Tricked 016: Summer Solstice

Xia Qing was a volunteer teacher in the village; there was always a place for her teaching, and she always left something there.

Even if it was only a used piece of chalk.

The plan was quickly settled, with three people in their respective roles, the twins contacting other psychics, and Jiang Yan going out to gather information. The door to the main house stood ajar, and after leaving the bedroom, Jiang Yan naturally walked in.

At that moment, Wang Guilan was bending down, holding a basin. She was preoccupied, distracted, so when a chill crept up the back of her neck, she shuddered in fright. With a bang, the basin crashed to the ground, mingling with the heavy sound of rain outside, like muffled thunder.

Wang Guilan spun around quickly. That beautiful woman was standing behind her, just as she had the night before—silent, making her unaccountably fearful.

Jiang Yan smiled.

She withdrew her hand from Wang Guilan’s neck, crouched, and picked up the already rusty iron basin. “Did I scare you?”

Wang Guilan instinctively shrank back. “No… It’s fine.”

Jiang Yan’s tone was gentle: “I just noticed a leak in the house. Let me help you.”

Wang Guilan hurriedly shook her head. She took the basin from Jiang Yan. “No, no, I’ll handle it. You’d better go rest. With this weather, you all shouldn’t have to go to the Silkworm House today… Go rest, you and your friends.”

“We can’t rest,” Jiang Yan said, lips curling up, “The professor thought about it all night. He finally figured out the issue with your village’s silkworm breed. He just called and said he’s taking us to the Silkworm House to have a look. Congratulations, your village’s problem is finally solved.”

Wang Guilan looked delighted. “Really, that’s great! Last night, my husband was just telling me…” She stopped short, swallowed, and raised her eyes to Jiang Yan.

Jiang Yan pretended not to notice. “Hm? Your husband called you?”

Wang Guilan paused, then nodded hurriedly: “Yes, yes, he’s always worried the silkworm problem won’t be fixed, the village depends on them for money…”

Jiang Yan said: “Then the village owes us a thank you.”

Wang Guilan smiled, the little mole on her chin trembling: “Of course! When you leave, I’ll steam some buns for the road. I’m pretty good at it.”

With that, she went back to her chores, while Jiang Yan stood by, idly playing with her phone. Earlier, Shen Huanhuan had already contacted Cheng Guang, who called Xiong An and Zhao Chong to join them; just then, Cheng Guang sent over a “ten minutes away” emoji.

As Wang Guilan came and went, dumping water for the third time, the twins walked out. Shen Huanhuan was holding a big bag of snacks and asked Jiang Yan, “Jiang Yan, do you want these?”

“No,” Jiang Yan replied.

“Let’s give them to the little boy at the Silkworm House,” Shen Huanhuan suggested, “Last time when we snacked, he stared at us for ages—looked really pitiful.”

Their voices were loud enough for both Wang Guilan and the Village Chief to hear. Wang Guilan paused, asking, “That boy at the Silkworm House—is it Erzhuang?”

Shen Huanhuan, “I think that’s his name. He’s pretty shy, took the snacks and ran off without saying much.”

“He didn’t say much…” Wang Guilan visibly breathed out, glancing at the Village Chief. He, too, had heard what Jiang Yan said, understanding they were heading to the Silkworm House in the rain—nothing to stop, after all, every day lost meant more silkworm deaths.

The Village Chief coughed behind his hand, his voice hoarse: “The rain’s too heavy, and it’s far. Just leave the stuff here, I’ll give it to him when I see him.”

Wang Guilan added, “He’s a restless boy, lives by the Silkworm House, but runs all over the place. Just leave it here, I’ll hand it to him when I see him.”

Jiang Yan laughed, joining in: “Right, he shouldn’t be on the mountain all the time at this age—has to come to school, too.” She didn’t wait for them to answer. Casually, she asked, “There’s an elementary school here, right? I didn’t notice a flagpole or anything?”

The atmosphere froze, oddly tense.

But the Village Chief quickly sighed, waving a hand: “No money for things like that. Having a building for classes is a blessing enough… Used to be a school, but kids here are wild—no amount of beating or scolding gets them to learn—no hope for them.”

Shen Huanhuan bowed her head so her expression couldn’t be seen: “So the place is just abandoned?”

“Abandoned, yes.”

Then a knock sounded at the door: Cheng Guang and the others had arrived. The three said goodbye to the Village Chief, then pushed the door open. Outside, Cheng Guang stood awkwardly, Wang Baomin holding up a battered umbrella; the flashlight’s beam shone straight at Jiang Yan’s face, making her close her eyes. By the time she opened them, Wang Baomin was already turning away, heading for the mountain.

The path to the back of the mountain was muddy from rain, just like the first night there.

The same mud, the same unclear road.

The six followed Wang Baomin at a distance. The end of the path, obscured, looked like the gaping mouth of a beast, blindly swallowing one after another, thunder sounding like great gulps after devouring flesh—unsettling in every way. Cheng Guang, ever cautious, stuck close to Jiang Yan and explained in a whisper, “Told him we don’t need a guide, but he insisted. He’s ignoring us—what now, are we really going to the Silkworm House?”

“Of course not,” Jiang Yan rubbed her temples, easing away the lingering ache from the flashlight, “I thought you’d take him out with a blow.”

Cheng Guang: “……”

When her pain had eased, Jiang Yan stopped. “There’s still time now.”

Cheng Guang only knew they were called over, not what had happened in the village, and hesitantly said, “I don’t know… it feels wrong…”

Jiang Yan looked at him, voice gentle: “What’s wrong about it?”

Their eyes met. Cheng Guang shivered inexplicably, recalling that blinding light Wang Baomin shone in Jiang Yan’s eyes, and suddenly understood, and reaffirmed to himself: Jiang Yan was no ordinary person.

But he remembered his master’s instruction—always follow Jiang Yan’s lead.

Cheng Guang double checked: “You’re not messing with me, right…”

Jiang Yan: “Of course not.”

Cheng Guang clenched his fists, bracing himself. “You told me to, then.”

Jiang Yan’s smile only softened.

Panic rising, Cheng Guang straightened his neck and shouted, “Wang Baomin!”

Wang Baomin turned, flashlight in hand, “What the—” But before he could finish, a beam of strong light struck his eyes. The glare burned, forcing his eyes shut; Wang Baomin staggered back, hands over his face—then, pain slammed into the back of his head.

With Jiang Yan’s flashlight as backup, Cheng Guang managed, though trembling, to knock Wang Baomin down with a karate chop.

But not very hard—Wang Baomin began struggling to get back up. Cheng Guang cried out, delivered another two strikes in panic, and this time Wang Baomin stopped moving, eyes rolled back, collapsing in the mud.

“Good boy,” Jiang Yan said, turning down the mountain, “No one’s out and about now—perfect time to find the school.”

Cheng Guang’s hand still trembled: “What about him…”

Jiang Yan: “He won’t die.”

Cheng Guang wanted to say more, but saw, in disbelief, the usually gentle Shen Huanhuan follow Jiang Yan without expression. Shen Xiaoxiao, too, tramped back heavily: “He’ll just lie there getting rained on, wash his body and mind clean.”

Cheng Guang: “What if there’s a landslide…”

“Then he’s really unlucky.” Shen Xiaoxiao gave a mock-sigh.

Cheng Guang and the other two guys exchanged a look. They understood—Wang Baomin had his reason for lying there, though they didn’t yet know it.

Zhao Chong caught up with Shen Xiaoxiao, asking her what was going on. Earlier, Jiang Yan had told Shen Xiaoxiao and Shen Huanhuan they’d have to find the school and then go to the Ancestral Hall, and that would take time—enough time for the Village Chief and Uncle Huang, who was staying at the Silkworm House, to realize they never went to the Silkworm House; then, the whole of Silkworm Village would try to stop them.

They’d need help from outside.

So Shen Xiaoxiao didn’t hide anything: “This morning, Sister Jiang Yan took us to the Ancestral Hall. We found out the village worships the Medicine King, and for nearly a hundred years, it’s been all inbreeding! After generations, there’ve been deformed children. To curb it, they tried two things: trafficking children to be raised as villagers, and human sacrifices to appease the Medicine King.”

“Then Jiang Yan figured out the sacrifices. There were supposed to be four offerings, but months ago, five people died in the village—the fifth was the volunteer teacher, Xia Qing. It’s complicated, but basically, the four taken as sacrifices were brainwashed from an early age—innocent but with no hatred for the villagers, standing with Silkworm Village, with no resentment after death, their only lingering wish to protect the village. That’s nothing we can help, so we let the Bureau handle it.”

“Based on all this, only Xia Qing is full of resentment. The greater the resentment, the faster a spirit is corrupted by worldly filth, so Xia Qing was probably contaminated quickly—and being trapped in the Ancestral Hall, her anger only festered and built…”

Zhao Chong got it: “So you think Xia Qing is the main cause of the village’s unbalanced energy, and she’s probably lost her humanity—so now you’re looking for her records.”

Shen Xiaoxiao: “Exactly!”

So Zhao Chong hurried after the girls. Cheng Guang and Xiong An glanced at each other, leaving Wang Baomin be, and followed, supporting one another. Since they hadn’t walked far, within ten minutes they were back at the village entrance.

Jiang Yan surveyed the buildings: “Xia Qing taught in a regular cottage, abandoned for four months now; there should be moss on the steps.”

“Wang Baomin’s place is at the village edge. When I went to his house, I saw many abandoned houses,” Zhao Chong hesitated, knowing whoever found Xia Qing’s records first would win; he suggested, “Let’s split up and search, it’ll be faster.”

Jiang Yan didn’t refuse: “You take the left, we take the right.”

“Okay.”

Since the clues were Jiang Yan’s find, she got first pick—so Zhao Chong agreed cheerfully, calling Cheng Guang and Xiong An to take the left.

Watching them go, Jiang Yan licked her lips without expression.

Shen Xiaoxiao poked her head out, whispering, “Jiang Yan, you already guessed where it is, huh?”

Jiang Yan answered plainly, “I’m not a god.”

She didn’t guess; she saw. When she asked about the school, the Village Chief’s neck stretched high before her, the creases smoothed out, and he twisted his head right—like a giraffe.

Desires never lie. Whatever he doesn’t want her to know, she will.

The three searched along the right side of the village. As Zhao Chong said, many houses in Silkworm Village were deserted. In about twenty minutes, they’d checked three houses already—not Xia Qing’s place.

Time was tight, so there was no room to feel defeated. They moved fast from the third house, and a few dozen steps later, spotted another one. The grass at its door was neither tall nor short, beaten down by rain and wind, the red bricks faded to near white, as if the building was ill.

“We’re going in,” Jiang Yan said simply, stepping up.

They pushed the door open. Hanging before them was a faded yellow floral dress. It dangled on the clothesline, frail but held in place by matching faded clips, not blown away by the wind.

Shen Huanhuan saw the dress too: “Lots of girls in Jiangcheng wore that one.”

Shen Xiaoxiao perked up: “Xia Qing was from the city!”

“Maybe,” said Jiang Yan. “Let’s find more clues. I’ll check the main room; you check the side rooms.”

“Okay, we’ll find you in the main room.” Shen Huanhuan slipped a yellow talisman into Jiang Yan’s pocket, reminding her: “It’s passive—be careful, call if you need me.”

Jiang Yan touched the freebie talisman in her pocket, amused: “You’re so good.”

Shen Huanhuan smiled with lips pressed together. “See you in a bit.”

Once inside, Jiang Yan closed the umbrella. Rain dripped from its surface, mingling with the thick dust on the ground into dirty streaks.

Though called the main house, the space was small—much smaller than the Village Chief’s. But it had its perks: the inside was dry, with no sign of leaks. Looking up, sure enough, the ceiling girder seams were packed with white paste, and for appearance, finished with white paint.

The house’s owner cared for it.

Jiang Yan walked a few steps in, her fingers brushing dust from the wooden table, drawing out a chair, wiping it, and sitting down.

From this spot, the whole house was visible. Everything was simple—the bed in the corner, a proper single bed, yellow floral sheets, rabbit-shaped slippers beside it, white curtains tasselled and billowing in the breeze, very pretty.

Though long abandoned, it must have once been cozy—at least the owner tried to make it so.

By the bed was a pile of books. From her angle, Jiang Yan could make out a few titles: on top were “Complete Phonetics” and “Quadratic Equation Workbook.”

If Xia Qing really was the owner, she worked hard.

Not only teaching in her living space, but also to both elementary and middle schoolers.

Jiang Yan got up, flipping quickly through the top two workbooks. They were filled with notes: how to explain topics to children, various problem-solving methods—neat handwriting, and a good teacher.

She placed the workbooks on the bed. Underneath was a thick stack of extracurricular books.

The first was “The Kite Runner.”

It was quite new, the corners untouched. Jiang Yan opened the front: “For Niao Niao’s birthday.”

“Teacher believes there’s a wind inside you that can lift you high, taking you out of these mountains.”

A gift that was never given.

She placed it aside. The fourth book was “How to Be a Gentle Person,” clearly a self-cultivation book.

It wasn’t a gift. The flyleaf was filled with the owner’s notes for her students.

“As expected, gentleness is impossible—never in this life could I be gentle with brats!”

“Not only do they skip class, but they take no care for their lives. I saw three top truants sunbathing in a dirt pit by the stream—water and mud all over, filthy.”

“How can kids be this dirty, and it’s not safe!”

A bit like peeking at someone’s diary.

Jiang Yan wasn’t bothered; she curved her eyes in a smile, closed the fourth book, and checked the next.

The fifth book was again a gift—books evidently a favoured medium for Xia Qing’s messages. She opened it—the flyleaf’s tone was different; this was an apology.

“Apologize to Huang Jing—”

Xia Qing wrote beautifully, earnestly:

“Last week, I lost my temper, but you still smiled at me—so lovely. So keep smiling, okay? This is teacher’s apology. And don’t bury your head in the dirt again. If anything happens, your parents would be heartbroken.”

The sixth book was a bribe.

Xia Qing hoped the oldest, Wang Sun, would stop leading the others in skipping class and set a good example for the younger ones.

Jiang Yan quickly skimmed the rest, all gifts for village children—each with its own motive and excuse, praise for cuteness, wit, pretty obsidian eyes.

She’d gone to great lengths for these books.

Jiang Yan unhurriedly leaned by the bed, finished reading every single flyleaf, and finally breathed out.

Now the owner’s identity was confirmed; she could let Shen Xiaoxiao and the others continue. Jiang Yan, feeling she’d accomplished her task, pushed up and was about to leave—then frowned.

She turned, knocking on the bedboard she’d just touched.

“Thump, thump.”

The sound was dull, echoing.

Jiang Yan immediately flipped up the bedding; beneath was nothing unusual—except the grain on the bedboard broke where she’d tapped.

She felt along the uneven pattern—obviously, by sound and appearance, something hidden below. It was well concealed; only luck led her to it.

The edge of the hollow board was sealed tightly with white paint, with no gap to lift it.

Jiang Yan adjusted her camera, fingertip tracing the surface of the paint. Out of sight, a red thread shot from her finger, dozens of lines fanning out under the bed like a great crimson canopy. Within moments came creaks and cracks; then, with a crash, the thick board split where the paint held it.

The red threads vanished instantly.

Jiang Yan pinched her fingers, then bent to pick up a notebook wedged inside.

“Another one—what a bother.” She dusted it off.

【………】

【Okay, okay, we get it, more clues, QAQ】

【Did she just break open the bedboard with her hands???】

【She really is Abbot He’s disciple…】

Jiang Yan, unaware of the livestream’s commentary, examined the notebook. Aside from being grimy, it was hardly worn—clearly a recent purchase.

On the cover, in formal script, was written “Xia Qing’s Little Happiness,” the six characters bolded and darkened with carbon pen, heavy-handed and eye-catching.

Xia Qing’s diary.

It landed in her hands with no effort. Jiang Yan flexed her wrist, opened the first page—dated June 21st, Summer Solstice. Last year on the solstice, Xia Qing had come to the village.

“6.21”

“After much pleading, my father finally agreed. Kisses to Dad! Thank you for supporting my dream.”

“The air in this village is wonderful, a freshness you can’t breathe in the city! The back mountain is so green and full of life—I love it here.”

A few words, but brimming with energy.

It would take time to read the whole diary, so Jiang Yan carried it to the chair and settled in.

“6.22”

“Paperwork’s done. Today, the Village Chief took me door to door. Not many residents, but plenty of children of school age. I was so, so happy the whole time, though the villagers weren’t warm. But I’ve decided—classes start tomorrow~”

Jiang Yan’s instincts said class wouldn’t go smoothly. She turned the page—and was not surprised.

“6.23”

“First day, not a single child came—expected. Starting’s always the hardest. Seniors warned me—many rural villagers don’t value education. Looks like this is one of those villages.”

“They don’t come, I’ll go find them.”

“6.24”

“Still no kids today. Visited five families yesterday, five more today.”

“Oh, good deed of the day! Saw three kids lying in the dirt pits by the stream—quiet, not making a fuss. Pulled them all up, but they seemed unhappy. Did I interrupt their game?”

“But at your age, you should go to school! I won’t soften up!”

Three days passed with no entries, likely due to frustration, without many “little fortunes” to record. On June 28, Xia Qing picked up her diary again.

Her handwriting was beautiful, precise.

“6.28”

“Village Chief came again, saying the kids don’t need school. I was angry—I took so long to convince my parents for this! I spoke some harsh truths, but it’s true: only through study can these children leave the mountains. Silkworm Village is tiny; they’re like worms in cocoons. If they can’t break free, they’ll stay like this for life.”

“Sigh… I shouldn’t have called the village small. The chief’s face was scary. Did I hurt his pride?”

“6.29”

“Apologized to the Village Chief. He was preparing for the rites—turns out the village worships the Medicine King. Impressive. People with faith live more earnestly. What do I believe in?”

“I suppose I believe in the future—a good future will come.”

“6.30”

“Pulled out national policy talk, painted dire consequences. Finally convinced the villagers.”

“Tomorrow my class will have students, ten in all—they’ll be there.”

“7.1”

“My class now has ten kids, tiny like bamboo shoots sprouting from the mud. They’ll grow tall—tomorrow’s hope.”

From here, Xia Qing’s mood soared; most entries revolved around those ten shoots.

“7.2”

“Gave the kids candy and milk. May they be sweet and healthy~”

“7.3”

“These brats! Several said I’m ugly—so angry!”

“7.4”

“Kids’ heads are so fluffy, hehe.”

“7.5”

“No one did the homework… but at least they came—I have such low standards (cry.”

“7.7”

“Why does no one talk to me—is my teaching too hard?”

“7.8”

“Yesterday’s was too hard—today, someone got it right! I’ll ask something easier tomorrow!”

“7.12”

“Niao Niao, the little girl, smiled at me today—adorable dimples =w=”

“7.14”

“Another dead silent day. Was I an icicle in a past life?”

“7.18”

“Niao Niao volunteered to answer today! I almost jumped up in class! So happy, I’ll teach them all well.”

“7.20”

“Three poor kids in class—dull and silent, perhaps mute… can’t ask their parents. Their names are all medicinal herbs, probably for a blessing.”

“Ah, every child is a treasure.”

“7.26”

“Three skipped class today—this world, I swear.”

“7.28”

“Ha! Caught them all—Xia Qing gets results!”

“8.1”

“It drives me crazy—you have an herbal name, but you’re not a herb! No more skipping to play in dirt pits—you won’t sprout!”

“8.5”

“Three skipped again—this world!”

“8.11”

“Three skipped again—it’s the third time!”

“8.12”

“Fought with Mom tonight—she saw another story about volunteer teachers getting harmed. But there aren’t so many bad people in the world!”

“Silkworm Village is fine—they’re just too backward, and don’t know kids should study.”

“8.14”

“All present today!”

“8.15”

“All present!”

“8.16”

“All present!”

“8.17”

“All here!! Hugging the world.”

At this, Jiang Yan casually flipped the next page. The words leapt out—full of hopes and ambitions.

“One day, I’ll make this little mountain village bright and alive, and every child who leaves will be educated.”

She must have seen or felt something profound.

Jiang Yan, recalling Xia Qing’s fate, smiled and flipped ahead. The rest described struggles with the villagers, the relentless effort to bring students back to class, burning with enthusiasm—a person who never burned out, never wavered, endlessly alive.

But Jiang Yan couldn’t relate; she just found it dull—life more boring than the tombs she’d spent time in. At least there, she didn’t have to run or repeat herself.

She sped up her reading, skimming through the days. In November, she stopped.

“11.16”

“Went to the Village Chief’s to get Wang Sun; saw him making Wang Sun bathe with a watering can—Wang Sun, naked, kneeling in a pit, shivering in the winter wind, lips purple. The Village Chief didn’t seem to notice, and Aunt Guilan didn’t seem to either.”

“I ran. My heart pounded so hard. When I went back, all three were gone.”

Xia Qing had discovered a dark truth about Silkworm Village. Her guilt over running was clear—she didn’t know her sixth sense was keeping her alive.

“11.17”

“There’s a loose floorboard; I’ll fix it later.”

“Wang Sun didn’t come to school. The Village Chief won’t let me see him.”

“11.18”

“Three students are absent again—those three. I visited their homes; people said they were off playing. I’m uneasy. Didn’t find them by the mountain stream or at home.”

“11.19”

“Lost count of my fights with Mom—she said if I don’t come home, she’ll disown me. I called her many times, no answer. So sad, but I did nothing wrong.”

“Forget it. Priority is finding the kids. If I can’t, I’ll call the police.”

“11.20”

“Thank goodness—they came back.”

“I tried speaking to Wang Sun, but he ignored me, forgot that he couldn’t talk. Still, glad he’s back~”

“11.21”

“Went to the Village Chief’s at night to ask. He said it’s an illness, too much heat, must use cold water to cool down.”

“God, these folk remedies could kill! Wang Sun needs a hospital. Class is cancelled tomorrow—I’m taking him.”

“11.22”

“The Village Chief won’t allow it. None of them will.”

Jiang Yan’s finger paused at the word “them.” Xia Qing hadn’t explained, but it was clear what had happened—she’d tried to take Wang Sun for treatment, only to be blocked by the Village Chief and others.

But it wasn’t a rational reaction. With Xia Qing’s personality, she’d offer to pay for treatment; the villagers had no reason to refuse—Xia Qing should’ve sensed something wrong.

Sure enough, after those lines, Xia Qing penned one in red: “I saw Uncle Huang with a watering can, same as the chief’s. Huang Jing was behind him, soaked…”

She circled “watering can” and noted beside it, “Illness? Abuse?”

At last, Xia Qing realized something was wrong here—she knew the skipping children had reasons. Her time was running out.

“11.25”

“All present.”

“Snowed today—the whole village is beautiful.”

“Wrote messages in books for the kids, will give them out tomorrow.”

“11.26”

“Those three missed class again.”

“Found Huang Jing by the mountain. Same scene—kneeling naked in the snow, drenched from a watering can. How could this be? She’s a girl—or even if not, no person should suffer this. She was freezing, and so was I. This time, I snatched her away. Uncle Huang’s face was scary, but he couldn’t catch me.”

“Huang Jing trembled in my arms. I was so sad I couldn’t cry. She’s my student.”

“The books weren’t given out. My phone was lost when I grabbed her, slipped into the stream. Bad luck, but I protected my student—so I’m still lucky.”

On the 26th, Xia Qing wrote for two whole pages; that night, Huang Jing slept in her bed, with Xia Qing watching, hoping she’d sleep peacefully. By her account, at daybreak, she’d confront Huang Jing’s father before everyone, exposing his abuse—not just him; she’d confront the Village Chief, and try to get Huang Jing and Wang Sun to live with her.

But she didn’t know the village would not help. Xia Qing had been sheltered—she didn’t believe such cruelty existed.

Jiang Yan flipped on—a few pages were left, the paper fresh. Jiang Yan thought she could guess—the confrontation led Xia Qing to threaten calling the police, but the villagers stopped her gently. Huang Jing and Wang Sun, as she wished, moved in with her; Xia Qing continued recording daily life, until, suddenly, the entries stopped—she was taken, closing her diary before then.

That wasn’t the case.

The next entry was dated early on the 27th, the handwriting scrawled—the roughest of all so far.

“Huang Jing woke up acting strange—fleeting. She snuck out; I must follow. This village is strange, I keep feeling it—the villagers’ smiles always frighten me. I’m so scared, but I must go.”

Jiang Yan frowned.

To go, despite fear? Reckless.

The camera sharing Jiang Yan’s view recorded all this; the livestream viewers were anxious.

【Is this girl dumb? Knows the village is weird but still follows?!】

【Felt Xia Qing was silly—turns out she really is…】

【God, I can’t watch—she’s not going to die now, right?!】

【She won’t die—who else would have closed the diary? Xia Qing must come back. Jiang Yan, hurry and read the next part, I’m dying of suspense.】

Jiang Yan was curious too, and quickly scanned down the page.

What came next matched her expectations, only in more detail. After writing, Xia Qing secretly followed Huang Jing, heart pounding as she stumbled toward the Ancestral Hall. Luckily, the walk was short—in ten minutes, they arrived. From afar, she saw Uncle Huang waiting at the hall door, as if expecting his daughter’s escape. The moment he saw her, he seized her, dragging her in. The little girl scraped her white leg on the threshold, bleeding, but the man didn’t slow a step.

Xia Qing wrote: “Huang Jing bled. Her father ignored her. I was no better—cried uselessly, because she was my student but unloved.”

“But soon, I couldn’t cry; what was said inside the hall left me unable to think.”

“They were drawing lots—to choose which child would be ginseng. I didn’t get it—people are people, how could they be ginseng?”

“The Village Chief said the village’s sins had to be cleansed sincerely. Years ago, after drawing the names of four offerings to the Medicine King, they assigned new surnames, delivering children to those families, to cultivate human medicines and bring honour. But because of ginseng’s ‘special’ nature, its host wasn’t decided for years. The ritual will begin soon, so they must choose now.”

“It took me a long time to process. What does ‘new surname’ mean? Aren’t surnames inherited? What is ‘delivering children’—aren’t kids born through pregnancy? What’s ginseng’s ‘special nature,’ what’s a ritual, how can there be such a thing?!”

“I’m terrified.”

“Really terrified. Coming back, Uncle Wang’s dog growled at me—guess I’ll be discovered. What do I do? Someone, tell me what to do. I’m so useless—why can’t a teacher protect her student? My phone is gone. Now I finally know why Uncle Huang didn’t chase Huang Jing but broke my phone—too late to realize.”

The rambling lines, circling over and over, blurred and rewritten, revealed how utterly broken Xia Qing felt—ashamed and crying in despair.

Jiang Yan touched the creased paper and flipped ahead—blank pages. More blank pages. But Xia Qing must still have something to say; this wasn’t the diary’s end.

After a moment’s thought, Jiang Yan closed the diary, then flipped to the very last page.

There were words.

Having left in a hurry, Xia Qing hadn’t the time to open the right page—or set the diary straight.

Her final message was written upside down on the back, so frantic that the letters almost ran off the paper.

“Dawn hasn’t come. They are here. I have nothing left to say.”

Xia Qing wrote: “The essence of education is one person lighting up another.”

“In this life, I never lit up a single soul.”