Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

A quaint teahouse in the east of the city. Inside a private room, Song Jiawen, dressed in a soft silk robe, was leisurely brewing gongfu tea. Seeing Old Li enter, he raised his hand, gesturing to the seat opposite him:

"sit."

Old Li stood frozen at the doorway, not moving. His gaze was fixed on Song Jiawen.

"My son..."

"Alive." Song Jiawen pushed over a cup of clear tea, the porcelain lightly clinking against the wooden table. "Once the matter is settled, you can take him home. The debt will be settled."

"You want me to harm Lifeng! He's my brother! My brother who's risked his life for me!" Old Li's voice was like a broken bellows, and every word seemed to be tinged with blood.

Song Jiawen didn't rush to speak. He picked up his cup of tea, took a slow sip, and looked at Old Li from above the rim of the cup, as if he were looking at an object he already held in his hand.

"Old Li," he put down his cup, his voice gentle, almost chillingly so, "let me do the math for you. If you rush out now and call the police, whether they find that shady place is another matter—but even if they do, the 25,000 yuan your son owes, the written IOU with his fingerprint on it, isn't that gambling debt? And won't the police cover it?"

Old Li's lips trembled.

"Okay, fine, we'll take care of it." Song Jiawen leaned forward, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. "At most, we'll be considered a scammer, locked up for a few days, and fined a bit. But your son's IOU is still with me; the creditor has just changed the name. Today it's 25,000, how much will it be with compound interest tomorrow? How much will it be in three days? Will your son break his leg walking alone at night? Is the grade of the rebar you bought for your construction site correct? Are the cement bags torn or damp? Who can say for sure about these things?"

Every question was like an icicle, piercing into Old Li's bones.

"Why don't you go tell Cang Lifeng?" Song Jiawen laughed, revealing his teeth stained yellow from smoking. "Let him bring his gang to rescue people? Fine! I, Song Jiawen, have been in Nancheng for twenty years, and I'm not afraid of head-on confrontations. You can try and see if your son dies first, or if my men fall first."

He pulled a photograph from his pocket, still smelling of chemicals from the developing process. He held it between two fingers and slowly pushed it in front of Old Li.

In the photo, Xiaojun is tied to a chair, his face bruised and battered, his mouth split open with dark red scabs. His eyes are half-open, filled with tears and fear. The background is dark, resembling an abandoned warehouse.

Old Li's breathing suddenly stopped. He reached out to grab the photo, but Song Jiawen was one step ahead and took it back.

"This one was taken in the early hours of the night." Song Jiawen casually tossed the photo onto the table, then pulled another one from his suit pocket. "This one was delivered just half an hour ago."

In the second photo, Xiao Jun has new injuries on his face, and his left eye is swollen shut. Most striking is the sight of his right pinky finger being forcibly straightened and pressed against a dirty wooden board, next to a pair of rusty pliers.

"I'm a man of principle," Song Jiawen's voice was as soft as a whisper. "As long as you follow my rules, everything will be fine. But if you go against me, hehe, next time you might see more than just a photo. It could be a finger, wrapped in oil paper, slipped into your lunchbox while you're eating."

Old Li began to tremble all over, and the chair legs scraped against the floor with a screeching sound. He tried to stand up, but his legs were as weak as noodles.

"You...you're breaking the law...you should be executed..." he squeezed out the words through gritted teeth.

"Execute him?" Song Jiawen laughed out loud as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world. "Old Li, Old Li, your son walked into the casino himself, put his fingerprint on the document to borrow money, and we were 'collecting debts normally,' and he 'accidentally' injured his hand—tell me, when the police come, who will they investigate first? Me, the owner of a legitimate business, or your gambling-addicted, debt-ridden son who 'self-harmed'?"

He stood up, walked behind Old Li, and placed his hands on Old Li's trembling shoulders.

"Let me be frank with you. I'm not the one who's after Cang Lifeng. I'm just an assistant. But this person has a lot of influence. Cang Lifeng ruined their plans and blocked their path. What they want isn't just his life, but his complete disgrace!"

Song Jiawen bent down, her mouth almost touching Old Li's ear:

"If you help him, you and your son will both be finished. Do as I say, and no one will know. You don't need to worry about being exposed. After it's done, your son will come home safely, and I'll pay off your debt of 25,000 yuan. Also..."

He straightened up, took a thick envelope from the drawer, and threw it on the table.

"Here's five thousand. Consider it a way to calm your nerves and keep you quiet. You can take the money, and after this is over, you can take your son and leave Nancheng, go back to your hometown and start a small business. It'll be as if this never happened."

Old Li stared at the bulging envelope, then at the two glaring photos on the table. His mind felt like it was being torn apart by two saws—on one side was his son's bloodied face and the pair of pliers; on the other, the trusting look in Cang Lifeng's eyes and the laughter of his brothers in the work shed…

Time ticked by. The tea grew cold, and the ashtray was full.

Song Jiawen didn't urge him. He sat back down opposite her, closed his eyes to rest, tapped the armrest lightly with his fingers, and hummed an off-key opera tune.

Finally, Old Li let out a whimper, like a wild beast on its deathbed. He stretched out his calloused hands, stained with cement dust that could never be washed away, and first grabbed the two photos, clutching them tightly in his palms, crumpling them into a ball. Then, he raised his bloodshot eyes:

"What...what do you want me to do?"

Song Jiawen opened his eyes, his face showing neither surprise nor smugness, only calm. He bent down, pulled a black plastic bag from under the tea table, placed it on the table, pushed it forward, and said:

"You can pour this bag of powder into the mixer truck without anyone noticing. Even if it's tested later, they'll just assume the supplier used inferior materials, and they won't trace it back to you."

Old Li reached out his hand. His hand trembled violently, and it took his fingertips several tries to touch the plastic bag. The moment he grasped it, he swayed—the bag wasn't heavy, but it felt like it weighed a ton, as if it would break his spine.

"Remember, don't try anything funny. Your every move is under our surveillance. Whether your son comes back safe and sound depends on how 'beautifully' the concrete is poured," Song Jiawen threatened finally.

Old Li didn't say anything more. He clutched the bag tightly, his back hunched, looking as if he had aged twenty years in an instant, and staggered out of the private room. The dim light in the corridor cast his distorted shadow on the wall, like a silent, collapsing ruin.

Song Jiawen watched the direction he disappeared in, picked up the now-cold tea, and drank it all in one gulp. Then he opened a small door on the side of the private room—it turned out to be a dark room, with a cassette recorder on the table, its red light on.

He pressed the stop button, took out the cassette tape, weighed it in his hand, and revealed a cold smile.

"Family ties, brotherhood... ah, in the face of a dead end, they are the most fragile things."

He carefully put the tape away. This was not only a shackle to control Lao Li, but also a kind of "insurance" that might be used to deal with higher-level figures in the future.

It was 11 p.m. when Cang Lifeng returned to the workers' quarters. Most of his coworkers were asleep, their snores rising and falling. Only Old Li was still squatting on the abandoned cement pipe by the door, the red glow of his cigarette butt flickering lonely in the darkness, with more than a dozen cigarette butts lying at his feet, like a row of scarlet periods.

"Uncle Li, are you still awake?" Cang Lifeng walked over and squatted down beside him.

Old Li looked up. The dim light from the streetlamp illuminated his face, making his deep wrinkles appear even more pronounced, and his eyes held a weariness and emptiness that Cang Lifeng had never seen before.

"Lifeng, you said the other day that we need to put down roots, live a secure life, and live with dignity. Is that... really true?"

"Of course it's true." Cang Lifeng's heart tightened as he stared at Old Li's unusually pale face. "Uncle Li, what's wrong? What happened?"

Old Li took a deep drag on his cigarette, the smoke swirling and rising in the night, seemingly stuck in his own chest. His eyes were vacant, staring at the pitch-black night outside the workers' shed. After a long while, he finally spoke:

"Lifeng...is it true that sometimes...no matter what choice you make, you can't seem to make the right one? No matter which path you choose, you always end up losing something, and your heart always ends up rotten?"

These abrupt words only made Cang Lifeng more worried. He stepped forward and softened his voice, "Uncle Li, what's wrong with you? Is it something to do with Xiaojun, or something at home? Tell me, there's no hurdle you can't overcome!"

Upon hearing the name "Xiao Jun," Old Li's body trembled almost imperceptibly, as if pricked by a cold needle. He abruptly shook off Cang Lifeng's hand, which he instinctively tried to support, his movements so violent they were almost erratic. He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped on it fiercely, as if he himself were being crushed.

"It's nothing! What could possibly be wrong!" He almost growled, but his voice carried a broken, bluffing quality. He raised his hand and patted Cang Lifeng's shoulder heavily, so hard that Cang Lifeng staggered. His eyes, however, darted across Cang Lifeng's face like a startled rabbit, not daring to linger.

"I...I just haven't been sleeping well these past couple of days, and I've been overthinking. Old people talk a lot of nonsense." He spoke quickly, with a hurried air of wanting to end the conversation. "It's too late, I'm going to sleep, you should go to sleep too!"

After saying that, he didn't give Cang Lifeng a chance to speak again. He turned around as if fleeing and almost staggered into his partitioned room. The wooden door slammed shut, isolating the inside from the outside.

Cang Lifeng stood there, the night wind carrying a chill. Old Li's words, and that retreating figure, made his heart ache. He had a vague feeling that something was wrong—Old Li's eyes, his trembling, and that phrase, "His heart must be rotten to the core," were all too abnormal. But the complex affairs of the construction site, his nascent studies, his younger brother's upcoming competition… these things were like many ropes twisted together, suffocating him. He scratched his head in frustration, thinking: Tomorrow, tomorrow I must have a good talk with Uncle Li. He shook his head forcefully, temporarily suppressing his doubts, and returned to his bed.

The light was always on in Old Li's partitioned room. A black plastic bag lay beside his pillow, stiff and hard; even through the fabric, he could feel the powdery substance inside. Old Li stared at the low ceiling, his mind flashing between images of his son's blood-stained face, Cang Lifeng's trusting gaze, and his wife's dying words… These images tore at his nerves. Several times he reached for the door latch, wanting to rush out and confess to Cang Lifeng, but the moment his hand touched the wood, the image of the pliers and his son's swollen, half-closed eyes flashed before him, and all his strength drained away.