The Immortal of Plague begins by establishing the root of lung fire.

Song You ignored the old man's invitation and continued walking forward. The streets of Khalidwa were crowded and the mixed smells filled his nostrils.

The old man didn't give up, slowly following beside Song You as he pressed the accelerator of the tuk-tuk.

"Sir, there are so many people in the city, walking directly on the street will be very slow," the old man shouted in English, patting the metal door of the car. "I know a lot of back streets that can save you a lot of time."

Song You stopped and turned to look at the old man. The man had dark skin, but his shirt was very well washed. Although his English pronunciation had a strong curry accent, his grammar was complete and his vocabulary was quite extensive.

"How do you know so much English?" Song Youfa asked.

The old man straightened his chest and said, "I used to work for a British company for ten years. I was an outstanding employee every year. This tuk-tuk is my pension from the company."

"What position do you hold in the British company?" Song Youduo asked.

The old man scratched the back of his head, somewhat embarrassed: "The security guard at the gate."

Before Song You could speak, the old man raised his voice, his tone full of pride: "Other Indians don't even have the chance to go! I supported my whole family with that job. Now, driving this tuk-tuk, I can still support my family."

Song You sized up the yellow-green tricycle with its peeling paint. This man had been making a living on the streets for years and knew the roads well. As for whether the other party would take him to a secluded alley to extort money, Song You glanced at his hands. If that happened, a few bursts of flame would burn him and the tricycle to ashes.

"What's your name?" Song You opened the back door of the tuk-tuk.

"Jate, sir, just call me Jate." The old man happily gripped the steering wheel. "Where are you going, sir?"

Song You sat in the back seat, the springs in the seat cushions digging into his thighs: "My phone is missing, I want to buy a temporary one."

"The security here is indeed poor, there are many thieves, sir, you should be careful." Jat stepped on the gas and the tuk-tuk sped off. "I know a mobile phone shop, the stuff is cheap, and the owner is honest."

The tuk-tuk turned into a narrow alley, avoiding the congestion on the main road. The alley was piled with household garbage, and several emaciated cows lay in the middle of the road ruminating. Only when Jat approached did they slowly move away.

The car drove through several alleys and returned to a wide street. The street was packed with people, including locals in traditional clothing and a large number of foreign tourists carrying backpacks and cameras. The crowds were shoulder to shoulder, completely blocking the road.

"Are there always this many foreign tourists?" Song You asked, looking at the crowd outside the car window.

"There aren't usually this many," Jat said, slowing down and honking as he squeezed forward. "It's the Tosa Sacrifice festival on the Ganges, so a lot of tourists are coming. And there are also many people waiting on the banks to wash away their sins in the Ganges."

"Can everyone go to the Ganges to wash?" Song You asked, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

"You can't just go swimming during the Tosasa festival, that's why they're waiting on the bank." Jat slammed on the brakes to avoid a child crossing the road. "But tomorrow is bathing day, and everyone can go swimming then."

Song You noted down this time point; it seemed he could definitely spend the night here and go to the Heng River tomorrow.

The tuk-tuk stopped in front of a narrow shop. Inside the glass display case were a dozen or so outdated smartphones.

"The phones here are cheap, but they're all local Indian brands." Jat pulled out the keys and got out of the car.

Song You followed him inside: "It's alright, it's just for temporary use."

The shop owner was a fat man. When he saw a foreigner come in, he immediately stood up and forced a smile.

"They don't understand English, I'll translate for you." Jat stepped forward and negotiated with the fat boss in Hindi.

Song You stood to the side, listening intently to their conversation; he could now understand some basic vocabulary.

The fat boss took out a black smartphone, placed it on the counter, and announced a number. Jate shook his head repeatedly, his voice rising, gesturing wildly as he pointed to the edge of the phone screen and said a long string of words.

The fat boss looked grim, put his phone away, and took out a new one to offer again. Jat continued to haggle, and the two went back and forth.

Song You could tell that Jia Te was indeed helping him lower the price, and there was no sign of him colluding with the boss to take kickbacks. Although the old man was long-winded, he was still reliable in his work.

After the negotiations ended, Jat turned around and said, "Sir, four thousand rupees, that's the lowest I can go."

Song You pulled out eight 500 rupee bills from the inside pocket of his suit and handed them to the fat boss. He then took the phone, turned it on, tested the touchscreen, connected to the store's Wi-Fi, and found that web pages loaded smoothly and basic functions worked without problems.

With three thousand rupees left in his pocket, Song You said to Jat, "Find me a hotel."

Jat beamed; having closed two deals in quick succession, he'd earned a substantial fare. "No problem, leave it to me."

The two got back into the car, and Jat drove to a three-story building two blocks away. The building's exterior was painted green, and a worn-out wooden sign hung on it.

Song You entered the hotel, registered at the front desk, and the landlady took five hundred rupees and handed him a key.

Song You took the keys, walked out of the hotel, and handed the fare to Jat. Jat took the money and pointed to a shantytown at the end of the street: "Sir, I live in that direction. If you need a ride, just contact me."

Song You nodded and prepared to turn and go into the building. Jat didn't start the car, but took out an old cell phone with a cracked screen from his pocket: "Sir, if you don't have a SIM card right now, why don't you follow me on Facebook? If you need anything, just send me a message there."

"You still have this?" Song You looked at the broken phone in surprise.

"It'll make it easier for tourists to contact me, so the business can last," Jat grinned.

Song You waved his hand in refusal. He didn't want to leave any digital traces online: "No need, just come find me here tomorrow morning."

"Okay, see you tomorrow morning, sir." Jat put away his phone, started the tuk-tuk, and merged into the traffic on the street.

Song You took the key and went up to the second floor to find his room. The room was small and the air was filled with a musty smell. He walked to the sink and turned on the tap. Yellowish-brown water gushed out, carrying a pungent rusty smell.

This environment had no effect on Song You; the bungalows at Po Cang Temple were even colder and damper than this place.

He pulled a rough towel from the bed to wipe his face, then sat on the edge of the bed and took everything out of his pockets and placed it on the bedside table.

A newly bought no-name Indian mobile phone, some rupee banknotes, and that white pill that can clear away the pathogen.

Song You picked up the rupees, rubbing his fingers along the edge of the banknotes. Five hundred rupees for a night in this shabby hotel; that amount of money wouldn't last long.

But we're going to the Ganges tomorrow, so none of that matters.

Song You connected to the wireless network to see if he could access domestic websites.