Chapter Thirty-One: The Past of the Wildman's Village (Part One)

At the end of the Qing Dynasty and the early years of the Republic, the land was racked with endless turmoil. Warlords carved the country into their own domains, and the vast expanse of China was nothing but a scene of devastation. In such chaotic times, chaos naturally begot more chaos. The band led by Master Qiu owed their notoriety to their formidable leader—a man from Sichuan named Qian Wuzhuang, known in the underworld as “Marmot,” or more respectfully, “Master Qian the Mouse.”

This man bore a sickly physique, coughing constantly, his face pale as death, frail as a twig, unable to travel more than twenty li a day before needing rest. Each morning, blood streaked his phlegm—a lingering affliction from a poisoning by corpse venom in his youth, the residual toxins never fully expelled.

Master Qian possessed a unique skill: burrowing. Though he appeared weak, he could tunnel through ten meters of earth in a single night, his passage just wide enough for a man. To others, the tunnel seemed barely enough to crawl into, but once inside, escape was impossible; the arms would be pinned, the body trapped, left to suffocate—much like the old tricks used to trap yellow weasels. Only he could enter and exit freely, for he had mastered the art of bone-shrinking, contorting his size at will, able even to slip through a dog’s hole.

Of course, the Qian family of Sichuan was renowned in the martial world. The land of Bashu had long been prosperous, and the Qians were allied with the Qingcheng sect, versed in mysterious arts, with numerous disciples—a formidable local power.

Master Qiu, in those days, was just a street urchin barely past ten, but necessity had taught him a valuable skill: theft. One day, while prowling a small town, he spotted a merchant caravan—four or five sturdy horses, their riders clad in silk, their black-soled shoes spotless, clearly people of wealth. For days, Qiu lingered by an inn, scavenging leftovers to quell his hunger. Such a large group was a rare sight in the remote town, and he was tempted to try his luck.

At midnight, after hours of crouching beneath a window, Qiu judged that the lights had been out for an hour and those inside must be asleep. Climbing to the second floor was no challenge for him; agile and light, he scaled the wall in one breath. The windows of those days opened outward, secured with a wooden latch, only operable from the inside. But the heat had been oppressive, and the guests had left a gap for air.

Young, slight, and nimble, Qiu slipped in with ease. He boasted three talents: moving without a sound, extracting soap from boiling oil with his bare hands, and seeing clearly in pitch darkness. These skills were the only reason an orphan like him survived, and the very things that drew Master Qian’s attention and led to his recruitment.

Yet, after only two steps, Qiu triggered a string of bells—a tripwire stretched across the floor. He realized he’d picked the wrong target and turned to flee, but a hand seized him by the shoulder, gripping so hard he thought his bones would snap.

At the commotion, four or five burly men burst in from outside, their pistols drawn. Yet the man who caught him neither scolded nor beat him, but instead called for the inn’s cook to prepare a meal.

It turned out the room belonged to Master Qian the Mouse himself. He spared Qiu’s life not out of mercy, but because no one had ever gotten so close to him before. If Qiu had been an assassin, Qian might have died that night.

And so, Qiu became part of Master Qian’s retinue. At first, he was merely a servant with no specific duties, trailing the men from place to place. They avoided main roads, favoring mountain paths and traveling by night, as if evading pursuit. Three years later, Qiu had grown into a young man, and the group arrived at what’s now called Wildman Hamlet.

According to Master Qiu, when he first arrived, there were four or five families in the hamlet. Some hearths still smoked with recent cooking, yet not a single living soul could be found. At first, he thought nothing of it.

Master Qian carried a sheepskin parchment, half the size of a table, resembling a map. Qiu, illiterate, could only watch as Qian pointed to a red dot and declared, “Here it is!” There were four other such red marks on the map.

Once in the hamlet, Qian and his men selected a place to stay. By day, they scoured the village; by night, Qian compared the stars overhead with a compass in hand. Qiu, tasked with cooking and laundry, noticed bloodstains on two of the men’s jackets and understood that the villagers had likely met a violent end.

In those times, survival was all that mattered. Half a month later, Master Qian set his sights on the eighteen ponds of the hamlet. Among his men was one with great skill in swimming, while Qian himself was a landlubber. They slaughtered some pigs, using their bladders to serve as makeshift air bladders.

Blown up like balloons, the pig bladders were sturdy enough. The swimmer strapped three to his back, hugged a heavy stone, and dove into the pond. With the bladders for breathing, he could stay submerged for ten minutes. After several dives, he surfaced with two gold coins.

The find delighted the group, especially Qian. He ordered the swimmer to dive again, but this time, the man never surfaced. Master Qiu described it to us this way:

“That man had especially long hands, his palms twice the size of mine, and big feet—a strong fellow from Guangxi. His ancestors were pearl divers, and in water, he was more agile than a fish, vanishing with a splash. We were all excited. Master Qian polished the coins, bit them for authenticity, and, in his delight, told me to prepare a feast that night.

Before his second dive, the swimmer mentioned how dark it was below, how he could see nothing, relying on touch alone. He said he felt something scratching his back as he surfaced, and showed us the marks.”

As he spoke, Master Qiu lifted his own shirt, indicating his back, “Here—four or five bloody scratches, felt just like a person’s nails. The man didn’t want to go back down, but Master Qian pressed a pistol to his head and threatened to shoot if he refused. He had no choice. We waited by the pond; twenty minutes later, a ribbon of red blood floated to the surface, spreading without a single bubble. The man never came back up.”

I was intrigued and couldn’t help asking, “What happened afterward?”

“There was nothing we could do. In those remote mountains, where would we find a pump? None of us could reach the bottom of that deep pond. Someone tried blasting it with dynamite, but the pond was all stone, and a hammer blow left only a white mark. That night, Master Qian flew into a rage. He said he hadn’t searched all these years just to be thwarted now—here we were, sitting atop a treasure we could see but not touch. They decided to try again the next day.

I was still just a boy. When I brought their food, I overheard them whispering my name. That night, Master Qian, unusually, invited me to sit at the table and even offered me food. I wasn’t stupid—I guessed they intended to force me into the water the next day. These men were hardened criminals, killers and arsonists; they were capable of anything. I feigned drunkenness to throw them off.

I knew I couldn’t stay—survival with them was one thing, but not at the cost of my life. After so many years with Master Qian, I knew he always set alarm wires before bed. That night, I sneaked into his room. They all knew I made no sound on foot, but they didn’t know I could see in the dark. I intended to steal some money for the road. I managed to grab only one of the coins and fled into the mountains under cover of night.

I ran for my life, knowing capture meant death. Along the way, I encountered a girl. She claimed to be from the hamlet, and had escaped after her entire village was gunned down. She’d been hiding in the hills for days, wounded in the shoulder. I took pity and told her the truth: her kin were most likely killed by Master Qian. She was spirited and sworn on revenge, refusing to leave until she had avenged her family.”

At this point, Fatty interjected, “That Master Qian was a beast. Did you help the girl?”

Master Qiu nodded, “I did. I hadn’t planned to—my only thought was escape. But she told me I’d never get out of these mountains alone. The ancient ruler of Qingqiu, she said, left a ghostly army here, and anyone who disturbed the hamlet’s treasures would never make it out alive.”

Chen Wenbin asked, “Did you tell her you’d taken the gold coin?”

“Yes, I told her. She said anyone who’d touched the treasure would never leave these mountains alive.”

Fatty laughed, “Did you really believe that? She was just trying to scare you—a slip of a girl fooling a grown man.”

Master Qiu smiled patiently at Fatty and said to us, “At the time, I thought the same—ghosts and spirits, I never believed in such things. But she made me believe.”

“How did she convince you?”

“She took me to a place…”

… …