Volume One, Chapter Twenty: A Violent Turn of Events

The mechanism designed by the flying squirrel was not complicated. Hundreds of fishhooks were tied to fishing lines of varying lengths, which were divided into two bundles and fastened to the tops of the giant bamboos that surrounded the stilted house. The hooks were then fixed to the railings on both sides, with the bamboos bent down to a stair tread and held in place with fishing line. Once Yan Nuo’s foot kicked the tread, the bamboo would spring back, whipping the lines and hooks in one direction. The immense recoil would hoist Yan Nuo into the air.

It was a crude, brutal, but effective trap. The flying squirrel wasn’t certain it would kill Yan Nuo, but he was sure it would cripple him for life.

Yan Nuo’s rigid daily routines were his fatal weakness.

Though he was carrying out orders, the flying squirrel could not agree with the command to kill Yan Nuo.

Even if Yan Nuo survived, he would feel no guilt. No one could deliver a perfect result every time.

Judging by the screams, Yu Wen’er had been inadvertently wounded—for her cry held not only terror but also the acute pain of injury.

Collateral damage was inevitable in operations.

He had once asked his instructor what to do if innocents were harmed.

The instructor had replied coolly: What can you do? You deal with the aftermath like any true killer.

The mission was essentially complete; it was time to retreat.

He made his way down the hillside in the darkness, walked several hundred meters along the main road, then slipped right into the shadows of an inner street.

A few bicycles stood crookedly along the street. He took from his pocket the screwdriver he’d bought earlier that day, jammed it forcefully between the curved lock and the steel clasp of a 28-inch bicycle, levered open the clasp, gripped the handle on the lock with his left hand, and gently pulled up—the lock opened.

He pushed the bike a few steps, then nimbly vaulted onto it. The bicycle swayed a little as he rode onto the main road, heading for the Mao Han Hotel.

A few streetlights from the hotel, he leaned the bike against a lamppost, took out a bottle of baijiu, gulped down two large mouthfuls in the dim light, then slumped into a corner against the wall. Like every impoverished drunk in this small town, his legs wouldn’t carry him home, so he simply sat by the street.

No one would notice that this seemingly dead-drunk man was staring intently at the gangsters loitering outside the Mao Han Hotel—injured, incapacitated, moaning, cursing, and complaining.

By the faint light, the flying squirrel memorized each face. He had been trained with an eidetic memory for faces—a skill that could save his life if he ran into any of them again.

To his surprise, Ru Aya had only been scratched on the back by a flying pin—not on the face or head, as with the others.

He mounted the bike again and vanished into the night, hurrying toward the rendezvous point.

A cool wind blew in from the west, bringing with it a curtain of rain. The wind and rain swept the roadside palms with a rustling sound, the gusts growing stronger until the downpour became a shimmering waterfall. The flying squirrel, with his back to the rain, pedaled faster and faster.

The rainy season had not yet arrived, so this shower did not concern him.

In the east of the city was a small bar—one of the few places of entertainment here—now shrouded in darkness and rain. The neon sign was so burnt out the original pattern and name were unrecognizable, leaving only a few flickering tubes swaying in the storm, casting a jumble of light.

He parked the stolen bicycle amid the pile at the door and walked in.

Under dim lighting, a local folk singer was howling out a Cantonese pop song at the top of his lungs—Lam Tsz Cheung’s “Billions of Nights”. The flying squirrel thought the singer’s Cantonese was better than his own.

To his amusement, the singer looked so much like Lam Tsz Cheung himself! A gaunt face, the same signature mustache, every gesture faithfully imitated, singing in his real voice—sharp, high, wild, uncannily authentic.

The flying squirrel thought: Fate truly mocks us. The man was about ten years older than him; someone must have told him he resembled Lam Tsz Cheung, so he’d abandoned other trades and devoted himself to impersonation, perhaps even prided himself on it, and would spend his whole life as a copy of another.

Such is life: fate has long since tagged us with a price.

The flying squirrel could picture the day this parodist would die—aping beauty in vain.

This was the agreed spot to meet his local informant. He arrived half an hour early.

Tonight, blood had been spilled in Mang City. Those hunting the flying squirrel would never imagine he’d have the leisure—or daring—to come to a place like this.

Still, before entering, he squatted for a while at the corner three hundred meters away, looking every inch the vagrant. Under his battered hat, his eyes were vigilant, never relaxing, watching the comings and goings, probing for any sign of a trap.

Betrayal was always a risk, whether for bounty or under duress.

There was no dance floor, but a few young men sat on makeshift barstools at the counter, clearly high, thrashing their heads as if possessed to the wretched music. Shirtless, their backs were covered with tattoos—dragons, tigers, leopards, all snarling beasts; European nudes in various poses; one had Che Guevara, another Shakyamuni Buddha. As their backs flexed and muscles twitched, Guevara’s stern face twisted in agony like a man about to be executed, and the Buddha’s once-serene brow contorted.

The air was thick with alcohol, tobacco, burnt heroin, the stench of urine, and rotting food.

Empty bottles littered the corners. Staff leftovers had been dumped there too, already growing white mold in the lamplight.

He even spotted several used domestic condoms—thick, cheap latex, low on comfort but unlikely to break, probably free from rural clinics’ family planning stations.

He’d seen children blow them up as balloons.

Here was a better fate for them; in the villages’ drinking water, used condoms bobbed along the current.

By the bar entrance, piles of towels lay on the floor—already filthy, now soaked with fresh blood, evidence of a recent fight.

In those days, people knew little of the law and had no faith in the police. Yan Nuo’s local authority carried more weight than the police. But Yan Nuo, high and mighty, wouldn’t bother with drunken brawls or petty love rivalries. The hotheaded youth settled such trivial vendettas with fists, Thai knives, even bullets.

The flying squirrel, in his battered hat, sat at a table in the inner corner facing the door, so he could see everyone who entered.

He ordered half a case of Burmese “Tiger” beer, 330 ml bottles at 3.8% alcohol—a higher proof than local brews.

The brand, Singapore’s most popular, had just started brewing in Burma. Now it was everywhere along the border.

He knew he was already an alcoholic. No help for it—alcohol was the sovereign antidote to stress. Especially after tonight’s deed.

He hadn’t finished his first bottle when a commotion erupted next door. The singer’s hysterical wails broke off; the drinkers ran out in silence, and the owner cowered behind the bar.

Violence had flared again, but people no longer watched for the spectacle—they just fled. The flying squirrel raised his hat brim and looked over.

Six people at the next table: a young girl and five men.

The girl was maybe fifteen or sixteen. A man with a bristling beard, about thirty, was beating her with his fists. She shielded her head, her face obscured.

The singer had stopped his shrill song and was calmly drinking beer, waiting for the fight to end before resuming.

The sound of the man’s blows against her body and arms was like a stick drumming on wood. The girl dared not cry out, only pleaded quietly.

White powder was scattered across the glass coffee table.

The flying squirrel had no wish to get involved; tonight, he had to look after himself. The informant was on the way. His profession demanded he suppress his anger—passion and hatred were luxuries, and even if he felt them, he must restrain himself.

He stared at his beer in the dim light, listening to the blows, to the curses he half-understood, the stifled sobs and pleas.

There was no music now, only these harsh sounds, each one cutting through the air.

At this moment, the flying squirrel—dressed like a country bumpkin—looked out of place in the bar.

Half-drunk, he could still make out the girl’s repeated mumbling for “Kunbo” as she begged for mercy. In his head, he couldn’t help but recall his own father’s beatings: the twisted, distorted face, the dreaded rolling pin, shoe soles, paperweights.

The cries and blows went on. The flying squirrel could restrain himself no longer.

Without a word, he strode over.

He’d always had explosive power, though little endurance. Using the momentum of his charge, he seized the burly man, channeling force from foot and leg through waist and shoulders, into his arms and hands, and hurled the man sideways into the air, slamming him face-first onto another glass table.

The man got up, staring in shock, glass shards cutting his cheeks, and shouted angrily in Mandarin, “She won’t sleep with men!”

“The hell, are you making her sell herself?” The flying squirrel’s fury was out of control, his voice warped. “She won’t sell, so you beat her, is that it?”

He charged again at the staggering man, grabbed him by the neck and pinned him to the wall, snatching up a beer bottle and smashing it over his head, again and again.

“That’s my daughter!” the man roared.

The flying squirrel froze for a split second. The man saw a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but it was instantly replaced by a cold, angry glare.

Then a voice like something from hell came from the flying squirrel’s mouth: “Then you deserve to die even more!”

With practiced skill, he smashed the bottle against the wall, leaving a fistful of sharp, deadly blades—the bottle’s neck now a dagger.

He wasted no time, plunging the jagged neck into the man’s carotid artery.

He twisted it out; with every beat of the man’s heart, blood spurted from the wound, spraying like a mist in the flickering light.

The girl’s scream rang through the little bar.

A Thai knife stabbed into the flying squirrel’s right lower back from behind.

It felt like a hornet sting—he knew he’d been ambushed. The knife was still stuck in his back as he turned and lunged at his assailant, grappling with him to the floor and raining down blows with the broken bottle.

He didn’t stop until the man lay motionless. Then he staggered to his feet and made his way to the toilet—a foul-smelling, filthy place, but at least there was a cracked mirror on the wall.

He turned his back to the mirror, gritted his teeth, and yanked the Thai knife from his waist, a flap of flesh peeling away with the blade. The blood wasn’t gushing—not an artery or major vein, and not deep enough to reach the organs.

He had no time to dress the wound. He had to escape, fast.

Clutching his side, he left the toilet. The bar was deserted—the singer, the girl, and the staff had fled, everyone else gone quicker than rabbits.

He grabbed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bar and, glancing once at the two bodies on the floor, staggered out into the night.