SES Chapter 42 V1

Chapter 42

Yi Wansan had been talking nonstop for quite a while. When he finally stopped, the car fell into silence. It was already dark outside, and the scenery beyond the window had become unfamiliar. They seemed to be passing through some county town—low, shabby buildings lined the road, likely to accommodate passing drivers. Every few repair or car wash shops, there’d be a small restaurant.

Luo Ren pulled over. “Let’s get something to eat.”

They picked a Sichuan restaurant and ordered a few simple dishes. Luo Ren barely ate, but Yi Wansan devoured his meal with gusto. Near the end, Luo Ren stepped out to take a phone call—and quietly paid the bill while he was at it.

Turned out Yi Wansan didn’t have to pay. No need to split the check or anything. He’d suspected as much, but when it was finally confirmed, he still felt a wave of relief. With that weight off his shoulders, he ate even more.

Full and satisfied, they pushed open the restaurant’s grimy glass door. Luo Ren was standing just outside, in the shadows. A gust of wind carried part of a sentence from his phone call:
“…And what about Mindanao?”

Yi Wansan’s heart skipped a beat.

All these years of surviving by conning people and skipping town had made him deeply suspicious of everyone. Not just Luo Ren—he didn’t fully trust Mu Dai, Uncle Zhang, or even Fatty Cao. It was like he had this ultra-sensitive antenna on top of his head, always probing for information, ready to bolt at the first whiff of trouble.

Weren’t they supposed to be heading to Wuzhu Village? What did Mindanao have to do with anything? Was it nearby? And seriously, how old did an island have to be to earn the name “Old Island”?

He kept a straight face and pretended not to hear a thing.

Once back in the car, Yi Wansan quietly pulled out his phone to look it up. To his surprise, Mindanao wasn’t even in China.

According to the web, Mindanao was the 14th largest island in the world and the second largest in the Philippines, just after Luzon. The scenery was beautiful, but that wasn’t what made it famous. It had nicknames like “Land of Terror” and “Kidnapping Capital”—home to the Philippines’ largest anti-government militia in the south. The region was plagued by ongoing conflict, and many of the armed groups were officially recognized as terrorist organizations.

The Philippines? Yi Wansan didn’t give a damn about geopolitics. All he knew about the country was two things:

One, it was a country.
Two, Filipino maids were very popular. Old Hong Kong dramas were always talking about hiring one.

So they were still at war over there? He always thought only Iraq had ongoing wars, because of the Americans stirring things up.

Yi Wansan glanced at Luo Ren behind the wheel and suddenly felt like he needed to keep more distance.
Sure, he was a scammer. But at least he was a simple scammer.

Maybe it was the silence in the car, but Luo Ren picked up the thread of their earlier conversation. “So what happened next? You got kicked out of the village after smashing the ancestor tablets because of the old clan head? Feels like there’s a missing piece in there.”

Luo Ren had a good instinct—there was a missing piece. And even now, just thinking about that part made Yi Wansan feel both satisfied and cathartic.

He didn’t snap right away. He was just a teenager then, but his brain had already started working out a plan: I’m not letting them off that easily.

He went home, curled up on the bed in that empty house, and got a little sleep. The next morning, a tractor carried his mother’s body to the township crematorium.

Yi Wansan rode along, the old clan head and a few others sitting on the back edge of the tractor. The rural roads were rough, and the white burial cloth kept slipping—sometimes revealing his mother’s face, sometimes her feet. Yi Wansan kept adjusting the cloth along the way, as if making sure she was properly covered would let her leave this world with a shred of dignity.

Meanwhile, the old men smoked and chatted like nothing had happened.

They were talking about the “Old Clam basking in the moonlight.”

—“Haven’t seen that in years.”
—“This year’s shaping up to be a good one.”

Good, my ass. You’ve had two deaths in your family—would you call that a good year? Yi Wansan shot the old clan head a furious glare.

No one noticed. The old man’s face was solemn, his tone serious.

—“When the Old Clam surfaces, it’s no ordinary thing. I’d say there were more than ten of them this time. What matters is the Mid-Autumn Festival. Clams are spiritual creatures—if they catch the moonlight during Mid-Autumn, that’s real moon-basking.”

Yi Wansan didn’t say a word. But he caught every single one.

Mid-Autumn? Everyone knows it’s the festival of reunion. For him, it felt like a cruel joke.

In the days before the festival, he buried everything he needed—including some money he’d either been given or stolen—in a spot outside the village.

He didn’t feel bad about stealing. He did it so boldly, with such conviction, that no one dared accuse him directly. What kind of thief walks around that proudly without even blushing?

Then came Mid-Autumn.

Every household steamed sweet cakes and meat pies. Some brought back store-bought mooncakes. Yi Wansan went door to door eating at each home. When night fell and the villagers gathered at the beach, he leaned lazily against his doorframe, cheeks puffed from chewing.

After he was full and the village had gone quiet, he spat on the ground, walked around to the back of the house, and picked up a big barrel of diesel.

He staggered toward the beach with it in his arms.

Mid-Autumn’s a time for reunion, huh? Then let’s light it up—burn it so bright you’ll never reincarnate.

The villagers, worried about disturbing the Old Clams, didn’t stay on the beach. They sat far off, scattered among the rocks. Under the moonlight, they saw the little sparks dotting the shore and were already giddy with excitement.

Perfect. He wanted to burn it right in front of their eyes—burn their hopes, their harvest, everything they’d looked forward to. Make them jump and scream, make them weep and wail for mercy.

As he neared the beach, someone shouted from the rocks, “Whose kid is that? Where are the parents?!”

It was too dark to see clearly, but they could tell it was a small figure.

Whose kid? He wondered the same. His parents’ souls were probably floating coldly above the sea. Maybe the shouting had stirred them awake, and now they were watching him.

His father’s urn had been lost to the sea, swept away by underwater currents. To this day, it has never been found.

Yi Wansan poured diesel in messy streaks over the clams, soaking a wide stretch of the beach. The Old Clams were sensitive; even a small disturbance would make them clamp up tight. No matter—he was lighting them up anyway. Maybe they’d smell delicious.