Chapter Fifty-Three: Fierce Battle

I waited until the afternoon before my emotions finally began to settle. By then, many in the village already knew about what had happened to Uncle Zhuzi. My mother called, sobbing so much she could barely speak. Over the past twenty years, Uncle Zhuzi had cared deeply for our family.

Not long after I hung up with my mother, I received a call from Chen Dongfang. I had wanted to talk to him about Uncle Zhuzi, mainly because although he was all the way in Shanghai, he seemed to have a thorough understanding of everything that was happening. I wanted to ask who would dare lay a hand on Uncle Zhuzi, but his phone had been switched off. When I answered, he said, “I just got off a plane, so my phone was off. There were no flights to Luoyang today, so I’ve just arrived in Xinzheng. I already know about Zhuzi. I didn’t expect anyone to act so quickly. You need to be careful—after Zhuzi, you might very well be next.”

“Who is it? Who did this?” I asked bluntly. All I wanted was to unmask the killer and see what kind of person could treat human life with such indifference.

“It’s not convenient to talk about this over the phone. I’ll get back as soon as I can. We’ll talk in person.” With that, Chen Dongfang hung up.

Fatty was beside me and saw that I was talking to Chen Dongfang. Even though Chen Dongfang had warned me not to trust anyone at this time, the pressure was too much for me to bear alone. I told Fatty everything—having someone else to help me think things through was far better than brooding on my own. Ever since my elder brother returned, I knew he had started making moves behind the scenes. The opposition, apart from the Fool causing a minor disturbance, had remained silent, which almost made me think they couldn’t fight back at all. But today, after such a long calm, their terror erupted in full force, taking two lives in one swift move.

Fatty saw me lost in thought and asked, “Scared?”

“A little,” I nodded. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t. Take, for example, the strange fire that consumed Uncle Zhuzi. Big Brother said it was white phosphorus ghost fire, but I’d seen everything with my own eyes—a perfectly fine man suddenly engulfed in flames. Such means were truly terrifying. Most importantly, though Fatty kept telling me not to be afraid, we both knew we were powerless to fight back. We didn’t even know who our enemy was.

I regretted it now. If I hadn’t wasted time, maybe Uncle Zhuzi could have told me who the real mastermind was.

Fatty and I sat there until night fell. Having not eaten all day, hunger crept up on me. Fatty said, “Yezi, go eat something with the village chief. Don’t worry, I’ll keep watch here. Bring something back for me too. Honestly, I haven’t been this hungry in years.”

I nodded and left the hospital with Chen Qingshan. We weren’t in the mood for anything fancy. There were many street vendors outside the hospital—so we picked a stall, rolled up a pancake, and ordered a bowl of wild vegetable noodles, squatting as we ate. Chen Qingshan was in an even more dazed state than I was; his gaze was empty. Suddenly, I felt a pang of guilt. My family was at the eye of the storm, but Chen Qingshan was just the village chief; this had little to do with him.

“Village chief, you should head back after this,” I said to him.

Chen Qingshan shook his head. His eyes were still vacant, but he replied, “Something this big happened in the village—I can’t just walk away. Yezi, I know you’re worried about me, but don’t forget, I’m not entirely defenseless.”

As I spoke, a gold van pulled into the hospital’s parking lot. Oddly, its license plate was covered with black cloth. Several men got out, their faces cold, movements swift—clearly neither patients nor visitors. Then, even more strangely, each of them put on a face mask and white gloves.

They moved with practiced efficiency, then strode toward the hospital. Their strange appearance drew glances from passersby, but they paid no heed, heading straight for the inpatient building.

A chill of foreboding swept over me. Their getup and demeanor were just like the killers one sees on TV. I put down my noodles and patted Chen Qingshan. I wanted to bring him along, but I didn’t want to drag him into this. He was innocent—and more importantly, he was his family’s pillar. He had a daughter away at university.

He looked up at me. “Not eating?”

“I’m full. I need to go back for a bit, use the restroom. Make sure you get Fatty some meat—he likes it, buy plenty,” I said.

Chen Qingshan nodded, “Alright.”

I stood, bought a pack of cigarettes from a nearby shop. I thought of calling the police, but I couldn’t be sure those men were hitmen—if I was wrong, it would be a farce. I lit a cigarette, went to a vendor selling pig head meat, and said, “Boss, your knife looks sharp—I need a cleaver for home, will you sell it?”

The vendor was a burly, honest fellow. He grinned, “If I sold this, I couldn’t do business today. But I’ve got another one, the handle’s broken, but it’s a steel blade—you could chop down trees with it.”

He pulled out a knife from beneath his electric cart.

I nodded, took the knife, handed him a hundred yuan. “Thanks, brother.”

“No need for that much, twenty will do. Here’s your change—eighty,” he replied.

“Give me eighty yuan’s worth of pork, I’ll pick it up later,” I smiled.

With that, I slipped the knife into my coat, stubbed out my cigarette, and hurried toward the inpatient building. As I reached it, I saw crowds screaming and fleeing downstairs—Fatty, however, was nowhere to be seen, which made my sense of dread even stronger. I was never a delinquent, though I’d been in a few scuffles at school. But the pent-up anger from recent days, especially nearly losing Uncle Zhuzi, made me less nervous, even eager to hack those bastards down.

I rushed up to the third floor. As I rounded the corner, I heard Fatty’s yell. There he was, holding a stool, his arm bloodied. Two men were writhing at his feet, while four or five others, armed with long knives, had him cornered at the ward entrance.

“Damn it!” I pulled out the cleaver and charged at them. Fatty spotted me, and to draw their attention, he roared, “Fatty’s had enough!” and swung his stool with all his might, smashing one man down so hard he couldn’t get up again. The remaining four didn’t hesitate, using the moment to slash at Fatty.

By then, I had reached them. I raised my cleaver and struck the nearest man on the shoulder—blood spattered across my face. He howled, spun, and punched me squarely in the face. Dazed from the blow, I couldn’t dodge—I dropped to my knees, the cleaver still stuck in his shoulder.

He went berserk, switching the knife to his other hand and swinging at me. I scrambled aside—the blade sparked as it struck the floor. Seeing me in danger, Fatty ignored his own wounds, swinging the stool wildly, but he was still outnumbered. As for me, after that one strike, all my courage was spent. I had no fight left—ready to accept my fate.

Anyone who’s never been in a real fight finds their mind goes blank the first time. So did mine.

Missing me with his first swing, the man brandished his knife again. Backed against the wall, I had nowhere to go. Just as the blade was about to strike, I glimpsed a flowerpot on the wall, grabbed it, and smashed it over the man’s head with all my strength—his head split open, blood streaming down, but instead of collapsing, he grinned at me with a savage snarl, truly enraged.

But in that instant, something struck his face. Startled, both of us looked down—it was a roast chicken.