SES Chapter 209 Part 2

He answered the call.

It was Wan Fenghuo. His voice wasn’t as steady as usual when delivering information. His first words were, “That Long Town—strictly speaking—it’s already gone.”

Gone? That big a place couldn’t just vanish into thin air. Leopard’s ancestors could still be traced back so far.

Wan Fenghuo gave a dry laugh. “My friend, different places have different circumstances. Leopard’s ancestors lived in an eastern Zhejiang town, with clans settled there for centuries. But the place you’re investigating is different…”

Hangu Pass, located in Lingbao City, is described in geography books as “highlands to the west, sheer ravines to the east, the Qinling Mountains to the south, and the Yellow River to the north.”

The problem lay with that Yellow River.

In the old days, the Yellow River changed course, burst its banks, and flooded countless times—providing endless material for historical dramas. You’d always hear urgent riders heading to the Forbidden City, with a voiceover: “Your Majesty, disaster! The Yellow River has burst its banks again!”

Wan Fenghuo explained that in 1933, the middle and lower reaches of the Yellow River suffered a massive flood, one of the worst of the 20th century. More than sixty counties across seven provinces were affected, and over three million people were displaced. Lingbao City was among the affected areas.

In other words, the original Long Town had long since been devastated by floods. Even if the entire town hadn’t been destroyed, its residents would have scattered long ago while fleeing famine and disaster. Add later wars and repeated campaigns—it was nothing like those small Zhejiang towns that remained unchanged for centuries.

In conclusion, he could roughly confirm that Long Town was now within the county jurisdiction near Hangu Pass.

After hanging up, he sent Luo Ren a photo.

It showed a county street scene—many high-rise buildings, plenty of electric scooters and bicycles, and a large billboard reading: “All county residents unite to strive for a model civilized county…”

Luo Ren gave a wry smile. “Now this is really like looking for a needle in the ocean.”

For the rest of the time, they were almost constantly on the road. Luo Ren and Cao Yanhua took turns driving. Everyone chatted freely, not avoiding the ominous bamboo slips, letting their imaginations run wild.

“—That astronomical anomaly from over a thousand years before Christ couldn’t have affected only China, right? What about other countries?”

“Maybe!” Cao Yanhua grew excited. “Other countries have lots of things related to seven too—seven deadly sins, seven continents, seven dwarfs…”

They even talked about specific people—Hitler, for instance, might have possessed a “fierce slip”: a war fanatic, extremely charismatic, carrying out genocide. Wasn’t that the infinite amplification of evil intent?

“—Then, when the Allies finally broke into Berlin, was Western Europe’s ‘Phoenix Squad’ part of the Allied forces?”

“—Probably, but Europe and America don’t use phoenixes. Maybe they called it the ‘Angel Squad.’”

Luo Ren listened, half amused, half exasperated, and said, “Actually, if you just swap two words, the fierce slip becomes a good thing.”

Cao Yanhua was puzzled. “Which two words? How do you swap them?”

Luo Ren slowly recited the sentence:

“The power of the Seven Stars attaches to the body, transforms the human heart, devours evil and promotes good, strengthens the body, sharpens movement, and even restores life.”

The car fell silent.

After a long pause, Mu Dai said softly, “It really does.”

…

They didn’t make it out of Sichuan that night, staying near Guangyuan. Early the next morning, the countdown calendar flipped to “16.” They stopped in Xi’an at noon, ate the famous belt-noodles and roujiamo, then continued through Weinan and Huashan toward Lingbao.

Along this route, the mountains became noticeably more numerous. Cao Yanhua looked up terrain maps online—sure enough, some peaks were nearly 2,000 meters high, with average elevations over 1,000 meters.

By evening, they passed Xiaoshan Mountain, an eastern branch of the Qinling range stretching between the Yellow River and the Luo River. Hangu Pass lay among them.

When they passed the Hangu scenic area, Luo Ren deliberately parked at a high vantage point.

Looking down, there were many tourists—bustling and lively.

Yi Wan San craned his neck, shading his eyes with his hand, squinting into the distance. Seeing his struggle, Mu Dai handed him a small monocular.

He adjusted it and murmured, “This is it. This is the place.”

Luo Ren asked curiously, “What do you mean?”

“Back at Xiaoshang River, the first water-shadow image was drawn by me. I remember it clearly—the outline of distant mountains and a large river. That mountain outline looked like Xiaoshan, sloping from southwest to northeast, and there was a river—either the Yellow River or the Luo River. This area has to be it.”

They lingered at Hangu Pass for a while. By the time they entered Tong County, it was already late.

Luo Ren drove around the county first. It wasn’t very large but clearly newly built, with few historical sites. After asking around, they learned Tong County hadn’t existed as an administrative unit before the founding of the PRC—it had been formed later through regional consolidation.

In other words, even local records only went back that far.

Just as Luo Ren had expected—even narrowing it down to this area, it was still like searching for a needle in the ocean.

They stayed overnight in Tong County. Prices were low—the best hotel was just over 300 yuan a night. Luo Ren booked a so-called “scenic” family suite on a high floor: inner and outer rooms, two bathrooms, two double beds, and a sofa that could sleep two more. Five people fit comfortably. Cao Jiefang could fly around as it pleased—as long as it didn’t fly out the window.

Pushing the window open to see the “scenery,” there were only scattered county lights, and beyond them, mountains.

Yan Hongsha murmured, “There are really so many mountains here.”

Mu Dai leaned on the windowsill. “In ancient times, there weren’t so many homes. From up high, you’d see just a few lights scattered among the mountains. Thinking about it now is kind of scary.”

After washing up, Luo Ren slept on the living room sofa. As he lay down, he saw Cao Yanhua bring up the countdown placard and place it on the coffee table beside the sofa.

Checking the time—only a few minutes to midnight—Luo Ren stayed awake, staring at the second hand as if waiting for a mission.

At twelve o’clock, when the hand ticked over, he flipped the placard to the next day and finally let out a long breath.

He slept fitfully, as if hearing distant, continuous funeral music that left a heavy weight on his chest.

In the morning, when he mentioned it to the others, he found he wasn’t the only one—everyone had heard it.

Yan Hongsha opened the window and pointed downstairs. “It’s real! Look—there’s a funeral across the street.”

They had checked in hastily the night before and hadn’t noticed. Sure enough, several black-draped vehicles were parked at the entrance of the residential complex opposite.

Cao Yanhua muttered, “That’s bad luck.”

Ever since the Guansi Archway incident, he had instinctively disliked anything associated with death.

Mu Dai couldn’t help laughing. “Let’s go eat downstairs.”

The hotel restaurant was on the first floor, buffet-style breakfast, with a few diners. When Luo Ren returned with his food, Cao Yanhua—already seated and eating—winked at him and pointed discreetly to a table behind them. “Brother Luo, the deceased was an old teacher. Those people all live out of town and came back for the funeral.”

That explained it.

Luo Ren ate quietly. Soon, a group—apparently family members—entered the restaurant. The people at that table stood up at once, shaking hands, offering condolences, exchanging pleasantries.

Luo Ren overheard their conversation.

“—Our condolences.”

“—When will the burial be?”

“—In a day or two.”

“—If you need help when you go up the mountain, just say the word.”

“—Thank you, thank you…”

They chatted as they left and soon exited the restaurant.

Something felt off to Luo Ren. He frowned, staring after them. Mu Dai noticed and waved her hand in front of him. “Luo Xiaodao?”

He snapped back to attention and smiled at her. Just then, a server came to clear their plates, and Luo Ren suddenly asked, “Miss, I’d like to ask—what does ‘going up the mountain’ mean?”

The server paused, then understood. “Oh, that? It’s a local expression. It actually means burial—being laid to rest in a cemetery.”

“Then why call it going up the mountain? As in ascending to immortality?”

The server looked confused—she was young and didn’t know much. “Maybe you could ask the family across the street? Funeral families usually hire an old master who’s handled these things for generations. He might know.”

So Luo Ren really went to ask.

The old man had lost most of his teeth. When he laughed, air whistled through his mouth. He explained patiently, “No, it has nothing to do with becoming immortal. In the past, when someone died here, we’d bury them up in the mountains—first, because there are many mountains and lots of space; second, because the Yellow River flooded so often. If you buried too low, the grave might get washed away, which was unlucky. So everyone buried their dead on the mountains.”

“And now?”

“Now water control is much better, floods aren’t common, and there are regulations—cremation and designated cemeteries. But the saying stuck. When it’s time for burial, people still say, ‘When are we going up the mountain?’”