Yunnan is a place known for its ancient towns.
Ever since Lijiang became popular and Dali flourished, all the surrounding areas that could be developed into ancient towns have been dolled up and presented to the world. With each having its own unique characteristics, they’ve managed to make a name for themselves one by one. The old saying calls it “securing your mountain territory,” while the newer expression is “capturing the tourism market” or “stabilizing the visitor flow.”
The visitor flow boosted two basic industries: restaurants and inns.
Brother Mao’s Inn was one of the outstanding establishments among the many inns in a certain ancient town.
By now, Brother Mao had been running his inn in the ancient town for five or six years.
Earlier, he had operated a youth hostel in Gannan, but later complained that it was too cold in winter there, the peak season was too short, and despite putting in all his effort, he couldn’t make much money throughout the year. In a fit of frustration, he packed up and moved his business to the ancient town.
As fate would have it, the ancient town favored him. The inn took off immediately—booming with business, recouping the investment in three years, and then following an upward curve, continuing to prosper…
Even today, it remains bustling, and the outlook is good.
The inn was divided into front and back sections. The back was for accommodations, while the front part had been converted into a bar. If the bar only served drinks, it would be lost among the masses—no, lost among the crowd of other bars. So, Brother Mao racked his brains to give the bar its unique character. Every few days, he would introduce a theme, such as telling ghost stories or playing murder mystery games, inviting guests to participate. After a round of laughter and merriment, both the host and guests would be thoroughly satisfied.
Tonight’s theme was “My Amazing Friend.”
Everyone was enthusiastic, taking turns to speak, but in the latter half, someone changed the concept from “amazing” to “extreme,” turning the gathering into a complaining session.
Someone revealed that their friend loved to peel the skin off their feet, but not completely. They would leave the skin dangling on the sole of their foot. After peeling off enough skin, at first glance, it looked as if their foot was stepping on petals of lotus flowers…
This metaphor would make even lotus flowers want to turn into pumpkins.
Another person complained that their friend liked to collect the grime from their body sweat, rubbing it until it formed ashy strips, then preciously collecting them in a glass bottle, waiting to accumulate enough to mold a miniature version of themselves…
Brother Mao had actively participated at first, but later could only sit and stare wide-eyed as he listened, shuddering repeatedly. He thought to himself that he must be getting old, as the tastes of young people these days had become so extreme.
Finally, at eleven o’clock, the gathering dispersed. Brother Mao busied himself cleaning up the tables, while the group that had contributed countless nauseating stories lingered, still chatting in small clusters.
As Brother Mao was aligning the tables, a round-faced girl of seventeen or eighteen approached him and asked, “Boss, is that person you mentioned called Shen Gun real?”
Brother Mao replied, “Of course.”
Over the years, he had made many strange friends, but when it came to the most “amazing,” he believed no one could compare to Shen Gun. How peculiar this man was! In his twenties, he had declared that he would travel to various places, searching for supernatural stories, and become the number one expert in the spiritual world. Remarkably, he had kept his word, never stopping his journey. Whenever he heard strange stories or legends, he would carefully record them in his notebook. After twenty or thirty years, he had accumulated several sacks full of these records.
At first, Shen Gun didn’t mind the burden, dragging a sack of notebooks as he traveled over mountains and rivers. It wasn’t until a few years ago, at the urging of his friends, that he began digitizing these written records one by one.
The girl clicked her tongue in amazement: “What about now? Does he still travel around?”
Brother Mao said, “No, he’s resting. Says he’s organizing his materials and researching topics or something like that.”
Shen Gun had originally had no fixed residence, but later, thanks to a friend, he acquired an old-style mansion in a place called “Misty Town” in Yunnan. However, he didn’t live alone—besides him, there was also a strange character with a yin-yang face living in the mansion.
The girl seemed a bit disappointed: “Why did he stop traveling?”
Brother Mao casually replied, “He got old, I suppose.”
Interests never remain unchanged, and as the saying goes, “Year after year the flowers are similar, but year after year people change.” After several cycles of years, people naturally become quite different from how they were before.
The girl disagreed: “That’s not right. It’s not like he just got old in the last two years. Wasn’t he already old more than ten years ago?”
To a teenage girl, whose youth could still be pinched to yield water, someone in their late thirties was considered decrepit, someone in their late forties was nearly in the grave, and anyone over fifty belonged to another world altogether. By her logic, Shen Gun had indeed been old for more than ten years already.
The speaker meant nothing by it, but the listener took it to heart.
After cleaning up, it was nearly midnight. Brother Mao leaned against the bar, poured himself a glass of erguotou in the empty room, took a sip with its sharp pungency, and pondered over the matter carefully.
Shen Gun truly hadn’t gone out for some time.
It was a bit unusual.
In the past, Shen Gun was the type who would go investigating at the slightest hint of something strange. But at some point—perhaps after his last trip to Hangu Pass?—he suddenly became picky. When told about strange occurrences somewhere, he would impatiently interrupt after just a few sentences, complaining, “This isn’t what I’m interested in,” as if he were standing at attention, waiting specifically for some tailor-made major event.
Even last year, when someone from the Northwest sought his help through various connections, saying they had discovered something amiss beyond Yumen Pass, fearing it might be another realm, he hadn’t budged—in the past, he would have been overjoyed and hurried over without delay.
What was going on? Shen Gun didn’t used to be so selective.
Then again, if this was “boring” and that was “uninteresting,” what exactly was he “interested” in?
Some things shouldn’t be overthought; like drinking, the more you think, the more it goes to your head.
Brother Mao couldn’t help but call Shen Gun.
No one answered.
This wasn’t surprising. Shen Gun often didn’t answer his phone. If you complained about it, he would justify himself: “What’s the problem? My time is precious and must be used effectively. How could I have the leisure to watch my phone all day?”
But for Brother Mao, this unanswered call felt like punching cotton or grasping at air—extremely unsatisfying. After thinking for a while, hesitating for two seconds, he dialed another number.
The mansion had a landline, and someone would answer—because that yin-yang face, ever since moving into the mansion, never went out, with a world even narrower than that of a young lady in ancient times who was confined to her boudoir.
Sure enough, before long, someone picked up the phone on the other end, with a hoarse voice.
“Hello?”
Brother Mao felt a bit anxious. He hadn’t seen the person with his own eyes, but he had heard Shen Gun’s description: “Like two completely different people’s faces each split in half, then hastily glued together,” “The left side is a normal man’s face, the right side looks like it was molded from clay, stiff in expression, with furrowed brows and angry eyes, proud and overbearing, and upon closer inspection, carries an extremely sharp feminine air,” “Little Mao, you’ll have nightmares if you see it.”
Now, the voice coming through the receiver belonged to that legendary yin-yang face.
The voice sounded normal enough.
Brother Mao swallowed: “Mr. Shi?”
“Mm.”
“Is Shen Gun… there?”