Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

At nine o'clock at night, the moonlight bathed the construction site in a silvery frost. Cang Lifeng walked out of his small partitioned room, his steps involuntarily leading him towards Old Li's place. The thorn from that afternoon was still stuck in his heart, making it hard for him to breathe.

Old Li's door was ajar, and dim light leaked out from the crack. Cang Lifeng pushed the door open and was immediately hit by a strong smell of smoke, which made him squint.

Old Li sat on the edge of the bed, a cigarette dangling from his hand. The ashtray beside the bed was piled high with cigarette butts, a few still smoldering, clearly recently extinguished. His face, pale and ashen in the dim light, resembled an old newspaper, his eyes sunken, as if he hadn't slept for days.

"Uncle Li." Cang Lifeng sat down next to him, his gaze falling on the hand holding the cigarette—the hand was trembling, and the cigarette paper made a slight rustling sound.

Old Li didn't answer. He put the cigarette in his mouth, trying to light it, but the lighter wouldn't ignite after several tries. Cang Lifeng took the lighter and lit it for him. In the few seconds the flame flickered, he could see Old Li's eyes clearly—red-rimmed, bloodshot, with something churning in them, like a flood about to burst its banks.

"What happened?" Cang Lifeng's voice was very soft.

Old Li took a drag of his cigarette, and the smoke billowed from his nostrils, making him cough a few times. The cough was dry and hoarse, like a rusted iron door being forcibly pushed open.

"I got a call from home saying my elderly mother is sick. I'm really upset."

"Are you sick? Is it serious? How much money do you need? I have some here—" Cang Lifeng asked with concern.

"No need!" Old Li interrupted him abruptly, his voice so loud it startled even himself. He paused, his voice lowering and trembling slightly, "No need... it's just an old ailment, it'll get better with rest. I... I'll go back tomorrow."

Cang Lifeng was silent for a few seconds, his gaze falling on the pile of cigarette butts on the bedside table. Several of them were only half-smoked before being extinguished, with deep teeth marks on the cigarette holders, as if they had been bitten with all their might.

"Uncle Li, is there anything else? Is it Xiaojun?"

Upon hearing the name "Xiao Jun," Old Li shuddered violently, as if struck by lightning. His cigarette, still dangling from his lips, froze, ash falling onto his trousers without him brushing it off. Several seconds later, he finally removed the cigarette from his mouth, his fingers trembling so badly he nearly dropped it.

"No...it's nothing. What could possibly be wrong with that child?"

As he said this, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he dared not look at Cang Lifeng.

Cang Lifeng didn't ask any more questions. He just sat quietly to the side, watching Old Li's hands tremble more and more violently.

The room was so quiet that you could hear the faint sound of burning tobacco.

After an unknown amount of time, Old Li stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, then looked up and, for the first time, looked directly into Cang Lifeng's eyes, saying in a hoarse voice:

"Lifeng, you're a good person, really. I feel at ease working for you. Thank you for always taking care of me. But there are some things... some things that no one else can help with... I have to handle them myself."

Cang Lifeng was silent for a few seconds, then nodded and said, "Okay. Uncle Li, if you need any help, just let me know."

Old Li grunted in response and didn't say anything more.

Cang Lifeng stood up, walked to the door, and glanced back. Old Li was still sitting on the edge of the bed, in the same position. The dim light cast his shadow on the ground, distorted and thin. The cigarette in his hand had burned down to the end, with long ash hanging down, but he didn't flick it, just staring blankly at that little red light.

Cang Lifeng's gaze swept over the pile of cigarette butts on the bedside table again, then landed on Old Li's fist, which he had unconsciously clenched and unclenched. He remembered seeing Old Li squatting next to the cement mixer that afternoon, drawing a crooked "X" on the ground with the tip of his shoe, then hurriedly smoothing it out. At the time, he thought Old Li was just spacing out, but now those details pierced his mind like needles.

"Uncle Li, I saw you standing there for a long time this afternoon when the cement mixer truck was feeding the materials. Is there something wrong with that batch?"

Old Li's body stiffened abruptly, his hand gripping the cigarette trembled violently, and ash fell onto his trouser leg.

Cang Lifeng stared at his profile, and in that instant, he could even see the bulging veins on Old Li's forehead and the cold sweat seeping from his temples. A terrible thought formed in his mind, but he didn't pursue it further. He simply walked back, placed the freshly opened pack of cigarettes on Old Li's bedside table, and gently patted his shoulder.

"Uncle Li, no matter what happens, I'm here for you. Tomorrow I'll have Da Zhou keep an eye on the feed inlet; you can go back and take care of your family matters first. As for Xiao Jun... if he has any difficulties, be sure to tell me."

After he finished speaking, he didn't wait for Lao Li's response and turned to walk out of the room.

The door closed softly behind him. Cang Lifeng stood in the dimly lit corridor, not leaving immediately. He listened to the suppressed, choked breathing from inside the room, and clenched his fists. He told himself that he would personally oversee the material delivery tomorrow, ask someone to inquire about Xiao Jun's whereabouts, and so on... But the site inspection was imminent, and Tianci's competition was the day after tomorrow. These things were like several ropes twisted together, making his temples throb.

He took a deep breath, suppressed his agitation, and strode into the night.

Inside the room, Old Li stared at the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, and at the spot where Cang Lifeng had pressed his hand. The lingering warmth of that hand seemed to still be on his shoulder, making him tremble all over. He suddenly raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face, then covered his face, his hunched back trembling like a withered leaf in the dim light.

After an unknown amount of time, he lowered his head and looked at his still trembling hands.

He recalled that night three days ago, when his son, Xiaojun, was tied to a chair, his face swollen shut, his lips split open, and scabs of blood and dark red flesh covering them. Beside him, a pair of rusty pliers gleamed coldly in the dim light.

He recalled the scream on the phone—"Dad...save me..."

He recalled Song Jiawen's smiling face in the teahouse and those casual words: "If you help him, you and your father will both be finished. Do as I say, and no one will know."

He recalled standing next to the cement mixer that afternoon, the wind blowing the grayish-white powder onto the back of his hands, cool and refreshing, like something reminding him: these hands are no longer clean.

He raised his hands, examining them closely in the dim light. These hands had carried bricks, mixed mortar, supported his sick wife, and held his newborn son. This afternoon, they had poured in those powders. Those things would mix into the concrete, solidify, harden, and then become a wall, a beam, a floor slab. People would live there someday. Children would run around on that floor slab, and old people would lean against that wall, basking in the sun.

They didn't know what was inside the wall.

he knows.

He suddenly remembered the first time Cang Lifeng taught him Tai Chi, when he held his wrist and said, "Uncle Li, you have a strong hand. If you practice well, you can protect the people you want to protect."

Was it protected?

He shielded his son. But he poured the powder in himself.

He recalled last winter when he had a high fever, and Cang Lifeng carried him two miles to find a clinic. He remembered his daughter almost dropping out of high school, and Cang Lifeng immediately took out the money he had saved for a long time. He remembered that every time wages were paid, Cang Lifeng was always the last to receive his, afraid that his brothers would be shortchanged.

These images crept in, intertwining with his son's screams and the cold glint of the pliers, tearing at his head and causing him excruciating pain.

He raised his hand, trying to grab something, but only grasped at air.

He murmured, over and over again, his lips moving, his voice as soft as a dream: "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

He didn't know who he was talking to. Was he talking to Cang Lifeng, to his son, or to his own hands, which were no longer clean?

Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating his hunched back as he remained motionless.