Chapter 40: Thousand Songs

"Slowly looking back, at the night that once belonged to us.

You are still the Red Red, the sunlight in my heart you gave.

..."

The song began. Secretary Jin's Cantonese was crisp and fluent, and she sang with polish. Her movements on stage were far more relaxed and natural.

Not like Little Oriole. He remembered the first time she gripped the mic, her Mandarin still tinged with Nantong dialect.

Yet Li Zhuiyuan still thought Little Oriole's singing was better.

It was this very song that had once steered him down a path he'd never imagined.

Of course, if he had to give a real-world explanation, one could argue that it was because Little Oriole sang with emotion. Secretary Jin, meanwhile, was just trying to get through the day's schedule so she could go grave-digging by nightfall.

At first, the fish pond’s surface was calm.

But when Secretary Jin reached:

"Even if in days to come, a thousand songs drift along my road; even if a thousand evening stars shine brighter than tonight’s moon..."

Li Zhuiyuan swayed slightly. A wave of sleepiness hit him, and a creeping chill nipped at his shoulders—an old, familiar cold, like an arthritic knee predicting rain.

He knew Little Oriole was listening. And seemed close to losing control.

Li Zhuiyuan took a deep breath and forced himself awake. He couldn’t walk the shade now.

“Bee-ooo!———”

A screech of static burst from the speakers. Everyone clamped their ears. Kids screamed. The performers rushed to adjust the equipment—clearly used to the gear but also out of practice.

Old machines. Troupe scared of losing gigs. Normally, this wouldn’t happen.

Li Zhuiyuan slowly lowered both hands, making a hush gesture.

He had no idea if Little Oriole could see it, or understand.

But letting emotions spiral now would only spook the Water Monkeys into high alert.

Hold it in.

Wait till night.

Soon enough,

The static vanished. Equipment resumed.

Such glitches were common on these makeshift stages. The villagers, momentarily uncomfortable, resumed chatting and laughing. No one left.

Secretary Jin took the mic and apologized repeatedly, then restarted “Thousand Songs.”

Her eyes showed impatience. If she’d once had some professional pride, now she was just ticking boxes. She even skipped the chorus, pushing the mic toward the audience instead.

During the first chorus, a few adults and noisy kids sang along in their own flavor of Cantonese. But by the second round, no one joined. The mood froze.

“Sing. You sing.”

“Hurry up, sing.”

Urged from the crowd.

Secretary Jin kept her professional smile, muddled through the rest of the song, and handed the mic to someone else. She walked offstage to chat in a corner.

A flamboyantly dressed person took the stage and started a poker trick.

Li Zhuiyuan, with a pack of kids, edged closer to the side, straining to hear Secretary Jin and her group grumble about how long this was taking.

He’d already noted that all ten troupe members spoke Mandarin with the same accent.

Tonight’s caterers and dishwashers were locals recruited by the village chief.

Which meant the Water Monkeys were concentrated in the troupe.

But another issue: were there lookouts posted beyond the perimeter?

When the magic trick ended, Li Zhuiyuan clapped along with the crowd while slowly backing out.

By the roadside near Big Beard’s house, Runsheng sat waiting on a tricycle.

Li Zhuiyuan climbed aboard. “Runsheng, take the trail to the village road. Keep going, don’t stop.”

“Got it!”

Runsheng began pedaling. Behind them, Tan Wenbin shouted, “Wait for me! You guys wait!”

The trike rolled down the village road, a boy chasing behind.

It looked casual, normal. Less likely to raise suspicion.

On the electric tower in the west fields, a man in a gray work suit perched.

Normal, maybe. But Li Zhuiyuan worked backward from known results.

That lineman had two bags on the rack—food and water.

But this wasn’t a mountain. No isolation. No reason not to come down for a snack.

“Runsheng, turn around. Let’s try the other way.”

“Okay!”

As they turned, Tan Wenbin finally scrambled aboard, panting. “Don’t… don’t leave me behind.”

“Binbin, we need you now.”

“Really?”

As they neared Big Beard’s east fields, another tower came into view.

“Binbin, hop off and chase the trike.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, hurry.”

Seeing Li Zhuiyuan wasn’t joking, Tan Wenbin jumped off, shouting, “Wait! I haven’t gotten on yet!” and flailing his arms as he chased.

Another lineman lounged atop the tower, smoking. More lax this side—less traffic, deeper in the village.

“Runsheng, go south to Aunt Zhang’s store.”

“Alright.”

On the way, they passed another fake lineman, this one strapped to a power pole instead of a tower.

Li Zhuiyuan bought a few things at Aunt Zhang’s shop.

Tan Wenbin picked up a pack of Susu cigarettes.

His own money, of course.

He tore it open, gave the box a flick—some cigs popped out.

“Runsheng, want one?”

Runsheng glanced back. “Don’t smoke.”

“How about you, Brother Yuan?”

Li Zhuiyuan shook his head.

So Tan Wenbin lit up himself, hand cupping the match.

“Pfft… cough cough… urgh!”

Hacking, eyes watering, dry heaving.

All flash, no function. Clearly practiced, but couldn’t smoke.

“Bit nervous,” he said, embarrassed. “Helps me relax.”

No one had told him what they were doing. Not even he knew. But he’d found his own way to get in character.

To the north was simple—Li Sanjiang’s house lay north of Big Beard’s.

Another power pole. Another fake lineman.

Now Li Zhuiyuan was sure: these four were all Water Monkeys in disguise.

Even rural maintenance didn’t send this many, this tightly packed.

Most people wouldn’t notice. Used to the occasional lineman. Rarely local. Few would say hi.

Back home, in the workshop, Li Zhuiyuan sketched a rough map with Big Beard’s house at the center—fields, rivers, power poles.

Runsheng and Tan Wenbin leaned in, serious.

Flatland village. Four known lookouts. Probably more hidden ones, or nighttime shifts.

Originally, Li Zhuiyuan had hoped to sneak with Runsheng to the fish pond under cover of darkness.

Impossible now. Daytime crowds masked them. At night, empty streets meant any movement would draw eyes.

“These ten troupe members, plus four outside. Add Ding Dalin and those two in the hospital—the Water Monkeys’ numbers are near twenty.”

“That many?” Runsheng scratched his head. “I thought one or two people could do a job like this.”

Li Zhuiyuan smiled. Water burials were trickier. And rivers meant more people around. So Water Monkeys usually worked in larger, fast-moving groups.

“Runsheng, the real problem now is how to sneak in tonight without being seen.”

Their prep was meant to assist Little Oriole. If he couldn’t observe, he’d miss the moment to act. Couldn't have Runsheng fighting the Water Monkeys before Little Oriole even showed up.

If it came to that, might as well call the cops now.

“Um, Little Yuan, what if we go this way?”

Runsheng traced the river on the map.

It ran close to Big Beard’s place and the pond.

“Walk through the river?”

“Yeah. Underwater. Then come up near the haystack. For air, we each bite down on a straw.”

At first, it sounded absurd. But on second thought, it might just work.

Runsheng was strong, a good swimmer, and had fought a Dead Sinker underwater. With the twelve-flag array and corpse retriever gear for ballast, he could walk underwater.

The haystack was close to the pond.

Only problem: if Li Zhuiyuan went too, he’d have to tie a rope to Runsheng—awkward posture, that.

“Runsheng, your idea’s good. Let’s tentatively go with that.”

Runsheng beamed. Knew all those movies he watched would pay off.

“Great plan,” Tan Wenbin nodded. “So… can you finally tell me what we’re doing tonight?”

“Binbin, after the memorial feast, I’ll explain everything.”

“You won’t lie to me, Brother Yuan?”

“I won’t.”

“Alright. I trust you.”

The feast began early. By five, people were seated. Dishes came fast.

Li Zhuiyuan and Tan Wenbin found Li Sanjiang again and joined his table.

The midday drink flush hadn’t faded from Li Sanjiang’s cheeks. Rubbing his belly, not all that hungry, he asked Ding Dalin beside him:

“Why so early?”

“Sanjianghou, I’m from overseas. Jet lag.”

“Oh, that so?”

A weak excuse. But with dishes arriving, no point dwelling.

Fast service tonight meant only one thing: they wanted to clear the tables early to dig the grave.

During the meal, Secretary Jin whispered to Ding Dalin.

He turned to Li Sanjiang. “Sanjianghou, you got any lanterns at home?”

“Lanterns? Sure.”

Li Sanjiang kept a stash of basics for red-white matters. For rent.

Not paper ones—reusable types.

“We’ve got a tradition back home. On moving night, we hang red-and-white lanterns on the roof. Problem is, our order’s delayed. Won’t arrive tonight.”

“No big deal.” Li Sanjiang turned to Li Zhuiyuan. “Little Yuanhou, run home, tell Runsheng to bring some lanterns over and help hang them.”

“Got it.”

“Eat first, no rush.”

“Not hungry, Grandpa.”

Li Zhuiyuan left the table. Tan Wenbin grabbed a drumstick and scrambled after.

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