Tianjin, starting with unorthodox methods to achieve immortality

The next morning, the sky was still overcast.

A torrential downpour washed away the city streets, leaving the cobblestone pavement spotless. Puddles of water remained in the low-lying areas, reflecting the hazy sky.

The air was filled with the unique dampness after the rain, mixed with the smoke rising from the breakfast stalls.

Chen Mo sat down at a breakfast stall on the street corner.

The shop was small, with a few long tables and benches, and a large pot of hot soy milk steaming on the stove.

The owner, a middle-aged woman, deftly fried the dough sticks. Seeing customers arrive, she greeted them, "What would you like to eat?"

"A bowl of soy milk and two fried dough sticks."

As Chen Mo spoke, his gaze swept over the sparse pedestrians on the street.

"Selling newspapers—Ta Kung Pao—"

The newsboy's voice came from the other end of the street, growing louder as it approached.

A teenager was running and shouting as he carried a stack of newspapers.

"The tragedy in the west of the city! The tragedy in the west of the city! A family of four was killed overnight!"

Chen Mo waved to him, "Give me one."

The newsboy took the coins and handed over a still-wet newspaper header, on which was prominently displayed a line of bold, black characters:

The Qian family massacre in the west of the city: four corpses lay scattered in the courtyard, their deaths bizarre.

The following is in smaller print: "According to this newspaper, a horrifying murder was discovered in Liushu Hutong in the west of the city this morning."

The resident, Qian, and his disciples, a total of four people, died in the courtyard in extremely bizarre circumstances.

According to neighbors, they heard screams and fighting sounds last night, but because of the torrential rain, they did not dare to go out to check.

This morning, a peddler passed by and found the gate of the courtyard wide open. He looked inside and was terrified.

Police have cordoned off the scene and, after preliminary investigation, stated that the cause of death is unknown and is under further investigation.

Some folk sorcerers claim that such deaths are likely the work of evil spirits…

Chen Mo's gaze lingered on the words "suspected evil spirits causing trouble" for a moment, a slight smile playing on his lips, before he folded the newspaper and placed it on the table.

The soy milk was served, steaming hot.

He lowered his head and took a sip; it wasn't hot, just right.

"Newspaper vendor, one please."

Someone at the next table called out. It was a middle-aged man in a gray cloth long gown. After taking the newspaper, he clicked his tongue in amazement: "That family in the west of the city? I heard that Crippled Qian was a traveling knife seller, going all over the country. How could they have their whole family wiped out? This world..."

Chen Mo didn't react and continued eating his fried dough sticks.

The rest of the newspaper was unremarkable, except for a small news item on page three: the drought in the south has eased, and disaster victims are returning home one after another.

In just a few words, it was said that heavy rains had fallen in several southern provinces, the drought had been relieved, and the famine victims who had fled were beginning to return. The government had set up soup kitchens to accommodate them.

Chen Mo glanced at it and then flipped over. Once the disaster victims left, Linhe County should be much more stable.

The streets gradually became lively after the rain.

A peddler carrying a load on a pole, a woman with a basket, and several children playing around.

The breakfast stall was doing good business, and people were coming in to sit down one after another.

Just then, Chen Mo's gaze suddenly froze.

Across the street, a girl was walking out of a steamed bun shop.

She had a fair complexion and delicate features, with two braids tied with red ribbons at the ends.

He was wearing a faded blue cotton shirt and holding an oil paper package, probably containing freshly bought steamed buns.

She walked slowly, carefully avoiding puddles on the ground, occasionally glancing down at the road.

Chen Mo recognized her; he had seen her on the second floor before—the girl who sold sesame cakes.

I never expected to run into him here again.

The girl walked to the center of the street, seemed to sense something, and looked up to meet Chen Mo's gaze.

She paused for a moment, a hint of doubt flashing in her eyes, probably because the person looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn't remember where she had seen him before.

When she reached the other end of the street, the girl suddenly stopped and looked back.

He frowned, turned around, and continued walking forward.

The red string swayed gently at the end of the braid.

Chen Mo took a sip of soy milk, his gaze passing over the rim of the bowl and landing on the receding figure across the street.

He suddenly remembered something.

past life.

He was still in high school then, was it his junior or senior year? I can't quite remember.

All I remember is that the classroom was always filled with the smell of cheap printing ink, and outside the window was the playground, where people were always running laps and shouting "one, two, one".

There is a girl in the class.

He couldn't remember his name at all.

All I remember is that she also wore two braids, with red ribbons tied to the ends of the braids.

It wasn't a bright red, but a darker red that had been washed many times.

She sat diagonally in front of him, and every time she stood up from her seat, her braid would sway gently, the end of the braid brushing against the back of the chair before falling behind her shoulder.

Once, the girl's braid rope came loose, and half of her braid came undone.

She didn't know how to do it, and after frantically trying to assemble it for a long time, she still couldn't get it right. He wanted to help, but he didn't dare to ask, so he just watched from the side.

Later, another girl helped her tie it up again.

He thought to himself, "If only I dared to go up and help."

But in the end, I didn't dare.

and after?

After the college entrance exams, we went our separate ways and never saw each other again.

Later on, I even forgot my name.

Only occasionally, when I see a braid with a red ribbon, I suddenly recall those blurred images of my past life.

I remember the chalk dust in the classroom, the chants of running laps on the playground, and how I didn't have to be wary of anyone back then, or have to choose between killing and being killed.

But now it's just a dream...

Chen Mo looked away and stuffed the last piece of fried dough stick into his mouth.

When the bowl of soy milk was empty, he put down the coins, got up, and left.

The girl with the red ribbon tied at the street corner has disappeared.

The sky was overcast, the streets were damp, and wisps of smoke were still rising from the breakfast stalls.

Chen Mo walked among the crowd, just like any other passerby.

He walked past the street corner and disappeared into the alley.

In the distance, the faint cries of newsboys could be heard.

"Newspaper Seller—The Tragedy in the West of the City—"

The sound faded into the distance, like the girl tying the red ribbon, and those long-blurred memories of past lives, eventually merging into the gloomy sky, leaving no trace.

In dreams, one knows not who the guest is.

I wake up to find myself a stranger in a foreign land.

. . . . . .

"Why--"

Chen Mo sighed and turned to walk home.

But life goes on.

Back at his lodgings, he untied the large package he had brought back from Qian the Cripple the night before.

There's a lot of stuff.

I left in such a hurry last night that I only had time to grab the valuables and useful items.

Now, as I carefully count everything on the table, I've actually found quite a few things to take in.

Forty-two thousand taels of silver notes.

Most of them are cashable bills issued by major banks, the largest being 10,000 yuan, the largest being 8,000 yuan, and the rest being loose.

These banknotes were hidden very well; they were wrapped in oiled paper and stuffed into the hole in the kang (a heated brick bed).

If he hadn't used his soul-capturing technique to bind Qian the Cripple's spirit, he really wouldn't have been able to find him.

The three thousand silver dollars were packed in a heavy wooden box, probably the cash that the cripple usually used.

Chen Mo weighed it in his hand and casually pushed it aside.

Five gold leaves, each weighing one ounce, were tucked inside a tattered copy of the Analects. It was unclear whether the cripple had hidden them himself or they were collateral from a previous debt.

He had seen Qian the Cripple use a bronze mirror before, and its effect in finding people was quite miraculous.

There's also a cutting knife.

The blade is narrow and long, with a slight inward curve, and has a warm, dark silver hue.

This is the very knife that Qian the Cripple inherited from his ancestors.

The handle is made of jujube wood, polished to a glossy shine, and engraved with two small characters: "Qian Ji".

"Good stuff," Chen Mo murmured. "I reckon it can sell for quite a bit."