The Remaining Third Chapter Sixty-Five: Yellow-Haired’s Last Gift

At times, people can be incredibly strong; at others, achingly fragile.

In moments of strength, no disaster or misfortune can overcome them. Like that mother in Lvteng City’s calamity years ago, who shielded her child with her own body beneath a collapsing slab of concrete. Or Hou San’s wife, her hand reaching out from the ruins at the very end of her life, whispering almost casually, “Don’t cry, it doesn’t hurt.” Or Huangmao, who clung to the door, defending it until the corridor filled with fleeing people, and even after Wang Chao escaped in bitter hatred, Huangmao’s right hand still gripped the doorknob tightly.

Many rushed past Huangmao, desperate and panicked, fleeing under the wail of alarms. Some never noticed the blood-drenched figure, others pretended not to see. Only after several minutes, when they saw Zhang Xiaoman barefoot and coughing, standing before the pool of blood, did Huangmao finally loosen his grip, glance down at his riddled abdomen, and, with a wry smile, asked in the tone of a lover chided by his girlfriend, “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“I… I was knocked down by the wind…” Zhang Xiaoman stared wide-eyed at Huangmao, whose lower body was soaked in blood, and answered, dazed and lost.

Zhang Xiaoman was neither lying nor exaggerating. In moments of fragility, a mere gust of wind can topple a person.

A little over twenty minutes earlier, Zhang Xiaoman had run into He Wei and Chang Ping in the sewers, along with that infamous one-third of a bag and a dark, decomposed corpse.

He gave a brief, embellished explanation for his presence—not that he’d fallen in by accident, but that, through deduction and clues, he had reasoned his way there.

He Wei believed every word, his admiration for Zhang Xiaoman reaching new heights—regarding him as nothing short of a genius. Chang Ping, on the other hand, was skeptical; eyeing the scrapes on Zhang Xiaoman’s thigh and the grime covering him, his face all but spelled out “liar.”

Zhang Xiaoman cleared his throat, squatted down, opened the black duffel bag, and picked up a piece to sniff, changing the subject. “This should be the remaining third, but the smell is off—like it’s been preserved.”

“What a sick bastard,” He Wei muttered, pinching his nose as he squatted beside him. “Kill someone, chop them up, and then go so far as to pickle the pieces…”

“Wrong,” Zhang Xiaoman shook his head, raising two fingers. “The one who dismembered and the one who preserved are two different people.”

“Two?” He Wei and Chang Ping exclaimed in unison.

Zhang Xiaoman put the piece back. “I saw other parts at Sun Tiantian’s place before—they weren’t preserved, which means the pickling was done later, probably by someone else.”

He Wei’s brows knit even tighter. “So, two psychos?”

Zhang Xiaoman shook his head again. “First, we have to understand why the victim was dismembered before judging if the culprit was a psycho… Usually, there are only two reasons: either the killer had deep hatred, taking perverse pleasure in cutting up the body, or it was for practical reasons—destroying or hiding the evidence.”

Chang Ping circled the duffel bag, thought for a moment, and said, “I’d guess the second. The bag isn’t big—maybe holds thirty to forty pounds—and it’s common in style and color. No one would think it contains human remains; it’s perfect for moving pieces of a body.”

“Good point, but not entirely right. If convenience was the only goal, a rough cut would do. But here, the victim was divided into exactly 365 pieces, each one meticulously carved,” Zhang Xiaoman gestured at the bag. “The cuts are clean, uniform. The killer was calm, knew exactly what they were doing—maybe they’d planned it countless times in their mind.”

He Wei narrowed his eyes, joining in, “The killer must know human anatomy well—at least basic dissection skills…”

“I said as much to Sun Tiantian,” Zhang Xiaoman replied, smacking his lips. “Only this kind of person would instinctively think of dismemberment when exacting revenge… So, the dismemberment wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. Sure, it made moving the body easier, but it was also a way to vent deep-seated hatred.”

Chang Ping pursed his lips, unconvinced. “Then who preserved the pieces? And how did the last third end up here?”

Zhang Xiaoman sighed. “I can’t say for sure if the dismemberer was a psycho, but the preserver definitely wasn’t.”

Chang Ping’s tone grew cold. “You know them?”

“No,” Zhang Xiaoman replied, lips pressed together. “But I have a good idea who it was… That fat oaf is just simple-minded, not a psycho.”

He Wei’s eyes lit up, understanding instantly. He slapped his forehead. “Right, they took the bag by mistake. Who else could’ve gotten their hands on the remaining pieces… That idiot must’ve preserved them to keep them from going bad…”

“I’m afraid that’s exactly it…” Zhang Xiaoman rubbed his nose. “Enough about that for now. We’ll have time to ask them later—I want to know what that pig was thinking…” Crouching by the corpse, he brushed dirt from its face and turned to Chang Ping. “Now, I’m much more interested in this body than the one-third in the bag. Looks like a woman, around fifty… What do you think?”

Chang Ping took out a pair of high-magnification glasses from his toolkit, put them on without expression, and squatted by the corpse. “I’ll take a closer look…”

He tapped the body with tweezers; a layer of black skin flaked off, exposing red tissue. He pressed the abdomen gently and continued, “I’m no forensic pathologist, but I’ve seen plenty of decomposed bodies… The black on the surface is just a layer of dirt—the real skin underneath is red. Blood is dissolving, the belly’s full of gas. Time of death: seven to fourteen days ago.”

Zhang Xiaoman gave a thumbs up. “Impressive—Old Chang would be proud, wherever he is…”

“Shut up,” Chang Ping snapped, glaring. “Don’t call him Old Chang in front of me. You’re not worthy.”

He Wei’s eyes blazed. “Who do you think you are, talking to Uncle Man like that? You’re not even fit to carry his shoes. Just look at today—could you have found this place alone, following the clues? Everyone has to respect that.”

Zhang Xiaoman coughed, grabbed a handful of earth beside the corpse, and changed the subject. “This soil isn’t from the sewer itself…” Suddenly, he found half of a burned card in the dirt. He picked it up, eyes fixing on the name section, and murmured, “So you’re here…”

He Wei hurried over, compared the face on the corpse to the photo on the card, and gasped, “How can that be? If she’s the real Auntie Cai, the housekeeper, then who was dismembered?”

Chang Ping took the card from Zhang Xiaoman with his tweezers. “A detailed check at the station will tell us for sure… But one thing puzzles me—why were you so sure the dismembered body was the housekeeper from the Jin Yue family?”

Zhang Xiaoman spread his hands, feigning innocence. “I never said that. You should change ‘you’ to ‘he’—He Wei’s the only one who thought so…”

He Wei gaped at Zhang Xiaoman, dumbfounded. “You told me the dismembered victim was about the same age as Auntie Cai, also a woman. Yunxi found her blood at the Jin Yue house… You asked me to check why Auntie Cai disappeared, and her social ties… Doesn’t that mean the dismembered body was Auntie Cai?”

Zhang Xiaoman pouted. “When someone goes missing, of course you check up on them. As for the blood, it only proves the dismembered victim bled at the Jin Yue house…”

“Oh, right,” He Wei suddenly remembered, “there was an apron! One of the bags had an apron inside…”

“That doesn’t prove her identity,” Zhang Xiaoman said quietly, staring at the corpse’s face. “Plenty of people cook, and not only cooks wear aprons… Besides, you weren’t only supposed to check on Auntie Cai. There’s someone else who should’ve shown up long ago but remains missing…”

He Wei immediately thought of a possibility, staring blankly at the corpse on the ground. “You mean…”

“Enough, I have to get back. Haven’t taken my meds all day…” Zhang Xiaoman clapped the dirt from his hands, about to stand, when a wave of putrid stench overwhelmed him. He glanced at Chang Ping, still pressing on the corpse’s belly, then at the gaping mouth of the corpse before him. The world spun.

Thud! Five seconds later, Zhang Xiaoman toppled backward, lying beside the corpse, together forming a long line.

Whether it was the wind, the sudden movement, or some hidden ailment of the brain, the result was the same: Zhang Xiaoman fainted in the sewer.

When he next awoke, he was lying in a hospital bed, shrill alarms shrieking in the corridor. As he groped for his phone and saw that Huangmao had called him seventeen times, a young officer burst in, frantic, and pulled Zhang Xiaoman—shoes forgotten—out of bed. “Come on, we have to go, I think the hospital’s on fire…”

Zhang Xiaoman coughed violently as he ran, asking, “Where are He Wei and Chang Ping?”

“They’ve already gone back to the station,” the officer explained. “That Jin Yue lawyer showed up, demanding to see the client, and your two apprentices applied to go back into detention for a while… Anyway…” The officer glanced at the crowd pouring from every direction. “The station’s a mess, too. Just like here.”

Mid-sprint, Zhang Xiaoman suddenly broke free, stopped, and turned back down the corridor, stopping at the pool of blood.

“Forget it. I don’t blame you…” Huangmao spat out a mouthful of blood. “The money I owe you… I probably can’t pay it back in this life. Maybe the next…”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Zhang Xiaoman snapped. “What’s done in this life stays here—don’t talk about the next. What if this life is already your next life?” He glanced at the smashed alarm on the wall, crouched, and examined Huangmao’s wound. “Hold on… We’re in a hospital—I’ll get a doctor right away…”

Huangmao grabbed his hand. “Don’t bother…” He pointed to his torn abdomen. “Can’t be saved… Every cut was fatal… Now… I just want to ask you to help me with one last thing…”

Zhang Xiaoman’s eyes reddened. “What is it? Tell me first—I won’t promise if I can’t do it. I don’t like lying, and I don’t want to deceive the dead.”

“It’s simple,” Huangmao forced his heavy eyelids open. “Help me stand up…” He pointed to a room diagonally across. “Take me there…” Then he pointed to the maternity ward behind him. “Meimei’s in there. Don’t let her see me like this…”

Zhang Xiaoman nodded, eyes wet, and carefully helped Huangmao up. At that moment, the young officer rushed over, and Zhang Xiaoman ordered, “There’s no fire—get an ER doctor here now! And…” He pointed at the maternity ward. “There’s a pregnant woman inside—tell OB-GYN to check on her…”

The officer hesitated, then nodded and ran off into the crowd.

Huangmao let his arms fall limp, letting Zhang Xiaoman drag him forward. He murmured “Thank you,” then his gaze grew distant, his words rambling. “Zhang Xiaoman, you know, drinking hot water really does help. Right now, I’d love some to warm me up… I poured a glass for Han Mei earlier, but she only took a sip—such a waste…”

“As long as you hold on,” Zhang Xiaoman fought back tears, “I’ll get you a whole basin of hot water—drink all you want…”

“My fool of a father heard somewhere that the more water you drink, the colder you get, but the more you drink, the warmer you feel…” Huangmao’s head drooped, as if he hadn’t heard. “So… he drank and drank, morning, noon, and night… Once drunk, he’d beat me… But that’s nothing… A father hitting his son, that’s normal… But the drink never warmed his heart—just gave him cirrhosis… I always thought, what an idiot. Hot water would’ve done the trick—who says you have to drink cold water if you don’t drink booze…”

“Tell me… was I right…” Huangmao breathed his last. “One more thing… a little gift… for you… I’m out of strength… take it from my left sleeve… took it from that bastard, he probably hasn’t noticed yet… This is a one-of-a-kind trick,” he forced a feeble smile, “worthy of a grand prize…”

And with that, his prophecy fulfilled, Huangmao died.

Zhang Xiaoman felt the warmth drain from Huangmao’s body, and tears finally spilled freely, falling with soft splashes as he gazed at the not-so-distant ward, stubbornly dragging Huangmao onward, determined to help fulfill his final wish.

Because, though it was only a dozen meters from Han Mei’s maternity room to that ward, it was the distance of Huangmao’s entire life—a journey that could not be left unfinished.