Chapter 15: Whether It’s Tragic Depends on Who You Are

Wei Dong had never considered claiming those goods for himself. He still had that baseline sense of integrity. Besides, all those things together were worth only a few thousand yuan, and he wasn’t exactly short on cash.

The next morning before dawn, after a few extra rounds of carrying heavy loads at the dock as part of his strength training, the sweat-soaked porter traced his way through the streets to the home of one of the female shop assistants. In fact, all of You Qili’s crew hailed from the few streets nearby, leading Wei Dong to suspect that the attractive young woman before him was the one who later divorced and married You Qili, a man who swung between prison and meteoric rises. In the end, though, it was the woman’s younger sister who stood by You Qili’s side—the one who kept watch over more than two hundred properties for him while he was behind bars.

The idle gossips at the Tax Bureau compound loved nothing more than to chew over such salacious wife-swapping tales, spreading them with so much relish that Wei Dong’s ears grew calloused. In contrast, they knew little about You Qili’s business exploits except that he kept changing planes.

It was easy to find people in these old buildings in the era before natural gas, when every resident had to come outside in the morning to light a coal stove for boiling water and making breakfast. Wei Dong loitered at the street corner pretending to eat breakfast, soon spotting the shop assistant emerge from the throng of neighbors, wearing nothing but a tank top, busy under the eaves, frowning as she fanned the stove and seemingly oblivious to the waves her figure created.

Wei Dong shouldered his basket and approached: “Fresh river fish, just caught—” Looking down, he was momentarily stunned by the view at her collar, nearly choking.

The young woman didn’t even glance up, replying irritably, “No, thanks!”

Wei Dong swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “Last night, Bazige led some men to clear out all the valuable goods from the trading company, but I quietly moved them elsewhere. You can arrange for someone to fetch them.” Beyond a simple sense of justice, he also wanted to establish some connection with a future business magnate.

Dong Xueying snapped her head up, but Wei Dong was already hoisting his basket to leave. “Once you find the place, leave the address and key under the trading company’s flowerpot. Don’t contact me.”

People just released from jail were often under various forms of surveillance. But this woman’s loyalty to You Qili seemed beyond doubt. Anyone could guess that when the goods hidden in the stairwell disappeared, the group would go crazy searching for them.

Wei Dong remembered that back in 1985, a notorious thief had been caught in the city, and police uncovered goods worth thousands at his home—a story the whole city talked about for ages until he was finally executed. That was considered a huge fortune then. By now, Wei Dong himself could easily be among the city’s top five richest men—there weren’t even many corrupt officials at this point, simply because there was nothing to embezzle.

He brought the two fish home for his mother to make soup, but didn’t get any himself. At noon, he saw Shi Linyan returning to school gleefully with a pile of colored paper, while countless students changed into white shirts. Only after leaving the school did Wei Dong realize there was a National Day performance.

The young, pretty English teacher was, of course, in charge and didn’t even come home for dinner; the school provided steamed buns or bread as a group meal. Wei Dong was left speechless, his mind full of thoughts of rich, creamy fish soup, and he swallowed hard more than once. In the end, he had to settle for a bowl of tofu pudding with rice.

Fortunately, when school let out, it was just past eight, and the sight of the entire student body heading home was a grand spectacle—a sea of people everywhere. Wei Dong felt there was no need to keep watch; young female teachers were practically swarmed by groups of girls. Shi Linyan, animated and lively, bounced along like a little hen—no wonder she drew the attention of troublemakers.

The old security guard sighed inwardly. Even across the street he was jostled by the crowd of students, all chattering enthusiastically about the dance Miss Shi had led that day. “That’s the first-year English teacher, right? I wish I could be in her class...”

At the three-way intersection, the crowds split, with some people stopping to chat in front of the construction site. With so many people around, nothing could possibly happen. Wei Dong, blending in with a few students, slipped into a nearby alley; his rented room was located conveniently between the tax bureau compound and the trading company.

But as they turned into the dim side street, a sudden ripping sound came from a nearby alley. The students were unfazed, but Wei Dong felt every hair on his body stand on end—that was the sound of fabric tearing, seared into his memory for forty years.

Without hesitation, he broke away from the group and slipped into the opposite alley. This was the shortcut he’d used the first time he returned, hiding and checking for people outside before cutting through a side lane by the construction site—it even had a public restroom. He’d once warned You Qili about Bazige’s alley here.

Everything happened right here. It was so familiar he barely had to think. Striding in and unshouldering his basket with one hand, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He spotted the shop assistant, her mouth clamped shut from behind, her clothes torn open, her body convulsing as she desperately tried to make noise.

The thick arm clutching her, still holding a torn scrap of cloth, was locked around her waist, hand already reaching into her waistband. The attacker’s face was hidden, but the method was unmistakable—the same as forty years ago.

Confronted with this hellish scene, Wei Dong’s entire being exploded with a surge of fighting spirit. Without thinking, he bellowed, “Catch the villain!” and hurled his basket with all his strength. He’d always liked to shout during basketball games, as if it helped him release pent-up energy and move more fluidly.

And it made him think more clearly.

Sure enough, the basket, dark and swinging, flew over—while it struck the shop assistant, it also forced the snake coiled behind her to release his grip and dodge away.

Wei Dong, holding his crutch with his other hand, lunged between the two, swinging down with all his might. He’d imagined this act of vengeance for forty years—every ounce of hate channeled into the blow.

He didn’t even look at the pale figure he’d knocked aside. He felt the impact, but regretted it wasn’t harder. Lucky for you, he thought. The T-shaped end wasn’t the most lethal—it wasn’t the twin open pipe ends, just the welded joint. Otherwise, this blow, carrying forty years of wrath, would have ended half the man’s life.

Even so, he heard the man grunt in pain in the darkness—it had to hurt like hell. Wei Dong twisted his wrist and aimed another blow, but the attacker rolled nimbly on the ground and dodged.

The metal pipe struck the stone slabs with such force that sparks nearly flew.

Never let up! Wei Dong knew the man had a knife—he mustn’t give him a chance to draw it. With one hand gripping the crutch, he wielded it like a strange weapon, or like a farmer hacking at the earth, driving the man to roll and crawl on the ground, unable to stand.

Once, he felt the pipe connect with flesh—a distinct, springy resistance—making him hack even more frantically. The rapid strikes left a small arc, designed to give the man not a moment’s respite. The blows were less powerful but unrelenting.

Yet as Wei Dong stepped forward, he tripped over the shop assistant lying on the ground and almost stumbled. The attacker seized the chance to leap up and run outside.

Wei Dong had lived this moment in his mind a million times. By ramming the man with his basket, he’d instinctively separated him from the alley’s depths and forced him toward the street. Had the man run deeper into the alley, he’d have vanished into the wild hills behind the tax bureau, never to be found.

Now, the battered figure instinctively dashed toward the street.

Wei Dong steadied himself and chased after, noting the man limping—his pipe had landed a painful blow to the foot. Let’s see how you like being crippled, he thought, every violent impulse in his body ablaze. He kept a measured stride, unhurried, methodical.

Up ahead, the figure scattered a group of students gathered at the alley’s mouth like sparrows startled from the threshing floor. Wei Dong lunged two steps, blocking off the dark lane toward the trading company, trying to drive the man toward the busier, well-lit main street by the city hospital.

In the faint glow from the street, he saw the attacker wearing a blue tracksuit with a big collar—a city dweller for sure, but not a well-off one, the fabric frayed and worn at the edges.

But in that split second, the man proved more vicious than expected, suddenly turning and charging at Wei Dong. If caught off guard, anyone would have panicked—but Wei Dong calmly swung his crutch in front of him, blocking the assault.

He heard the sharp clang of metal against metal.

And then, in a flash that once left Wei Dong’s soul shattered, the attacker drew his knife and slashed it along the pipe—exactly as in the past. In that moment, Wei Dong realized that forty years ago, when he’d grabbed a shovel at the construction site to fight for justice, he’d thought he’d win for sure. But the man’s knife had sliced along the edge, not by luck, but with real skill—deliberately.

He’d gripped the shovel with both hands, and with one stroke, the man had severed all four fingers of his right hand; his left hand was lost at the wrist. He remembered cradling his mutilated hands, screaming and rolling on the ground while the man arrogantly took his severed fingers. Later, the city hospital couldn’t reattach them—he was left with nothing but a thumb and a mangled hand.

How tragic was that?