Chapter One: The Theft of the Guanyin Statue

In a small village tucked away in the southeastern corner of the land, life had always been simple and untroubled, the people honest and kind, untouched by the world’s strife. Villagers lived in harmony, loving one another, respecting the old and cherishing the young. Call it superstition or call it custom, the people here revered the temples of Buddha and Tao alike, worshipping the vegetarian Three Pure Ones and the meat-eating Guanyin Bodhisattva—never mind that Guanyin actually belonged to Buddhism; in the countryside, such distinctions were blurred. The finest and most beautiful building in the village was the Guanyin Temple by the river, a testament to its esteemed place in local life.

The temple stood in the heart of the administrative village, at the crossroads of its four natural hamlets. Incense burned thick in the air, especially on the first and fifteenth days of the lunar month, when worshippers came in an endless stream. With a population of only six to eight thousand, including elders and children, “endless” might seem an exaggeration, but tradition demanded that every household, young and old together, paid homage to Guanyin.

Though gilded and resplendent, the temple’s grounds were modest, hemmed in by the mountains; including the courtyard and the cement terrace, the whole space measured only some eight to nine hundred square meters. When crowds gathered, it turned lively and cramped. Before the temple flowed a small river called Luoshui, spanned by an ancient stone bridge of the same name. With the mountains as backdrop and water at its feet, the scenery was enchanting. Those waiting their turn to enter the temple liked to linger on the bridge, smoking and chatting in groups, enjoying each other’s company.

Naturally, the administrative village was named Luoshui, and its four hamlets were called Tai, Yuan, Yan, and Li. Tai and Yuan were slightly larger, each sheltering two to three thousand souls; Yan and Li were smaller, with fewer than a thousand apiece. People of Tai were upright, those of Yuan robust and fierce, Yan’s folk shrewd, and Li’s diligent and practical—so it had always been.

The temple’s caretaker, surnamed Li and named Qiwen, was from Li Village, now in his sixties. His wife had died young, leaving only an adopted son who lived far away. Since taking on the role of temple keeper, he seldom returned to his home village. He had a disciple named Luo Ming, not yet thirty and still a bachelor, nicknamed Little Monk. By rights, he was only an apprentice Daoist, but his early baldness and robust build made the villagers tease him affectionately, calling him Little Monk. He was fond of drink, burly, and often unkempt, a half-grown beard on his chin, reminding everyone of the rough-and-tumble monk Lu Zhishen from television tales. The nickname stuck.

Li the caretaker had held this lucrative post for twenty or thirty years, and as he looked forward to a peaceful old age, Luo Ming had become the heir apparent. Though not especially skilled at the rituals, Luo Ming’s status was rising, and most of the temple’s daily ceremonies—chanting scriptures, beating drums and gongs, blowing the tin horn—fell to him. It was not complicated work: more about strength than expertise.

Li, meanwhile, enjoyed his leisure, his main duties being to copy scriptures and draw talismans, presiding over major ceremonies. Heavy chores were left to Little Monk. Most days he just tended the lamps and incense, replaced the candles, and idled contentedly.

Time flies like an arrow; the years had slipped by, and now another Spring Festival approached in Luoshui Village.

That morning, Li rose with a sense of unease he could not explain. Little Monk, never one for rules, had gone out drinking the night before and had not returned. Unable to put his finger on what was wrong, Li followed his usual routine—tending the incense and ashes, removing spent candles to burn them clean in the pagoda-shaped urn by the entrance, then stepping outside to dust off the terrace, intending to rest and practice his calligraphy.

For decades, his calligraphy had been the envy of the surrounding villages, his treasured skill securing his hold on the position of temple keeper—none dared covet it lightly.

Suddenly, he realized what had set him on edge.

The red silk draping and the floral arrangements on Guanyin’s statue were in disarray. This would not do; it was disrespectful. Anxiously, Li fetched a low stool from the side hall and leaned against the great altar. Even standing on tiptoe atop the stool, he could barely reach. Balancing precariously, he smoothed out the silks with one hand until they looked proper again.

The golden crown atop the statue seemed a little crooked as well. Reluctant to leave the job half done, he knelt on the edge of the altar for better reach, finally managing to right the crown with both hands.

Though Guanyin’s serene face never moved, in that instant Li felt a flash of disdain directed at him from the statue.

Yes, disdain!

Li paused, startled. He had served this temple for decades, and though his devotion bordered on superstition, he knew the statue was only lifeless clay. How could it have such an expression?

He rubbed his blurred old eyes and peered again, only to gasp and nearly fall from the altar.

He looked again, heart pounding, then scrambled down in a panic.

Heavens! The ancient golden statue of Guanyin had vanished, replaced by a shoddy clay effigy crouching in the alcove, its misshapen face twisted in what seemed to be mockery of the old caretaker’s slow wits.

Li felt dizzy, as though the sky were collapsing above him.

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Worshippers arrived one after another, but Li was too rattled to greet them as usual, too anxious for cheerful words and blessings. Instead, he hid in the side hall, pretending to write but doing nothing at all, waiting—waiting for the wayward Little Monk, who might exasperate him but was now the only one he could trust. The disappearance of the golden statue was a calamity; if the villagers found out, they would surely blame him, suspect him of theft, and demand compensation—where could a lonely old man ever make good such a loss?

He muttered curses under his breath at the absent apprentice—always drinking, never reliable. If they could not recover the golden statue, let him see if he’d still have the mood for his beloved liquor.

As Li fretted, the crowd of worshippers in the main hall grew noisier. Where such bustle once brought him comfort, today it filled him with dread.

Though it was only the fifteenth day of the twelfth lunar month, Li felt as if it were the Ghost Festival in mid-summer.

Among the crowd, two travel-worn men stood out as obvious outsiders. One was tall, with a cold, sharp gaze; the other was of average build, his dark-bronze skin gleaming. He radiated a quiet, natural authority, though his legs seemed stiff—clear when he knelt in worship before Guanyin. The two paid their respects, bowed four times, lit incense, and then, following custom, prepared to burn paper offerings. The tall man deftly fanned the paper into a neat, layered arc for easy lighting.

As the tall man leaned toward the candle with his paper offerings, an elderly man, stooped and disheveled, drifted past, pausing beside him as if searching for something.

The tall man glanced up, his eyes brightening.

“Uncle!” he called, a mix of surprise and delight in his voice. “I didn’t expect to find you still keeping the temple.”

The sudden greeting left Li the caretaker bewildered. He didn’t seem to recognize this man, though he looked vaguely familiar. Li fumbled for his reading glasses, peering closely.

He had hoped Little Monk would return, and now, in the dim side hall, he wondered if his tired eyes had deceived him earlier. Perhaps he should take another look.

“And you are...?” Li finally ventured. “Oh, Xiaoting, is that you? I almost didn’t recognize you.”

The tall man was Li Yiting, returned to his native village, and his companion was Chen Tianyu.

A wave of warmth washed over Li Yiting, an unexpected tightness at his throat. His first act on returning home after so many years was to report his safe return at the Guanyin Temple, unchanged after all this time. To hear his childhood nickname from family lips again was indescribably touching.

He set down the paper offerings and reached out to steady the tottering old caretaker, noting with concern how aged he seemed.

“Yes, it’s me. Uncle, I hope you’ve been well all these years? The temple is as busy as ever—must have kept you working hard,” he said, a polite formality.

Li’s lips trembled, his mind elsewhere, casting anxious glances toward the altar behind the curtain and not answering at once.

But Li Yiting was not to be fooled—he sensed the old man’s distraction.

Li didn’t reply at first, then abruptly gripped Li Yiting’s arm. “Xiaoting, you’ve worked in the city for years now, haven’t you? What is it you do? I can’t remember.”

Li Yiting laughed. “Uncle, you’re always forgetting. I’ve been working in government. Don’t you remember?” He knew there was no point explaining police work or investigation to an old villager. He preferred being seen as just another son of the soil.

“Government!” Li shivered reflexively, letting go as if burned. “That’s a good job, a good job.” With that, he turned and hurried away into the side hall.

Chen Tianyu, who had watched all this with a cool eye, now approached. “That old man seemed awfully flustered. Looks like something’s wrong at the temple.”

Li Yiting stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I thought so too.”

“Are you going to look into it?” Chen Tianyu smiled slightly.

Li Yiting considered. “What serious trouble could there be in such a backwater? No rush. Let’s wait and see.”

They exchanged a glance, silent understanding passing between them.

Feigning indifference, Li Yiting went out to the pagoda by the courtyard to burn his paper offerings in honor of heaven and ancestors, while Chen Tianyu strolled lazily toward the side hall. Curiosity always drove him to sense when something was amiss.