Chapter Thirty-One: The Serpent's Thousand-Mile Journey

The torrential rain poured down, intimidating all who beheld it. This downpour, arriving just after the first market day of the New Year on the sixth, was so predictable it had become a local feature.

On Li Yiting’s phone were photos of every suspect, provided by Qiu Xi—an immense convenience for all involved. After a brief rundown of Dumb’s physical characteristics, Wan Yongkun wasted no time donning his raincoat and positioning himself along the route Dumb would take into the mountains. He couldn't be sure Dumb would venture out in such weather, but once given a task, Wan Yongkun never hesitated.

The foremost warrior of Beiting—his reputation well earned.

Yuan Village was the largest in Luoshui, its roads crisscrossing, making transportation relatively convenient. Wan Yongkun now lingered outside a blacksmith’s shop by the mountain road, smoking idly. Even in rain gear, standing on the roadside under the downpour seemed improper, so he bought an iron implement from the shop, feigned waiting for the rain to cease, and loitered. The shopkeeper, busy as ever, paid him no mind.

Sometimes, concealing oneself is remarkably simple.

From afar, a short, stout man approached, his gait steady and deliberate. He wore a massive bamboo hat, carried a wooden-handled machete, and strode on, indifferent to the rain, his expression calm. Wan Yongkun’s eyes brightened—his long-awaited target had appeared.

Heavy footsteps passed by, Dumb never once glancing at Wan Yongkun or the blacksmith’s shop. He was either careless or supremely confident; in any case, his aura was formidable. That was Wan Yongkun’s first impression.

Luckily, Qiu Xi’s intel was accurate: this man ventured into the mountains daily, rain or shine, supposedly practicing some intimidating martial art. Today was no exception; Wan Yongkun’s wait had not been in vain.

Only after Dumb’s silhouette vanished down the path did Wan Yongkun rise leisurely, flicking his cigarette to the ground, where the ample rainwater instantly extinguished it with a faint hiss. Tracking was his specialty—even on a rainy day with faint traces, he would not lose his quarry.

Before leaving, he handed the blacksmith a cigarette, establishing some familiarity—perhaps a future refuge.

The blacksmith smiled and continued hammering away.

Wan Yongkun adjusted his hat, tightened his raincoat, and hurried after Dumb. The road was earthen, Dumb’s footprints broad and long, easily distinguished.

Amusingly, beside those large prints, Wan Yongkun occasionally found odd little things—sunflower seed shells.

So, Dumb, appearing oblivious, was actually snacking as he walked. It was pure leisure, Wan Yongkun thought with a silent laugh. This was not tracking—it was following.

Thus, he shadowed Dumb deep into the bamboo forest.

The two, one ahead, one behind, appeared to be strolling in the rain.

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Over an hour later.

Dumb leisurely reached a low-lying area, then began his martial exercises, emitting strange, guttural sounds unique to the mute. The bamboo forest was dense; though the rain persisted, the leaves shielded and channeled the water, so little actually fell on him. Dumb tossed aside his hat, revealing a chubby face and a thick mane of hair.

He shook his head, exuding an air of a hermit master.

This fellow was truly intriguing—he usually coiled his hair inside his hat, like a hero from olden days.

Wan Yongkun hid in the crook of a tree, barely suppressing laughter. Dumb’s techniques were decidedly amateurish: basic horse stance, steps reminiscent of Bagua, common martial routines. From Wan Yongkun’s vantage, there seemed to be little real combat skill.

Villagers said Dumb practiced qigong, apprenticed to a master from Emei Mountain. Wan Yongkun could believe it, for soon Dumb’s head steamed with white vapor—perhaps rainwater and sweat evaporated by body heat, or maybe true internal energy.

Wan Yongkun watched from his perch for over an hour, eyes fixed on this “martial arts master,” bemused. The moves repeated ceaselessly—he could almost count them.

Now, Dumb held a horse stance, pushed forward with both hands, raised his index finger, and maintained the pose for a full quarter hour. Wan Yongkun grew anxious, wondering if he should challenge him, lest Dumb’s years of practice go wasted.

Self-amused, he thought: “Blind man's candle—utterly pointless!”

At that moment, Dumb suddenly ceased his exercises, stared blankly for a moment, then strode toward Wan Yongkun.

Fortunately, he stopped seven or eight meters away, apparently unaware of Wan Yongkun’s presence. Instead, he approached another jujube tree, surveyed his surroundings, confirmed safety, and reached into a tree hollow to retrieve an object.

Wan Yongkun held his breath, pressed tightly to the trunk, peering through a crack in the branches.

Dumb drew his machete, leaned it against the tree, and began shaving something. Wan Yongkun’s sharp eyes couldn’t quite discern what it was, but as Dumb finished one and laid it on the ground, forming a row, Wan Yongkun understood.

They were raw carving materials, already vaguely human-shaped. After carving six or seven, Dumb produced a carving knife, sat at the tree’s roots, and began to sculpt, focused and dexterous.

Each stroke was skillful. It’s true what they say: the countryside is full of remarkable people. Dumb, burly as he was, carved with finesse amid the ruggedness.

Half an hour later, Dumb finished a statue. Wan Yongkun stole a glance—it was a slender woman!

Wan Yongkun, momentarily distracted, accidentally brushed a branch, producing a rustling sound.

A flash of white shot toward his hiding place—Dumb’s senses razor-sharp. He hurled a piece of wood like a dart.

Wan Yongkun was about to reveal himself when footsteps approached. He quickly retreated deeper into the tree's branches.

A shifty-eyed young man walked nearby, slim, wearing a bamboo hat and a hooded raincoat. The hood likely obscured his vision, so he didn’t notice Wan Yongkun.

Wan Yongkun breathed a silent sigh: “That was close!”

Before reaching Dumb, the young man called out, “Why so agitated? Afraid someone will discover your disgrace?”

Wan Yongkun recognized him as Zhang Jin from Yuan Village—he’d seen his photo on Li Yiting’s phone.

Apparently, Dumb recognized Zhang Jin too, for his fierce gaze softened, and he resumed carving.

Zhang Jin ambled over, removed his hat and hood, picked up a statue, shook his head. “You’ve secretly loved her for years—what’s the point? She’s been dead for ages, yet you can’t let go. Ah, love always leaves regret.”

Dumb didn’t respond, accustomed to Zhang Jin’s soliloquy.

Zhang Jin’s eyes darted as he continued, “Brother Dumb, life is about enjoying oneself, isn’t it? Watching you torment yourself, I can’t bear it. But that's your business, none of mine.”

He changed tack: “But you can’t cut off our livelihood, right? We worked for months to make that clay Guanyin statue, but you destroyed it, angered everyone. We’re all counting on selling it for a bit of food—not cool.”

Wan Yongkun perked up; after a day braving wind and rain, finally some substance.

Dumb slowly raised his head, coldly sweeping Zhang Jin with his gaze.

Zhang Jin pressed on, “I’m telling the truth: people die for money, birds for food. Our group is under constant scrutiny by the villagers—and that young cop, who somehow got wind of things, insists I’m the ringleader. I’ve had to fake illness, hiding for days. Hardly enjoyed the New Year—starving here…”

“Ah, ah ah…” Dumb spoke, but only strange guttural sounds emerged.

He gestured simply, then wrote three words with his machete in the dirt: Stay Calm.

Zhang Jin glanced at it, annoyed. “In today’s world, you can’t move without money. ‘Stay calm’—easy for you, a loner. I’ve got elders and kids, and Zhang Kun—he gambled away everything before the holiday. How can we survive?”

“Actually, it’s simple. Just tell us where the real Guanyin statue is. We’ll handle everything, and you’ll get your share. We’re not greedy—fifty-fifty. You’re the boss, you take half. Fair enough, right? We’ll do the legwork, you get paid.”

Zhang Jin was desperate, clearly willing to promise anything.

Dumb remained unmoved, silent.

Zhang Jin grew agitated, stood abruptly, but kept his voice low as he threatened, “Brother Dumb, if you really don’t care about us, don’t blame us for not being loyal!”

Seeing Dumb still silent, he angrily threw several statues into the grass, muttering, “What rubbish.”

Dumb, apparently furious, sprang up and grabbed Zhang Jin’s collar, hoisting him like a chick—an absurd scene that nearly made Wan Yongkun laugh.

Dumb glared, “Ah! Ah! Ah ah ah, ya ah!”—incomprehensible, but his rage was clear.

Zhang Jin was undaunted, though struggling, he said, “Even if you kill me…it’s useless. We’re not fools. Isn’t the Guanyin statue hidden in Li Qiwen’s coffin? Don’t think we don’t know…”

Dumb’s expression froze, then he slowly released his grip. Zhang Jin gasped for breath.

“Ah, ah ah.” Dumb gestured vigorously.

A look of joy finally crossed Zhang Jin’s face. He exclaimed, “Brother Dumb, you finally agreed! Great! Don’t worry, the buyer’s ready. Once we sell it, your share is guaranteed.”

Dumb waved impatiently, signaling Zhang Jin to leave. His mood was clearly troubled.

Zhang Jin lingered, extending his hand, “You need to give me the coffin key. Your unique skill has really put us through hell.”

Wan Yongkun listened closely, suddenly enlightened. So, the coffins in Li Village were all crafted by Dumb, each with a secret lock that could be opened and closed freely—a revelation. There was always a reason behind everything; he’d gained new insight.

Beiting was still new to him, and there was much yet unknown.

Suddenly, Dumb raised his machete menacingly at Zhang Jin, startling both Zhang Jin and Wan Yongkun—was he about to kill him?

Amid the confusion, Dumb pointed with the machete toward the discarded statues. “Ah, ah ah!”

Zhang Jin abruptly realized, “Brother Dumb…you mean that dead woman is the key?!”

Dumb nodded expressionlessly, as if revealing a tremendous secret, motionless, his inner turmoil evident.

Zhang Jin, overjoyed, rushed to gather the discarded statues, cradling them in his shirt. He recalled something, hurried back, and asked, “Brother Dumb, what about that shaman? He knows about this—what if he tells the police?”

Dumb coldly traced a cross with his machete—a sign even a fool could understand: no mercy.

Wan Yongkun’s heart raced. From their words, it seemed Xun Yuanchun was involved. As far as he knew, Luoshui Village had only one such shaman. He pondered, gripping the tree—Dumb’s ears twitched, but he remained silent. Zhang Jin nodded, donned his hood and hat, and hurriedly left, not looking back.

Once Zhang Jin’s figure faded, Dumb remained standing for another half hour.

Wan Yongkun considered his haul significant, ready to depart. Just then, Dumb let out several angry, summoning cries.

Wan Yongkun didn’t understand, nor did he care. He slid down the tree’s other side, agile as a lynx, unlikely to alert anyone.

A sudden gust struck the tree—a machete hurled by Dumb embedded deep in the trunk, just half a meter from Wan Yongkun.

The force was immense, shaking the tree.

Clearly, Dumb had detected him. Wan Yongkun remained calm, adjusted his raincoat, and stepped out from behind the tree.

He thought: Now that things have come to this, it’s time to apprehend this dangerous man.

The case of the stolen Guanyin statue was finally nearing its resolution!