Two weeks later, a batch of grain arrived in Qing Shan County, fresh from the city. Zhao Xi, feeling a rare sense of relief, received orders from his superiors—he was to be transferred back to the city. The thought of leaving the suffocating atmosphere of Qing Shan was like a weight lifted from his chest. He had grown tired of the isolation, the unsettling mysteries, and the growing sense of dread that seemed to pervade the county. With the arrival of the grain, he felt his worries about the people’s basic needs begin to ease. At least the villagers would have enough to survive for a while.
However, just as Zhao Xi prepared for his departure, something strange occurred. On the eve of his leaving, as the sun dipped below the mountains, he returned to his home after a long day’s work. Suddenly, a nagging thought struck him: he had left two important files behind in his office. Wrapping himself in his coat, he decided to head back to the office to retrieve them.
As he neared the administrative building, an unexpected sight caught his eye—the lights in the county head’s office were still on. This was odd. By now, County Head Wei Tian should have long been gone, as he was known to leave promptly at five every day. In fact, since Zhao Xi had arrived in Qing Shan three months ago, Wei Tian had made it a habit of retreating to the back mountains to tend to his "afforestation projects," a task that Zhao Xi had always found suspiciously vague.
Tonight, however, Zhao Xi’s instincts told him that something was different. Perhaps Wei Tian had found another excuse to avoid his duties. But the longer Zhao Xi thought about it, the more the explanation seemed hollow.
Wei Tian’s increasingly bizarre behavior couldn’t be ignored. Lately, Zhao Xi had noticed strange injuries on the county head’s right hand, as well as deep gashes and bruises on his body. His underlings, the men who accompanied him to the mountains, were also covered in similar marks—wounds that looked far too severe for something as innocuous as forestry work. When Zhao Xi once dared to ask one of the workers about it, the man grew visibly uneasy and mumbled something about simply “managing the land” and “tending to the trees.” But the discomfort on his face was palpable. He refused to make eye contact, and his response felt rehearsed, as though he was hiding something far darker.
Even more troubling was the fact that these men—Wei Tian and his crew—seemed to have laid claim to a large portion of the grain. This, of course, was deeply troubling to Zhao Xi. They were supposed to be managing the county’s resources, not hoarding them for themselves. Though he lacked concrete evidence, Zhao Xi’s gut told him that something was amiss. Why were they taking so much grain when the rest of the county was struggling to feed itself? The suspicious glances exchanged between Wei Tian and his men, the secrecy surrounding their “work” in the mountains, all pointed to something far more sinister.
The more Zhao Xi thought about it, the more he realized that Wei Tian and his crew were likely engaging in some form of corruption. The thought angered him deeply. Though he had no proof, his instincts screamed that they were siphoning off the grain to line their own pockets. As his transfer to Boshan City loomed closer, Zhao Xi knew that he couldn’t leave the county in this state, especially not with such a blatant abuse of power taking place.
His mind made up, Zhao Xi decided to confront Wei Tian tonight. This would be his final act as the county’s party secretary—he had to make it clear to Wei Tian that the grain, which had only just arrived from the city, must be distributed fairly and transparently. There would be no room for corruption under his watch, not even in his final days.
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That evening, as the sky grew darker and the chill of night descended upon the county, Zhao Xi made his way to the county head’s office. The light in Wei Tian’s office burned like a beacon in the dark, casting long shadows across the hallway. The building was eerily quiet, the usual bustle of bureaucratic activity absent. It felt as if the very walls of the building were holding their breath, as if waiting for something to happen.
Zhao Xi’s footsteps echoed through the corridor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. As he approached Wei Tian’s office, a sudden chill swept through him, a deep, primal sense of unease that seemed to come from nowhere. But Zhao Xi pushed it aside. This wasn’t the time for hesitation. He was about to confront Wei Tian, to expose whatever corruption was taking place.
He knocked on the door, his hand trembling for just a moment before he regained control.
“Come in,” a voice called from within, not Wei Tian’s, but one of his underlings.
Zhao Xi entered, the door creaking loudly as he pushed it open. Inside, the scene was unsettling. The room, usually neat and orderly, was now disheveled, papers strewn across the desk, some of them marked with strange symbols Zhao Xi couldn’t make sense of. Wei Tian sat at his desk, the lamp casting strange shadows on his face. His right hand, wrapped in a dirty bandage, rested on the table. There was a palpable tension in the air, a feeling of something unnatural lurking just beneath the surface.
“Zhao Xi,” Wei Tian greeted him, his voice strained but cordial. “What brings you here so late?”
Zhao Xi didn’t mince words. “County Head Wei, I came to discuss the grain shipment. Why have you and your men taken so much for yourselves? The people are hungry, and you hoard the supplies meant for them.”
Wei Tian’s face darkened, his expression tightening with a barely concealed anger. “I’m simply doing my duty, Zhao Xi. It’s not your place to question me.”
But Zhao Xi wasn’t backing down. He had to make Wei Tian understand that this wouldn’t be tolerated. “No, Wei Tian. You’re abusing your position. I’m warning you—do not think you can get away with this.”
For a moment, the room grew deathly silent. The air seemed thick, oppressive. Wei Tian’s eyes shifted toward the door, and Zhao Xi followed his gaze. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to grow darker, as if something else, something hidden, was watching them.
Wei Tian’s voice lowered to a whisper. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with, Zhao Xi. Some things... should remain untouched.”
Zhao Xi felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread. The warning in Wei Tian’s voice sent a shiver down his spine, but he stood firm. “I will see this through, no matter what you say.”
Just as he turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind him, and Zhao Xi felt the unmistakable weight of something ancient and sinister pressing against him, its presence like a suffocating fog. He didn’t know it yet, but his warning would only be the beginning of something much darker—something tied to the land itself. Something that had been waiting for a long time.
The morning after Zhao Xi’s confrontation with Wei Tian, a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders as he left Qing Shan County behind, accompanied by his colleague, Feng Gang. The long road ahead marked the end of a chapter, and Zhao Xi’s thoughts turned toward Boshan City, where he had been reassigned as the head of the Education Bureau. It was a familiar role, but the unsettling events of the past few months still lingered in his mind like an ominous shadow.
As they traveled, Zhao Xi tried to push away the dark thoughts that had been haunting him. The strange happenings in Qing Shan, the eerie atmosphere surrounding Wei Tian’s increasingly bizarre behavior, and the haunting silence of the land itself—all of it had unsettled him. Yet, despite the unease that clung to him, he kept his focus on the road ahead, determined to put the past behind him.
However, just as he was beginning to think that things might return to normal, a letter arrived that brought his worst fears rushing back to the surface.
It was a letter from his old war comrade, Wu Fu, who now served as the deputy commander in the military department in Ji Bei, the provincial capital. In his letter, Wu Fu shared not only the usual greetings between old friends but also something far more troubling: the army was preparing to be dispatched to Qing Shan County. Wu Fu asked Zhao Xi if he knew the reason for such an unusual move.
Zhao Xi’s heart skipped a beat as he read the lines. A cold, uneasy feeling spread through him like ice water. He had hoped that his departure from Qing Shan would mean an end to the strange occurrences there, but now, this letter... this letter was like a door creaking open, revealing a dark and unsettling truth.
His fingers trembled slightly as he penned a response. “I don’t know why,” he wrote, “I was in Qing Shan three months ago, and there was no indication of any strange events. The county seemed quiet, and I didn’t hear any rumors about military involvement. Are you certain of this news? I’ve heard nothing about the army being called to Qing Shan.”
His mind raced as he recalled the unsettling events of the past few months—the mysterious injuries, the inexplicable behavior of Wei Tian and his men, the strange, oppressive atmosphere that seemed to grow heavier by the day. He had dismissed it all as paranoia, as the stress of being in an unfamiliar place. But now, Wu Fu’s letter was planting seeds of doubt, and his instincts were telling him that something was terribly wrong.
A few days later, another letter arrived from Wu Fu. This time, the tone was more urgent, more serious.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Zhao Xi,” it began, “this situation is unlike anything I’ve encountered. This matter is highly confidential—so much so that even I haven’t been informed through the usual channels. You know as well as I do that I’m in a position to receive orders about military deployments across the province. But this time, the central military committee did not notify me. No official channels have contacted me. It seems the order came directly from the highest authorities, bypassing all normal protocols.
I’m certain that something big is happening in Qing Shan, something that requires military intervention. I cannot share the full details with you in this letter—some things must remain unsaid—but I have my suspicions. You need to be careful, my friend. Qing Shan is not far from Boshan, and I fear whatever is happening there may soon come your way. Please, take care and stay vigilant.”
Zhao Xi’s hands shook as he finished reading the letter. He felt an icy dread settle in his chest. Wu Fu’s words were cryptic but clear enough to send a chill down his spine. The fact that the army was being sent without following proper protocol only confirmed Zhao Xi’s darkest fears—something terrible was happening in Qing Shan, something that had been hidden from him and from everyone else. And whatever it was, it was far beyond the simple issues of food shortages or administrative concerns. The military’s direct involvement signaled a crisis—one that Zhao Xi had not anticipated.
The unsettling memories of his time in Qing Shan returned with a vengeance. The strange incidents—the unexplainable heat in the river, the injuries among Wei Tian and his men, the odd feeling of being watched by something unseen—it all suddenly seemed to make sense. This was no longer just a matter of administrative oversight or corruption. There was something much darker at play, something linked to the land itself, something that had been slowly festering beneath the surface.
Zhao Xi knew that he couldn’t ignore the warning. He had to investigate further.
But the more he thought about it, the more the shadow of fear grew. Qing Shan, with its strange, oppressive air, its secrets hidden in the back mountains, had always been a place of mystery. Now, with the army involved and Wu Fu’s cryptic warning, it was clear that whatever was happening there was much larger, and far more dangerous, than he could have ever imagined.
Zhao Xi found himself unable to settle, his thoughts a whirlpool of unease. It wasn’t just the cryptic warnings from Wu Fu or the growing specter of military involvement in Qing Shan County that haunted him—it was something deeper, more personal. No matter how much he tried to push it aside, his mind kept circling back to her: the girl from the tailor shop.
It wasn’t love, he told himself. It wasn’t even infatuation. No, what bound his thoughts to her was something more inexplicable, something primal and ancient, as though some part of him needed to tell her something. He couldn’t place what it was, but every time he thought of her pale, hollowed face and the fire in her eyes, he felt an aching pull in his chest—a pull that whispered of unfinished business.
He stood alone in his office, his mind tangled in half-formed memories. Slowly, almost absentmindedly, his hand moved to the cuff of his sleeve, and he began to roll it back. His gaze dropped to his right forearm, to the faint, silvery scar that stretched across his skin. It was an old wound, one he’d carried since childhood—a burn, though he knew it wasn’t truly a burn. He had told himself for years that it didn’t matter, that it was simply the result of a boyhood accident. But now, as he stared at it, the memories he had long buried began to stir, clawing their way back to the surface.
He had been seven or eight years old, living in Qing Shan with his grandfather. His family had been wealthier then, their decline still in its early stages. The days had been filled with the scent of mountain air, the laughter of villagers, and the rhythmic hum of the creek as it coursed through the county. Yet, not all those memories were bright. Some were shrouded in shadow, vague impressions of fear and urgency that he had never been able to fully recall.
But one memory, blurred and fragmented, returned to him now with startling clarity.
It had been a sweltering summer day, the kind that made the air shimmer like a mirage. He had been with his grandfather, visiting the outskirts of the county for reasons he couldn’t remember. There had been shouting—angry, desperate voices—and a young girl’s scream. He didn’t know why, but he had run toward the sound, his small legs carrying him faster than he thought possible.
There had been fire, he was sure of that now—fire and chaos, though the details refused to come into focus. All he could remember was a fleeting sense of duty, a fierce determination to protect someone. And then the pain—searing, agonizing pain as something hot and sharp sliced into his arm. He had screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the cacophony around him. When he awoke later, his arm bandaged, his grandfather had told him he had been reckless, but brave. Yet, no matter how much he had begged, his grandfather refused to explain what had happened or who he had saved.
Now, as Zhao Xi stared at the scar, the ghost of that forgotten girl’s scream echoed in his mind. Could it have been her? The girl from the tailor shop? It seemed impossible—years had passed, and he had never seen her face again until now. But the way she had looked at him in the shop, the flicker of recognition in her eyes—it had felt like she knew him, even if she didn’t say it aloud.
He clenched his fist, his breath unsteady. Why had the memories resurfaced now, after all these years? And why did he feel as though there was something he needed to tell her, to warn her? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that leaving Qing Shan had felt like abandoning something important. And now, with Wu Fu’s ominous letters and the looming presence of the army, that feeling had grown unbearable.
“Who are you?” he whispered to the memory of her face. “And why do I feel like I’ve failed you?”
For the first time in years, Zhao Xi allowed himself to dwell on the scar. It wasn’t just a mark from his past—it was a question, a connection to something larger than himself, something that had started long before he set foot in Qing Shan as a party secretary. He could no longer ignore the pull drawing him back to the mountains, to the place where the past and present seemed to collide in a web of secrets and shadows.
As the moon rose high over Boshan City, Zhao Xi sat alone in his dimly lit office, the silence heavy around him. He traced the scar on his arm, the lines of his past and present converging in that one faint mark. He didn’t know if he had the courage to return to Qing Shan, but one thing was certain: he couldn’t rest until he understood the truth. And somehow, he knew that truth would begin and end with the girl in the tailor shop.
The atmosphere grew heavier as Zhao Xi made his decision. The air in the small office was thick with unspoken words, the weight of the secret gnawing at him. The memories of Qing Shan County—of the girl, of the scar, of everything left unfinished—had become an obsession. He could no longer ignore the gnawing feeling that something darker, something more sinister, was waiting for him back in those hills.
He called for Sun Cheng, his loyal yet youthful aide, a soldier from his own hometown of Boshan. The two shared more than just a working relationship; there was an unspoken camaraderie between them, one forged by shared experiences and the simplicity of their origins. Yet today, Zhao Xi felt a gulf between them—a gulf of secrecy and tension.
“Sun Cheng,” Zhao Xi said, his voice low and deliberate, “we’re going to Qing Shan County. I need you to come with me. We’ll ride hard. If we push through, we’ll make it by nightfall. There’s something I need to take care of.”
Sun Cheng’s brow furrowed in confusion. He was a soldier—he knew how to follow orders, no matter how strange—but there was something in Zhao Xi’s tone that struck him as unusual. His superior didn’t speak like this often. “But, Secretary, why the rush? Why not take the horse carriage, rest a bit halfway, and head out tomorrow morning? It would be more comfortable.”
Zhao Xi’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze distant, as if seeing something beyond the present. “No, you don’t understand. This has to be done tonight. And it must be just the two of us. No one else can know about this... not yet. After tonight, I don’t think we’ll be able to come back.”
Sun Cheng froze, his blood running cold at the finality in Zhao Xi’s words. He had known Zhao Xi long enough to understand that when his superior said something in such a way, it meant it was important—too important. Something beyond routine work, something beyond ordinary bureaucratic affairs. A silent understanding passed between them, and Sun Cheng didn’t dare to ask any more questions.
Zhao Xi sighed, his fingers tracing the edge of a map on the desk. “You remember that tailor shop in Qing Shan, don’t you? The girl who worked there…” His voice trailed off, and Sun Cheng, ever the perceptive one, suddenly made the connection. The girl. Of course. The one with the strange, haunting eyes. The one who seemed so familiar, yet unreachable. Sun Cheng gave a half-hearted laugh, trying to ease the tension that suddenly gripped him.
“Ah, so that’s it, Secretary,” Sun Cheng said with a mischievous grin. “You are interested in her, aren’t you? All this rush, all this secrecy... You want to find out more about her. Don't tell me you’ve fallen for her? I mean, she is quite pretty, I suppose—”
Zhao Xi’s gaze sharpened, his eyes briefly flashing with irritation. He reached out, slapping Sun Cheng lightly on the shoulder, silencing him. “No. I’m not here for that,” Zhao Xi said, his voice flat. “There’s something important I need to ask her. Something about the past. Something that concerns all of us. Don’t make this into something it’s not. Now, let’s go.”
Sun Cheng raised both hands, a gesture of surrender, as if to say, I get it, I get it. But the mischievous grin didn’t quite leave his face, though the tension in his chest finally loosened. They prepared for their journey.
They set out at first light, the cool morning air biting at their faces as they saddled up. The road ahead seemed endless, stretching through dusty plains, up winding mountain paths, and into the heart of the land they knew so well. The sun climbed high, burning through the haze of the midday heat, as the two men rode on without a word. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road was the only sound that kept them company, the occasional rustling of wind through the sparse trees accompanying the silence between them.
As the day wore on, Zhao Xi’s mind was fixed on Qing Shan, on the girl, and on the strange, unexplainable feeling that had been growing inside him ever since he’d left. There was something he needed to understand—some truth that had been buried under the weight of time and memory. The scar on his arm, the girl’s eyes, the unease he’d felt ever since stepping foot in that quiet, decaying town. All of it was connected, but how? What was the thread that tied them all together?
The sun began its slow descent into the horizon, the rich orange light bathing the hills in an ethereal glow. It was then that the county’s outline appeared in the distance, looming like a shadow, calling him back. By the time they reached the outskirts of Qing Shan, the fading daylight stretched its fingers across the sky, casting long, eerie shadows over the land.
“We’ll make it by nightfall,” Zhao Xi muttered to himself as they drew closer. The roads were less familiar now—strange and quiet, as if the county itself had withdrawn into itself, hiding some terrible secret.
As they reached the county’s entrance, Zhao Xi’s heart raced. The girl from the tailor shop. The town’s decaying spirit. The strange occurrences that had haunted him for a long time. He couldn’t explain it, but something felt wrong. His gut churned with a warning, an almost supernatural sense of urgency.
Tonight, the truth would begin to unfold. And when it did, nothing would ever be the same again.