The group arrived at the village, and Chǔ Qiānlí requested to meet with Sà Rén, asking the other villagers to pass along the message.
Sà Rén was surprised to hear this and invited the group into the ceremonial house to hear Chǔ Qiānlí’s intentions.
Inside the house, the walls were still adorned with animal bones and herbs, with drums and shamanic tools piled in the corners.
Under the glow of the charcoal fire, the wrinkles on the elderly woman’s face deepened in the flickering shadows. Her hair was carefully tucked into a small cap, the frost of time dyeing her locks snow-white. Sitting upright, she appeared solemn and cautious.
Chǔ Qiānlí sat directly across from Sà Rén, her back equally straight. She slowly explained her thoughts, relying on the others to help translate.
Tán Mùxīng watched quietly, as if casually opening a fantastical painting. Two women of vastly different clothing, ages, and backgrounds sat upright, discussing their perspectives with composure.
Chǔ Qiānlí laid out the consequences of relocating or not relocating, and as she faced the serious expression of Sà Rén, she habitually added, “Of course, these are just my suggestions. The choice is yours to make.”
Sà Rén replied softly.
“She said this matter requires a meeting with the villagers. It’s not a decision she can make alone.”
Chǔ Qiānlí nodded. As she was about to stand, she caught sight of the animal bones on the wall and quietly added, “There’s one more thing—I’m really not a shaman. When they discuss, they can disregard that idea.”
The staff translated her words to Sà Rén.
Sà Rén was momentarily stunned. Her previously tense demeanor and slightly furrowed brow softened, as if the ice and snow were melting. She revealed a kind and gentle smile, her lips moving slightly.
Chǔ Qiānlí noticed her smile and asked in confusion, “What did Grandma just say?”
“You didn’t catch it? Could you say it again?”
Sà Rén didn’t repeat herself. Instead, she rose as well, inviting her guests to rest outside for a while, explaining that she would gather the villagers to discuss the matter.
The small village wasn’t very large, so as Chǔ Qiānlí and the others stood outside, it wasn’t long before they saw villagers arriving one after another, heading toward the largest meeting hall in the village.
Men and women of all ages gradually filled the space, speaking in their native language and arguing their points fervently inside. Sà Rén presided over the meeting from the center, exuding an air of authority as she maintained order.
The team from the workstation waited outside. Tán Mùxīng asked, “Is this where they usually hold their meetings?”
“Yes,” Bātú replied. “Last time, they debated for a long time and eventually decided not to move. Let’s see what happens this time.”
After a long while, the meeting inside the house finally concluded. Sà Rén did not give an immediate answer but stated that she would speak further with the officials in charge of the relocation.
This was already a major breakthrough—after all, the village had refused to even discuss the topic last time, and now there was a faint glimmer of hope.
Villagers began filing out of the meeting hall one after another.
Chǔ Qiānlí and Tán Mùxīng spotted the little boy who had handed out candy at the village entrance that day. This time, he wasn’t clinging to his mother but wandering alone under the eaves.
The boy kicked at a pebble nearby, glanced at the workstation staff, and then lowered his head, pacing back and forth in place.
Bātú waved to the boy, who hesitated.
The previous time, Tán Mùxīng had struggled to coax the shy little boy over, but today, after some deliberation, the boy mustered up the courage to walk toward Chǔ Qiānlí and the others.
Bātú said smugly, “See? Our own people are still closer.”
However, when the boy approached, he ignored Bātú entirely. Instead, he glanced awkwardly at Chǔ Qiānlí, his expression tinged with grievance, and murmured softly, “Why do you keep trying to make us leave?”
Tán Mùxīng was taken aback. “His Mandarin is really good.”
Some villagers spoke Mandarin, while others struggled with it, but the boy’s was surprisingly fluent.
Bātú explained, “When I was in school, there were posters everywhere saying to only speak Mandarin on campus. This place is just too remote, but there is a school nearby—two hours away.”
Faced with the boy’s question, Chǔ Qiānlí gently countered, “Why don’t you want to leave?”
“If I leave, I won’t be able to go into the mountains or play on the hills. Everything will be gone…” The boy stumbled over his words as he explained. “It’ll be just like the back mountain—it’ll be forgotten in the end.”
“You want us to leave, but then you won’t come back. So why can’t we stay?” The boy stole a glance at them from the corner of his eye and mumbled, “Why can’t we?”
Everyone froze.
Tán Mùxīng said, “But if you move, it’ll be easier for you to go to school.”
“But then we won’t have a home anymore,” the boy said softly, his gaze dropping.
Chǔ Qiānlí asked, “Do you really like it here?”
The boy nodded. “And the mountain god.”
Chǔ Qiānlí thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “But long, long ago, people didn’t live here either. Maybe they wandered the grasslands before coming here…”
“Isn’t here good enough? I’ve been here since I was little,” the boy said. “The outside isn’t my home.”
“It’s not that it’s not good,” Chǔ Qiānlí said, shaking her head. “It’s just that, just like people used to love the grasslands, now you love it here. Everyone hopes for things to keep getting better.”
“But in the end, everyone will just forget this place…” The boy lowered his head, kicking at a pebble. “They say they’ll come back, but they won’t. Just like my classmates.”
“The mountain god, the shaman—they’ll all be forgotten,” the boy said, spreading his hands.
Chǔ Qiānlí asked, “Do you still think I’m a shaman?”
The boy glanced at her, then lowered his head and whispered, “Yes.”
“I don’t know what the mountain god thinks,” Chǔ Qiānlí said after a few seconds of thought. “But if you grow up happy and healthy, it’s okay if you forget about me.” She smiled. “If everyone is doing well, my job is done.”
A diviner is no longer needed once the questioner finds their way.
The boy stared at her, stunned.
After a long silence, he muttered, “I won’t forget…”
“What?”
Blushing, the boy turned abruptly and ran off, disappearing around the corner without another word.
Bātú exclaimed, “Why did he suddenly run? He’s pretty fast, too!”
The boy, clearly embarrassed, dashed away without looking back.
The group didn’t linger long in the village. After their conversation with the boy, they retraced their steps back to the workstation. A few days later, new staff would arrive to continue negotiations on the relocation.
On the way back, Bātú sighed. “What he said just now makes me want to visit my old home. I used to live in a place like this, but I can barely remember it now.”
Chǔ Qiānlí was unusually quiet after leaving the village. Walking at the back of the group with Tán Mùxīng, she trailed along slowly.
Noticing her silence, Tán Mùxīng asked with concern, “What are you thinking about?”
Snapping back to reality, Chǔ Qiānlí glanced at him and suddenly said, “I was just thinking… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if gods really existed.”
Curious, Tán Mùxīng asked, “Why?”
“Because gods don’t make mistakes,” Chǔ Qiānlí replied, tilting her head. “If you could truly hear their will, you wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Everything would be arranged perfectly.”
“But if it’s just people,” she continued, “it all becomes so uncertain. Mostly because I’m not good enough myself.”
If she were a god, she wouldn’t be swayed by the boy’s words or influenced by her emotions.
Sighing, Chǔ Qiānlí scratched her head. “So I guess I’m not cut out to be a god or a shaman—I’ve got too many flaws.”
Tán Mùxīng said, “But I think it’s better this way.”
Chǔ Qiānlí looked at him in confusion.
Smiling, Tán Mùxīng said, “You may have some flaws, but you’re still trying your best to make sure everyone is okay. Isn’t that more valuable?”
“It’s not impressive for gods to achieve something. But when people do it, that’s what’s amazing. I think Sà Rén understands that, too.” Tán Mùxīng spoke earnestly. “Neither she nor the villagers believe in you just because you can do divination. It’s because they see something else in you that they’re willing to believe.”
He didn’t think Sà Rén or the others would blindly follow Chǔ Qiānlí. For instance, when Bātú introduced her as a shaman, Sà Rén didn’t believe it at first and thought they were lying.
Chǔ Qiānlí’s ability to touch others surely stemmed from something more than that—just as countless fortune-tellers exist, yet he trusted only her.
Chǔ Qiānlí hadn’t expected him to say that. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, she, usually eloquent, found herself tongue-tied and unsure how to respond.
Tán Mùxīng’s sincerity caught her off guard, leaving the famously quick-witted Chǔ Qiānlí flustered.
After a moment, she finally managed to speak, but instead of addressing the topic, she abruptly changed the subject. Feigning annoyance, she said, “I can talk about my flaws, but you don’t get to say I have flaws too!”
Tán Mùxīng was caught off guard by her suddenly awkward tone. “Huh?”
Chǔ Qiānlí pretended to wipe away tears and sobbed dramatically. “I get it now. You’ve grown distant. You never used to say I had flaws, but now you’re finally being honest…”
Watching her switch moods in an instant, Tán Mùxīng panicked and waved his hands frantically. “Wait, no, that’s not what I meant! That’s not the point of what I said!”
They had been discussing something completely different, and somehow the conversation had shifted to how he viewed her.
“It’s true! You let it slip accidentally, revealing your true feelings. You must have thought I was full of flaws for a long time and just kept it inside, tolerating me this whole time…” Chǔ Qiānlí lamented dramatically. “And I was completely in the dark. Now it’s finally coming to the surface, and it’s all going to spiral out of control. That’s how the stories online always go.”
“No, no, no! That’s absolutely not true! Don’t believe the stories online!” Tán Mùxīng was completely trapped, his survival instincts kicking in as he scrambled to explain. He had no idea how she had reached such a conclusion.
Chǔ Qiānlí sighed sadly. “Ah, the beginning of every story is always so tender and gentle…”
“…”
It was true—talking too much always leads to mistakes.
Tán Mùxīng hadn’t expected that simply going along with her words would end up trapping him. She was now mock-crying and accusing him of all sorts of “crimes,” claiming that he secretly had many complaints about her and that her fragile heart had suffered immense damage.
Knowing her tricks all too well, Tán Mùxīng hesitantly asked, “So… is there something you want me to—no, I mean—is there any way I can make up for my mistake?”
Hearing this, Chǔ Qiānlí immediately wiped her face, dropped the act, and gave him a meaningful look. “The colorful string we got on our first day here is really pretty.”
“You want that?”
Chǔ Qiānlí stared at him in silence.
Realizing what she meant, Tán Mùxīng quickly changed his tone and rephrased. “No, no—please let me give that to you, as compensation for the emotional damage…”
“Deal!” Chǔ Qiānlí responded cheerfully.
“…No cheering for this!”
Tán Mùxīng unwittingly signed a one-sided agreement, essentially extorted for “emotional damage compensation.” He felt like a victim of a phone scam, unable to understand why his IQ always seemed to plummet when dealing with her schemes.
Some victims, upon reflecting on their scams, even feel as if they had been bewitched at the time.
