Chapter 72: The Woman in Chains

Last night, Xue Liangliang had still declared with conviction: the world is materialist.

But perhaps he wasn’t wrong. To a true materialist, if there exists a rule that can be understood and resolved, then even ghosts fall under the category of the material.

Li Zhuiyuan scrutinized the idol closely. After who knows how long submerged underwater or buried in muck, the paint had long since peeled and corroded away. What remained was a swathe of surface that looked rust-red, likely due to the clay used in its sculpting.

But that matched the appearance of the woman from last night—charred flesh, roiling, torn apart.

Most notably, the rest of the statue's face had faded into nothing, except for one spot near the mouth, where a bit of white pigment remained. It must have been a particularly durable paint. The chin, having been sculpted slightly recessed, left a gap at the mouth—perhaps that's what kept the mud from fully filling it in.

Li Zhuiyuan bowed reverently, then a rhyme surfaced in his memory—one his great-grandfather had recited when they delivered Little Oriole. His memory was sharp; he recited it now, word for word:

"Today I make my offering, next year you'll be enshrined.

A man does what he must—are you satisfied this time?

Whether of the living or the dead, fairness must be upheld.

If you're wronged, seek redress; if you're hated, find revenge.

Life is bitter for all; don't take it out on the rest."

Beside him, Xue Liangliang stared wide-eyed. He saw something in this boy—something professional.

When Li Zhuiyuan finished, he added, “I’ll bring incense later. Once I’m home, I’ll set up a small altar and offer all my snacks—make up for it properly.”

Xue Liangliang asked in surprise, “Will that work?”

Li Zhuiyuan shook his head, answering honestly, “I don’t know.”

He was simply copying the format his great-grandfather had laid out.

Then he raised his arm again.

“Huh?”

The gray blotch on his skin, once the size of a coin, had shrunk to the size of a soybean and was noticeably lighter.

He blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected his great-grandfather’s “answer” to actually work!

“Show me yours,” he said to Xue Liangliang, needing a comparison.

Xue Liangliang extended both arms. His blotches hadn’t shrunk—if anything, they’d grown.

“Little brother, quick, teach me that verse!”

“Alright.”

Xue Liangliang mimicked Li Zhuiyuan and recited the same lines—though he swapped the snack offering with: “I’ll get food from the school cafeteria and set up an altar in the dorm.”

They waited a moment.

Xue Liangliang, like scratching off a lottery ticket, pulled up his sleeve and let out a surprised yelp.

The blotch had shrunk—but only to its previous size, not to a soybean.

“Huh…” Xue Liangliang frowned. “Could it be the goddess knows how bad our cafeteria food is?”

Li Zhuiyuan figured it might be because he had smashed the idol yesterday.

“Who’s this kid?” Luo Tingrui arrived with incense in hand.

“He’s got the same issue.”

Luo Tingrui looked puzzled but didn’t press. He handed an incense stick to each of them—Li Zhuiyuan, himself, and Xue Liangliang.

As for the delirious Zhao Hequan, he was given a whole handful.

Luo Tingrui stepped forward and bowed solemnly with incense. Then, loosening his collar and ignoring the dirt, he sat cross-legged before the idol. One hand slapped the ground rhythmically, the other clutched his chest as he began his lament.

He started with the hardships before the Liberation, spoke of the noble aims of building roads and waterworks, and ended with a hopeful outlook on the future.

He spoke with such sincerity and passion that the buttoned-up image of the engineer vanished. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was holding a town hall meeting.

Fearing the local spirits might not understand Mandarin, he even threw in some heavily accented Nantong dialect.

When he finished, he stood and pressed down on Li Zhuiyuan and Xue Liangliang’s heads, guiding them to bow with incense.

Finally, he dragged the unconscious Zhao Hequan over, making him bow as well.

After all this, Luo Tingrui buttoned up and smoothed out his demeanor again.

Seeing Xue Liangliang’s curious gaze, he grumbled, “Take notes. I learned this from the old-timers. In Nantong, this sort of thing is rare. But inland, where we build bridges and roads, you run into it all the time. This process—it actually works.”

Li Zhuiyuan nodded in earnest. After the ritual, his gray blotch had disappeared completely, leaving only the faintest trace—a near-miracle.

Had he waited to get treated by Liu Jinxia, Aunt Tinghou would’ve been writhing in pain again.

Li Zhuiyuan began to wonder—was this another path of the occult?

Persuade with feeling, reason with logic. But the key seemed to lie in some higher virtue, something that even unclean things had to respect.

Xue Liangliang’s blotches had shrunk to soybean size and faded significantly. Nothing too serious—just a faint mark. For a hydraulic engineering student, it was no big deal.

As for Zhao Hequan, he seemed better, mumbling and regaining consciousness. But his case had always been the worst—even if he was half recovered now, it was the difference between dying ten times and dying once.

After all, Li Zhuiyuan had seen it with his own eyes—Zhao Hequan was taken away by that woman.

Taken where?

Li Zhuiyuan looked around the base of the idol. There didn’t seem to be any place to hide something, but he spotted an inscription between its feet:

“Lady Bai.”

A woman’s title?

It fit local habits—like how Liu Jinxia was called “Granny Liu” by guests.

So this wasn’t exactly a Bodhisattva statue, but the name wasn’t wrong either. In the average layperson’s understanding, most female deities were all “Bodhisattva.”

“Take him to the city hospital,” Luo Tingrui sighed. “And you should get checked too, just in case.”

Xue Liangliang pointed at Li Zhuiyuan. “This little guy too.”

“Right. Kid, who are your folks? What village, what brigade?”

“Team Four, Siyuan Village, Shinan Town.”

Luo Tingrui turned to Xue Liangliang. “I’ll inform his family. Say a few students are taking him on a city outing. I’ve got work to do. You take them. The car should be waiting at the west gate.”

“Got it, Director.”

Xue Liangliang helped Zhao Hequan up and gestured for Li Zhuiyuan to follow. A car was indeed waiting, the driver ready to go.

On the way, Li Zhuiyuan figured his grandpa would be reassured—Luo Gong’s status as deputy commander carried more weight than the town mayor.

They arrived at Nantong People’s Hospital at exactly ten a.m.

Li Zhuiyuan checked his arm. No marks at all. Completely healed. Still, he planned to set up that altar and fulfill his promise.

Xue Liangliang’s mark had faded to almost nothing too.

But unlike the two of them, it seemed all the suffering had landed on Zhao Hequan alone.

He had seemed better before they set out. But on the road, his condition worsened. He vomited repeatedly—sour, foul water.

The driver was so distressed, he kept leaning on the horn in panic.

At the hospital, Xue Liangliang rushed Zhao Hequan to the ER, then took Li Zhuiyuan for blood tests and other checks.

It was nearly lunchtime as they waited for the results. Xue Liangliang went to the cafeteria and brought back buns and mantou.

“Looks like we won’t get the report till the afternoon,” he said to Li Zhuiyuan. “Once we do, I’ll buy you milk and a little toy from the shop. Something to take home.”

“Thanks, big brother.”

“No need. Honestly, this is all my fault.”

It had started when he and Zhao Hequan smashed the idol. A little kid like Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t possibly have swung a sledgehammer.

Li Zhuiyuan took a bite of bun. True, it started with them—but he didn’t hold it against him.

Someone this sunny, attentive—it was hard to dislike. He liked playing that role, too…

Hiss!

Li Zhuiyuan clutched the bun in his left hand and his head with his right. His face contorted in pain.

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