Second Brother, Yu Wenle, was dead, killed by a gunshot. He clearly hadn't died recently; the wound on his chest had drained him completely, leaving his face unnervingly pale.

Up to this point, our knowledge of him was limited to the fact that he was a master of traps, had known Yu Ting for seven years, and hailed from Hunan; beyond that, we knew nothing. Though usually a man of few words, he was a brother with whom we had faced life and death.

Even in death, he hadn't forgotten us brothers, helping us escape our predicament. I knew then that the purest friendship in this world could be no stronger than this.

Recalling his final words, his loyalty to Xie Yu Ting was truly moving and worthy of admiration. I knelt before Second Brother, bowing my head heavily several times, before rising to gently close his unclosed eyes.

By this time, my face was streaked with tears, though I couldn't tell if it was from the chili powder or sheer grief. After closing Second Brother's eyes, I looked up to see Da Xiong and Nie Chuan already standing in the doorway watching me.

Seeing my tear-stained face, Nie Chuan seemed to understand. After a moment of silence, his own eyes red, he asked me, "Is that Second Brother's body?

How did he die?" I took a long, deep breath and said in a hoarse voice, "Shot. Looks like he's been gone for about a day." Nie Chuan nodded and walked toward us.

Da Xiong, who always feared ghosts, was silent now too, rubbing his eyes and sniffing, before he, too, moved closer. The three of us carefully lifted Second Brother's body from the stool and laid him on the floor.

We bowed once, then lit three cigarettes in an empty flowerpot as an offering to his spirit. "Thank you, Second Brother.

We will definitely save Xie Yu Ting and fulfill your final wish." I bowed to him again. After paying our respects, we began to investigate the cause of Second Brother's death.

Second Brother had been shot more than a dozen times in the chest; every shot pierced straight through, suggesting the shooter was either at extremely close range or using a very powerful weapon. However, the trauma from typical large-caliber rounds is usually far more gruesome than what we saw, so we could likely rule out the second possibility.

If he was shot dead up close and the bullets passed through his torso, there should be numerous corresponding bullet holes on the back of the chair. But when we moved Second Brother down, we saw no signs of impact on the chair.

This meant that he was placed on the chair after he had been killed. My initial assumption was that the people of Lei Yun Seng were the most likely culprits, but now it seemed far more complicated.

If Lei Yun Seng’s men had killed him, there would be no reason for them to bother moving him onto the chair. Searching a corpse lying down would be just as effective.

Of course, there was one other possibility: Second Brother wasn't killed instantly upon being shot, but managed to walk over and sit on this chair himself. Nie Chuan had clearly reached the same conclusion.

We exchanged a glance almost simultaneously, then both turned to look at the floor. Because the bloodstains on the ground would confirm our theory.

If he had been dragged and placed on the chair, the bloodstains should show signs of dragging. If he walked there himself, the bloodstains would mostly be in a dripping pattern.

With so much blood lost, tracing the stains wouldn't be difficult. We immediately saw pools of droplet-shaped bloodstains leading from the doorway.

Seeing this, Nie Chuan and Da Xiong started to follow the trail out the door. Just then, I stopped them.

"Wait. Regardless of where Second Brother walked from, if he was this badly wounded, his difficult journey here can't be accidental.

There must be something crucial here that he needed to reach, even as he was dying." They both realized I had a point and turned back. I walked to the window and yanked open the curtains blocking the light, then pushed the sash open.

However, we noticed the sun had already dipped behind the furthest mountain peak. While the sunset clouds were fiery red, they lacked the power to illuminate the entire landscape, leaving the room still shrouded in deep shadow.

Listening to the chirping of insects and watching fireflies begin to dance out of the grass, I knew night was returning. The nights here always carried a restless tension that unsettled the soul.

As soon as the light faded, I felt countless unseen things stirring in the thickets and woods. Looking back into the room, everything was vague shapes of shadow and filtered light.

The aging wardrobe, the dust-covered dining table, the stained, pale blue curtains, a few pieces of calligraphy and landscape paintings hanging on the wall, and in the corner, an old-fashioned wooden single bed—it looked more like the dwelling of a solitary elder, steeped in history and loneliness, yet seemingly concealing many secrets. I had a strong feeling this room must have belonged to Lei Yun Seng.

Lei Yun Seng had lived for centuries. Though known as a great demon, a figure who commanded respect and terror, strip away the prestige and vanity, and he was merely an old man.

Whether he was human, bird, or something else, any living entity that endured hundreds of years of weathering would grow profound, simple, perhaps even lonely. This room gave me precisely that impression.

Lighting a cold-flame flare, I shone it around and noticed the four paintings on the wall all depicted images promoting tranquility: mountain streams and verdant bamboo. On that old bed, I also discovered a very worn wooden fish (a Buddhist clapper).

Wiping the dust off the wooden fish, I noticed several deeply indented spots, clearly formed by long, repeated striking. The former occupant was certainly a devout Buddhist.

This bed held nothing else apart from this wooden fish and a nearly rotted mat laid upon it. I lifted the mat and found only wooden planks beneath, nothing else noteworthy.

Just as I was about to put the mat back, I suddenly saw a yellowed piece of paper stuck to the underside of it. Tearing it off and unfolding it, I found it was a portrait of a person.

The man in the drawing was an old fellow with small eyes, heavy bags beneath them, and a thin, wispy mustache. He was bald, his face a map of deep wrinkles, even his bare scalp was creased.

Yet, he didn't possess the weary decadence of extreme old age; rather, there was an air of gentle benevolence about him. The artist's hand was clumsy—the lines inexpertly drawn—but the skill was remarkable because the subject's expression and defining features were captured with striking accuracy.

"Who is this? Is this the Lei Yun Seng we're looking for?" Da Xiong asked, pointing at the painting.

I shook my head. "I don't know, but I think it’s possible." Da Xiong chuckled.

"But the statues of Lei Yun Seng we saw were all bird-like creatures. This old man looks quite kind; he doesn't seem like a great fiend." I knew Da Xiong had a point.

Lei Yun Seng was called a great demon; if he looked like this, it didn't fit the typical image of a monster. But who said a demon couldn't look human?

I folded the painting and slipped it into my pocket after examining it for a moment. After searching the room further, I found a mirror opposite the bed.

It was covered thickly in dust from long disuse. I wiped the grime away with my sleeve and looked in.

My own dark face stared back, revealing distinct dark circles under my eyes. Feeling my stubble and tidying my hair, I found a stool and sat before the mirror.

Holding the drawing and comparing its width and proportions to the mirror’s reflection, I realized the painting might have been a self-portrait done while looking into the glass. A telltale sign: if one draws while facing a mirror, the drawing board placed straight ahead would obstruct the view, forcing the artist to hold the board on their lap.

Every time they drew a line, they would have to look up at the mirror and then down at the paper, resulting in a drawing that seems viewed from slightly above. This is unavoidable for novice artists.

And the painting in my hand did indeed show this—I could even clearly see the wrinkles on the subject’s crown.