SES Chapter 158 Part 2

Wan San almost cried from relief.

“Get over here—fast!” he hissed. “I can handle the thinking, but if it comes to fighting, you know I’m hopeless!”

“I’m on my way,” Luo Ren replied calmly. “Text me your location.”

“Hurry!” Wan San pleaded. “You know what he’s like—once he snaps, it’s deadly!”

Just then, he saw Qingshan heading his way. His heart leapt. Raising his voice an octave, he blurted into the phone, “What? The English edition? Sure! But no, not to the Japanese! I’m anti-Japanese, got it?!”

Luo Ren chuckled softly and hung up.

Wan San pocketed his phone, pretending nothing had happened. Qingshan said flatly, “I’ve got something to do tonight—heading over the mountain. No time for your interview.”

Night. Mountains.

The last time those two things came together, Wan San had nearly died. His scalp prickled, but he forced a smile. “No problem! Thank you for your time today—let me buy you dinner first!”

He racked his brain for ways to stall.

He ordered slowly, one dish at a time, trying to keep Qingshan there. Every few minutes, he texted Luo Ren again: Hurry. Please.

But the night grew darker, and he was running out of excuses.

Then he noticed Qingshan’s open jacket pocket—and the corner of his wallet sticking out.

Got it.

If Qingshan lost his wallet, he might come back for it. That’d buy time—or Wan San could use it as an excuse to follow him later.

He waited for another toast, pretending to stumble and grabbing the table for support, bumping right into Qingshan. As Qingshan steadied him, Wan San’s hand slipped toward the wallet—

—only for it to fall to the ground.

Qingshan bent down, picking it up slowly.

“Sorry,” Wan San said awkwardly, forcing a smile.

“It’s fine,” Qingshan said.

Dinner ended. No more excuses. Wan San could only watch helplessly as Qingshan walked off down the narrow mountain path. He called Luo Ren again in a panic.

“We’re almost there,” Luo Ren said. “Do whatever it takes—stall him.”

Almost there.

Fine, Wan San thought. Then I’ll follow him myself.

Borrowing a flashlight from the restaurant, he crept after Qingshan along the dark path.

He knew the beam would give him away—but maybe he could claim he was out stargazing.

He walked for a while, then stopped. The flashlight swept across the area: the back mountain, a half-collapsed courtyard with a stone mill and a broken well crank.

The shrubs rustled faintly. The road ahead was pitch black.

Qingshan had been walking ahead—he couldn’t have gone far. So why was it so quiet?

Wan San swung the light again—and froze.

By the stone mill stood Qingshan, motionless, eyes locked on him, unblinking.

Wan San nearly dropped the flashlight.

Forcing his heartbeat down, he smiled nervously. “Funny running into you here. The restaurant owner said there’s a great view of the stars from this hill…”

Qingshan didn’t reply. He lowered his head slightly, eyes dropping to Wan San’s feet. “You didn’t change your shoes.”

Wan San blinked. “What?”

“When I picked up my wallet earlier,” Qingshan said slowly, “I saw your shoes. You changed clothes. Wrapped your face. But not your shoes. City shoes don’t look like ours. I remember yours.”

A cold chill spread up Wan San’s spine.

He remembered—after Yan Hongsha had dug him out of the dirt, his clothes had been ruined, so he’d borrowed spare ones from Luo Ren’s car. But the shoes—he’d kept the same pair.

Meanwhile, miles away, the Conman sat cross-legged on a kang bed, muttering to himself.

It was strange having all this space now. He used to share the bed with Yin Erma, always bumping elbows. Now it felt empty.

He lit a white candle, placed a small mirror before it, pricked his palm with a needle, and drew a small circle of blood on the glass.

Then, leaning closer, he called softly, “Old Yin? Erma? Brother Yin?”

He’d learned this little summoning trick from a friend years ago. That friend had once botched the ritual and gotten possessed—if not for his help, she’d have stayed that way forever.

Yin Erma died suddenly, he thought. He must’ve had something to say before he went. Maybe I can still hear it.

“Brother Yin,” he whispered again, “we’re friends, aren’t we? If you’ve got something left unsaid, just speak…”

…

By the time the candle burned out, wax had pooled across the bed—but nothing happened.

The Conman sighed, turned on the lamp, and flopped down.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark, his eyes slowly adjusted. The wooden beams above came into focus.

Funny. Houses in the city didn’t have beams like these anymore. The phrase “gentleman on the beam” had become just a metaphor.

He remembered Yin Erma’s dying words—only one syllable stood out clearly: “Niang.” (Mother.)

It couldn’t be that he was missing his mother, could it?

“Niang”… “mother”… “lady”… “stepmother”… “auntie”…

Auntie?

The Conman suddenly sat bolt upright.

Yin Erma’s dialect mixed n and l sounds—what if “niang” wasn’t “mother,” but “liang”—the beam?

His heart began pounding. He grabbed a stool, climbed onto the kang, and reached up to the beam.

Thick dust coated the surface. His hand brushed along it until—click.

Something shifted. A hidden panel popped open.