I insisted there were no corpses in the cabinet; inside the jar was a large gecko—a Dà Shǒugōng—which might just be the thing to counteract Ding Sitian’s Jǐn Lín Guǐ venom. Fatty stared back skeptically. "Old Hu, you can't be serious. I've never heard of a Dà Shǒugōng curing poison. I don't even know what a Shǒugōng is. We were both raised by our parents, nurtured in the spring breeze and nurturing rain of Mao Zedong Thought under the red banner. How is it you know so much more than me? I have to ask why."

My heart was burning with urgency, but to maintain my composed façade—the one that never flinches even if Mount Tai were to collapse before me—I busied myself finding Kangxi’s Treasure Sword to scrape away the sealing wax on the jar's lid, stealing moments to reply to Fatty. "Why do I know more than you? Because I established lofty ambitions early on, deliberately cultivated my willpower, and ceaselessly absorbed useful, practical knowledge so that I could become an excellent commander in our army during the Third World War to liberate all humanity. And you? You spend your days idling, stirring up trouble. Besides catching rabbits, what other skills do you possess? Furthermore, as a Red Guard comrade who fought shoulder-to-shoulder with you, we share an almost identical upbringing; we both endured the Three Years of Natural Disasters and grew up eating from the socialist communal kitchens. Neither of us bathed in any more spring breeze or nurturing rain than the other. Why are you so fat and I so thin? I have to ask, why is that?"

Fatty’s talent for debate has always been half a step behind mine. Once again, my question left him momentarily speechless. My continuous torrent of words was actually a manifestation of my inner uncertainty and anxiety. While speaking, I managed to pry open the round glass container, enduring the acrid smell, and inserted the tip of the long blade inside. Sure enough, I fished out a dripping wet, large gecko. It was over a meter long, tail included.

What exactly is a Shǒugōng? In reality, a Shǒugōng is a gecko (bìhǔ). The name Shǒugōng literally means 'Palace Guard,' referring to its role in safeguarding the inner courts of the Emperor. The Emperor, at minimum, maintained the Three Palaces and Six Courts; at most, his inner harem held three thousand beauties. These women were reserved solely for the Emperor’s consumption, untouchable by any other man. To prevent any illicit affairs from occurring within the palace, eunuchs would select small, dark-blue geckos. These were kept in blue-tile jars in deep shade, fed cinnabar daily by dedicated attendants. After three years, the geckos in the jars would grow to weigh seven or eight jin—a considerable size.

Much like selecting a pig for slaughter, once a gecko reached that requisite weight of seven or eight jin, it would be captured, wrapped in mulberry bark, placed on a sun-baked tile to dry, and then ground into powder for medicine. This powder was dotted onto the arm of a newly inducted palace woman. From then on, her arm bore a spot the color of blood-red cinnabar—this was known as Shǒugōng Shā (Gecko Sand). If a virgin ever engaged in sexual intercourse, the Shǒugōng Shā would vanish; otherwise, it would remain for life. The Emperor used this method to control his women. If a woman who had supposedly never been favored by the Emperor was found without the Shǒugōng Shā, it was considered an act of deceiving the sovereign—cuckolding the Emperor—a crime punishable by the extermination of nine generations of kin.

Because the large gecko served this unique function, it earned the alternate name Shǒugōng. This name, reportedly bestowed by the Emperor himself through his 'golden mouth and jade words,' led to geckos historically being called Shǒugōng. Logically, this term belongs in the category of the 'Four Olds' and should have been abolished. However, the moment I saw this gecko, my mind flashed back to a childhood incident; my grandfather always called them Shǒugōng.

They say boys between the ages of seven and eight are nuisances—even the bottom of a monkey’s rear end invites a curious touch. But by the time I was twelve or thirteen, I still hadn't learned how to be an obedient child; I was utterly incorrigible. Behind our military compound lay a stretch of wasteland, and deep within the grass was a large bluestone slab. Local lore claimed the slab was a coffin lid, and anyone who sat upon it would be harmed by the yin energy of the corpse beneath.

Upon hearing this, I decided to scout the location. I gathered a few other children and we used iron bars to pry the bluestone slab open. It wasn't a coffin lid, just a natural piece of bluestone covered in green moss on the underside. Just as I was feeling disappointed by the anticlimax, I discovered a large scorpion hiding beneath the stone. It bit my ring finger. The wound immediately turned black and swelled into two or three concentric rings, and my arm began to grow numb. At that moment, I truly believed I was about to make a heroic sacrifice and scrambled home.

Coincidentally, my parents were away on a business trip. My grandfather took me to the local health station. The doctor there was an amateur; after a brief examination, he demanded immediate amputation of my finger. My grandfather, Hu Guohua, refused. He had his own folk remedies; in the old society, he had been a geomancer and a fortune-teller, familiar with many obscure grassroots cures.

It happened that someone had just caught a live Dà Shǒugōng. He procured it. The feet of the Shǒugōng, if inspected closely, look rather like human hands, with a small, bright-red nodule between the finger pads. He used a needle to prick out these tiny red nodules between the gecko’s fingers, mixed them with water, and forced me to swallow the mixture. In less than half a day, the swelling in my hand had subsided.

Later, I asked him what that substance was. My grandfather then told me many stories about the Shǒugōng. My thorough knowledge of obscure and ancient anecdotes comes almost entirely from those tales he told me. The small red pellets between the Shǒugōng's digits were called Qí Hóng Xiāng (Navel Red Fragrance). They could counteract the 'Five Poisons' and cure a hundred toxins. If a jar of Qí Hóng Xiāng was hung in a house, no mosquitoes, insects, snakes, or ants would plague the entire residence, but that required quite a number of mature Dà Shǒugōng—far more than an ordinary household could afford.

I never imagined my past experiences would prove useful now. Since only the Qí Hóng Xiāng from the forelimbs was effective, and a mature Dà Shǒugōng possessed eight such nodules between its digits, it represented the perfect antidote. The only thing I worried about was whether this so-called cure for all poisons included the venom of the Jǐn Lín Guǐ. But when facing death, any straw is worth grasping—it was certainly better than watching Ding Sitian die before my eyes.

I hardened my resolve and decided to risk it. If this killed Ding Sitian, I would follow her to the grave. I was utterly frantic then, and Fatty and I completely forgot that we too might have been poisoned by the Corpse Ginseng, shoving that entire concern out of our minds. I briefly explained the principle to Fatty. Though he only half-understood, out of profound trust built from years as comrades, he agreed to go all in.

We dragged the carcass of the large gecko onto the ground and washed off the residual liquid with clean water from the kettle. Fatty held the Shǒugōng's front paw steady, and I used the fine tip of the long sword to delicately pick out the eight small red nodules. I cupped them in my palm and looked at them—they were glistening crimson. The fate of Ding Sitian, whether she lived or died, rested entirely upon them.