NB Chapter25

Li Yi used to love reading wuxia novels. He once set aside a small portion of his salary to fund his dreams of the “martial world,” and the newspapers and periodicals he subscribed to piled up nearly as high as he was; the rest of us read them far less. Furthermore, after being transferred to the Major Crimes Unit, let alone following a novel, we didn’t even necessarily have the time to sit down for a meal.

One day, Li Yi was packing his belongings in the dormitory, and I went to help him. We were moving books on the balcony, but halfway through sorting them, we ended up sitting down and getting absorbed in the papers instead. We read on until dusk. By the end, the protagonists had both withdrawn from the martial world, sinking their swords into the great river; a conclusion so grand and magnanimous that it was genuinely exhilarating.

Li Yi seemed to snap out of a dream, looking up in confusion. “Ge, why are there fewer and fewer people who love wuxia nowadays?”

I had pondered this question as well. Even growing up in an orphanage, I had fitfully followed three or four wuxia dramas on the only television in the hall. Now they seemed rarely seen.

Instead, xianxia and fantasy themes were gradually becoming popular. Once the protagonists activated their “golden touch,” they could illuminate past and present lives, spanning from the heavens to hell. Everyone was immortal, rising from the dead, possessing ten identities, and experiencing a hundred types of lives. Their love was vast and sweeping, regarding the world and all its people as nothing more than ants. If swallowing a celestial pill could grant immortality, if a single encounter could bind two lives across several lifetimes, and if a snap of the fingers could summon mountains of gold and silver amid constant, world-shaking upheaval. Who would still want to watch the cruel story of a youth in their prime being withered by years spent in the martial world?

Everyone is very busy. A three-hour movie feels too long; even a fifteen-minute summary can seem excessive. If entertainment came in the form of pills, most people would likely rush to swallow them without hesitation. The body remains still while the mind is surged with current over and over again until it reaches numbness.

Just like me, sitting on the sofa every day, flipping through television channels.

But I do not wish to mourn my own life any further. If I remain crestfallen for too long, I will sooner or later die before Zhang Mingsheng.

Regarding Wuxia novels, I had one other question.

That is to say, why are the household servants of peerless masters always so loyal? Is it for wealth, or for emotion?

As Zhang Yaonian’s butler pushed open the heavy wooden doors for Zhang Mingsheng and me, I suddenly realized that perhaps this question isn’t confined to wuxia novels.

There are many servants in the Zhang residence, each occupying a different rank, arranged in layered tiers. The deeper one works within the household, the more valued and trusted they are; there is an unmistakable air of old-world hierarchy and subordination to it. I suspect that by drawing different camps among the crowd and then subconsciously instilling the idea of which position is more honorable or considered “making it,” there will always be people scrambling to fill those roles.

Before my last visit, I had a quarrel with Mr. Zhang beforehand. I kept my eyes averted the whole way, only willing to look at the scenery. When I left, I was still shaken with my heart pounding like a drum while cursing the “perverts of the Zhang family” three hundred times in my head, leaving no time to observe the people or things inside the house at all.

This time, without the children, I decided to take a good look around.

The familiar long corridor, the familiar artificial lake; only now, as it was autumn, the lotuses had already withered away, leaving behind just a few floating, round, dried and curling leaves on the water’s surface.

Zhang Mingsheng personally pushed me forward at an unhurried, steady pace, completely disregarding the occasional sharp, assessing glances the old butler cast back at us.

Zhang Yaonian grows older by the day, while Zhang Mingsheng grows stronger. Age is fair; it acts like an hourglass, slowly inverting the status of the adult and the child.

Back before I joined the Major Crimes Unit, I knew a police assistant; an older sister who was very skilled at comforting children, especially those who were at odds with their parents or suffered from neglect and abuse.

Whenever those children resorted to self-harm or contemplated suicide, she would do her best to stop them. She would tell them, “People grow old. So, whatever happens, you have to keep living. Have some backbone. If you’re going to die, then die for yourself, not for the people who were cruel to you. You think they’ll be sad or regret it? In your dreams!”

It had nothing to do with psychology; she was speaking from her own experience, which made it simple, sincere, and powerful.

I have no family and have never lived with parents, so I didn’t know how much impact her words could truly have. But I felt she was right about one thing: never believe your death can punish anyone. Those who truly care about whether you live or die would never let you harbor the thought of using death as a punishment in the first place.

I wonder if Zhang Mingsheng’s car accident back then a deliberate attempt at suicide.

When I dragged him out of the car, he opened his eyes and looked at me through the blood seeping from his hairline. I still remember his pupils, the whites of his eyes; how he looked, half-dead yet still staring wide open. I suspect that in that moment, Zhang Mingsheng gained a new understanding of life and death.

Now, he is full of spirit and physical vigor. He occasionally wears framed glasses, but I know his vision is good enough to enlist in the army. Having him push my wheelchair is truly a waste of talent; he ought to contribute his life to a greater cause. As a candle wick, he would surely burn longer than anyone else.

It’s a pity he lacks that sense of duty.

The weather was chilly. My hands and legs gradually grew cold, and I coughed twice against the back of the wheelchair. Surprisingly, Ah Shan suddenly quickened his pace and stepped closer to drape a blanket over my legs. Feeling the texture of the fleece, I knew this was Ah Hai’s instruction. Sometimes, I really do feel like Ah Hai has become my friend.

I suddenly felt a strong urge to sigh. I have sunk to the point of wanting to be friends with an accomplice.

Reaching the end of the long corridor, just as we were about to turn the corner, the senile butler came to a halt. His gaze was burning, appearing both contemptuous and resentful. As Zhang Mingsheng once said, When the master harbors a grudge, even the dog shows its teeth.

With a hoarse, rasping voice like an aging drake, he spoke slowly to Zhang Mingsheng, “The Old Master says you are to go and pay your respects to the Young Mistress first.”

Zhang Mingsheng’s steps halted instantly. He didn’t respond immediately.

Young Mistress.

I had only ever heard that title in melodramatic period soap operas.

“Pay respects to the Young Mistress”. How laughable. What next? Would I have to perform the full kowtow? Would I, a man playing the role of the daughter-in-law, be expected to serve her tea?

The Zhang family truly was a den of iniquity. I wondered where their ancestral graves were located; it was a miracle they hadn’t been struck by divine retribution yet.

Suddenly, a realization struck me: Zhang Mingsheng is the “Young Master.” Therefore, wouldn’t the “Young Mistress” be Zhang Mingsheng’s mother?

But that didn’t make sense. Zhang Mingsheng’s parents had both passed away years ago.

Where did this “Young Mistress” suddenly spring from?

In my time as a police officer in the Major Crimes Unit, I had seen too many corpses and handled too many cases. I took an oath on my first day; I shouldn’t believe in ghosts or spirits.

But the Zhang family was simply too eerie. The level of horror was no less than the day I opened my eyes to find Zhang Mingsheng pointing at a tiny, red-cheeked, ugly infant beside me, claiming she was my daughter; my biological daughter. It was a shock that pierced through to my soul and the very marrow of my bones.

Familial bonds really are like a paranormal reaction: inexplicable, yet impossible to sever.

Perhaps I am the only one who thinks this way.

Zhang Mingsheng quickly rejected the butler’s words. He cut straight to the point, saying only a few words, “I do not know her.”

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