Chapter Five: Beneath the Wheels

I watched Xiaowei before me, who was hungrily devouring a bowl of eel noodles. Guangdong’s morning teas are renowned for their variety—the most famous Cantonese dim sum are shrimp dumplings, steamed siu mai, barbecue pork buns, and salted egg yolk pastries. Yet Xiaowei and I never cared for those. Instead, we were always more interested in the greasy delights found in alleys and on street corners, like tofu pudding and eel broth noodles.

“Mmm, their broth really is the best,” Xiaowei said, wiping the oil from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes lingering on the bottom of his bowl with obvious reluctance. “Let’s go, Brother Xu. Time to see that damned Boss Zhao.”

We made our way through the bustling morning market towards a somewhat desolate industrial park. Following the location Zhao had sent via WeChat, it was easy to find his transport company. The sign above read “Zhao’s Transport Co., Ltd.”, with the character for “transport” hanging on precariously, adding to the sense of abandonment.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the company grounds. The large parking lot was filled with twenty or thirty massive freight trucks, along with plenty of idle logistics carts. It looked as though business hadn’t run normally for a week or two. Old Zhao spotted us and waved from the office doorway.

Inside the office, it was clear this man had made a fortune over the years: the sofa’s armrests were gilded, the leather was top-notch, a box of opened cigars lay silently on the desk, and the painting of Eight Galloping Horses on the wall was surely worth a fortune.

“Master, you’re finally here! That fox—it came looking for me again!” As he spoke, a fine sheen of sweat formed on Zhao’s forehead, as if recalling something truly terrifying.

“These past few nights, I keep hearing someone whispering in my ear as I sleep. But when I wake up, there’s nothing there. Last night was the worst—I felt like I was in sleep paralysis, fully conscious but unable to move.

That’s when a female ghost, her hair in disarray and dressed in a red robe, approached me. She said I had seven days left to live, that I’d surely die beneath the wheels of a truck. You know I work in transport—I’m around vehicles every day. Lately, I haven’t even dared to set foot on the street. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

I glanced at Xiaowei, who was listening with rapt attention, as if this was the most fascinating thing he’d heard in ages. I sighed inwardly—truth be told, I had already decided on the tattoo design I’d give Boss Zhao.

Among the sixty-four patterns of Yang Embroidery, there is one called “Crimson Foals”—two elegant red-maned horses, one large and one small, galloping across the steppe. In ancient times, a good horse was essential for safe travel. Embroidered in the special style of Yang Embroidery, this motif promises safety in transport and travel.

It would be my first time crafting a pattern from the compendium. Having made up my mind, I said to Zhao, “Where’s Old Ma? Let’s go ask him for details.”

“He’s in the logistics workshop. He’s been so shaken lately, I don’t dare let him drive. He’s just helping sort shipments now.”

I had to admit, for all Zhao’s greasy, round-faced appearance, he was a shrewd businessman. This semi-abandoned industrial park had been bought for a song, and with some clever renovations, he’d divided the warehouse into two sections. The back entrance, where we came in, made it easy for trucks to enter and exit—the highway was just two turns away.

As we followed him, listening to his business talk, we passed two office and dormitory buildings and entered the logistics area. Pushing open the doors revealed a hive of activity: fifty or sixty workers sorting packages, three or four more handling registration and dispatch.

“Old Ma, come here! Hurry up!” Zhao’s sharp voice cut through my business musings, and a man in his forties made his way over. The four of us stepped into the logistics manager’s office. It was far less impressive than Zhao’s own—logistics forms were stacked everywhere, and the desk was a mess.

Zhao scratched his head sheepishly. “Let me make you some tea—would you prefer Pu’er or Da Hong Pao? Old Ma, these gentlemen are experts. Tell them exactly what you’ve seen and experienced recently. Don’t leave anything out. If you do, we’re both doomed.”

“Yes, understood, Boss,” Old Ma replied.

Old Ma recounted the story from start to finish, almost identical to Zhao’s version, except for one detail that caught my attention. He’d felt that the fox had been waiting by the roadside just for him, ignoring all other trucks until one bearing Zhao’s company logo came along—that was when the trouble started. And then there was the strange young toll booth attendant: the shift records said only men were working that night, so where had the beautiful young woman come from?

“Come on, let’s find Boss Zhao. This might be more complicated than we thought,” I said, pulling Xiaowei along.

In the distance, I saw Old Zhao emerging from the break room at the end of the corridor, a teapot in hand. When he noticed us, he hurried over. Just then, shouting and screaming erupted from the workshop: “Move, move! The forklift’s out of control!”

A forklift, wide enough for two people, was careening through the workshop, a young man at the helm, desperately stomping on the brakes with his left foot, shouting, “Get out of the way! The forklift’s out of control, I can’t stop it!” His voice was edged with panic and tears as the machine zigzagged wildly—heading straight for us, or more precisely, straight for Boss Zhao.

The forklift stopped just four or five centimeters from him, crashing into the wall with a loud bang. White paint flaked off from the impact. Zhao’s white porcelain tea set slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor. Though he hadn’t been hit, his hands and stomach were scraped, and he was visibly shaken. He collapsed to the ground, muttering in a daze, “Lady Hu of the Third House, she’s here! She’s really here! She said I’d die beneath the wheels!”