The light in the crack between the rocks flickered.
Chen Wuya kept his eyes open and did not move. The candle flame tilted with the airflow, and the shadow cast upon the stone wall opposite shifted half an inch with it. He stared at that shadow, his fingers slowly tracing along a fissure in the rock wall—after the cane had struck the ground three times just now, a muffled sound of mechanisms turning had come from within this crack, like iron teeth meshing together, or stone wheels grinding across earth.
The person outside was crouching beside Bai Zhi's "corpse."
He was an unfamiliar face, dressed in coarse short garments, his trouser cuffs worn white, with a few bits of dead grass still clinging to his shoulders. Chen Wuya remembered him. He had seen him once at the village entrance several days ago. The man had not spoken much, and whenever he walked with his head lowered, he always tugged his sleeves back as if afraid someone would see his hands.
Those hands were now slowly reaching beneath Bai Zhi's nose.
His movements were too steady; not even his fingertips trembled. When ordinary people saw a corpse, even if they were putting on an act, they would instinctively hold their breath, frown, or let their hands shake. But this man extended his fingers as though taking a pulse, his wrist suspended in the air, his angle so precise that he seemed less to be checking whether she lived or died than confirming some kind of signal.
Chen Wuya lightly curled his thumb, his fingertips touching a dead twig hidden at his side.
The man suddenly turned his head.
His gaze swept over the candle on the ground.
Chen Wuya immediately stilled his breathing, but did not relax his peripheral vision—at the