Volume Two: The Secret Burial in the Cliff Valley — Chapter 111: The Old Street Vendor

I cursed to myself, realizing that some twist of fate had led us to this Nanliu Village. And to make matters worse, we had arrived just as some bizarre, inexplicable events were unfolding here. Was this not the equivalent of jumping headlong into a pit of fire?

The ghosts I had seen earlier vanished into thin air the moment they passed by that stone tablet. No matter how I crouched and scanned the ground, not a shadow remained.

The sight of the person holding the spirit banner to lead the way suddenly reminded me of Ma Su’s account. He had mentioned that during their last trip to Mount Xuyang, they had encountered someone similar carrying a spirit banner, which had lured Zhou Zheng toward a pond.

Could there be a connection between the two?

I shook my heavy head, deciding not to dwell on it. Experience had taught me that no amount of agonizing over such questions would lead to an answer. I crouched by the stone tablet, peering aimlessly into the darkness.

Suddenly, I caught sight of a point of light in the distance, flickering faintly. In the absolute darkness surrounding me, even that tiny glimmer was strikingly conspicuous.

I shuddered, wondering if it were a will-o'-the-wisp. But the light was too small, resembling the glowing tip of an incense stick or a pipe. Moreover, its hue was yellow, quite unlike the ghostly, eerie green of a will-o'-the-wisp.

I gritted my teeth. Regardless of what it was, I had to investigate. Anything was better than wandering aimlessly in circles. Perhaps I would even find my Third Uncle and the others if I followed it.

I gathered my strength, hunched my back, and crept past the stone tablet toward the flickering light. As I moved, I was terrified that the light might move with me—a sign that someone was intentionally leading me astray. Fortunately, the light remained stationary.

As I drew closer, I shone my flashlight ahead and realized that a person was crouching there. Under normal circumstances, encountering someone so suddenly would be chilling, but after being trapped in the fog for so long with a singular focus on escape, I felt only a momentary shiver rather than true fear. Looking closely, I saw he was smoking a long-stemmed pipe.

The flickering light was the glow of the tobacco burning in the pipe bowl. Since he was smoking, he clearly wasn't made of paper.

My mind was already overwhelmed by the day's events. While it was unsettling to find a man smoking in this bizarre village, I had no time for hesitation. Seeing a living person—and not a paper effigy—I ran straight toward him.

As I closed the distance, I saw he was an old man. He was puffing away at his pipe with intense focus, completely indifferent to my heavy, stumbling approach. Even when I reached him, he didn't turn his head.

Fearing something was wrong with him, I stole a glance. My flashlight illuminated him, and sure enough, a shadow appeared beneath him. I breathed a sigh of relief; at the very least, he was likely a human, not a ghost.

I tentatively asked, "Sir... have you eaten?"

I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I used the standard Chinese greeting. Many statistics suggest that this phrase is highly effective at bridging the gap between strangers, reducing the sense of awkwardness by at least 68.365%.

I hoped for the same result, but immediately after, a foul stench hit me, nearly making me gag. I looked at the crouching old man and, connecting the dots, suddenly realized why. I took a closer look, and sure enough—damn it, the old man was taking a dump.

It was mortifying. The old man glared at me, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and cursed, "Get lost."

Cold sweat poured down my back. I had asked him if he had eaten while he was in the middle of relieving himself. It was a miracle he hadn't thrown a piece of excrement at me.

However, the fact that he was defecating only confirmed that he was a living human. Having finally found a living soul in this village after so much wandering, I wasn't about to be easily chased away.

I forced a smile and said, "Heh... sorry, sir, I didn't see you were... take your time, don't rush, heh..."

The old man ignored me, continuing to smoke and defecate until he finished his pipe. Only then did he wipe himself, stand up, and prepare to leave.

I hurriedly chased after him. "Sir, don't go yet! Let me ask you something—are you from this village?"

The old man turned his head. "Obviously. You've got some nerve, kid, daring to come to our village at a time like this?"

As he walked and talked, I realized he must know something about the strange goings-on. Even though I had interrupted his business, his attitude wasn't entirely hostile. Desperate for a lifeline, I ran ahead of him and bowed repeatedly.

The old man clearly understood my intention. He gestured with his pipe. "Kid, you aren't getting out of here tonight. You're lucky you ran into me. Come stay at my place for the night, and leave when the sun comes up tomorrow."

This seemed like a sound plan. Rather than stumbling through the village and risking another bizarre encounter, it was safer to hide in his home.

I nodded. "Thank you, sir. There were three other people with me. Have you seen them?"

The old man glanced at me and waved his pipe impatiently. "Haven't seen them. If you're that worried, go find them yourself."

With that, he quickened his pace. I followed closely, afraid to say another word. The old man had a strange temper; it was better not to provoke him.

The old man led me to his house—a solitary courtyard with a few thatched-roof rooms. I shone my flashlight around and saw no neighbors; this place didn't seem to be part of the village we had entered.

It felt as if we were in the middle of the wilderness, though a layer of fog still permeated the air, albeit much thinner than back in the village.

Once inside, the old man lit an oil lamp. The room was filled with a dim, yellow light, which put my mind somewhat at ease.

"If you want to live, just stay here and keep quiet. Sigh... young people these days—so timid, yet they love doing things that defy the heavens."

The old man muttered something inexplicable, lit another bowl of tobacco, and began to puff away. The room was soon thick with the pungent scent of harsh, home-grown tobacco.

Trying to make conversation, I asked, "Sir, may I ask your name?"

The old man replied indifferently, "Just an old wretch, what name is there to speak of? My surname is Tan. I used to sell pancakes on the street, so everyone in the village calls me Old Pancake Tan."

As he spoke, he went to the stove, lifted the lid, and pulled out two pancakes, handing them to me. "Hungry? Eat these."

The pancakes smelled surprisingly good. I was indeed famished, so I took them and took a few bites. They were crispy, not hard, and tasted excellent.

But after chewing a few times, a grave thought occurred to me. The old man had just been defecating, and now he had handed me these pancakes. I looked at him and asked, "Sir... did you, uh, wash your hands?"