Chapter Three: The Death Messenger

A rustle of footsteps came from the corridor. A young man in a brown suede coat crossed the threshold in long strides and strode to the sofa opposite the door. He threw the long, slim leather case from his shoulder onto the sofa, dropped onto it with a heavy thud, and then lifted his boots of turned-over leather and planted both feet, boot heels heavily, on the low table.

His eyes were unnervingly hollow. He ignored both Ding Jun and Fang Qing completely, fixing his gaze in silence on the doorway. In the corner of his mouth was a half-foot strip of dried stalk, and he chewed it without stopping, as if a hard-working ox, done with labor, were cud-chewing.

It was nearly time for dinner, so I went to check the kitchen. The vegetarian fare at Tolin Temple was excellent—pure grains, natural, without any contamination. Fang Qing rose and went out.

Ding Jun sat still, regulating his breath, sorting his thoughts.

He knew that the He family of the Five Poisons Sect represented the mainland Miaojiang gu traditions—gu sorcery, Southeast Asian voodoo, ancient Persian curse magic, and Guatemalan black witchcraft—collectively called the Four Great Secret Arts under heaven, the most enigmatic methods of killing. Of course, for a practitioner of gu-sorcery, a voodoo adept, a curse mage, or a black witch, the aim was never merely to kill. They sought, through those arts, to cross into a non-human state and touch a supernormal realm beyond human understanding.

The death of Shi Hai returned to Ding Jun in a sudden wave: could it be connected?

When Shi Hai had died, the body was cut into six clean parts. The trunk lay in the center, while the head and limbs were placed in five separate directions, each thirty paces from the center. Strangely, apart from the tearing at the separation points, there was no other wound. It was as though he had not been shot or cut down, but torn apart by the strength of a giant—dismantled like a boiled duck.

Ding Jun had gone through every casualty record of U.S. soldiers killed in Afghanistan. No one else had died that way.

The photographs given to Master Shi Miao-shou had captured every detail of the scene.

Ding Jun had once thought of the old punishments in historical texts—the five-horse dismemberment, the extreme ritual execution—and found the resemblance to Shi Hai’s body unmistakably close.

“Are you military?” the young man on the sofa asked suddenly.

Ding Jun nodded.

The young man leaned forward and stared hard at him. He moved the reed from his lip to the center of his mouth and lifted it, pointing it toward Ding Jun like the muzzle of a rifle.

Any stranger seeing such insolence would have risen and walked off, but Ding Jun remained seated, calm and composed, neither provoked nor angered.

“So… you were a sniper, weren’t you? And from the way you carry yourself, you were professionally trained. Which military district? Which unit?” The young man seemed genuinely interested.

Ding Jun answered, “I came from Hong Kong. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember exactly.”

The young man threw back a laugh, his thick, dark brows dancing. “Can’t remember? Nonsense. A sniper is one of the finest arm types in the force. From a kilometer away one can take a life. On the battlefield there’s nothing more lethal than a patient hunter. Something like this is thrilling—how can you forget it?”

Ding Jun sighed. He heard that argument often. Usually it came from people who were barely past their first training cycle—new snipers still in the heat of blood and pride, always eager to go to war and shoot at enemies, or to the hills to hunt animals and feed their own hunger for blood. A truly gifted sniper often burns through that agitation in one to three years; but those with poor temperament can carry it all their lives and remain small men, never fit for large stages.

“Hey, I’ve got a good gun. Want to try a run?” the young man said.

Ding Jun shook his head, but that did not dim his enthusiasm.

The young man snatched up the case, laid it on the table, opened the lid, and in less than a half-minute assembled a four-foot long rifle from its parts. If a suppressor were attached and the stock folded out, it would stretch past six feet, and its stability and accuracy would be near perfect for close urban work.

“This model is not standard issue anywhere,” he said proudly. “It’s a modified version based on an American long gun—shorter body, reinforced barrel, easier to carry, and two times more precise within two meters. Perfect for hunting between city buildings.”

“What do you think?” he asked with boyish eagerness.

Ding Jun considered briefly, then still shook his head. “I don’t know it well enough to comment.”

The young man suddenly raised the rifle, leveling it at Ding Jun.

Ding Jun let out three soft breaths of annoyance. The boy had just committed the sniper’s cardinal sin. Every recruit for special forces is taught the old rule of the Spirit Gun and Ghost Blade: never point even an unloaded gun or sheathed blade at a comrade. Too many cases exist of weapons that seemed harmless suddenly firing or cutting without warning—as if possessed.

The youngster had no sense of where he stood. Ding Jun did not blame him, but this kind of arrogance would someday make him fall hard.

“Just a joke. I never thought the so-called heroes of Delta Force were this timid,” he muttered, half to himself, turning playful with amusement.

Ding Jun understood immediately: someone had revealed his background on purpose to bait him, hoping to force a test.

“Hey—put down that gun!” Fang Qing burst in, breathing hard.

Behind her came two middle-aged people, a man and a woman, both smiling with open faces. They were thin, dressed plainly in gray down jackets, blue jeans, and black boots.

The young man lowered the gun and from the case took out a magazine to check it.

“There’s no magazine in the gun,” he said.

“Nothing to worry. No one loaded it,” Ding Jun said with patience and good humor.

The middle-aged man stepped in, bowed deeply to Ding Jun, and smiled broadly, all politeness. “Forgive me, please forgive me. My little brother jokes without malice. He’s still young and grew up in the mountains, so he doesn’t understand manners. I am his elder brother, he has offended, and I beg your pardon. Truly. Forgive us.”

He extended both hands. Naturally, Ding Jun extended his own.

Suddenly Ding Jun noticed Fang Qing, standing just behind the two older people, giving him a small, silent shake of the head. At once he became alert; his feet did not move, but he leaned back and, halfway through extending his hand, turned it to his hair as if adjusting it, sidestepping the offer without fuss.

“Nothing, truly nothing,” Ding Jun said with a smile.

The older woman also smiled and apologized. “It is our fault. My younger brother has just left the mountains and has been spoiled by elders and sisters alike. He has no manners. If he has offended you, please forgive us.”

Ding Jun stepped back and nodded toward the sofa. “Please, take seats.”

Fang Qing exhaled in relief and said at once, “Mr. Ding, I came to invite you to dinner. These three friends just arrived and need to rest first. We’ll go shortly.”

The three moved toward the restaurant to the left.

In a shadowed corner, Fang Qing stopped, one hand gripping her chest, voice low and shaken. “Thank goodness you noticed my signal. I’m so relieved. They’re from the He family of the Five Poisons Sect. Master Zhu and the others look down on people like us; they already tripped and fell in their own circles. I truly feared that if you had shaken hands, it would have gone badly. Master Zhu had eaten an old wound and stirred this up on purpose, sending them to test you…”

Ding Jun sighed. He could already see the course of events, and what she said matched his own thoughts.

“Why so quiet? You don’t suspect I arranged anything, do you?” Fang Qing asked quickly, reading his silence.

“Of course not,” Ding Jun said.

He never entertained that she was setting a trap. Though they had just met, he already had a natural sense of goodwill and trust toward her.

Fang Qing leaned close, held his gaze for a few seconds, then leaned back and let out a long breath: “Thank you for believing me. Otherwise I might have been ruined.”

The line made Ding Jun smile. He said nothing further, only waited quietly.

“Come. Let’s eat. Once everyone is here, Master Stone will gather us and we’ll talk,” Fang Qing said.

Around ten o’clock, everyone assembled in the large room with the long table. Though there were empty chairs, the young man from the He family still did not sit. He stood by the door and stared outward, as though marking a clear boundary between himself and those inside.

Compared with him, Ding Jun became even more restrained. He knew that the appearance of the Gugu Silver-Eye Death Charm meant a relentless, endless battle. Anyone too showy becomes an easy target. In a chaotic struggle, those who survive are often the low, humble, patient ones. From another angle, Delta Force, the elite under the American Pentagon, has long been known for efficient operations and minimal casualties—its effectiveness rests on discretion, restraint, and humble competence.

Master Shi Miao-shou stood in the light of the lamp, his face grave and bitter.

Among those seated was also a Tibetan Buddhist monk with a white beard and a bare head, Chishang Jatsö, a reclusive high monk of Tolin Temple. Fang Qing, who had been with Ding Jun all along, was his named disciple, studying esoteric Tibetan practice under him.

That so many strange guests from every direction had gathered proved the weight of Master Shi’s influence.

“All of you are dear friends of mine, so I won’t circle around. I’ll speak plainly.” Master Shi raised three of the Silver-Eye Death Charms. “I am old. I do not care if I live for months or years. The one thing I cannot bear to let go is my grandson, still in his mother’s womb. A child enters this world clean. He is innocent, so I will not allow anyone to harm him. This time, I fought with everything I had—there was no other choice.”

Each person in the room seemed to assent.

To summon a Silver-Eye Death Charm was equivalent to sentencing a baby to death—a cruel and inhuman act. It had aroused broad outrage.

“Thank you for giving me your courtesy and coming,” Master Shi continued. “The reason I am still standing here to speak is only because my grandson has not been born yet. A killer schooled in ancient Persian magic has watched from the shadows; I can neither run nor hide. I suspect that when the child is born, that is the hour they marked for our deaths.”

He Wuqiu—the middle-aged man from the He family—nodded gently, with a kindly smile.

“All these disasters began fifteen years ago. If I had not killed that envoy of the Gugu Silver-Eye then, things would not have gone so far,” Master Shi said.

Master Zhu suddenly raised his hand and cut in. “Old Shi, I know that story must be long and winding. Time is short. Why not go straight to the core?” He went on, “You said the woman-escort’s corpse is still here. Bring it out. We can see the main point while we talk. It will save time.”

He Wuqiu echoed him. “Yes, yes. If we can see the principal person, many side points become clear. Isn’t that so, everyone?”

All the others nodded. The situation was urgent; limited time meant speed gave them advantage.

“Very well. Please follow me,” Master Shi said.

He turned and pulled aside a thangka of the Furious Vajra figure hanging on the wall, revealing a small black door behind it. He held a torch and stepped into the narrow way.

Master Zhu was first to follow, then the others in line.

Behind that door was a winding, cold staircase descending deep below. It ended in a broad vault, some ten or fifteen meters down.

Master Shi switched on the overhead lamp and shone it onto a frozen coffin at the center of the cellar. Inside, lying on her back, was a woman in white, vivid and lifelike.

“That is the Gugu death envoy?” Go Auntie asked.

“Yes,” Master Shi replied.

The woman wore white. Her long black hair spread across a white silk pillow. She lay with her eyes peacefully closed, both hands folded, fingers interlaced on her lower belly. She looked no older than twenty. One could easily imagine that, alive, she would have been a stunningly beautiful woman. Horrifyingly, a killing knife was driven into her chest. The blade’s poison had blackened and burned the fabric around the wound, leaving a tar-black stain nearly two hand-widths across.

Go Auntie moved to the other side of the coffin and bent to inspect the woman’s waist. There was a square jade plaque there: white, smooth, and radiant as if carved from a fistful of snow.

For a moment, Ding Jun saw Go Auntie’s eyes suddenly kindle.

“Old Stone, you killed her? Wait—this blade seems to be…” Master Zhu leaned forward, looking through the transparent lid at the poison-blackened short knife.

“She was killed by my wife,” Master Shi said with a long breath. “My wife’s surname is Tang.”

On the handle, a tiny Tang character had been chiseled in the old clerical script. That surname marked an ancient sect in Sichuan’s old Shu region, well known in the jianghu circles.

Master Zhu nodded. “Then that fits,” he said. “You mean to say she’s lain in this ice coffin for fifteen years? If I’m right, her body and face were preserved by two factors: the refrigeration of the coffin, and that jade plaque.” He turned to Go Auntie. “What do you think?”

Go Auntie did not even lift her head. In a cold tone she said, “I don’t know. Do you think everyone is as worldly-wise and showy as you?”

Master Zhu laughed off her chill with a small chuckle.

Master Shi answered, “Master Zhu is right. The force of the ice coffin is secondary. The jade tile is the principal thing.”

Li Uncle and Master Qin moved forward, taking positions at opposite ends of the coffin. Along with Master Zhu and Go Auntie, they now ringed it. Their eyes gave away open greed, undeniable.

“The Gugu secret, the Maiden City Tribe, the Heavenly Kingdom Treasure, and that gem called the Sacred Infant Heart, said to hold the divine power of the Gugu dynasty—Old Stone, you should never have killed her,” Master Zhu said, his tone suddenly hard. “A living mouth has information. Every single detail about those four legends is worth more than treasure. And this—bringing a corpse into the room? What use is it?”

Each word from him landed like a heavy bomb in the vault. The air seemed to grow heavier and more oppressive, and even the dignified Chishang Jatsö’s face changed in one sharp instant.

Before Master Shi could answer, he exhaled deeply three times. “Master Zhu, I am an ordinary common man. I never banked on distant, lofty legends. I only wished to live out my years in peace. At that time, if I had not killed her, our whole family would have died. Being able to kill her was the luckiest outcome we could have had. When I think back now, that blood-soaked scene from fifteen years ago is still sharp before me; it still makes me shiver.”

“Ha…ha…” Li Uncle and Master Qin let out a nervous laugh, trying to loosen the tension in the vault.

Ding Jun could feel that everyone’s interest in the jade plaque far exceeded their fear of the Silver-Eye Death Charm. Gold and mystery attract even the devout, and these blood-lipped men of the underworld, each never two degrees from greed, had already been stirred by it.

The four legends Master Zhu mentioned were only one cluster among many such tales; like the Top Ten Unresolved Mysteries, the number of interpretations kept increasing with no final answer in sight.

Go Auntie raised her head. “Old Stone, please continue. We’re listening.”

For some reason, Ding Jun thought her expression was strange. A strange current ran through her eyes, as if she were trying to think through something else entirely, which made her words sound oddly detached.

“Ding sir,” Fang Qing whispered, gently tugging his sleeve and signaling him to step back.

The two moved away from the circle. Fang Qing held up her hand and wrote quickly on the palm of Ding Jun’s hand: “Go. She’s hiding a motive.”

Ding Jun gave a faint nod without showing it.

“To all of them alike,” Fang Qing wrote next. “And you?”

Ding Jun gave a soft sigh, then shook his head and copied her gesture in her own palm, writing: “An outsider.”

Fang Qing shook her head and wrote: “There are no outsiders here.”

Ding Jun did not wish to answer further. His original aim had been simple: to help Master Shi clear his trouble and confront the one who had sent out the Gugu Silver-Eye Death Charms.