The room was utterly bare; the only thing inside was a figure hanging from the high ceiling beam, head askew, tongue elongated, swaying gently with the motion caused by the opening door.

I immediately shrieked, "Help! Someone's here! Someone has hanged themselves!"

Wang Jue rushed in from the main hall, and upon seeing the scene, was so shocked he couldn't speak for a full moment. Then he nudged me, whispering, "Save him first, get a stool."

It was strange; this vast inner chamber was devoid of any furniture, empty and cavernous like a barn. How the hanged man managed to loop the noose over the beam suspended more than three meters high remained a baffling question.

I fetched a stool from the hall. Wang Jue stood upon it, cupped the man's thighs, and worked the rope from around his neck. I braced his body from below the stool, and inch by agonizing inch, we lowered him to the ground.

Initially, it was just the two of us in the room, but my frantic shouts had already brought several neighbors running. They rushed in, a flurry of hands helping to carry the hanging man out to the courtyard for air.

Only then did I get a clear look: the hanged man was the scarred face from earlier. Wang Jue checked his nostrils, shook his head, signaling he was gone. Driven by professional habit, he administered several minutes of artificial respiration. In the end, there was no reviving him.

The village instantly exploded into chaos. Hearing of the death, villagers poured out of their homes, surrounding Scarface’s yard until it was impassable. Some yelled to summon the Village Chief; others insisted on calling the city police; a few demanded someone find Scarface’s tangke (wife).

More terrifyingly, accusations began flying that Wang Jue and I—two outsiders—had murdered Scarface, and shouts rose to bind us and deliver us to the Public Security Bureau. Just as ropes were produced for the binding, someone yelled, "The Village Chief is here!"

The crowd instantly quieted, parting naturally to form a path as a short, dark-faced elder, leaning heavily on a cane, hobbled through.

The Village Chief approached Wang Jue and me, scrutinizing us both before glancing down at Scarface on the ground, his expression one of pure disdain. "Where are you two from?" he demanded.

"Wangcheng, Wu Village," Wang Jue replied. He cut me off and subtly tugged the corner of my jacket from behind. I understood immediately and nodded. His meaning was clear: revealing our true origin would only invite more suspicion without helping our current predicament.

The Chief pointed his cane at the body on the ground and asked, "How did he die?"

I began recounting everything that had transpired since we entered the door, but I was interrupted mid-sentence by shouts from the crowd: "Lies! Who stands idly in the main hall for two hours without searching for the master?" "Right! If he was fine in the room, how could he suddenly hang himself?" "Seize them both and take them to the station!"

Slowly, the angry shouts in the crowd swelled—a continuous, rising tide of hostility. The people grew increasingly agitated, seemingly certain we were the murderers. Some outright lunged forward, grabbing my and Wang Jue’s arms, preparing to march us off like condemned criminals performing the 'aeroplane' pose.

Wang Jue and I were certainly not willing to submit, countering the grabbing claws with shoves of our own. The crowd’s fury only intensified. We pushed them, they pushed us; the shoving, pulling, and grappling grew louder and more violent. It was clearly escalating toward a full-blown riot.