to commit the murder. It has bloodstains and your fingerprints—”

“Impossible! There’s no way you could’ve found it. The evidence is fake—it has to be! I threw that rock away over a decade ago, dumped it in the lake—”

“I’m talking about the rock you used to kill Liu Chengan,” Tong Hao said calmly. “But your words just now indirectly confirmed that you killed Ni Xiangdong. With at least two lives on your hands and irrefutable evidence, you won’t escape this time.”

Xu Qingli’s face paled. His lips quivered, opening and closing soundlessly, but no defense came out.

“Truth is, we’ve had the evidence for a while. But do you know why we chose today to arrest you?”

Tong Hao crouched down, leaning in to meet his gaze.

“Do you remember a police officer named Meng Chao? Do you remember how he died?”

Xu Qingli gasped heavily, unable to speak."You may have forgotten, but I remember. Every time I close my eyes, I see him falling from that height, over and over again. He dies before my eyes again and again. I don't know what he was thinking in that final moment—maybe about saving that boy, maybe regretting climbing that scaffolding, or perhaps filled with overwhelming regret because he was so close, so very close to surviving."

Tong Hao patted Xu Qingli's face, his teeth clenched.

"So, I want you to experience that despair of falling from a great height too. Xu Qingli, you might have outsmarted Cao Xiaojun, but you can't escape the law. Remember, heaven has eyes—evil will always meet its retribution."

After that, everything became a chaotic blur to Xu Qingli.

Blood rushed to his head, the world spun, and his mind went blank for a moment.

The sky was clear and blue, a rare beautiful day.

He tilted his head back, straining to see how the sunlight fell on the thick leaves of the plane tree. Perhaps for the last time in his life, he widened his eyes, staring unblinkingly at the dappled shadows. A breeze stirred, scattering the sunlight like golden foil, the leaves rustling, their vibrant green burning like emeralds.

His raised head was pushed down by a hand.

Xu Qingli stopped struggling, letting them press his face against the scorching asphalt.

Even this searing heat—he would likely never feel it again.

Closing his eyes, his vision flooded crimson, the clamor of cicadas in his ears. He greedily imprinted everything into memory, desperately clinging to the last summer of his life.

Suddenly, he remembered a distant summer evening.

That day, he and Xiaojun had just finished unloading an entire truck of furniture, their limbs aching, drenched in sweat, exhausted to the bone—yet unwilling to go home early.

Back then, they were poor. Pooling their money, they could only afford a bag of peanuts and a can of beer.

They slumped on the embankment, letting the damp, cool wind wash over them as they drank and boasted.

The crimson sun sank into the sea, the sky ablaze with sunset. Bathed in golden light, their faces glowed like burnished copper.

Xu Qingli leaned back on his hands, gazing at the scarlet waves swaying before him. For some reason, the longer he stared, the more his eyes welled with tears.

"Xiaojun, do you think... our lives will get better from here?"

Cao Xiaojun tilted his head back slightly, also bathed in the evening glow, eyes closed as he smiled.

"They will. Everything will get better."

[End of Main Text]

The Living

Tian Baozhen avoided the crowd, finding a corner to lean against the wall.

She touched the e-cigarette in her pocket, glanced at the noisy children nearby, hesitated for a second, then let her hand drop.

She had worked through the night, and this morning, standing up made her dizzy, her eyes dry and strained. Yet, as promised, she had brought her daughter to the aquarium. Now, the camp instructor was pointing at the display window, explaining something through a small microphone. The children huddled in a semicircle, their small, dark heads pressed against the glass, exclaiming in wonder.

Tian Baozhen spotted her daughter instantly in the crowd. Wearing a little yellow hat, the girl bounced excitedly, her shirt untucked from her skirt, puffed out like a duck's tail. She pressed her hands against the glass, wide-eyed, utterly absorbed by the fish in the tank."What's there to be surprised about? Didn't you just have it for dinner yesterday?"

Tian Baozhen chuckled inwardly. The same fish—when served in a rice bowl, it's called Spanish mackerel, but placed in an aquarium, it becomes a blue-spotted mackerel. The same thing, yet its value changes entirely with its location. Just like people—clearly the same species, yet artificially divided into hierarchies with various titles and labels.

She blinked, suppressing a yawn. Fortunately, her eyeliner today was waterproof and wouldn't smudge. Concealing fatigue had become second nature to her over the years. Pulling out her phone, she saw hundreds of unread messages but couldn't be bothered to check them. Instead, she mindlessly switched apps, idly scrolling through trending news to jolt her brain awake.

The feed was flooded with celebrity promotions and an assortment of emotional stories—half bragging, half lamenting.

She'd long since quit love—a luxury rarer than gold and silver, something one might stumble upon but never truly possess, and certainly not something that held its value. Those who loved today might be strangers tomorrow. Only carefree, energetic youth could—and dared—to love unreservedly. "Pursuing life" was their privilege. At her age, "living" and "survival" had to be understood separately. Practicality took precedence; her sole focus was making money and hoping others wouldn't add to her troubles.

May all lovers in the world unite in marriage—while she simply wanted to sit atop a towering mountain of gold, envying their pure, untainted love.

Her wandering thoughts were interrupted when her eyes caught a headline, her scrolling finger freezing mid-air.

Living in Hiding for Over a Decade, Only for the Dream to Shatter in an Instant

Yesterday, following the execution order issued by the Supreme People's Court, the Qindao Intermediate People's Court in Shadong Province carried out the execution of criminal Xu Qingli, with prosecutors overseeing the process on-site. This marks the final resolution of the infamous "Wooden Box Corpse Dumping Case" that once shocked the city.

According to sources, the personal feud between Cao Xiaojun and Xu Qingli was merely the tip of the iceberg. Our reporters followed the trail, interviewed locals, and unraveled the convoluted case, step by step uncovering the depraved psyche of this bloodthirsty villain...

Xu Qingli?

The name rang a faint bell—as if she'd heard it somewhere before—

A long-buried memory began to hum, something on the verge of surfacing. She was about to read further when a small hand tugged at her skirt. Looking down, she saw her daughter.

"Mommy, I can't see," the little girl said, standing on tiptoe and pointing into the distance. "Carry me. I want to see the big fish."

Baozhen looked up and realized the underwater performance had already begun. The lead actors, dressed in dazzling costumes, weaved among colorful fish and vibrant coral. The steps in front of the stage were packed with seated spectators, while those behind stood watching. Many children perched on their fathers' shoulders, swaying back and forth, craning their necks for a better view.

Tian Baozhen smiled, tucked away her phone, bent down to lift her daughter, and strode toward the crowd.

Because of Bao Desheng's case, she'd severed ties with everyone back home and traveled north alone to this coastal town called Qindao. Over a decade had passed in the blink of an eye—years of struggle, hardship, and suffering—but she'd finally put down roots here.

Did she regret it? No. It was her own choice, made with clear eyes. She knew there was no perfect path in life—either endure the hardships of effort or the hardships of survival. One had to choose.She found a high spot, steadied herself, and coaxed her daughter to look at the large fish tank. The little girl was quickly captivated, clapping her hands and giggling incessantly. The child in her arms was heavy and warm. Tian Baozhen gazed at her daughter’s chubby cheeks, and her heart suddenly softened, as if she were seeing her own childhood self.

She had done it. Through her own efforts, she had secured a better starting point for her daughter’s life.

At the very least, her daughter would be able to read, to see the world, to freely choose the path she wanted to take. When her daughter had aspirations in the future, she would know how to fight for them with her own abilities, rather than being left with only the old path of submitting to others. Her daughter would still have the chance to make her own choices. With each generation’s struggle, the shackles around the necks of daughters would eventually break. Women were not the moon—they never needed to borrow anyone else’s light. This was something her mother had never understood, but she hoped her daughter would.

Baozhen tightened her arms around the child and turned to watch the performance across from them.

Before them was an enormous floor-to-ceiling fish tank, which the tour guide claimed was the largest in Asia. As she watched the colorful schools of fish, her mind swayed unsteadily, as if on the verge of tears. It had been a long time since she last cried. Emotions were meaningless—this was a lesson she had learned in the business world over the past few years. Tears were merely props in her performances; she had forgotten how to truly cry for someone.

At this moment, the performance in the fish tank was The Butterfly Lovers , and the drama was reaching its climax. The male and female leads held hands and ran upward, symbolizing their transformation into butterflies, flying together into the distance. Facing this azure dream, a mist rose in Baozhen’s eyes, as if she were seeing that blue moon from over a decade ago once more.

She saw again the encircling mountains of her hometown, the ancient thatched hut, the distant coconut trees. She had shed her skin and become a teenage girl once more, someone who had once touched another’s heart with sincerity, someone who had once been vulnerable and reckless with her affections.

She remembered that night, the hazy moonlight, lifting her face and laughing as she pressed the young man across from her.

“Brother, would you dare to go to the county town with me?”

And how had her brother answered her in the end?

She couldn’t remember. It was as if there was an eternal fog between them—she couldn’t see that man’s face clearly anymore, couldn’t even recall his name. She only vaguely remembered that his surname might have been Xu…

Enough. No more thinking. People always had to look forward.

Tian Baozhen sniffed, forcing back the tears in her eyes, tossed her hair behind her, and curved her lips into a beautiful smile to comfort herself.

What was past—let it stay in the past.

Tong Hao crouched silently in front of the tombstone, slowly unpacking the offerings.

Cold noodles, liangpi, fried skewers, wontons.

When he pulled out a jianbing guozi, the tall young man beside him couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Uh, Brother Tong, people usually bring roast chicken, fruit, or pastries. Why are you offering jianbing guozi at a grave?”

Tong Hao didn’t answer. He carefully unwrapped the plastic bag around the jianbing, laid it flat, and only then stood up to properly size up the boy in front of him. Dark-skinned, lean, always grinning with big white teeth. Fresh out of the police academy, he claimed his lifelong dream had been to join the criminal investigation team. Now assigned under Tong Hao, the captain had asked him to mentor the kid.

“By the way, what was your name again?”

“Meng Zhao. You can call me Xiao Meng.”

“Meng Chao?” Tong Hao froze. “Your name is Meng Chao?”“Right, my dad’s surname is Meng, and ‘Zhao’ is the ‘Zhao’ from ‘the heavens’ justice is clear as day,’” the young man followed Tong Hao’s gaze to glance at the tombstone, then quickly cleared his throat with a couple of coughs. “Oh, not this ‘Chao.’ Sorry, my dad didn’t pick the best name—”

Tong Hao nodded silently, though inwardly he thought it was just as well. He didn’t want to see this young man meet the same fate as the other.

He crouched down, resting a hand on the tombstone, and remained silent for a long moment before softly asking the young man behind him, “Do you know why I brought you here?”

“Is this one of your relatives?”

Tong Hao suppressed the urge to roll his eyes but couldn’t hold back entirely, shooting him a sidelong glance.

“Don’t talk nonsense. This is our precinct’s former captain—a truly brave man. During a pursuit, he sacrificed himself to protect civilians—” Even after all these years, the word still caught in his throat. “He died a hero. Come, pay your respects. Consider it a lesson in ideology from a senior.”

Meng Zhao clasped his hands together and knelt piously, looking as if he was about to kowtow with a loud thud. Tong Hao quickly grabbed his arm.

“Hey—no need to kowtow! Just bow will do—”

“No, I have to kowtow!”

Meng Zhao broke free and knocked his forehead against the stone slab with resounding thuds.

“The captain died a hero’s death. Without him charging ahead, we wouldn’t have the peaceful lives we do now. He deserves these bows. Captain Meng, rest in peace over there. We’ll take care of things here. But, uh, don’t go too far—bless our missions, and if we hit a dead end in a case, do us a favor and send us a dream—”

Listening to his rambling, Tong Hao chuckled. The young man’s reckless enthusiasm reminded him of his younger self, of Meng Chao fresh out of the academy, of generation after generation of greenhorns throwing themselves into the job.

He wiped his eyes and gave Meng Zhao a firm smack on the back of the head.

“Alright, that’s enough. Solving cases takes brains, not big talk. Let’s see if you can even handle a crime scene without puking first.”

With that, Tong Hao stood and walked ahead. The young man dusted off his knees and hurried after him.

“Brother Tong, back to the station?”

“Yeah, but first, come with me to the post office. I need to wire some money to an old friend.”

“Who?”

“An elderly person from Nanyang Province. You don’t know them, so stop prying.”

“Huh? Why so secretive? Introduce us and I’ll know them! Is it a distant relative of yours—”

Their figures gradually receded into the distance, their voices fading until they were no longer audible. A breeze rustled the trees, casting shifting shadows over the tombstone’s photograph—Meng Chao smiled, gazing into the distance.

At some point, half of the jianbing guozi left as an offering had disappeared, as if eaten, leaving behind a row of fresh bite marks.

Perhaps it was a wild animal. Or perhaps something else.

Regarding Ni Xiangdong, Regarding Us

At this moment, I’ve finally brought this story to completion.

I feel like one of those old-fashioned birthday candles—the lotus-shaped ones that pop open when lit, spinning and singing automatically. As long as the batteries hold out, or as long as no one cuts the wires, they’ll keep looping “Happy Birthday” endlessly. Maybe that’s me—as long as the story isn’t finished, I’ll keep writing until I’m spent.Many people have asked me who the real-life inspiration for Ni Xiangdong is. To be honest, I don't know—I completely made him up. It was probably last autumn when I was wandering around the vegetable market, and suddenly this character appeared to me on the green peppers. I wondered, who is this eccentric man? And as I kept thinking about him, I started writing this story.

Actually, I don’t mean to preach any grand philosophies—I neither know how nor am I qualified. I simply wanted to present a kind of life. When writing about Xu Qingli’s part, I asked myself: could there really be someone so wretched in this world? Then, over a month later, as if in response to my question, fate led me to stumble upon a documentary.

The man in the film was in his thirties, gaunt and frail, smiling humbly at the reporter’s camera the entire time.

He was an orphan, abandoned by his parents at birth. Later, his adoptive parents would beat him relentlessly, almost to death. Unable to endure it, he ran away in his teens and wandered across the country. Without an ID card, he could only take under-the-table jobs. Bosses would feed him but never paid him a single cent. He said the most money he ever saved in his life was 200 yuan. Sometimes, after going five days without food, he could only crouch by the roadside, not daring to move—if he did, he’d faint.

He said he usually survived by scavenging, but even among scavengers, there were unwritten rules. If he accidentally trespassed into someone else’s territory, he’d get beaten. Once, a group of other homeless men fractured his skull. With no money for the hospital, he lay there waiting to die. But after nearly a month, he somehow survived. During his hardest times, he even encountered the owner of an illegal coal mine. It was a night of heavy snowfall when the man asked if he wanted to come work for him. He agreed. He knew it was an illegal operation and that he might be beaten to death there, but he had no choice—if he didn’t go, he’d freeze to death that very night.

At the end of the documentary, the reporter asked him: “Have you ever had any happy memories in your life?”

Timidly avoiding the camera, he smiled and said no.

The reporter pressed, “Think carefully—not even a single one?”

He paused, thinking for a long time.

“No. Not a single moment of happiness in this life.”

He still smiled as he said it.

At that moment, something inside me broke. Sometimes, the reason we don’t understand is simply because we’re lucky—because fate hasn’t chosen to make an example of us. We’re not ordinary people; we’re survivors. Every day we’re alive is a miracle, a gift. The days we complain about as dull and tedious might very well be the unreachable tomorrows in the eyes of Cao Xiaojun, Wu Ximei, or Xu Qingli—or the hard-won stability that Meng Chao and Lao Sun paid for with their lives.

If there’s anything A Life Hanging by a Thread absolutely must convey, it’s this: stay kind, whether to others or to yourself. We all encounter pain and conflict in our own stories, but in truth, we’re all the same—equally fragile, equally strong, equally capable of breaking down over small things, and equally moved by the kindness of others, reminded that life is worth living.

Sometimes the world is absurd, but there’s always a way through. There’s always a solution.

Perhaps the theme of all my novels is the same: keep living, because if you do, good things will eventually come. Life is a wilderness, not a railroad track—so run wild, run free. You’re already here, so make the most of it before you go.

For my next novel, I’ll definitely write a comedy to lift our spirits. We’ll laugh together and make up for all the tears this book cost you. If you enjoyed this, you can follow me on Douban Reading—I’ll notify you as soon as my next work is out.

Alright, that’s enough from me. If I keep rambling, the price will go up another five cents. Money doesn’t come easy for any of us, so I’ll save you what I can.Finally, may life treat you kindly.

See you in the next comedy! Meeting adjourned!