Chapter 75: One Hundred Days

The morning wind brought a fleeting coolness to the summer heat.

As Li Zhuiyuan stood by the water tank on the second floor brushing his teeth, he caught sight of Tan Wenbin jogging across the yard in a sleeveless shirt and athletic shorts, knees lifted high as he started his morning run.

This had been Tan Wenbin’s habit for half a year now.

Humans truly are creatures of boundless potential.

A year ago, Tan Wenbin was still the kind of spirited youth who stole money from his mother to buy a game console, hid adult comics inside textbooks, stashed lewd magazines under his blanket, and liked to tuck a cigarette behind his ear to mimic an adult’s swagger.

Now, he was a disciplined young man who studied hard by day, practiced diligently by night, and treated his forty-minute morning run as both a mental reset and a source of joy.

Sometimes, because of his condition, Li Zhuiyuan would find the reflection in the mirror somewhat unreal. If Tan Wenbin could see himself from a year ago through that mirror, he’d probably sneer and say the person inside must be his father's illegitimate son from some indiscretion in his youth—then add:

“Look at that mess of a face—clearly impure blood.”

After washing his face, he returned to the room.

Ah Li was standing at her drawing desk, painting.

The girl was painting a landscape—there were mountains, rivers, and even a dam.

That wall was covered with her work. Just the bridge from Nantong to Shanghai had four or five versions.

One of them depicted the bustling bridge traffic above the Yangtze, and a ghostly, ominous Baijia Town below—an elegant fusion of reality and void.

At the other end of the room was the boy’s desk, covered with academic books. Beneath it were several cardboard boxes filled with research proposals and blueprints.

And that was just the current stack. The ones he had finished studying were sent to the east room to fill Ah Li’s collection box.

Xue Liangliang had basically served as Luo Gong’s secretary over the past six months. Luo Gong, meanwhile, had been occupied with project approvals and had to attend presentations and assessments all over the place.

Whenever they neared Nantong, Xue Liangliang would find a way to take a short leave under the excuse of delivering study materials to his junior.

Tan Wenbin’s pager only received messages from two people—his father Tan Yunlong and Xue Liangliang.

Each time, Liangliang would page Tan Wenbin, then leave the materials by the Yangtze River. Runsheng would ride his tricycle out there, pick them up, and bring them back along with a clean set of clothes.

The more frequently Xue Liangliang came to Nantong, the more materials Li Zhuiyuan received.

In addition, Luo Gong would occasionally mail journals and higher-level but non-classified documents.

He also assigned projects to the boy, usually several at once, which were mailed over and returned collectively for feedback.

It felt like a contest of wills: one absorbing knowledge with everything he had, the other pushing him to grow faster and faster.

Li Zhuiyuan suspected that the “college-level curriculum” he was previewing was already beyond the scope.

No matter how brilliant a prodigy is, mastery in any field demands deep cultivation. Over the past half-year, studying had taken up much of his time and energy.

But he had no choice. As long as the one beneath the peach trees remained undead, he’d have nothing else to do in the village.

Nowadays, if a regular drowning case came up, Runsheng, Tan Wenbin, and Yin Meng would race each other to retrieve the body—even Great-Grandpa had become a hands-off manager.

As for the type of corpse that could walk ashore on its own—he hadn’t seen one in a long time. If he hadn’t experienced it himself, he might think it was all a delusion born of madness.

When he got tired of drawing blueprints, Li Zhuiyuan would get up and go to Ah Li’s desk, while she’d switch over to his.

He would pick up a brush and unwind by sketching, while Ah Li studied his blueprints.

The girl could understand them—otherwise, she couldn’t have painted the way she did.

It was as if she had a natural sensitivity, able to transform cold technical lines into flowing river scenes on canvas.

Li Zhuiyuan once created a painting based on her—but he could never draw her face, so he depicted only her back.

In the painting, the girl stood atop a mountain, a raging river before her, and ancient villagers gathered below.

The composition suited a mural for a water burial.

It was a little creative fun amid the grind of study. But the next morning, he found that the painting had changed—another child, also from the back, had appeared beside the girl.

The two were holding hands.

And just like that, the piece turned into a mural fit for a kindergarten wall.

In the end, they were still just children—not so different from their peers playing in the village mud. Their “mud” just happened to look a bit fancier.

Li Zhuiyuan had already finished deciphering the Chronicle of the Qi Clan. The deeper he delved, the harder it got. Eventually, he realized the book must’ve had a cipher key.

Otherwise, even someone like him with strong deductive skills had to grind through it—how could regular Qi Clan members possibly make sense of it? They’d spend a lifetime just trying to understand the characters.

The key was likely a family heirloom, something foundational, like the Liu Clan’s Art of Observing Qi.

Without it, Li Zhuiyuan had to brute-force every step.

The book itself was a mechanism kaleidoscope. When fully decrypted, it revealed ancestral Qi Clan techniques for mechanisms and spatial manipulation—secret arts for survival and legacy. Even within the clan, they were closely guarded, handed down in small batches because they held the secrets of countless ancient tombs. Exposure would earn the ire of past rulers.

It was a good book—but a bit useless to Li Zhuiyuan at present. His field was water engineering, not security systems. Modern dams had military protection anyway.

In ancient times, they feared tomb raiders. Now, we fear airstrikes.

Still, it would be useful someday. The old professors at the faculty housing had helped decode the coordinates hidden in the bamboo slip. While three locations remained ambiguous, most were now identified.

From the northeast to Yunnan and Guizhou, from grasslands to deserts, from the Ten-Thousand Mountains to island-strewn lakes, from basins to plateaus, rivers, lakes, even oceans…

The geographic range was staggering. Even with a map, Li Zhuiyuan found it hard to believe. Yet the masked man from the Spring and Autumn period had carried this bamboo slip with him even in death. It had to mean something.

One coordinate was strikingly close to the Ji’an 572 Civil Defense Project Investigation Report. Highly likely, it was the same place.

Which meant Luo Gong’s beloved “White Moonlight” was one of the nine coordinates recorded in the bamboo slip.

That made Li Zhuiyuan wonder: the three documents Li Lan handed him in Beijing six months ago—corresponding to the ocean, Ji’an, and Fengdu—did they carry some hidden meaning too?

Li Lan, fully consumed by her delusion and believing herself inhuman, was still carrying out her mission. What could possibly be her motive?

Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t put himself in her shoes. He didn’t dare try. But clearly, something deeper compelled her to keep searching.

…

Without fail, every day was opened by Aunt Liu.

“Breakfast time!”

Li Zhuiyuan took Ah Li’s hand and went downstairs. Near the door hung a small blackboard, originally used to jot down temporary notes—how many tables for one family, how many paper effigies for another. Most of the time, it sat unused.

But three months ago, Li Sanjiang solemnly wiped the board clean, picked up a chalk stick, and wrote: “One Hundred Days.”

After being told he’d written the wrong character for “one,” Great-Grandpa erased it and just wrote “100 days,” decrementing it daily with Arabic numerals.

This wasn’t for his great-grandson—he’d already been admitted early, and the paperwork was enshrined beneath the portrait of Confucius in the side room.

Li Sanjiang was counting down for Zhuangzhuang.

Today, the board read: “3.”

Tan Wenbin came back from his jog, rinsed off by the well, and changed into clean clothes.

Say what you will—he might not have developed any special corpse-retrieving abilities, but that was only in comparison to a freak like Runsheng.

Coming from a family of police officers, Tan Wenbin already had good genes. With diligent training and a hearty appetite, his bare torso no longer looked like boiled chicken but something far more solid.

Yin Meng’s craftsmanship with coffins was beyond reproach—they really were warm in winter and cool in summer.

Every night, Tan Wenbin and Runsheng slept in coffins. One was Li Sanjiang’s, the other belonged to Grandpa Shan.

That one hadn’t been taken home yet because Li Sanjiang worried that if it was sent back, Shanpao might lose a bet and sell it off.

Might as well let Runsheng deliver it when Shanpao eventually kicked the bucket.

Runsheng agreed wholeheartedly.

“Why’s there another day off tomorrow?” Li Sanjiang asked, puzzled, puffing on a cigarette. “Ain’t the big exam almost here?”

Tan Wenbin replied, “Great-Grandpa, our school’s not a testing site. We have to go to a different school to take the exam. So we get two days off to prepare. The day before the test, we’ll all move into the other school’s dorms.”

“Can we bring food?” he asked.

“Yeah, and if you don’t stay in the dorms, you can even go home.”

“That’s good.” Li Sanjiang flicked his ash. “I’ll have Tinghou make some sticky rice cakes and dumplings. I’ll bring them to you on exam day.”

“Heh.” Tan Wenbin grinned but didn’t protest.

“Do your best!” Li Sanjiang patted Zhuangzhuang on the shoulder. “Studying really is a good thing.”

“Don’t worry, Great-Grandpa. I’ll do fine. I put your address on the admissions form. Once the letter comes, you can read it first, then I’ll take it home to show my parents.”

“Haha!” Li Sanjiang burst out laughing. “Zhuangzhuang’s a good one. Wasn’t a waste feeding you all this time.”

After breakfast, Runsheng pulled out the tricycle. Li Zhuiyuan and Ah Li climbed on.

The school was holding its final pep rally for the college entrance exam. The school had asked the boy to show his face.

At the gate, and again on the school building, the banners were still fresh: “Warm Congratulations to Li Zhuiyuan for Winning First Prize in the National Math Olympiad.” Even the older city-level and provincial awards looked brand new.

That was because the school regularly replaced the banners.

“Xiaoyuan, Ah Li and I will wait in that alley,” Runsheng said.

“Okay.” Li Zhuiyuan looked at Ah Li, still sitting in the tricycle. “Later, we’ll buy some things, then get fried skewers.”

The girl nodded.

Though technically a school day, after the morning assembly students were free to go home and prepare. Tan Wenbin would be coming out too.

With a book by Wei Zhengdao in hand, Li Zhuiyuan entered the school. Last semester, he still came back to take the midterms. This semester… this was his first time stepping on school grounds.

No one pushed him to attend class or exams. At most, they’d ask Tan Wenbin to “sound him out.”

He went straight to the principal’s office. Along the way, plenty of teachers trailed behind him. Not surprising—this was his first appearance since the Olympiad win.

Sun Qing had clearly prepared. She wasn’t in her classroom but was waiting in the office.

As soon as she saw him, she took his hand and smiled.

“Let your homeroom teacher take a look at you. Aiyo, it’s been a while—you’ve grown taller!”

A homeroom teacher referring to a student like that sounded weird enough. Saying “long time no see” made it even stranger.

But the surrounding teachers looked on with nothing but envy. No one cared about the awkward phrasing.

If they’d lucked into a top scorer too, they’d be even more shameless.

Put that line on your résumé and no one would know the top scorer never attended class.

Sun Qing brought Li Zhuiyuan to the office. Inside were Teacher Yan, Teacher Su—his subject teachers.

A camera was already set up.

He stood in the center, smiling. Teachers shuffled in and out, rearranging endlessly around him for photos.

Afterward, even he had to rub his cheeks—they ached from smiling so much.

Then Wu Xinhang led him to the school auditorium.

At the long table at the front, Li Zhuiyuan sat in the center. The principal and vice-principal flanked him.

Seniors were filing in. Many wore bright yellow talismans—Lucky Talismans from the Zhuiyuan Secret Manual.

Back when he’d failed to draw a working talisman, he never imagined it’d end up like this.

Especially the front two rows of boys—they stuck the talismans right on their foreheads, hoping to soak up some of his genius.

It looked like two rows of dead sinkers sitting upright.

When it came to personal stakes, young people could out-superstition the elderly.

Li Zhuiyuan spotted Tan Wenbin making faces at him. Then Zhou Yunyun walked over. The boy sitting beside Tan Wenbin made way for her.

The principal and a few teachers gave speeches.

Unlike the hundred-day countdown rally, which aimed to stir up fighting spirit and featured paid “motivational experts,” this one focused on stress relief.

They reminded students that the college entrance exam wasn’t the only path in life and offered practical test-day advice.

Wu Xinhang leaned over and whispered, “Xiaoyuan, want to say a few words?”

For the closing remarks, Li Zhuiyuan delivered a single, dry joke:

“Everyone, remember to write ‘Solution’ before your solutions.”

There was a moment of stunned silence—then roaring laughter and applause. Many waved their Zhuiyuan Secret Manuals and talismans.

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