Killing Monks

(This was just something I wrote randomly, so I don't recommend commenting on it.)

It's not that we can't find it, it's that even if we did, it wouldn't be of any use.

The person who found him said the old man was already dead.

The other person they found said the old man had changed.

The old man has changed; he's no longer an old man. What is it? He doesn't know, and neither does Xiao Ni.

Now, everyone says the old man has returned. It's not just one person saying it, it's many people saying it.

As more and more people told her this, Xiao Ni began to believe it. It wasn't that she wanted to believe it, but believing it was better than not believing it.

If she doesn't believe, she'll jump into that well; if she does believe, she can wait a little longer. Wait a little longer, and maybe things will get better. Maybe they won't get better, but at least she won't have to jump right now.

If you don't jump now, there's always tomorrow.

If you don't jump tomorrow, there's always the day after. If you don't jump the day after tomorrow, there's always the day after that.

She waited day by day; if it came, all would be well; if not, she'd deal with it later. She waited, and it came.

That night, the brothel was shut down.

It wasn't the government officials who came to investigate; it was another group of people. They wore the same clothes, had the same knives at their waists, walked with the same long strides, and spoke with the same steady voices.

They stormed into the brothel, pinned the madam to the ground, dragged the guests out of their rooms, and kicked open the locked doors one by one.

Xiao Ni hid under the bed and heard chaos outside. Some people were shouting, some were crying, some were begging for mercy, and some were cursing.

She dared not come out. She was afraid. Not afraid of those people, but afraid that this was a dream. When she woke up, she was still in bed, with that fat, big-eared guest lying next to her, snoring loudly, making it hard for her to breathe.

Someone pulled her out from under the bed.

It was a hand, rough, large, and warm. That hand grasped hers and pulled her out of the darkness. She looked up and saw a face. The face was ordinary, so ordinary that you would forget it after one glance.

But those eyes were no ordinary eyes. She had seen what was in those eyes before. She had seen it in the well. She had seen it in the eyes of the person in the well.

It's not empty, it's full. So full it overflows, and what overflows isn't bitterness, it's something else entirely.

She didn't know what it was called. But she felt that it could save her life.

The courtyard was full of people. They were all women like her, some young, some not so young, some crying, some laughing, some expressionless, like a piece of wood.

They stood there, in the moonlight, among those who wore the same clothes and carried the same knives.

No one spoke. The wind blew through the yard, making the sheets hanging on the line rustle like flags.

The madam was lifted from the ground and made to kneel in the middle of the courtyard. Her face was swollen, her mouth was cut, and blood was dripping onto the ground, drop by drop.

She looked up at the people dressed in the same clothes and asked, "Who are you?"

The leader stood in front of her, looking down at her.

His face was hidden in the shadows of the moonlight, his expression obscured. Yet everyone could hear his voice. It wasn't loud, but it was clear. It wasn't fierce, but it carried an imposing authority.

"We are old men."

The madam knelt in the courtyard, her face swollen like a steamed bun, the blood at the corner of her mouth congealed, dark red, like a dried-up river.

She looked up, squinting at the person. The moonlight stung her eyes, but she refused to look down. She'd been in this business for most of her life; what hadn't she seen?

She'd dealt with government officials, local thugs, and wealthy customers who turned their backs on her. But these people were different.

They stood before her, like a wall when silent, and like a talking wall when speaking. You couldn't bump into them, push them down, or go around them.

They're right there, blocking your way, blocking your door, blocking all your exits.

"Mind your own business!" The madam's voice was shrill and hoarse, like a piece of sheet metal that had been stepped on, bent and cracked, yet still making a sound.

She didn't believe these people could do anything to her. She had powerful backers. Her backers were in the government offices, in the mansions, in those places where she had spent money, paved the way, and made connections.

Those who took her money, drank her wine, and slept with her were obligated to do her bidding.

These are the rules. The rules are the same everywhere.

The leader looked at her without getting angry, without showing any agitation, and without even frowning.

His voice remained calm, as calm as a lake. You throw a stone into it, the stone sinks, the surface ripples, then it calms down again.

"There are people suffering here, and they told us, so we came."

The madam was taken aback. She thought they would say, "We're acting on someone's orders," "It's the order from above," or "You've offended someone you shouldn't have."

She didn't get to hear those words. What she got was—someone was suffering, they told us, so we came.

Who told her? When did they tell her? What did they tell her? She didn't know.

All she knew was that these people had arrived. And with them here, she was finished.

It's either over today or over tomorrow; if it's not over tomorrow, it's over the day after. Whether it's over or not isn't up to her.

It is the suffering people who decide. When the suffering people say, "I am suffering," they come. And when they come, she must repay them.

Pay back the debts she's accumulated over the years. Debts are money, but also blood.

Money is easy to repay, but blood is not. If you repay with blood, you lose your life.

Money is easy to repay, but blood is not. If you repay with blood, you lose your life.

Xiao Ni stood in the crowd, and when she heard those three words, tears suddenly streamed down her face.

It wasn't crying; the tears just fell on their own.

Like the water in that well, once it's full, it overflows and can't be stopped.

She stood there, tears streaming down her face, looking at the leader, at those people dressed in the same clothes and carrying the same knives, and at those women standing in the moonlight just like her.

She didn't know why she was crying. It wasn't happiness, sadness, resentment, or relief.

It was something she had never experienced before, something she couldn't quite describe. It was like someone walking in the dark for a very long time, and suddenly seeing a lamp.

The light is far away, and its light is dim, but you know it's a light. You know that where there's light, there are people, and where there are people, it's not truly dark. If it's not truly dark, then you're not afraid.

The leader started making arrangements. It wasn't just casual talk; it was a well-organized plan. Who would go to the doctor, who would eat, who would sleep, and who would change clothes.

Everything is done by someone, and everyone knows what they're supposed to do. This isn't the first time they've done something like this.

They had done it many times, and they were very skilled at it, as skilled as a brothel madam entertaining a customer, as skilled as a customer undressing, as skilled as a woman who was used to being beaten and scolded, shrinking her neck, lowering her head, and curling herself into a small ball.

But what they did was different from what the madam did, what the customers did, and what those who bullied people did. What the madam did was push people down; what they did was help people up.

The guests tear people apart; they sew them back together. Those who bully others make people feel less than human; they make people know—you are human.

You've always been human. It's just that someone made you forget.