For thirty years, he has roamed the Northeast, his divine might overwhelming all immortals under hea

"We can't wait until dawn."

Huang Dalang's voice suddenly rang out, decisive and firm.

"The longer the night lasts, the more things can go wrong. This 'stench' has already reached our feet. We need to investigate the things in that pool, whether they are the souls of those who died unjustly or 'things' that have been manipulated by others, before they become completely 'powerful'. Once it's under the sun, some traces will dissipate, and some 'things' will hide even deeper."

This county town is not large; a few state-owned factories form the backbone of society. The workers' dormitories are next to each other, the schools for the children of employees are shared, and the union activities are held together. The movement of people and the spread of information are astonishingly fast.

The bearing factory and the cement factory might have some kind of indirect family relationship or technical cooperation.

Old Chen's absent-minded and erratic state may not be an isolated illness, but rather a node in this invisible web that has been pulled.

I can't lie down anymore.

I gently lifted the heavy, old quilt that smelled of mixed body odor. A warm feeling mixed with sweat and mildew dissipated, and the chill of the early morning immediately pierced my thin clothes like countless needles.

I groped my way into those worn-out shoes in the dark. The uppers were stiff, and they made almost no sound when I stepped on the muddy ground.

I tiptoed and slid sideways across the long kang (heated brick bed) filled with weary bodies.

The sounds of snoring, teeth grinding, and indistinct murmurs in sleep, along with the faint warmth emanating from the depths of the earthen bed, filled me with the faint warmth. I could even see the soles of a pair of worn-out cotton shoes on one of the beds, their rubber treads embedded with yellow mud.

Lifting the thick curtain leading to the main room, the heavy feel of it seemed to push open a boundary.

Behind the counter, the old man minding the shop was curled up in a faded rattan chair, seemingly fast asleep. A corner of his military overcoat had slipped down, revealing a patched gray cotton-padded jacket underneath.

The copy of "Romance of the Three Kingdoms," now without its cover, slipped onto his lap, its pages yellowed and curled.

On the counter, the kerosene lamp, its glass cover blackened by soot, flickered uneasily with a tiny flame, casting swaying shadows on his gaunt, walnut-shell-like face. The interplay of light and shadow reminded one of the masks on an old opera stage.

I held my breath, my lungs contracted tightly, and moved sideways to the door.

The old-fashioned wooden latch was a bit stiff, so I pulled it very gently and slowly.

The dry door hinge still made a very faint sound.

"Gah!"

I couldn't help but shiver. Winter is almost here, and it's really cold. It seems like this winter will be cold early.

I pulled the collar up a bit, but unfortunately the collar of this old coat was already worn thin and wouldn't help much.

He hunched his shoulders, discerned the direction, and headed towards the cement factory in the west of the city that the two men in the sports car had mentioned in his memory.

The road underfoot gradually changed from a compacted dirt road to a simple path paved with gravel and cinders, which hurt my feet.

In the distance, the silhouette of a towering brick chimney, like the silent spine of a giant beast, stood against the thicker darkness of the night. That was the cement factory, one of the few "modern" symbols in the county town that could continuously spew smoke and generate output day and night. The familiar mixed smell in the air grew clearer and clearer.

I walked around the front of the factory area.

There were two tightly closed iron gates, with faded "Safety Production" signs hanging above them. Dim light shone from the windows of the guardhouse next door, and shadowy figures could be vaguely seen.

I walked along the base of the wall, which was covered with withered grass, toward the wasteland behind the factory.

This area, which was originally designated as a "production reserve," is now actually a dumping ground for garbage and a neglected corner.

There is almost no lighting here, only the pale moonlight in the latter half of the night, which barely outlines the uneven ground, the rampant and messy bushes, and the haphazardly piled waste.

Broken wooden molds, twisted steel bars, hardened discarded cement bags, and piles of industrial slag whose original color was no longer discernible.

The soil beneath my feet became soft and sticky, mixed with gravel, broken bricks, and unidentified debris, making a soft "plop plop" sound when I stepped on it.

A damp, metallic smell wafted in on the wind, entering my nostrils and hitting my head.

Huang Dalang's senses became exceptionally clear and tense, like a string that had been suddenly taut.

"To the left, about fifty paces away, the air is very damp... mixed with other things, very 'turbid' and very 'resentful' things. Be careful, Thirteen, the 'earth veins' of this place have been polluted by these waste materials and resentment."

I turned to the left as instructed, and walked forward with uneven steps, trying to make each step as light as possible, and listening carefully to catch any unusual sounds except for the wind.

Soon, the outline of an irregular pool, about half the size of a basketball court, appeared in the hazy moonlight.

The pool water was dark and murky, like spilled ink, with white foam, withered branches and leaves, and other unidentifiable debris floating on the surface.

The mud on the bank was slippery and alkaline, covered with withered, grayish weeds.

This is the waste pool that swallowed a life.

The pool was indeed not very big; under the moonlight, one could vaguely see the messy piles of materials on the opposite bank.

It's said to be not very deep.

Looking at it now, the pool of water appears unnaturally black, as if it can absorb all light, and is so thick that it cannot be dissolved.

Even more obvious is temperature.

Within a few steps of the pool, the air temperature plummeted, and the breath you exhaled instantly turned into white mist. Inhaling it brought a stinging sensation like ice shards to your lungs, a stark contrast to the cold wind blowing from afar.

"Walk around the edge of the pool, but don't get too close, and especially don't let your shadow fall into the water."

Huang Dalang warned, his voice unusually cautious.

"Look closely at the ground, and the grass roots and mud crevices near the water. Places where people die unjustly often leave traces of resentment."

I moved carefully along the edge of the pool, my gaze sweeping over every inch of mud like a comb.

Apart from many messy footprints, there seemed to be nothing special.

But when I walked to the shady side of the pond, to a spot where the weeds were clearly trampled and even dragged, I suddenly bumped into something hard under my foot.

I crouched down, and the cool, earthy scent hit me. I brushed aside the damp, hardened grass and loose soil.

Under the moonlight, a shard of broken porcelain, reflecting a cold, white luster, was revealed.

Pick it up, wipe away the dirt, and feel the unique coolness of ceramic and the sharp edge on your fingertips.

It was a fragment of a thermos liner with a faded red double happiness symbol printed on it; the red color looked dull like a scab in the moonlight. Further down, my fingertips touched several more similar pieces of broken porcelain, their edges jagged.

At the same time, a small piece of dark blue, rough-textured synthetic fabric was also brought out, with burrs on the edges, as if it had been violently torn off.

"Thermos flask..."

I recalled the young man's hushed voice in the roadside inn.

After discovering the affair, Factory Director Liu's wife smashed the thermos in the house on the spot.

Is it just a coincidence? How did these fragments of a household thermos flask liner end up here, next to the waste bin? And this piece of cloth...?

My doubts grew even deeper.

I continued to expand the search area, moving more gently, but my heartbeat gradually quickened. In the silent wilderness, I could almost hear my own heart pounding.

About two or three meters away from the pile of broken porcelain shards, under a clump of withered grass roots, my fingertips touched something hard, unlike the stone or broken bricks.

Digging through the cold, sticky soil, a thing about the size of a palm, covered in blackish-yellow mud, was revealed.

After hesitating for a moment, I scooped up some water from the edge of the pool with my hand and carefully rinsed off the mud on the surface.

The mud receded, revealing a brass-colored, somewhat uniquely shaped metal object.

It is a cigarette holder, but more refined than the common ones. One end is the bite, and the other end has a groove for inserting a cigarette. The middle part seems to be engraved with tiny patterns, but they are filled with dirt and rust and are not clearly visible in the moonlight.

This is definitely not something an ordinary worker, or even a typical grassroots cadre, would use.

Brass was considered quite good for its time. More importantly, the style and the possible engravings conveyed a sense of "refinement" and "personal identity" that was out of place with the surrounding environment.

"Cigarette holder..."

Huang Dalang pondered, a chilling realization creeping into his mind.

"And these broken porcelain shards, scraps of cloth... Thirteen, the soil here probably remembers more than people say. It's not as simple as just one person 'accidentally falling into the water.' Keep these things safe; they are all 'evidence of the land.'"

I carefully wrapped the few pieces of broken porcelain, the piece of blue cloth, and the heavy brass cigarette holder in a clean cloth I always carried, then stuffed them into the inner layer of my canvas pouch and placed them close to my body. The cool metal transmitted an unusual sensation through the cloth.

Just as I was about to get up and leave this place of trouble, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye that something seemed to move silently in the center of the pool.

It's not the natural ripples on the water's surface caused by the wind.

It was more like a dark shadow, deeper and thicker than the surrounding water, slowly twisting and stretching underwater, vaguely outlining a blurry, unsettling human figure, especially the shape of its long, flowing hair, which was scattered like seaweed.

At the same time, an intensely cold, resentful, and damp aura, so strong it was suffocating, suddenly emerged from the depths of the pool like countless icy, slippery tentacles. It wasn't a physical movement, but rather a kind of spiritual "grabbing," directly "snatching" towards my location!

My hair stood on end, my heart nearly stopped, and I instinctively leaped back a few steps, staggering away from the poolside. Strangely enough, the moment I stepped back, that heart-pounding feeling vanished abruptly, as if everything that had just happened was merely an illusion.

The pool returned to its deathly blackness, with only a slight breeze causing barely perceptible ripples. But the cold sweat that instantly broke out on my back and the throbbing in my temples told me that the thrill I had just experienced was incredibly real, not an illusion.

"It's awake."

"Moreover, the resentment is extremely deep and turbid. It doesn't seem like a wandering ghost; it's more like it's been provoked, nailed, or... trapped here by evil magic. This isn't simply 'finding a substitute' to vent resentment, Thirteen. There's a 'hand' involved, a 'setup' here. We may have stumbled into someone else's trap."

"Brother Dalang, what about this wronged soul..."

"Hmph, whatever bureau it is, what you found is indeed evidence, but think about it, can just anyone be the manager of a cement factory?"

"So we have to get this wronged spirit out of the pool. There's a glass bottle three steps ahead of you. Lead the spirit to the bottle; it will be helpful."

I took three steps forward and sure enough, there was a glass bottle, but it was all black and dirty.

I quickly cleaned myself up and returned to the pool.

"May the heavens be clear and the earth bright, and may you forever remain in the central position."

"May the divine light shine eternally, and may all souls dwell in solitude!"

"receive!"

A dark shadow rose from the pool and quickly approached the bottle. I quickly tore off a piece of my clothes and sealed the bottle opening.

After all this was done, a despairing gray-white tinge appeared on the horizon, like the color of a fish's belly, but it was still a while before true dawn.

We can't stay any longer.

We must leave immediately.

I didn't go back to the roadside inn, afraid of leaving more traces and also afraid of running into those two talkative sports car guys.

Head straight towards the center of the county town.

As dawn broke, a few pedestrians began to appear on the road.

Farmers getting up early to carry manure, workers covering their ears as they rush to their shifts, and men pulling carts to deliver honeycomb briquettes.

The county town slowly awoke in the cold morning.

I found a state-run breakfast shop that had just taken down its door panels and started steaming buns, and I went inside.

The room was filled with steam from the steamer and the smell of cheap soy sauce.

I spent five cents to buy a bowl of hot soy milk.

The scalding hot soy milk slid down my esophagus, barely dispelling some of the chill and fear that seeped into my bones.

I composed myself, looked at the mottled scratches on the greasy wooden table, and began to inquire about the location of the county public security bureau.

The evidence in his arms felt incredibly heavy, as if weighed down by a thousand pounds, and the cold pieces of evidence inside were burning hot.

Fragments of a thermos, pieces of clothing that appeared to belong to the deceased, a brass cigarette holder that was clearly valuable and likely pointed to a specific person, and the inhuman, malicious, chilling aura emanating from the pool.

This is no longer something that can be discussed in private or investigated and handled by me privately.

Cases involving human lives, especially murders that could very well be disguised as accidental, must be handed over to state authorities. This is the rule and the bottom line.

The county town is small, and the police station is not hard to find.

It was a gray, three-story Soviet-style building with peeling walls. A white wooden sign with black lettering hung at the entrance, making it look solemn and desolate.

I walked into the slightly dimly lit reception room. There was a cement floor, green wainscoting, and a young police officer on duty sitting behind an old wooden table, breathing on his hands as he wrote something in the registration book.

I stepped forward and tried my best to explain my purpose in plain and clear language.

A tip was made regarding the death of a female worker at a cement plant's waste disposal site, and the package was shown to the reporter.

When the young policeman heard how serious I was and saw the actual items in the cloth bag, his expression immediately became solemn. He told me to wait a moment and then turned and went up the peeling wooden stairs.

A short while later, a series of slightly hurried but steady footsteps came down from upstairs.

Three people, one in front and two behind.

Leading the way was a middle-aged man in his forties, tall and burly, who almost filled out his blue police uniform with frayed edges at the collar and cuffs.

He has a square face, and his skin is dark and rough from years of exposure to the sun and wind. He has thick, ink-black eyebrows and exceptionally sharp, bright eyes that seem to have hooks that can see right through people.

He wasn't wearing a hat, his hair was cut very short, standing up like stubble, he walked with a brisk pace, his back was ramrod straight, and he exuded an aura of competence and even a bit of fierceness.

Two younger policemen followed behind him.

On the left was a burly man with a round, ruddy face, small but bright and intelligent eyes, exuding an honest yet clever spirit, and holding half a roasted sweet potato in his hand.

The one on the right is tall and thin, like a bamboo pole, with slightly dark skin and somewhat unfocused eyes, as if he is always looking elsewhere. The corners of his mouth are habitually turned down, with a nonchalant yet cynical air, as if he sees everything.