The heavily creased Xue Xian had been left quite disheveled by his antics. At first glance, he was only the size of a folded letter, so the onlookers saw nothing unusual about him.
Xuanmin unceremoniously gripped the paper figure’s head, wanting to remove the silver needle stuck to it. However, the needle clung tight, as if it were part of the paper itself.
Xuanmin dropped his gaze. “Let go,” he demanded of the paper.
The officers looked on in astonishment. Was this swindler monk ill? Or was he playing some kind of trick?
Scribe Liu finally snapped out of his shock at Xuanmin’s words about his lifespan and became incensed. He pointed at Xuanmin and roared, “You insolent rogue! Even if you’re not the criminal on the poster, with your dubious appearance and background, the law still permits me to arrest and interrogate you until you reveal everything about yourself! I was showing kindness by letting you go! It’s one thing to show no gratitude, but to curse me?! Men—”
Before he could finish, Xuanmin interrupted him. “There’s a shadow between your brows; it’s black in the center and green along the edges, a sign that you’ve depleted the remaining years of your lifespan. Furthermore, there’s a mark of blood on your left ear.”
“What mark?” Scribe Liu reached up to scrub at his left ear but found no trace of red on his fingers.
“You can’t see it.” Xuanmin finally plucked the needle from the paper doll and placed it back in the pouch, then flicked at the figure with his finger, his gaze cool.
No one had ever dared flick Xue Xian, let alone a bald donkey so full of hot air that he might ascend to the heavens! But before Xue Xian could explode, the words “a mark of blood on your left ear” chilled him into stillness. Struggling, he twisted around in Xuanmin’s fingers to look at Scribe Liu.
On Scribe Liu’s left ear, near the temple, there was indeed a red mark, as if he had been splattered by some creature’s blood.
When Xue Xian saw that, his flimsy paper body trembled, and the anger and hatred he’d suppressed for so long erupted like a tidal wave.
In a daze, he found himself back on that damp shore, dark clouds looming overhead, the smell of salt crashing upon him with each wave, and thunder rumbling as heavy rain poured down. Yet he couldn’t move; his mind was trapped in fog, and his back was in agony, as if a thousand ants were gnawing at him. Someone had stripped him of his tendons and bones, but he hadn’t even managed a clear look at the culprit’s face…
While Xue Xian’s mind was in turmoil, Scribe Liu was still rubbing at his ear, until he gave up and glared at Xuanmin.
“What do you mean I can’t see it?! Everything you say is just lies and nonsense meant to hoodwink others. A shadow between my brows, an omen of impending death—that’s stuff any swindler would say! What does a ‘mark of blood’ even mean?!”
Xue Xian stared hard at Scribe Liu. He may have been ignorant, but Xue Xian knew exactly what blood on the ear signified: A grudge holder had stained their target with blood, ensuring they’d recognize them when the time for revenge came. Earlier, he’d been so focused on fighting Xuanmin inside the pouch that he hadn’t noticed it, but now that he’d calmed down, he detected a certain smell hanging around Scribe Liu. That was the scent from the mark, reminiscent of rust yet slightly different. It was a smell intensely familiar to Xue Xian, for it was his own blood.
Ever since he’d woken up, he’d been searching for the one who’d stripped him of his tendons and bones. He had no idea what they looked like nor who they were, so his search had been fruitless. The only clue he had was his own blood. Anyone splattered with his blood was someone who’d been on that shore at that time, on that day. They numbered about a hundred. He’d found a couple so far and had managed to glean a few details of what happened through his interrogations, but it wasn’t enough. It was far from enough. Finding the culprits with those meager hints was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. So Xue Xian had spent the past six months journeying from Huameng to this place, seeking to uncover more clues and reveal his target for revenge.
The doll squirming in Xuanmin’s fingers abruptly quieted down. Xuanmin thought he’d given in and stopped his pointless struggling, so he placed Xue Xian back inside the pouch while casting another glance at Scribe Liu. “You were supposed to die today, but someone else took your place.” He looked away before remarking, “Believe it or not, it’s up to you.”
Without saying another word, he moved to leave.
However, someone he’d offended this much wouldn’t let him walk away so easily. Infuriated by all the talk of his death, Scribe Liu flew into a rage. On one hand, this wandering monk seemed no more than a blathering fraud, but on the other, the prospect of his own life being at risk disturbed Scribe Liu.
Most con artists loved this kind of trick. They started off warning their victims that disaster was coming to stir up their fears, then they’d put on a show of feigning indifference, acting aloof as they turned to leave. Some people would take the bait, thinking, All right. Let’s treat it as insurance. What if they’re right?
Scribe Liu warned himself not to fall for the ruse while barking orders at the officers. “Draw your blades and seize him!”
Daring to mess with the county office? This monk was asking for it! Just as the officers surged forth to grab at Xuanmin’s sleeves, a breathless voice came from afar.
“My lord! My lord, we have trouble!” Everyone turned around and saw a servant boy stumbling toward them. He skidded to a stop before Scribe Liu, panic written all over his face. “My lord! The young master… He’s fallen into the well!”
“What?!” Scribe Liu felt his legs tremble, and his scalp went numb. He glanced inadvertently at Xuanmin, still surrounded by the officers, his heart thumping. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do first: rush home or grab Xuanmin.
“My lord!” the servant cried again.
Scribe Liu shuddered and stepped forward, ready to follow the servant back. In a daze, he staggered forth on legs that didn’t feel like his own. He’d only run two steps when he turned sharply around.
“Let him go! Let him go, all of you!” Scribe Liu grabbed Xuanmin’s sleeve. “Y-you… No! You come with me!”
Xuanmin disdainfully shook off the man’s hand. He was about to say something when he felt his pouch move. The paper doll he’d just returned to the pouch seized its chance, tumbling out and latching onto Scribe Liu’s sleeve. Next, it darted over and clung to the servant’s collar, letting itself be carried away.
For his short stature, the servant boy was surprisingly fleet of foot, likely due to his youth. He seemed to bounce as he ran, brimming with restless energy. As he sprinted ahead, he glanced back every few steps to check on Scribe Liu and his surroundings, while remaining completely oblivious to the object clinging to the back of his neck.
In contrast to the spirited boy, Xue Xian’s limited mobility persisted; even as a paper doll, he remained a paraplegic. He clung to his new ride with just his hands, but his grip was viselike.