Chapter-5 Investigation

  The tension thickened like a heavy mist, dense and almost palpable in the early afternoon air, winding down, settling over the village with an ominous weight that pressed against walls, roofs, and hearts alike.

  It was a strange, unsettling contrast—the warmth of the sun clashing with the creeping dread that had taken hold.

  The villagers moved more slowly, their shadows stretched long and while every whispered voice, and rustle of leaves, felt amplified against the stifling silence. It was as though the entire world held its breath, waiting.

  Instinctively, Yan Shun moved forward, but before he could take another step, a firm hand landed on his shoulder. He froze, feeling the steady, grounding weight of Lin Guanglin’s grip anchoring him in place. Around them, villagers gathered, murmuring in hushed voices, their faces illuminated by the sunlight. Some stood frozen in shock, their expressions etched with a mixture of fear and confusion; others whispered anxiously, casting furtive glances toward Zhang’s crumpled form. A few children, who had been playing moments earlier, now huddled behind their parents’ legs, their wide, curious eyes darting between the fallen figure and the grim expressions of the adults.

  Guanglin’s jaw tightened until the muscle throbbed. He gave a shake of his head, as if willing away the urge to rush recklessly after whatever trail Zhang might have left behind.

  His sharp gaze swept across the tense crowd before settling on Zhang—not merely looking at the wounds, but reading the the story etched into torn skin, bloodied cloth, and trembling breath.

  The villagers hesitated on the periphery, wary yet drawn in by morbid curiosity, none daring to step closer.

  Among them, the older ones exchanged silent, weighty glances, their faces lined with suspicion and wisdom born of harsh seasons and harder lessons. At the very back, the elders muttered among themselves, their gnarled hands gesturing nervously, their expressions showing their unease.

  Guanglin exhaled slowly.

  Zhang Baolin lay sprawled in the dirt, his body broken and breathing ragged. Yet something about the scene felt off. Guanglin narrowed his eyes, letting instinct run buck wild, as his senses sharpen.

  He Observed.

  Superficial cuts crisscrossed Zhang’s arms and legs, layered over each other in a frantic, almost desperate pattern—none deep enough to threaten his life, but enough to tell a story of being chased. Bruising marred his right side, blooming darkly across his ribs and abdomen in a scattered, unfocused manner, consistent with a heavy, sudden impact—likely from striking an obstacle during his frantic flight. A deep, clean-edged gash carved across his back, angled sharply as if something had been hurled at him, catching him mid-run—not quite enough to incapacitate, but certainly enough to leave a mark, looks like it failed to do its job. Dirt was ground deep into his knees, palms, and elbows, evidence that he had fallen hard and repeatedly, scrambling to rise again in blind panic. His lower lip was split, and fresh abrasions marked his knuckles and forearms, not from striking a foe but from throwing out his hands to break his falls. The way the injuries overlapped told Guanglin a clear story—Zhang had fled in terror, heedless of branches, stones, or pain, driven by something far worse than mere fear of punishment.

  Had he seen something? Guanglin thought grimly. Something terrible enough to break his arrogance and drive him to flee blindly?

  His sharp gaze fell on a deeper gash along Zhang’s back—sharp-edged, clean, surgical—perhaps the work of a blade or a precisely thrown object. Yet, nothing is embedded in his wound.

  His knuckles whitened as his fists clenched. This was no brawl, no petty squabble among youths vying for dominance. Zhang—arrogant, foolish Zhang—had run from something, something far worse than any enemy he had known.

  But what?

  A sharp nudge to the ribs snapped Guanglin from his thoughts. Yan Shun had sidled closer, elbowing him subtly before muttering under his breath, "He came from the east—the cliff side forest."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Guanglin’s head tilted fractionally, as he sharpened his nose, "There’s a distinct scent clinging to him, sharp and slightly pungent, almost acrid. It reminds me of the Yellowed Clover Plant, the way it smells when it reacts with water, like a faint sting of ammonia laced with crushed herbs. That plant only grows along the Southern edge of the reservoir, nowhere else."

  Guanglin’s gaze dropped.

  Was he allowed to escape? Or did he slip through by sheer luck?

  Yan leaned in even closer. "We should follow the trail now. Before the winds change or someone covers it by accident."

  Guanglin frowned deeply, exhaling heavily. After a long pause, he shook his head. "No. First, we take Zhang to Xia’s house. He needs treatment."

  Yan grimaced, visibly disgusted. "You can’t be serious. Let him rot in the dirt. Someone else will drag him off."

  Guanglin faced him squarely, his voice low and deliberate. "I don’t like him either. But he’s seventeen. If something out there could do this to him, it could threaten every one of us."

  For a moment, Yan ground his teeth in frustration. Then, with a grunt of reluctant acceptance, he helped Guanglin lift Zhang’s limp form.

  The villagers parted before them like a tide of suspicion and discontent.

  "Leave him," one man muttered darkly. "Nothing good comes from dragging cursed trouble back into the village."

  Others nodded grimly, their faces set in stone. "He’s a troublemaker. Let him reap what he sowed."

  Yet not all were so cold-hearted. An elderly woman, her voice thin and brittle with age, whispered, “He’s still one of ours. We should at least see it through.”

  Guanglin absorbed every word, storing them away, adjusting his grip on Zhang’s battered body. Their course was set. No turning back now.

  As they carried Zhang through the winding lanes of the village, Guanglin murmured to Yan, "Go to your father. Tell him to have the hunters and guards keep a watch on Xia’s house tonight. If Zhang was attacked, it’s foolish to assume he’s safe now."

  Yan nodded grimly. "And his lackeys?"

  "Find them," Guanglin said sharply. "Whether, Alive or dead, they hold the missing pieces we need."

  Without another word, Yan peeled off toward his father’s house, disappearing into the gloom.

  Guanglin pressed forward alone, every sense on edge. Blood, sweat, earth... and something else. Faint, elusive—a strange aroma of herbs mixed with the sharper, almost chemical tang of Yellowed Clover, so slight that only a hunter or herbalist might have noticed it.

  Upon reaching Xia’s modest home, Guanglin rapped sharply on the door.

  Xia Ling opened it swiftly, her face carefully neutral, though her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Zhang’s ruined form.

  "Is your father back?" Guanglin asked without preamble.

  She shook her head once. "Not yet." She gazed at Zhang's body and continued," I can handle it."

  Without hesitation, she ushered them inside. Guanglin explained Zhang’s injuries in rapid, detail while Xia examined him with a brisk efficiency that belied her youth.

  Guanglin shifted uneasily, scanning the room. Leaving him here unconscious is a risk, he thought grimly.

  When the last curious villagers dispersed and the door closed firmly behind them, Guanglin spoke. "Bring me an anesthetic. Strong enough to keep him unconscious."

  Xia froze mid-motion, narrowing her sharp eyes at him. "Why?"

  Guanglin stepped forward, pressing his palm against Zhang’s knee, feeling for any latent tension. "If this is some kind of trick, I can’t risk him waking and running—or worse."

  Xia slapped his hand away with surprising strength. "Absolutely not," she snapped, positioning herself protectively between him and Zhang. "He’s my patient now. Whether you like him or not, he’s under my care. No drugs unless necessary."

  Guanglin stared at her, frustration knotting his chest. "Xia—"

  "No," she said flatly, her tone brooking no argument. "If you don’t trust him, bind him. But I will not poison or weaken him further."

  A long, heavy silence stretched between them. Finally, Guanglin exhaled through his nose and nodded stiffly.

  "Fine."

  Grabbing a coil of thick rope from a nearby shelf, he set to work, binding Zhang securely but carefully, ensuring there would be no escape. When he finished, he stepped back, meeting Xia’s unwavering gaze.

  "Be careful," he warned in a low voice. "If anything feels wrong, call for help immediately. Your safety comes first."

  Xia smirked faintly, her confidence returning. "I’m not as fragile as you seem to think. I have tricks of my own."

  Guanglin managed the ghost of a smile before turning toward the door—but remembering the scent , he stoped in his tracks.

  He turned back, frowning slightly.

  "Xia," he asked, "Do you keep herbs from the Eastern Pond banks—or more precisely, from the southern reservoir slopes—in your warehouse?"

  She raised an eyebrow, clearly curious about the sudden line of questioning. "We do. Many, medicinal plants grows there. Why?"

  "There’s a strange scent clinging to Zhang—I think its the Yellow Clover. But, it was sharper and more pungent, than usual. If we can match it to something in your stores, we might find a clue."

  Xia frowned thoughtfully, tapping her chin. "Good idea. Let me finish tending to him. Then I’ll take you there."

  Guanglin nodded, though the tension in his chest remained coiled tight, like a spring wound too far.

  Something was stirring beyond the edge's. And whatever it is upto no GOOD.