Chapter 289: Suspicion (2)

Without even laying eyes on him, Le Wuya could tell from a single sentence alone that this was a good person.

Cornered in such a tight spot, this guy was armed with a sharp weapon. He could've easily put seven or eight holes in Le Wuya before he even had a chance to react, and once he was dead, searched his body for whatever he wanted. So why bother asking for it at all?

...Pretty polite, actually.

Once he'd confirmed that, Le Wuya took his fingers off the trigger, flipped his sleeve down to hide the crossbow bolt, cocked and ready: "I have some. I have flatbread."

He pointed at his waist.

The next moment, Le Wuya suddenly felt lighter.

The guy was clearly out of his mind with hunger. He snatched Le Wuya's cloth satchel away, sniffing at it like some wild animal, and pulled out the flatbread. He opened wide and tore off a huge chunk, oil paper and all.

But he quickly caught himself, spat out most of the bread, and only swallowed a small corner piece with the oil paper, choking, craning his neck, eyes bugging out.

The cave reeked of blood.

Le Wuya figured the guy had to be hurt.

But it was pitch black in there, so he couldn't get a read on things. All he could do was pat the guy's back to help him breathe, at least confirming there were no wounds on his upper half.

Startled by the gesture, the man hunched his back like a spooked dog.

He turned his head, trying to get a look at Le Wuya too.

But in the dark, neither could see the other.

The footsteps above got closer.

The guy stopped chewing, staring blankly up with dead eyes, gripping his mining knife tightly.

The slope, freshly churned up by the mudslide, was soft and crumbly. As the men above drew near, mud trickled down from the cave mouth, like the whole thing could cave in any second, burying Le Wuya and his mystery kidnapper alive.

By the faint light filtering in from the entrance, Le Wuya finally saw the kidnapper's face.

The guy was surprisingly young—dark, glossy skin, one side of his face lean and sharp—a decent-looking kid of seventeen or eighteen.

But the other half of his face was a whole other story. It looked like a wild animal had torn into it—flesh mangled, skull caved in.

Looked like an old wound.

And that old, brutal injury hadn't just wrecked his looks.

His one good eye was lifeless, the pupil flat, and the muscles in his cheek twitched on their own every so often.

...Like someone not all there.

The two soldiers above ran into each other.

They clearly knew each other and started shooting the breeze:

"Gou'er, you find anything?"

"What're you talking about? If I'd found something, I'd've gone to claim the reward already. Why'd I still be here jawing with you?"

"If you find something, give me a shout. We brothers can split the credit."

"Why don't we just walk together?"

"Nah, nah. Master Zhou said we gotta search separately. If you find anything, just... just fire the signal, and the rest of us'll come running."

"What's there to be scared of? You know I've been afraid of ghosts since I was a kid. There's always ghost lights flickering around here. Freaks me out!"

The two of them just kept yapping.

Dirt and rocks kept raining down, burying Le Wuya and the simpleton up to their ankles.

Luckily, the two up top noticed the ground was giving way under their feet and, scared of tumbling off the cliff, cut it short: "Forget it, forget it. Enough yapping. If we keep dragging our feet, we'll end up buried in this dirt, and then we'll be the ones floating around as ghost lights."

"You're such a jinx. Come on, let's go!"

Once the soldiers' footsteps died out, Le Wuya crawled out of the half-caved-in hole and reached a hand back in.

The guy moved clumsily, using Le Wuya's hand to wiggle himself out.

When they finally crawled out into the daylight, filthy and covered in dirt, Le Wuya realized just how big a problem he'd picked up.

Clamped around the guy's calf was a huge animal trap. Judging by the wound, it'd been on there for at least two days. With the heat and humidity, the wound had already rotted down to the bone.

If Le Wuya hadn't stumbled into the same hole by accident, the guy never would've been able to climb out on his own. He'd have just sat there waiting for the cave to collapse on him, or slowly starved to death.

The simpleton clearly felt the pain, but he also knew there was no point in feeling it.

He swallowed hard, pushed at Le Wuya's shoulder, and stammered, his tongue thick and clumsy: "I... I don't know you. You're... not from around here... Go, go... My ma told me, it ain't safe here..."

With that, he turned, struggled to shove the mining knife back into his belt, and with the stolen half-eaten flatbread clamped between his teeth, crawled off like a lizard, meaning to slither back into the hills.

Le Wuya grabbed the hem of his clothes to stop him: "I'm taking you with me."

The simpleton turned his head, mouth hanging open: "Huh?"

The flatbread fell out of his mouth. He scrambled to pick it up and shove it back between his lips, his one good eye staring at Le Wuya, confused and lost.

Le Wuya asked, "You looking for somebody?"

The simpleton hesitated, then shook his head so hard he nearly flung his skull off his shoulders.

His reaction was way too eager.

That was a pretty lousy lie.

Le Wuya bent down and, without another word, hoisted him onto his back.

He wasn't light, and the weight nearly sent Le Wuya stumbling.

But once he found his footing, Le Wuya took a deep breath of the mountain air—rot and blood—and headed into the deep woods.

Dry branches whipped at Le Wuya's face. He moved like a fox born and bred in these woods, weaving around dozens of bobbing torches, carving a clean path through.

The simpleton understood the kindness. Lying on Le Wuya's back, clutching the flatbread, he said, real sincere: "Th... thanks."

Once he let his guard down around Le Wuya, the chatterbox in him opened right up.

He was a lively simpleton, after all.

He said he was headed to a cave south of the mountain. His ma was there, hadn't eaten in days. She had to be starving.

But he was clumsy—when he went out looking for food, not only did he find nothing to eat, he got his paw caught in a snare.

He didn't want his ma to worry, so he stubbornly crawled around out there, refusing to go back to see her until he found something to eat.

Otherwise, wouldn't that just worry her for nothing?

Lying on Le Wuya's shoulder, he rambled on, stuttering and stumbling over his words in the southern Shanxi dialect.

Le Wuya had seen many dead men and many who were about to die.

He knew that this boy, though his spirits seemed lively, was already running on fumes.

That lunge he'd taken at him had drained the last of his scant vitality.

Nine times out of ten, there was no saving him.

Le Wuya asked him, "What's your name?"

The simpleton thought for a good fifteen minutes, and maybe even passed out once in the middle of it.

He murmured, "I forgot. My ma always called me Little Dumpling."

Le Wuya chuckled. "A big strapping kid like you, named Little Dumpling?"

The simpleton laughed along, but after a couple of chuckles, he caught himself and quickly fell silent.

Le Wuya's voice was soft. "How'd you get that scar on your face?"

Though Little Dumpling had the mind of a child of eight or nine, he was a good kid and answered every question: "When I was little, a bear showed up at the mine. It got my pa, and it swiped at my face too."

"Were those men looking for you just now?"

"...I think so?"

"What do you mean, 'I think so'?"

"I don't know," Little Dumpling said. "My ma told me to steer clear of folks."

"Then why didn't you steer clear of me?"

Little Dumpling sounded aggrieved. "You—you came in here on your own, didn't ya! Besides, you weren't wearing no official getup, and you gave me food... you're... you're alright."

"Why are you holed up in the mountains with your ma?"

Little Dumpling tilted his head and thought for a moment. "My ma told me to hide. She said Uncle Li and the others had crossed the line, and there might be danger, so she brought me up the mountain to lay low."

Le Wuya picked a thread out of that tangled mess: "Who's Uncle Li?"

"Uncle Li's just Uncle Li—he lives next door, and he's the foreman at the third mine."

"And who's your ma?"

At the mention of his ma, Little Dumpling's voice swelled with pride, and even his stutter picked up steam: "My ma... she's amazing! She goes down the mine, and I tag along behind her. I haul rocks for her, and she can do the work of two people on her own..."

Listening to a dying man brag about his ma, Le Wuya kept his face blank, just gently steering the talk toward what he wanted to know: "Did your ma ever tell you what happened at Xiaolianzi Mountain?"

"She didn't need to tell me—I know! I saw it, plenty of folks saw it!" Little Dumpling said. "Uncle Li and Foreman Niu had a falling-out, and Uncle Li... he beat him dead!"

Le Wuya's eyes went cold.

A man with the surname Niu.

And wouldn't you know it, a man named Niu was on the disaster report submitted by Dansui County this time.

According to the report, this Mining Inspector Niu, who was in charge of the Xiaolian Mountain mine, had gone out to inspect the mine and stayed overnight in the village, only to get buried in a mudslide, with no word on whether he lived or died.

The report didn't say one damn word about him being beaten to death!

Le Wuya asked, playing dumb, "Who's Foreman Niu?"

Little Dumpling was a straight shooter, answering every question, and he chewed on it for a long while: "He's our boss... my ma and Uncle Li both answer to him."

That lined up.

Niu Sanqi, the mining commissioner the court had appointed, was in charge of the day-to-day running of the Xiaolian Mountain mine in Dansui County.

Le Wuya asked, "Why'd Uncle Li beat Foreman Niu?"

Little Dumpling said, matter-of-fact, "Uh... they got into an argument..."

"Over what?"

"They couldn't... couldn't dig up any more ore." Little Dumpling stammered. "No matter how they dug, nothing turned up. My ma was worried sick too, but Foreman Niu kept saying we were goldbricking, and he had folks whip us—he even whipped me and my ma... I've never been lazy. My ma says I'm the hardest worker..."

Le Wuya turned his head slightly and cast his gaze at Little Dumpling's thin, blackened arms, like reeds.

This wasn't the look of someone who had gone hungry for just a short time.

He asked, "Did Foreman Niu give you anything to eat?"

Little Dumpling shook his head vigorously. "Foreman Niu said, if you can't dig anything out, no food!"

"Did he force you to pay money when the mine ran dry?"

"I... I don't know!" Little Dumpling said in surprise. "How do you know so much? You sound just like my ma! She said that if we couldn't dig out any ore, we'd have to pay money."

Le Wuya knew what kind of money he meant.

If what this boy said was true and the ore at Xiaolian Mountain was nearly exhausted, the mining commissioner should have immediately reported it, pushed for the wasteland to be reclaimed and expanded, had the miners converted to tenant farmers on the spot, and applied for tax exemptions so the tenants could survive the lean period between planting and harvest.

But those mining inspectors who landed such plum posts—were they the kind of men who cared about the people?

Mines like Xiaolian Mountain were their personal money trees for lining their own pockets.

All they had to do was convert the ore they dug each year into gold and silver, send it directly into the Eunuch's private treasury for the emperor's spending, and then squeeze a little tighter on the rest, and it all went into the mining inspector's own purse.

Now that the ore was nearly gone, wouldn't they seize the last chance to squeeze out one final haul, to crack the bones and suck out the last drop of marrow?

All they had to do was play deaf and dumb, accuse the miners of slacking off, hoarding ore vouchers, and selling them on the sly, and use that as an excuse to extort and confiscate everything the miners had scraped together through years of backbreaking toil.

Once the miners were collectively bankrupt and reduced to poverty again, even if they were converted to tenant farmers, they would have no money and no food, and could only cling to their masters, continuing to work like beasts of burden, never to rise again.

But this Mining Inspector Niu had forgotten that at this point, even if the miners had no money and no food, they still had a good pair of strong arms—and a shovel.

Le Wuya continued, "How many days ago did your Uncle Li beat Foreman Niu?"

This truly stumped Little Dumpling.

He clearly wasn't good with numbers. He gaped for a moment, then said shamefacedly, "I... I don't remember."

"Was it before the mountain collapsed, or after?"

This time, Little Dumpling could answer: "It was, it was before the mountain collapsed! He died, and the mine was a total mess. My mom said something wasn't right, so she grabbed me and we slipped away. There were lots of soldiers at the mine, surrounding Uncle Li and the others. My mom and I were quick on our feet, so we ran fast... we hid in the mountains. And then, the mountain just caved in."

The Mineral Inspector was dead.

Little Lianshan had collapsed.

Could an earthquake have done this?

What the hell kind of earthquake would come that conveniently?