Chapter Fifty-One: The Six Fingers

I was utterly dumbfounded. Thinking back on the commotion we’d just heard, whatever had been inside must have been quite large—so how could there be nothing at all?

Just then, Peanut suddenly walked over. Without even glancing inside the coffin, he headed straight to the coffin lid that had been pulled aside at the back.

Fatty tapped around the bottom of the coffin, as if searching for some mechanism. After a while, having found nothing, he too went over to Peanut. My mind was a chaos of questions. After hesitating for a moment, I reached out and picked up that piece of paper covered in wood shavings.

As soon as I held it and turned it over, I froze. It was actually an envelope!

My hand started to tremble. What was going on here? Was this the “Envelope Fairy” or the “Envelope Demon”? Was it the source of all that noise earlier?

Come on... As I puzzled over it, I remembered that the door to this burial chamber had only been installed in modern times, so it wasn’t entirely impossible for an envelope to appear here. But if there really was nothing inside, why go to the trouble of locking it with such a thick door—and from the inside, no less? Why make it so complicated?

No, something didn’t add up. I suddenly recalled the hand I’d seen before. I didn’t think I’d been mistaken, and all the signs we’d seen suggested something bizarre was going on here.

I felt as if I’d just fallen from some illusory realm back to reality, but even so, I couldn't shake a sense of unease, even disappointment. But feeling the envelope’s heft, I realized there really was paper inside—perhaps left behind by whoever had come before us and dropped it into the coffin. I brought it closer for a careful look.

The envelope was already a bit damp and reeked of mildew. Its face was blank, with nothing written on it—only a hand-drawn design where the stamp would go, clearly done with a fountain pen. Impatience drowned out my concern for such details. Maybe it was some special mark left by a grave robber. Without further delay, I reached into the envelope to see what it contained.

Inside were two folded sheets of letter paper and a photograph. Reading someone else’s letter always brings a certain thrill, and with the mysterious circumstances of its discovery, I was even more eager. Still, I checked the photograph first, only to find it was completely washed out with white light—just like a poorly developed, overexposed negative. Only a few golden glimmers showed at the edges; the rest was nothing but blinding white.

“Damn it, could this letter have been sent to a photo studio, complaining about a bad print and demanding a refund?” My confidence faltered as I unfolded the sheets.

The first thing that struck me was the handwriting—elegant and beautiful. Though the ink had blurred from dampness, it was clear the writer was cultured and refined. Even before reading a word, the script conveyed an air of upright character.

“Holy shit! Did you see everything inside when the coffin lid popped up earlier?” Just as I was about to read the letter, Fatty suddenly shouted, startling me. I looked over and saw Fatty and Peanut squatting by the coffin lid, as if they’d found something. Figuring I should check it out, I stuffed the letter and photograph back into the envelope and slipped it into my pocket.

“What did you find?” I crouched beside them.

Fatty pointed to the edge of the coffin lid. “See those six fingerprints?”

I peered closely and, sure enough, there were six distinct indentations along the inside edge at the top of the lid. What was perplexing was that all six prints were sunken into the wood, as if pressed in by tremendous force. Given the density of the wood, just how much strength would it take to make such marks?

After I shared my thoughts, Fatty glanced at Peanut and said, “Still, your eyes are sharper than mine. When that dagger got pulled inside, you were the only one who caught what was in here.”

I looked at Peanut, wondering if those fingerprints were the real reason he’d tried to stop me from opening the coffin.

While I was lost in thought, Fatty continued, “Look at the arrangement of those six prints. It matches the sequence of fingers on a right hand. But we all know a hand only has five fingers. Whoever made these must have been born with an extra finger on their right hand.” With that, Fatty shot me a peculiar look.

“But what does that prove?” I asked.

Fatty withdrew his hand and cocked his head at me, frowning. “Are you pretending, or do you just have zero faith in my intelligence?”

I was utterly confused. “Pretending about what?”

“Ha, now you’re playing dumb...” Fatty’s frown deepened, as if I’d said something truly outrageous.

At that moment, Peanut spoke quietly, “He really doesn’t know.”

Fatty seemed shocked. “Huh?”

Their cryptic exchange left me even more at a loss. “What on earth are you two talking about?”

Fatty clapped me on the shoulder. “Who have you lived with all your life?”

I wondered why he was asking this, but I simply explained my situation. Fatty still looked puzzled. “You’re not close with your father?”

“Bullshit,” I snapped, annoyed.

“Calm down. I just mean—haven’t you ever noticed your father’s right hand?” Fatty pressed.

“My father’s right hand... My father’s right hand doesn’t...” Suddenly, I realized what Fatty was implying. “You mean these fingerprints were left by my father?”

Fatty snorted. “‘Sixth Master Yuan, Sixth Master Yuan’—he got that nickname because he has six fingers on his right hand. You might not know the stories, but surely you’ve seen your own father’s hand?”

At his words, I recoiled as if I’d been shot.

Six fingers on the right hand? My father? How could that be possible? Though I couldn’t clearly picture his hand, I was certain it was perfectly normal. This wasn’t just a lapse of memory—if my father had such an unusual feature, it would have left a deep impression on me, even if no one ever mentioned it. With the time we’d spent together, I would have noticed something so extraordinary. There’s no way I’d have missed it, nor would Fatty need to point it out.

Sixth Master Yuan... I’d always thought that was just a nickname he’d picked up among friends, not that it referred to an actual physical trait.

After I finished, Fatty stared at me for a long time before saying, “Well, this is damn strange... Either you’re not really Sixth Master Yuan’s son, or the man you called your father was never Sixth Master Yuan at all.”

His words made my heart pound like a drum. He was an insider—he probably knew more about my father than I did, and he’d traveled with him all this way. If he was so certain, that meant he’d seen my father’s hand. Yet, in my mind, my father’s right hand was perfectly normal. Could it be... As I recalled Fatty’s second possibility, a chill ran through me.

Unconsciously, I turned to Peanut. “Is...”

“That’s your choice.” Before I could finish, Peanut cut me off. “Whatever you want to ask, I don’t have the answer.”

His expression was utterly cold. Thinking back to how he’d urged me not to open the coffin, I realized he’d been trying to warn me. Could it be that the upright man I’d always called my father wasn’t truly him? I looked at Peanut, then at the fingerprints on the coffin lid, and suddenly everything seemed far more complicated.

“All right, then tell me—was Fatty telling the truth?” I pressed.

“See, you still don’t believe me.” Fatty huffed. “On the journey here, Sixth Master only chatted with me. I’ve seen that right hand of his hundreds of times.”

Peanut looked at me and nodded.

I was completely stunned. In that instant, it felt as if a shadow had swallowed the world. If what they said was true, then the problem was far more complex than I’d ever imagined. It meant everyone in my family had been keeping this secret from me.

Whether or not the person I knew was really my father was now secondary—the real question was why my uncles, aunt, and everyone else had kept this from me. And there was no reason to do so; having an extra finger on the right hand isn’t something you need to hide from your own son. What, did my father think I’d laugh at him?

No, that couldn’t be it. There was something much deeper here... My head started to ache. I hadn’t even caught a glimpse of my father on this trip, and already I’d uncovered so many bewildering secrets.

Seeing my distress, Fatty grew impatient. “You look like one of those hapless leads in a cheesy Taiwanese soap opera—what good is that? I say we focus on finding a way out of here. Those questions aren’t for you to mope over; they’re meant to spur you to seek out your father. So much nonsense! Just go ask him directly and everything will be solved. If he still won’t talk, I’ll be right behind you with a bottle of chili water!”