Buying clothes and a phone were just excuses. Yan Tuo drove out of the residential complex, heading straight for Dali Keng township, to the pump house by the reed marsh.
From the residential complex to the pump house was about a half-hour drive.
He had indeed turned back before receiving Nie Jiuluo’s “reed marsh” message. At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it—only that since Nie Jiuluo knew he had left but still asked “How far have you gone,” she must have had something important to discuss. Rather than continue driving only to be called back, it made more sense to turn around, saving time, effort, and fuel.
As fate would have it, his direction proved correct. The reed marsh was about forty minutes from Shi He County, positioned between Shi He and Xi’an. This meant he had to pass the reed marsh on his way back to Shi He—the main reason he could arrive in time. Additionally, Lu Xian’s residential complex was in the suburbs, about ten minutes from downtown. Forty minutes minus ten equaled thirty minutes, making Lu Xian’s location closer than the hospital.
It’s generally believed that after cardiac arrest, there’s a “golden four minutes”—beyond that, the chances of survival become extremely slim. Though Nie Jiuluo’s situation seemed dire today, countless strokes of luck were on her side. The danger lay in how one wrong step or moment’s delay would have meant her death. The luck was in how every step he took was correct, every moment precisely timed.
As darkness fell, Yan Tuo pressed down on the accelerator, silently praying that heaven’s favor would last a bit longer and that everything around the pump house remained undisturbed. If anyone had wandered in out of curiosity, the lid would be blown off, and things would spiral out of control.
Fortunately, when he arrived, the area was pitch black, and peaceful except for the tall grass swaying in the wind.
Yan Tuo slowly drove closer.
First, he spotted the Tiguan that Chen Fu and Han Guan had driven—when he left earlier, worried the car might draw attention in the field, he had deliberately parked it behind a partially collapsed mud house and covered it with half a roof’s worth of thatch. Thank goodness the car was still there, the thatched roof still draping over it.
Then he saw the pump house door, which he had secured with a car chain lock and blocked with a stone.
Yan Tuo let out a long breath. He turned off the engine and lights, sat quietly for a moment, then grabbed his tool bag and got out.
After unlocking and entering, he first swept his flashlight around. The interior still bore the aftermath of the fight, chaotic and messy, except for one thing.
The well.
He had recovered it with wooden planks more securely than before, adding a discarded pump shaft on top for good measure.
Yan Tuo walked over, set down his tool bag, and tucked his gun into his waistband. He propped the flashlight at an angle for light, then bent down to move the pump shaft and push aside all the wooden planks.
A stale stench mixed with the smell of blood wafted up. Yan Tuo fanned the air near his nose, then picked up his flashlight and pointed it downward for a look.
Because the pump well was abandoned, it had gaps at the top. Ropes were tied to two of these gaps, both stretching down deep into the darkness. The well was too deep for the light to reach the bottom, making it impossible to see clearly.
Yan Tuo carefully examined the ropes. One hung still while the other occasionally trembled—this made sense, as when he had lowered the two people head-first, one had appeared dead while the other was merely unconscious.
He hooked the flashlight’s loop to his coat collar, rolled up his sleeves, and braced one foot against the well’s edge for leverage before grabbing the still rope and pulling.
As soon as he applied force, his heart skipped a beat.
Something was wrong. This rope held Han Guan, who weighed over a hundred and fifty pounds and should have been dead weight. Why was it so light?
It felt like it had lost more than half its weight.
Had the person escaped, reset everything, and left a trap for him?
A chill ran down Yan Tuo’s spine, and he reflexively looked back.
The room was silent, pitch black outside. The car’s body reflected a ghostly glow in the weak moonlight.
No one burst out to attack him.
Listening carefully, there were no unusual sounds in the surroundings either.
Yan Tuo steadied himself and continued pulling the rope, quickly at first, then slowing down when he estimated the body was about ten meters from the well’s mouth, checking cautiously.
The shape still appeared human.
Closer now, he could see shoes and pants that seemed correct, though upside down.
In the final meter or two, Yan Tuo steeled himself, yanked “Han Guan” out of the well’s mouth, and then jumped back two steps, drawing his gun.
Han Guan’s body fell to the ground, shoes dropping off one after the other. He lay face down, motionless, limbs still bound—for safety, Yan Tuo had wrapped several extra layers of tape around his mouth and various parts of his body.
Everything appeared unchanged, and the tape bindings were indeed his handiwork. Initially relieved, Yan Tuo relaxed slightly but still felt something was off.
The hands.
It was the hands.
Yan Tuo stared at Han Guan’s hands. Asian skin tends to be yellowish-white, and even darker-skinned men aren’t particularly dark, but now Han Guan’s bound hands are almost brownish-black.
Not only that but they were shriveled and atrophied, with the skin showing scale-like bumps similar to those on chicken feet.
Yan Tuo’s heart pounded. He holstered his gun, stepped forward to crouch down, hesitated, and then pulled off one of Han Guan’s socks.
As expected, the foot and lower leg disappearing into the pant leg were the same—shriveled and blackened, with toes curled inward. No wonder the shoes had fallen off when he dropped—the feet had shrunk several sizes and couldn’t hold them anymore.
Yan Tuo turned Han Guan over.
The turn made the looseness of the clothes obvious.
The face was even more horrifying. Though only “dead” for a few hours, when rigor mortis should have set in, it hadn’t. He looked as if he’d been starved for months, with all flesh gone, leaving only skin stretched over bone. Even the bones seemed to have shrunk, making his previously well-fitting clothes extraordinarily loose, framing an absurdly small head.
No wonder the weight felt so much lighter.
Yan Tuo had a gut feeling: Han Guan was dead.
Thoroughly dead.
But why? The blood wound in his throat? Was piercing the throat the key to killing a Di Xiao? Seemed too simple.
Yan Tuo couldn’t figure it out, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. He took out his phone and used its flash to photograph Han Guan’s corpse: front, side, detail shots of various parts, close-ups of the wounds.
These were all data, all information—understanding could wait, just collect everything first.
When photographing the top of the head, he noticed an unusual reflection on Han Guan’s crown. Looking closer, Yan Tuo discovered another wound there, different from the throat wound, with mucus accumulated around its edges.
Not daring to touch it with his hands, he broke off a splinter from the wooden planks and gently probed, then pulled back.