Volume One, Chapter Ten: The Fortress

The flying squirrel and the informant sat at the entrance of the small shop, right at the edge of the road. The flying squirrel remained absorbed, studying the topographical map with intense focus, while the informant sipped his beer, his eyes constantly tracking the vehicles passing by on the road.

The informant noticed three motorcycles appearing at the far end of the road. This was the remote outskirts of Mang City, a place rarely visited by anyone, especially at this early hour.

Perhaps these were extra men stationed by Yan Nuo at the checkpoint.

The informant rose, beer in hand, and wandered toward the bushes, turning his back on the road as he relieved himself.

The flying squirrel, too, had noticed the situation but made no move, still studying the map with utmost seriousness. As the motorcycles passed by, he glanced up, seemingly without intent.

Nothing came of it.

Returning to his seat across from the flying squirrel, the informant couldn't help but praise, "You’re remarkably calm."

The flying squirrel didn’t reply, but thought to himself that if both of them left the table, that would truly draw attention.

He pointed at the map and said, "I never planned to go in from outside. I trust Boss Yan’s security measures. All the guards must be stationed along the walls and at the gates, right?"

"Exactly. They cover every possible entry point—nothing gets through," the informant said, tracing a circle with his right finger around the high wall on the map. "Not even a bird could fly in."

Good, thought the flying squirrel. With all the guards focused on repelling outside intruders, whatever happens inside the courtyard will be overlooked. He muttered, "A bird can’t get in, but a mouse might, don’t you think?"

The informant was surprised by this line of thinking. "You can take out those sentries?"

The flying squirrel shrugged. "No. Not a single one, and there’s no need. They’re not my target."

Shifting his attention to the western side of the compound, where three large buildings were sketched out, he asked, "What do these notations mean?"

"Those are still under construction," the informant replied at once.

The flying squirrel frowned; this was useless information. He turned his gaze to the area outside the wall. "Are there guards posted outside the walls?"

The informant shook his head. "No. As long as people can’t get in, there’s no need to place guards beyond the main buildings. Boss Yan treats this as his home—he doesn’t want to make things too tense."

Most of the interior was still under construction; two-thirds of it was open ground.

The informant continued, "Construction began four years ago. They hired designers from Yunting. The main builders are from Bamin, the laborers are locals, and the carpenters are Bai people from Lanzhao and Jianchuan. The project’s dragged on too long."

The flying squirrel replied bluntly, "Since I can’t get in through any of those gates, this is all irrelevant."

The informant’s curiosity was piqued. "I always thought you’d kill him outside the compound."

At the mention of "kill," the flying squirrel pondered for a moment before answering, "If I’d come quietly, without fanfare, he might have risked showing himself. But as it is, my arrival is so obvious it’s as if I’m beating a drum—why would he ever come out?"

"Then why not come quietly?" the informant complained. "Do you realize how the news got out? I’m starting to question my own safety."

The flying squirrel looked up, his cold gaze silencing any further questions.

Of course I know, the flying squirrel thought.

His attention returned to the completed buildings on the map. "Why does the main structure look like a Japanese garden? Is the whole house made of stone?"

"Boss Yan favors that kind of minimalist courtyard. Besides, stone makes him feel secure," the informant replied.

Examining the map closely, the flying squirrel realized that the informant was unexpectedly skilled at drafting.

He pointed to a notation beside Yan Nuo’s house. "Why does this two-story structure look like a temporary building?"

The informant had handwritten "two stories" on the floor plan, but the shape of the house was irregular.

"Oh, that’s his daughter Yu Wen’er’s house. It’s built of bamboo," the informant explained.

His drawings were meticulous, not at all like a local’s; the proportions were spot on.

It was a stilted house. Square bamboo dwellings like these were typical and common in the Deze region, with the main building square, facing east, and sitting to the west.

The flying squirrel recognized it as an Ang ethnic house, with a main building and annex. The main building was two floors—the first probably Yu Wen’er’s living area, the second her bedroom. The stairs to the second floor were also made of wood and bamboo, and the informant had noted: "stairs outside the house."

Based on the customs and the map, the flying squirrel estimated that the total area of the two floors was about 400 square meters.

He asked, puzzled, "A bamboo house? Why would his daughter build an Ang-style home?"

"Her mother—Yan Nuo’s late wife—was Ang," the informant explained.

The flying squirrel nodded. "That makes sense. This annex must be her shrine room?"

The Ang people are devout Buddhists; in every village, the best building is the shrine for Buddha images.

The informant nodded again, thinking that this man had a deep understanding of local customs.

The flying squirrel pressed for more detail. "There must be a lot of bamboo planted in the yard?"

"Plenty. Mostly dragon bamboo," the informant answered.

The flying squirrel, his fingernails caked with dirt, pointed to the side of the stairs. "Is there bamboo planted here?"

The informant nodded.

After a moment’s thought, the flying squirrel asked, "Any Pu bamboo?"

The informant hesitated. Dragon bamboo was a local specialty—thick, long-caned, usually four or five inches in diameter. The best came from Zhenkang; the biggest were as thick as pillars, a locally famed product, once called "Pu bamboo" in old texts. He wondered why the flying squirrel was suddenly so interested in bamboo.

He searched his memory and shook his head. "I don’t think so."

The flying squirrel looked down at the map and muttered, "No? Dragon bamboo will do." Then he pointed to a rectangle. "They’re digging a swimming pool here, right?"

The informant nodded, taking a sip of beer.

The flying squirrel went on, "With buildings this big, the outer areas need drainage. There must be at least one sewer line. Have you noticed?"

The informant thought for a moment, then pointed to a spot on the map. "There’s a manhole cover here. I don’t know about entrances outside the yard, though."

Now he understood how the flying squirrel planned to get inside.

"I can find it," the flying squirrel said, more to himself. Then, as if casually, he asked, "Does he have any daily routines?"

The informant was thoroughly familiar with Yan Nuo’s habits and replied without hesitation, "He gets up at seven, usually spends his evenings socializing, and goes to bed at odd hours. Now that he knows you’re here, he’ll stay holed up in the main hall and won’t come out." He used his usual term—the "main hall"—for Yan Nuo’s main living quarters, which were immense, lavish, and fully equipped.

The flying squirrel fixed the informant with a stare, apparently dissatisfied with the amount of information.

The informant thought for a moment, then added, "Oh, he has one habit. If he’s home, every night at ten sharp, he goes to Yu Wen’er’s room to say good night."

He noticed the flying squirrel’s ears suddenly stand up like a wolf’s.

"To her bedroom?" asked the flying squirrel.

The informant nodded again. "She’s his precious daughter. None of us, not even the guards, are allowed near her room."

The flying squirrel sifted through the information in his mind, a satisfied smile appearing on his lips.

At last, the informant felt some relief; clearly, the flying squirrel had gotten what he wanted. He thought, dealing with people like this brings an inexplicable pressure.

The flying squirrel began gathering up the maps on the table and asked offhandedly, "Let me ask you something—why are you an informant?"

The informant was caught off guard, his gaze flickering, a sly smile on his lips. "That’s my business."

He knew this type well—those questions that seemed casual, dropped in while doing something else, were always the real ones. So he continued, "You probably don’t know: ten years ago, after four years at university in Yunting, I came back. See how precise my drawings are? I studied architecture. That year, I was the only minority university student in this county. I have my own way of dealing with the world."

Seeing the flying squirrel’s look of growing perplexity, he added, "Really, everyone’s just in it for their own gain, don’t you think? I wouldn’t stick my neck out for nothing. But isn’t this the wrong time to talk about motives?"

The flying squirrel had long noticed that the informant’s left hand was always half-clenched—a habit picked up from bricklaying on construction sites. He asked, "Are there many people who want to bring down Yan Nuo?"

This time, the informant replied seriously, "Not a single one. Whatever Boss Yan’s like with outsiders, he’s still done a lot for the people of Mang City."