1
On the afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, Deputy Captain Li Yinpei of the Criminal Investigation Unit responded to a call and did not return to the bureau until dusk. He missed the department’s year-end assembly and dinner.
The building was nearly empty.
He was at the evidence station uploading footage from his body camera when Xiao Huo from his unit came back from the cafeteria. They ran into each other in the corridor and walked toward the office together.
Li listened—half attentive, half distracted—as Xiao Huo recounted the meeting and the banquet, while he unloaded his gear into the locker: handcuffs, baton, body camera, uniform.
When Xiao Huo asked about his holiday schedule, Li said, “Tomorrow, the twenty-ninth, I’m off. I’m on duty from New Year’s Eve through the second.”
After Xiao Huo left, Li called it a day as well.
In the courtyard he noticed the cafeteria lights were still on. There was probably food left. Xiao Huo had mentioned that officers from Second Street Station had brought over a whole lamb—well received, the main dish of the night.
But he would not go. It was his birthday. When the clock struck midnight, he would be thirty-nine.
He decided to buy something on the street, take it home, watch television alone, have a few drinks.
The streetlights and decorative lights had just come on; the air was thick with the approach of the New Year. He turned off the main avenue into a side street and had not gone far when he froze.
Wasn’t this Jianxin Street?
He looked up again.
Fang’s Roast Meats was only a few steps ahead, its display window brightly lit, braised meats hanging inside.
His feet hesitated.
Then he stamped the ground.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Who are you pretending to be?” he muttered. “Just admit it. These past few days—when have you not been thinking about this?”
When responding to calls, he usually made a point of avoiding Jianxin Street. If he had no choice, he would walk along the opposite side, pulling the brim of his cap low as he passed through the busy stretch.
Ten years like this.
Now, cursing himself, he forced himself forward.
From the corner of his eye he saw Yang Qiong behind the counter. She wore a red apron over a fitted black sweater; her hair was coiled neatly at the back of her head. Hearing someone approach, she slid open the window.
“What would you like?” she began.
Then she, too, froze.
They stood there, silent, stunned.
“Slice me some braised pork tripe,” Li finally said. “Three… four liang.”
Yang Qiong cut a piece and set it on the scale. As she sliced, she nodded to the little girl beside her, signaling her to fetch a few things from the back.
While waiting, he affected indifference. Hands clasped behind his back, he looked up at the sky, down at the pavement, then at the plane trees lining the street.
Only when Yang Qiong handed him the package did he seem to wake. He stepped forward awkwardly, unable to meet her eyes. He scanned the code, murmured a vague good night, and went straight home.
A milky-white lamp hung from the ceiling—one of those lights you resent the moment you see it, yet tolerate year after year out of laziness, its chalk-pale glare unchanging.
He set a bowl and chopsticks on the coffee table, along with a small wine cup and the loose corn liquor he had bought at the market. He sat down on the sofa, breathing for a moment before untying the plastic bag.
Only then did he see that it held not one packet but three. One contained the braised pork tripe. The other two—dried pork liver and braised tofu—were already sliced.
All three were his favorites.
The dried liver most of all.
Li blinked several times. His throat tightened.
He poured a cup, tipped his head back, and drained it. Then he picked up the remote, switched on the television, and pressed mute.
He stared at the screen.
Another cup went down.
Heat slid down his throat.
Whatever was playing on the television—he did not see it.
2
He was in the office at noon.
Seated at his desk.
A pot of black tea had been brewed the moment he came in. It stood untouched.
His head throbbed. Waves of dizziness rose without warning, bringing nausea that would not quite surface. He felt light as paper, his body on the verge of coming apart.
There was a sofa in the corner. All morning he had the urge to collapse onto it and never get up again.
But that was not him. If Li Yinpei was in the office, he sat at his desk, the intercom on.
After a while he heard footsteps in the corridor. From the sound alone he knew it was Xiao Huo.
The young man stepped inside and was startled to see his captain.
“Captain Li? Aren’t you off today? Why are you here?”
“It’s stifling at home,” Li said. “Nothing to do anyway. Sitting at home or sitting here—makes no difference.”
Even those few sentences left him short of breath.
He saw the puzzled look on Xiao Huo’s face, the young man staring without blinking. To shift the attention away from himself, he asked, “It’s almost New Year’s. Why aren’t you at home? What are you doing here?”
“Well,” Xiao Huo said, still not entirely reassured, “I just got back from a call. Command dispatched me to Taishi Village this morning—a group disturbance.”
“What kind of disturbance?”
“Oh, nothing serious.” Xiao Huo removed his gear and stowed it in his locker. “That Dragon King Temple in Taishi—you know it, Captain? A few days ago a family went there. A child said she saw tears in the Dragon Girl’s eyes. Tears—nonsense. I went in this morning with the temple keeper. There are no tears. Just a little water pooled in the eye sockets. It runs down the cheeks, that’s all. But the story spread—Dragon Girl manifesting, Dragon King blessing the village, warding off disaster. Some idle people took photos inside and outside the temple and uploaded them to Amap. Now outsiders have been coming every day to watch the Dragon Girl weep. The villagers say the temple belongs to them. They don’t want strangers coming in. They’ve been driving visitors away for days. This morning things escalated. We didn’t have enough manpower, so command sent me. I figure once the New Year begins, there’ll be even more people. With approval from leadership, we’ve designated the temple area closed to the public during the holiday. I photographed the notice and uploaded it to the Dragon King Temple page on Amap. Should help reduce traffic…”
He stopped mid-sentence.
“Captain Li, are you sure you’re okay?”
Xiao Huo stared at him, worry plain on his face.
“I’m fine. Really.” Li forced steadiness into his voice. “Go home and get ready for the holiday with your family. I’ll stay.”
After Xiao Huo left, Li Yinpei sat for a while, thinking about what he had heard.
It did not seem so simple.
A police notice alone might not accomplish much.
This required a closer look.
He picked up the intercom and called the command center, requesting permission to go to Taishi Village.
3
From the bureau to the Dragon King Temple was no more than a ten-minute drive.
He steered the Nissan Navara into the gravel lot across from the temple, cut the engine, and let his hands rest on the steering wheel.
He did not move.
He sat there for a while.
Then he touched his body camera, adjusted the intercom at his waist, steadied himself, and stepped out.
Under the sun, his head swam. His knees felt ready to give way at any moment. He leaned half his weight against the truck.
That cursed corn liquor had done real damage. He still hadn’t fully recovered.
After a moment, he lifted his eyes and surveyed the surroundings.
The parking lot was empty. The silence almost unnatural.
The small temple stood at the mouth of a shallow valley ahead—red walls, gray tiles, doors shut tight. Several old Yunnan hackberries rose inside the courtyard, their dense branches spilling over the walls.
He looked farther.
Yunnan mountains in winter.
Yunnan sunlight in winter.
Yunnan’s winter sky—an expanse of blue.
From the lot to the temple gate was only fifty or sixty steps. Yet to him it felt like a horizon he would never reach. He did not so much walk as drift in a faint wind.
Up close, he saw the red doors pasted with couplets. One read: “Peace and prosperity to the whole village.” The other: “Safety through all four seasons.” Above them hung a horizontal scroll: “The Buddha’s law is boundless.”
In front of the gate stood a sign:
Police Notice: This temple belongs to Taishi Village. Unauthorized entry is strictly prohibited. Violators will be prosecuted. Jinning County Public Security Bureau.
He thought: this must be the sign Xiao Huo put up this morning.
He had intended to knock. His hand even lifted halfway. Then he changed his mind. Better to look around first.
He had passed this place before, but only in transit. Never once had he stopped to look carefully. If the government hadn’t built Lakeshore Drive—smooth asphalt running right past the temple—who would even know a shrine stood here? And before Amap navigation, aside from villagers, few would have known that in this inconspicuous bend along the lake stood a Dragon King Temple. Let alone come to see a weeping Dragon Girl. To pray. To take pictures.
He began along the shaded wall. At the end, he circled behind. On the sunlit side he went only halfway; much the same.
After tracing the three walls, he had a general sense of the place.
The temple sat at the tail end of a ridge descending from Tiger Mountain. The foundation was typical Yunnan stone soil. Two dry gullies ran down from the hills on either side, skirting the temple before disappearing into the sandy ground near the lake.
The site had clearly been chosen with care.
Behind the temple a narrow forest path led uphill. He followed it.
His mind was empty.
Every few steps, the urge rose to drop face-first into some patch of grass and simply lie there for the rest of his life. Just stay. Never get up again.
Near the top of the slope he truly could not go on. He let himself fall forward into the dry grass with a low groan and closed his eyes.
Silence.
Only the mountain wind and the brittle rustle of grass.
Am I dying? he wondered vaguely through the dizziness.
The winter sun warmed his face, like an invisible hand brushing his skin. If death were like this, what regret would there be? If the world were like this winter day, if life were as open as this sky—everything simply as it is—what greed would remain? What lifelong regrets?
Yang Qiong—he should have forgotten her long ago. Why rake up the past? Her child was already ten.
Li Yinpei. Old Li. Director Li. Captain Li.
You’re not a “police uncle” anymore.
Last night you turned thirty-nine.
A thirty-nine-year-old people’s police officer. An old cop now.
By this time next year you’ll be forty. Drink as much as you want—you’re still heading toward forty, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Thirty-nine is like a price tag in a shop—thirty-nine ninety-nine. Still a sale. Once you hit forty? Forget it. Even at a discount you might not sell.
Forty and eighty—what’s the difference in how they sound? “Old but vigorous”? In the end you’re just a gray-haired policeman.
He did not know how long he lay there. Eventually he pushed himself upright. It felt as though he had slept.
His mind was clearer.
One hand braced against the ground, the other shading his eyes, he squinted toward Dianchi.
The broad surface shimmered.
Slightly to the right, near Taishi Village, a few old trees stood. Several magpies crackled and circled above them.
His thoughts returned to Xiao Huo’s call earlier.
Why put up the sign? To prevent villagers and visitors from clashing? And the dispute was over nothing more than a weeping little Dragon Girl.
Did Dragon Girls weep?
Perhaps.
More likely it was rumor feeding on rumor.
Xiao Huo did not believe it.
Did he?
Among the people who had quarreled here that morning, some must have believed, and some were merely curious.
Everything has a cause.
Perhaps what the child saw was only moisture. Dampness. Or perhaps it was tears. Because it looked like tears, once an adult repeated it, the story spread like wind.
As for whether he himself believed—better to investigate first, then decide.
With that thought he struggled to his feet and prepared to descend.
Just as he was about to leave, he caught a glimpse of something far out on the lake.
He focused.
It was gone.
Strange.
A small knot tightened in his chest.
He walked down the slope, frowning.
4
He rather hated days off.
Again he was alone at home, watching the television on mute. His feet rested on the coffee table. The intercom stood upright beside them, its green light blinking steadily. Next to it, the bottle of corn liquor—more than half gone.
His face was turned toward the screen, but his eyes saw nothing.
His mood had fallen apart sometime that afternoon. Where it had gone, he didn’t know. He had tried all evening to retrieve it. More drinking did not bring it back.
He felt like a fish stranded in a dried riverbed—sun-baked and alone. A solitary fish at that, with no other fish nearby to share moisture with, even if he wanted to.
Occasionally his eyes would land on some image on the television. He would grab the remote and snap the channel away. Whatever came up next—picture or no picture, color bars or static—he did not care. He watched. He listened. Without knowing what he was watching, or what he was hearing.
The dried pork liver and braised tofu were gone from the night before. How he finished them, he did not know. A few slices of pork tripe remained. He fetched them from the refrigerator and chewed them with the corn liquor he had bought loose from the market on his way home.
Everyone said, “Captain Li, you’re a workaholic.”
Only he knew he also had moments like this in front of the television.
That afternoon, after returning from Taishi, he had parked in the courtyard and gone straight back to the office, intending not to return home that night. He would sleep in the duty room. Be a clean, sober man.
Instead he ran into bureau leadership inspecting the Criminal Investigation Division. The scolding that followed—outsiders would have heard only praise. His colleagues knew better.
“You get one day off all year and won’t stay home? Back at the office again! Admirable enthusiasm. Exemplary officer!”
Which meant: go home.
From the television came a voice:
“Where is the injury? In what way has life wronged you? What regret did you carry from a former life?”
Somewhere in the blur, he thought of her.
Aside from Yang Qiong, how had life wronged him?
Then he corrected himself.
That wasn’t right.
In what way had Yang Qiong wronged you?
Wasn’t it all your own fault?
The television continued:
“Xia Niang, how have you broken our former vow?”
The woman lifted her veil, looked at him, and sneered:
“You betrayed me—did I betray you?”
Her servant raised a fist to strike, but Xia Niang jerked the reins and rode away on her black donkey.
Be honest.
Have some conscience.
Drink again, and tomorrow you might as well not report for duty. Let leadership award you a Model of Taking Leave certificate.
Drink as much as you like—it changes nothing.
In the end, you cannot return to the past.
In the end, you are alone.
In the end, it was your lack of courage.
In the end, all you can do is watch her from a distance.
From the television—or perhaps from himself—came another line:
“Night after night without sleep. Waking at midnight, realizing one remains alone in the world.”
So it wasn’t just him.
The television had someone like that too.
A bitter smile crossed his face.
The green light on the intercom blinked steadily. He had forgotten the charger, but it would last until tomorrow.
This minute.
The next minute.
At any moment it could crackle:
“Received. Proceed immediately.”
“Stay safe. Over.”
More than ten years ago, on the eve of graduating from the police academy, he and his sworn brother Zhimù—who later went to the Fumin Public Security Bureau—had gone to an all-night eatery near South Railway Station.
Young and ignorant of sorrow, they forced themselves into drunkenness, wanting to know what it felt like.
One bottle of Zhuyeqing later, he had collapsed in the street, lying there through the cold night.
All the clever jokes had vanished. Only groans mixed with saliva on frozen pavement remained.
Poor Zhimù—ready to take a blade for him—covered him with his own military overcoat and shivered in the wind.
One day, we’ll set a proper table for you.
The green light on the intercom grew increasingly blurred.
Gradually it drifted farther and farther away.
5
New Year’s Eve.
He had been on duty in the first-floor watch room since nine in the morning. He sat the entire day, shivering, legs weak, nausea rising whenever he thought of food.
After the deafening midnight fireworks subsided, he went to the standby room to rest. He had barely stepped inside when he saw Old Zhou from General Affairs sitting on the edge of a bed, a book in his hand.
“What’s this?” Zhou said, removing his glasses. “Criminal Investigation has you on New Year’s Eve duty again?”
Li gave a faint smile. Instead of going to his own corner, he sat on the bed opposite Zhou. There was nothing in particular to do. He set his intercom beside Zhou so he could answer immediately if a call came in.
From time to time, a late firecracker popped outside.
Old Zhou was one of the bureau’s veterans—thirty-five years in service. There was little, large or small, that he did not know.
Li had meant to tell him about Xiao Huo’s call the previous morning, but instead found himself recounting something else.
Ever since returning from Taishi Village, he had been replaying that moment on the hill behind the Dragon King Temple—the instant just before he descended. He had glimpsed something on the lake. A shadow, perhaps. Or an object. A strange ripple. The curved back of some aquatic creature.
Or perhaps none of these.
Perhaps merely the imagination of a man not yet sober.
“You’re familiar with the Dragon King Temple in Taishi Village,” Li said.
Zhou nodded.
“I went there yesterday afternoon. From the hill behind the temple, looking toward the lake—I thought I saw something. I can’t say what. Maybe it was nothing at all. Maybe my eyes deceived me. But for some reason, it’s been bothering me.”
Zhou did not answer at once. After a moment he asked,
“You were standing behind the temple, facing the lake—Tiger Mountain behind you to the left, Taishi Village to your right?”
“That’s right.”
Zhou fell silent. After a while he looked up and studied him.
“Captain Li, you’re not an ordinary man.”
Li blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“Your eyes didn’t deceive you,” Zhou said slowly. “I know that place well. What you saw was a dike.”
“A dike?” Li sat upright. “In the lake? It’s open water—wide and flat. How could there be a dike?”
“From that position, the water is shallow. On clear days—like this season—someone attentive can see it.”
“It wasn’t a hallucination?”
“It’s a dike,” Zhou said without hesitation. “Left over from the land-reclamation campaign.”
Li was stunned.
He had heard of it—reclaiming land from the lake—a vague childhood memory. It must have been when he had just started primary school.
“You were there,” Li said. “You’ve seen more than we have. I’ve only heard about it in passing. What exactly happened? And what does it have to do with what I saw yesterday?”
“That’s a long story,” Zhou replied.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, counting on his fingers as if marking years.
“1969. End of the year. One day an order came down: reclaim land from Dianchi. December 28. One hundred thousand soldiers and civilians gathered at Dongfeng Square for a mobilization rally. The slogan was: ‘If Dianchi yields no grain, we will not leave the battlefield.’ It was quite a spectacle.
“After the rally, government offices, factories, hospitals, middle schools, communes, the People’s Liberation Army—on average thirty thousand people a day, sometimes as many as a hundred thousand—worked to fill in the lake.
“The main project was at Caohai—what is now Haigeng. It didn’t exist before. Besides Caohai, reclamation was carried out in Chenggong, Fumin, and here in Jinning’s outer lake.
“I don’t recall how much land was reclaimed at Caohai. But here in the outer lake we reclaimed fifteen thousand mu. That I remember.
“They worked at it for three years. Then in March 1972, without explanation, overnight the order came: stop. Pack up. Return to your units.
“Several of our retired colleagues here took part.”
“Those were mad years,” Li said quietly. “Good thing it was halted. Otherwise Dianchi would have been ruined.”
“Everyone says you’re a workaholic,” Zhou went on. “I think you have the instinct for criminal investigation. You sensed something on that hill. Most people would have seen nothing. When they built that artificial dike, they used stone blasted from Tiger Mountain. Transported by boat—spear boats, shrimp boats, box boats—every kind of boat. Who knows how many stones were dumped, sinking without a trace. By ’72, when the project stopped, only that hundred-meter stretch had been completed.
“If you’re interested, ask someone at the Dianchi Management Committee.”
At that moment Li’s intercom crackled on the bedside table.
“Li Yinpei, Li Yinpei—report of drunk driving in front of Fang’s Braised Foods on Jianxin Street. Proceed immediately.”
He grabbed the intercom.
“Li Yinpei received.”
Two seconds of silence.
Then the command center again:
“Gray minivan. Plate ending in 736. Over.”
He clipped the intercom to his waist and stood.
“Director Zhou, we’ll have to continue this another day. Get some rest.”
As he walked out, he muttered under his breath:
“Jianxin Street. Drunk driving. You’ve got to be kidding.”
6
On the afternoon of the first day of the New Year, he drove his Navara to Taishi.
Ten minutes on the road.
New Year’s Day here was the same every year—blue sky, white clouds. Whether you meant to feel festive or not, festivity pressed in on you. The only real difference from years past was that the wide stretches of golden rapeseed blossoms that once covered the fields were now seldom seen.
He parked in front of the village committee office and waited in the truck for Tang Youguang—his middle-school classmate, now the wealthiest man in the village.
He had not slept well in the standby room the night before. At dawn he had gone straight to the archives. Now the drowsiness caught up with him; he yawned again and again.
It wasn’t the standby room. He had slept there more often than at home without trouble. Last night he had simply lain awake.
At first he replayed the drunk-driving call on Jianxin Street. Heaven and earth as witness—his eyes had not wandered.
Later his thoughts returned to the dike. He turned it over and over in his mind, but the image would not leave him. The more he thought about it, the more he felt Old Zhou’s dike and Xiao Huo’s Dragon King Temple rumor must somehow be connected.
How, he could not say.
A black Audi A6L pulled up across the road. The window lowered slowly. It was Tang Youguang.
Money does make a difference, he thought.
His old classmate stepped out—dark Italian-collared T-shirt, dark trousers, a healthy flush to his face. His hairline had receded a little, but not enough to matter.
The richest man in the village did look different.
After greetings, Tang gestured toward a man standing behind him.
“My cousin. Best boatman around. He’ll take you out.”
The three of them walked toward the shore, the Audi rolling silently behind. Along the way Tang pointed things out, adding commentary as they passed.
Near the boathouse they walked by a dilapidated village house.
“This is what happens when a family has only daughters,” Tang said, gesturing at the collapsed courtyard and sagging roof. “They used to be well-off. But all daughters. They married and left. No one stayed to look after the place. So it ended up like this.”
At the dock more pleasantries were exchanged. Tang returned to his car; Li and the cousin boarded.
Soon he was seated at the bow of a spear boat heading out across the lake. Tang’s cousin stood at the stern, rowing with practiced ease, unhurried, steady.
Li gripped the gunwale. The shoreline receded; ahead lay open water and sky.
Hard to believe—after thirty-nine years living here, this was his first time riding a spear boat out onto the lake.
Not “wandering the red dust,” like those sentimental pop lyrics.
Only the unlearned speak that way. The red dust is just three inches of yellow earth—a marketplace of name and profit where people scramble shamelessly for advantage. Wander what?
Before long the boat slowed.
Gradually he could make out a band ahead where the color of the water shifted—a pale yellow strip cutting across the light blue surface.
The spear boat drifted closer, then slid soundlessly to a stop, grounding on what looked like a submerged road.
He extended one foot over the side and glanced at the boatman.
The man nodded.
He lowered both feet into the water. It was still cool. After steadying himself, he took a few cautious steps. Beneath the thin sheet of water, the surface was firm—solid as a village dirt road.
The flat crest of the dike appeared and disappeared beneath the small ripples. In the shallow depressions, the water was barely an inch deep.
He looked toward both ends, hesitating. Finally he chose the side facing the outer lake. He walked carefully, avoiding the sharp tips of exposed stones.
The dike ended abruptly.
Like a cliff.
The structure dropped almost vertically into deeper water, with hardly any transition. The workmanship at the tip was crude—stones pushed in without alignment.
Old Zhou had said the project stopped suddenly. This rough terminus seemed proof enough.
He lifted his gaze toward the shore—not terribly far, yet not near either.
Then he turned toward the outer lake.
They call it “Five Hundred Li of Dianchi.” A poet’s exaggeration perhaps—but the water did feel immense.
To fill in a lake of this scale in one stroke was fantasy. But to let it be nibbled away piece by piece—that would destroy it just as surely.
Back at the boat he asked, “That’s all? Just this stretch?”
“There’s more on the other side,” the boatman said, pointing. “But over the years it collapsed. Now it’s underwater. We boatmen know to steer around it.”
Li followed the direction of his finger. He saw no dike. No sign of collapse. Only pale blue ripples.
“Is the water always this shallow over it?”
“It’s spring,” the boatman said. “Lowest level of the year. In summer, during the rains, the dike goes under two or three inches. The lake’s been rising these past few years—we can feel it rowing. They say water from the Niulan River will soon be diverted into Dianchi. If it keeps rising like this, before long even in the dry season this dike will be underwater. No one will know it’s here.”
That last remark lingered.
He looked back toward shore. A few threads of smoke rose from Taishi Village. To the right stood Tiger Mountain; below it, faint but visible, the Dragon King Temple.
The mountains endure. The waters flow on. A man survives only in the memory of others.
“How deep is it here?” he asked.
“Four, maybe five meters,” the boatman replied.
On the way back he remained silent.
When they reached shore, he asked whether anyone still living in the village had firsthand knowledge of the reclamation years.
Without hesitation the boatman said, “Talk to my father. He was a village leader back then. Ask him.”
7
On the second day of the New Year he was again on duty.
He had meant to go to the General Archives Office, but the command center dispatched him several times.
Once to Guanzhuang, where firecrackers had set a stack of firewood ablaze.
Once to a chess-and-cards room in town. A 110 report claimed gambling. It turned out to be a few elderly men playing mahjong for small stakes. A brief warning was enough.
The archives were housed in a low building behind the main structure, its doors and windows sealed with iron grilles.
When the archivist saw him enter, he raised his brows.
“Captain Li? On the second day of the New Year?”
Li nodded and handed over his letter of introduction and police ID.
“I need to review an old case. A disappearance. 1972.”
The archivist hesitated, lips parting as if to speak, but said nothing. He examined the documents, then pulled out a registration form.
“Fill this out.”
When Li finished, the archivist disappeared inside. The metallic clatter of file cabinets echoed from within. He returned carrying a dossier and placed it on the table, gesturing toward the adjacent reading room.
“Captain Li. The usual rules.”
It was a thick manila envelope, bound with cotton string.
On it was written:
March 17, 1972 — Disappearance of Li Cuixian (Unsolved).
He looked at the file without opening it.
From the boatman’s father he had already learned about the 1969 mobilization rally. Jinning had sent villagers classified as poor and lower-middle peasants. During the three years of reclamation, rural labor was mobilized by commune and production team. Some were sent to Caohai, others to the outer lake here in Jinning. Villagers brought their own tools and bedding to the worksites.
Li Cuixian had been assigned to the outer lake.
He had also learned that since Liberation, Taishi Village had recorded only one missing-person case.
March 1972.
The very moment when the reclamation campaign was abruptly winding down.
He untied the cotton string.
Even as he did, he doubted how much this dossier could possibly yield.
He pulled out the first page—the original investigation record:
“Li Cuixian, female, age 20, resident of Taishi Brigade, Kunyang Commune, Jinning County. On March 17, 1972, failed to return after participating in land-reclamation labor at the worksite.”
Below it was the red seal of the Commune Revolutionary Committee.
As expected, the file contained little beyond basic personal details and family background.
No meaningful leads.
No wonder it had remained unsolved.
Though he had anticipated this, the disappointment still settled heavily.
If he were to reopen the case, he would need solid new evidence—something not already in this folder.
He could hardly stand before the brigade chief and say:
Old Zhou thinks I have investigative instinct.
I have a strong premonition.
I walked along the dike and felt something eerie.
As for the Dragon Girl shedding tears—don’t even think about it. If he offered that as evidence, he might as well step down as deputy captain.
He felt deflated.
That morning he had risen from the standby room and returned to the duty office to wait for the shift change. When the next officer arrived, Li inventoried the body cameras, intercoms, keys, lockers, vehicle keys.
He signed the handover log, then added a line beneath one entry:
“Dragon King Temple matter — investigation ongoing. Will report developments.”
The relieving officer nodded.
Li Yinpei stepped out of the duty room.
The sun was already high.
On the way home, firecrackers were going off here and there to “send off the New Year.” He thought: Other families send it off on the third day. I didn’t even have a New Year to send off. No leftovers either. What would I eat—festival scraps? Don’t make me laugh.
He had not gone far before he changed his mind.
He would go see the brigade chief after all.
Scolding or no scolding. Demotion or no demotion. Even reassignment to traffic police.
He had made up his mind.
If he could secure the chief’s approval—get a formal request sent to the Dianchi Management Committee, perhaps obtain assistance—and bring this matter into the open…
Even if it proved he had been chasing shadows, he would accept it.
8
When he was a child, on clear days, standing atop Moon Hill near the Jade Emperor Pavilion, he could see across the blue horizon of the lake white three-leaf sails tilted to one side, suspended from morning till dusk—like paper cutouts pinned to the water.
Only later did he learn they were box boats on Dianchi.
More than twenty meters long, over three meters wide, capable of carrying twenty to forty tons. Normally they transported ten to fifteen passengers; on market days they could cram in more than twenty.
During the land-reclamation years, box boats were the main carriers of stone. One boat hauling twenty tons was far more efficient than dozens of laborers with shoulder poles.
The shrimp boat—the one he now stood on—was a type of box boat. Stable, resistant to wind and waves, once used by fishermen for deep-water shrimping.
The Dianchi Management Committee had dispatched a shrimp boat for the recovery operation.
The wind was light.
Besides him and Section Chief Chen from the Committee—Engineer Chen—there were the old boatman and two divers, along with oxygen tanks, lead weights, and other equipment.
Li Yinpei stood at the bow, watching the broken dike draw nearer. Beneath the surface, the shapes of stones were faintly visible.
When they reached the outer-lake end of the structure, he signaled for the boat to stop.
“Here.”
After the boat steadied, Engineer Chen took out his Xi’an Kaifeng KF-05SD portable depth sounder and lowered the probe into the water. A moment later, the screen lit up.
Li leaned in.
The numbers flickered, then settled at 5.2.
Chen tapped a few buttons. The display began updating in real time—5.1, 5.3—shifting slightly with the boat’s gentle rocking.
Before sending the divers down, Chen asked, “Captain Li, what exactly are we looking for?”
“It’s hard to say,” Li replied, almost apologetically. Not deliberate vagueness—just too many unknowns. “At the end of the dike, underwater, there should be nothing but stone. If there’s anything lodged between the stones, or beneath them, take note.”
“Understood?” Chen said to the divers. “Prepare.”
The two young men pulled their gear bags from the cabin and began putting on wetsuits.
Li lifted a hand, signaling them to wait.
He hesitated.
“What we’re looking for could be something else,” he said finally. “But it might be a bundle. Wrapped in oilcloth. You know what that is.”
No reaction. They continued dressing.
One finished first and checked the other’s straps, tank, and mask. Then they switched.
Chen walked over, inspected them carefully, and gave one a firm pat on the shoulder.
“Safety first.”
The divers sat on the gunwale, backs to the water. In one motion they leaned backward and flipped in.
The surface churned briefly, then smoothed.
After a moment, bubbles surged upward in clusters, then thinned into a steady stream.
Time slowed.
A minute passed. Then another.
In truth it could not have been more than fifteen minutes. It felt far longer.
Suddenly the surface broke.
A black-hooded head emerged. The diver floated, breathing through his regulator, then raised a hand—OK.
The second diver surfaced a few meters away. They exchanged a glance and swam back.
The men aboard were already holding guide ropes.
The first diver removed his mask and let it hang at his neck. Gripping the gunwale, he heaved himself halfway aboard. The boat rocked. With help, he rolled onto the deck, pulled the regulator from his mouth, and drew several deep breaths before removing his fins.
The second diver climbed up moments later. They sat side by side, both breathing hard.
Once steadier, they unfastened their weight belts, peeled off wetsuits, removed tanks and harnesses, stacking the cylinders neatly aside.
The first diver looked up at Li.
“Captain Li. We found something. Right where you said. There’s an oilcloth-wrapped object down there, buried in mud. The oilcloth’s rotted—falls apart if you touch it—but you can feel something inside.”
He indicated the size with his hands.
Li stood without speaking.
He nodded once.
Engineer Chen crouched and handed them bottled water. They drank, water running from the corners of their mouths, mixing with the lake water still on their faces.
“Can you tell what it is?” Li asked.
The diver shook his head.
“The mud’s too thick. Visibility’s bad. We could only feel it. We’d need to go down again—with a water jet or pump to clear the sediment.”
“That requires approval,” Chen said. “Too late to arrange today.”
Li looked at the water.
Then, almost to himself:
“Then we apply again. Thirty years already. One more day won’t matter.”
The divers gathered their equipment, stacking tanks, fins, masks in order.
The boat rocked gently.
In the distance, the sun was sinking. The surface of the lake turned gold, then red.
9
Lantern Festival.
The small parking lot in front of the Dragon King Temple was empty. Not a single car. Not a single person.
As soon as he parked, he saw the temple gate standing open. The police notice Xiao Huo had put up before the New Year was gone.
He walked slowly toward the shrine and stopped at the threshold.
He did not know how long he stood there.
The leaves of the Yunnan hackberries rustled in the wind. Above Tiger Mountain, the sky was a blue so deep it seemed to pull a man upward into it.
“Dragon King,” he said quietly, bringing his hands together in greeting. “Forgive today’s discourtesy. I won’t come in to kneel. Don’t take offense and send down a flood.”
He stood a moment longer.
He had meant to bow to the Dragon Girl as well—to offer thanks and an apology. Since the day Xiao Huo first mentioned the call, he had never once entered the temple to look at her. But his hands did not rise.
He did not know whether her tears had dried.
A young girl, yet with a heart stirred by suffering.
Women of this world, fragile though you may be—there are still unseen spirits watching over you. If you pass this place someday, step inside the temple and light a stick of incense for her.
He walked past the gate and headed up the small hill behind the temple.
Just like the first time—another day of bright sun.
In Kunyang, it sometimes felt as though clouds and cold simply did not exist. “Snow drifting, bitter wind”—such things belonged somewhere else.
Here, there was only sunlight.
At the top, nothing had changed.
Low Yunnan pines. Dry grass whispering. Tiger Mountain behind him to the left. Taishi Village in the distance to the right.
He looked out across the lake.
Light shimmered beneath the horizon.
In more than thirty years, the only thing missing was the white sails of the box boats.
For a man born and raised in Kunyang, the world was no more than this curve of water, this stretch of land.
Born here. Finished here.
Don’t reassign me to traffic police, he thought. Give me a bottle of corn liquor to hold, and I’ll be content.
Yego’s Chronicles 