Monkey

By the time Li Jinshui reached the entrance of the camp, the sun had tilted far to the west, stretching his dusty figure into a long, thin shadow.

Li Houde had been standing there for four full hours.

He wore a dark gray robe, his hair combed with meticulous precision, still maintaining the air of a clan patriarch.

Yet, on that face, the composure from three months ago was nowhere to be found.

Fine beads of sweat seeped from his forehead, his lips were pale, and his eyes held a mixture of exhaustion, anxiety, and a fear that had burrowed deep into his marrow.

Yes, fear.

Ever since he saw those twenty-seven corpses from the branch family this morning, that fear had been like a venomous snake, coiling around his heart and tightening its grip with every passing moment.

With every breath he took, he felt that snake constrict another inch.

He told himself he was the patriarch and could not panic.

But as he stood at the gate of the Third Battalion, watching the soldiers coming and going with blades tucked at their waists, their eyes scanning him like a predator eyeing prey, his legs had already begun to turn to jelly.

By the second hour, he had thought about turning and leaving.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Li Houshan nailed to the door panel—eyes wide open, mouth agape, like a crushed grasshopper.

He dared not leave.

He was afraid that if he lay down tonight, it wouldn't just be the branch family members who would never wake up.

Seeing Li Jinshui walk out, his eyes lit up for a moment, only for his heart to constrict violently a second later.

The youth was dressed in a clean military uniform, a long blade at his waist, his pace steady and unhurried, as if he were merely taking a stroll through his own courtyard.

But those eyes—

Li Houde shuddered.

Three months ago, those eyes had been green, restrained, like a small beast cornered against a wall, too hurt to even cry out.

Now, those eyes were as calm as a pool of stagnant water.

But what lay beneath that stagnant water, he dared not imagine.

He stepped forward to meet him, then abruptly stopped himself.

He realized he didn't dare get too close—afraid of what? Afraid of an eighteen-year-old boy?

Yet he was afraid. His calves were cramping, and the cold sweat on his back had already soaked through his robe.

"The patriarch is here." Li Jinshui stopped three paces away, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.

Li Houde opened his mouth, his throat as dry as if he had swallowed sand.

He forced himself to swallow hard before squeezing out, "Jinshui... I... I came to see you."

His voice trembled.

Hearing his own voice, he wanted to slap himself across the face.

He had been a patriarch for twenty years and was a man of status in North-Rejecting City; when had he ever trembled like this in front of a junior?

But he simply couldn't control it.

Li Jinshui smiled.

That smile was exactly the same as it had been three months ago—gentle, even carrying a hint of shyness.

"The patriarch is too kind," Li Jinshui said. "I am doing quite well, as you can see."

Li Houde was choked by these lukewarm words, unsure of how to respond.

His hands clenched and relaxed inside his sleeves, his fingernails digging into his flesh, using the pain to steady himself.

He took a deep breath, struggling to pile a smile onto his face.

But the smile was as stiff as pasted paper, and the corners of his mouth ached from the effort.

"Jinshui, can we... find a place to talk?"

Li Jinshui looked at him for two heartbeats.

During those two heartbeats, Li Houde felt as if a blade were pressed against his throat; he didn't even dare to breathe too hard.

"Fine."

The two walked to the old locust tree.

The stone table and stools were ice-cold. When Li Houde sat down, he only perched on the edge of the stool, his entire body taut like a fully drawn bowstring. He kept his hands on his knees, his fingers trembling incessantly.

Er Gou stood in the distance, his eyes fixed on them.

Li Houde glanced at Er Gou—a burly soldier with two short axes tucked at his waist, his arms thicker than Li Houde's thighs.

He had no doubt that with a single look from Li Jinshui, that man would split him open like firewood.

"Jinshui," he began, his voice as dry as sandpaper on stone, "what happened three months ago... I was in the wrong."

Li Jinshui did not speak, merely watching him.

"Back then... I had no choice." He continued, feeling as if his tongue were weighted with lead. "Jinbao finally had a chance to become a constable, and he needed silver to grease the wheels. The clan couldn't scrape that much together, so we had to..."

"So you sold me." Li Jinshui finished for him, his tone remaining as flat as ever.

Li Houde's face stiffened. Those three words—"sold me"—were like a needle, piercing precisely into the spot where his conscience was most raw.

His mouth twitched, attempting a smile that wouldn't form, eventually twisting into an expression even more wretched than tears.

"Yes, I have failed you."

He looked up, meeting Li Jinshui's gaze.

He wanted to see a flicker of softening in those eyes, a hint of hesitation, or even a trace of mockery—as long as there was emotion, there was room for negotiation.

But he saw nothing at all.

Those eyes were like two cold, black stones, illuminating his earnestness, his humility, and the trembling hands he hid in his sleeves, yet remaining entirely unmoved.

He braced himself and continued: "I came today to ask you, can we... can we let the past be the past? We are family, after all; one brush cannot write two Li characters. You've made something of yourself now, a Decurion, and the whole clan is happy for you. If your parents knew in the afterlife, they would also..."

"Don't mention my parents." Li Jinshui cut him off.

The voice was still calm, yet a layer of goosebumps erupted across Li Houde's back.

He remembered how he had used the death of Li Jinshui's parents as a bargaining chip for charity—when that couple died, he hadn't even provided a thin coffin; it was the neighbors who pooled money to bury them.

Now he was using this to plead his case? He wanted to slap himself across the face.

He reached into his robe, pulled out the cloth bag, placed it on the stone table, and pushed it forward.

When his fingers touched the fabric, he felt his fingertips go numb.

"This is fifty taels of silver," he said. "Consider it compensation from the clan. Also, the clan will renovate your parents' graves and erect a proper headstone. From now on, every Qingming Festival, the clan will send people to sweep them."

He paused, swallowing hard. "Jinbao is a foolish child; you've already beaten and taught him a lesson yesterday. From now on... from now on, we are still family. Whatever you need in the barracks, if the clan can help, we certainly will."

Having said this, he stared fixedly at Li Jinshui's hand.

That hand reached out, picked up the bag, and weighed it.

Fifty taels, heavy and solid.

Li Jinshui tucked the bag into his robe and looked up at Li Houde.

"Clan Elder, I accept the silver."

Li Houde felt a sudden release in his heart, a breath he was about to exhale. But before he could, he heard the next sentence:

"But the debt between us is not settled."

Li Houde's face turned deathly pale.

It wasn't a gradual fading; it was as if someone had drained every drop of blood from his face, leaving only a sickly, ashen gray beneath.

His lips trembled, and a garbled sound escaped his throat, as if he were being strangled.

"Jinshui... you..." His voice no longer sounded human, sharp and thin, like a rat caught by its tail.

Li Jinshui looked at him, the corners of his mouth slowly curling upward.

The smile was still gentle.

But in Li Houde's eyes, he saw Li Houshan, who had been nailed to the doorframe that morning—eyes wide open in death, mouth agape.

A thought exploded in his mind: Were the twenty-seven members of the collateral branch killed while being looked at with this same smile?

His stomach churned violently, and a wave of bile surged up his throat.

He fought to suppress it, but tears welled up uncontrollably. It wasn't sadness, but a pure, primal terror—the kind of fear a prey feels when a predator's teeth sink into its throat, leaving it paralyzed, bowels loosening in fright.

"Clan Elder, do you know why I made you stand for four hours just now?"

Li Houde's mouth hung open, unable to speak. His lower lip quivered violently, dragging his chin and cheeks into a spasmodic twitch.

"Because I wanted to see how long you could stand," Li Jinshui said. "You stood for four hours; that shows sincerity. But do you know? On my first day in the Death Squad Camp, I hauled thirteen corpses, and I was so exhausted that I crawled back to the barracks without even the strength to cry."

Li Houde's pupils contracted sharply.

Hauling corpses—he remembered when he sold Li Jinshui into the Death Squad Camp, the boy had looked back at him, his eyes devoid of hatred, holding something he hadn't understood at the time.

Now he understood. It wasn't resignation; it was swallowing the hatred, saving it for a later reckoning.

"Back then, I thought, if I could make it out alive, I would definitely come back to thank you."

Thank you—the words were spoken lightly, yet Li Houde felt as if an ice pick had been driven into his ear, stabbing straight into his heart.

His body began to tremble uncontrollably, from head to toe, shaking as if he had the ague.

He wanted to say something—to beg for mercy, to explain, or simply to kneel—yes, to kneel.

He stood up abruptly, but his knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed.

But Li Jinshui also stood up, looking down at him from above.

That angle, that backlight, reminded Li Houde of Li Houshan nailed to the door—also looking up like this at someone standing high above, until the blade pierced his chest.

"Family... we are family..." Li Houde finally squeezed out the words, his voice shattered beyond recognition. "Jinshui... the twenty-seven of the collateral branch... that had nothing to do with you... right?"

He had asked the question almost subconsciously. He regretted it the moment it left his lips.

Li Jinshui looked at him without answering. He simply watched.

Those few breaths of silence were more terrifying than any answer.

Li Houde's tears finally fell.

A man of sixty, in front of a group of soldiers, crying like a child.

Snot and tears smeared across his face, his lips trembling as he let out whimpering, sobbing sounds.

"I have accepted the silver; this is what you owed me. But what you owe me is more than just silver."

Li Jinshui's voice was very soft, as light as if he were coaxing a child to sleep.

"Clan Head, go back and live well. When I am done with this business, I will return to see you."

He turned and walked toward the camp.

After a few steps, he looked back once.

Li Houde was still sitting there—he had fallen back onto the stone stool at some point, his entire body hunched over like a discarded piece of old clothing.

His face was buried in his palms, his shoulders heaving, yet the sound of his crying was so faint it was almost inaudible.

It was the sound of someone completely broken.

It was not a wail, nor was it indignant; it was the despair seeping from the marrow of a man who had believed he could control everything, only to finally realize he was nothing at all.

Li Jinshui withdrew his gaze and continued walking forward.

"Squad Leader!" Er Gou caught up, his face full of excitement. "You're too awesome! That old man's face turned white with fear! What did you mean by that just now? Are you really going back to deal with them?"

Li Jinshui did not answer, only saying, "Go to the supply camp."

Meanwhile, under the old locust tree.

Li Houde did not know how long he had been sitting there. He felt as if his soul had been extracted, leaving behind only an empty shell that would scatter with the slightest breeze.

He raised his head and saw that the setting sun had scorched the horizon into a dark red. That color looked like blood.

The blood shed by the twenty-seven members of the collateral branch was likely the same color.

He suddenly remembered something—Li Jinshui had said, "What you owe me is more than just silver." If not silver, then what?

What he owed was a life.

Li Jinshui's parents died, and he never helped; Li Jinshui went hungry, and he never gave him half a bowl of porridge; Li Jinshui was sold into the Death Squad Camp, and he was the mastermind.

Li Houde stood up abruptly, but his legs gave way and he collapsed back down. He gripped the stone table, his fingernails scraping against the surface with a harsh sound, like a dying man clawing at the lid of a coffin.

He thought of Madam Wang, Li Jinbao, his second uncle, his third uncle, and those children back home.

He thought of the twenty-seven members of the collateral branch, not one left behind.

He had to go back. He had to tell everyone—lower their posture, scrape together the silver, shatter their knees if they had to, but by any means necessary, they had to appease Li Jinshui's rage.

Otherwise, the twenty-seven who died tomorrow morning would be them tonight.

He stumbled as he walked back, but after only a few steps, he suddenly bent over and vomited the last bit of bile from his stomach.

After finishing, he straightened up and wiped his mouth, his hand leaving a wet streak across his face—it was impossible to tell if it was sweat, tears, or the bile he had just vomited.

The setting sun stretched his shadow long and thin, like a crumpled paper doll.