Chapter One: The Storm Begins

The summer of 1986 was the hottest decade had ever seen in Zhangjia Tower. Even in such oppressive heat, many of the village’s laborers still braved the sun to work in the neighboring town.

That town was called Liulianli, an advanced and prosperous place, bustling in stark contrast to the surrounding villages.

That particular day was the most unbearable of the summer. Whether it was the Celestial Elder's medicine furnace overturning, or some divine retribution for the wicked, no one could say.

At dusk, clusters of men returned home one after another, tool bags slung across their shoulders.

Zhang Chuyang walked along the western edge of the village, face smeared with black dust, carrying a small sack of rice he’d brought back from Liulianli. Anyone who didn't know better might have guessed he’d just come up from a coal mine.

His exhausted face lit up with a smile—this day’s work would feed his family for half a month.

It was then that a thick mist began to spread across the northeastern sky. Within the fog, something dark and immense rolled and twisted, like a great black dragon coiling in the heavens.

Zhang Chuyang stared, uneasy. He’d always been able to see things others could not, but he’d never witnessed anything like this. Unease gnawed at him—a great event was surely coming—so he quickened his pace toward home.

By the time he reached his own gate, night had fallen completely. He saw the glow of light from inside and hurried to set down his things.

Scooping water from the large vat in the yard, he washed his face with relish, straightened his clothing, and entered the house.

For three months now, he’d made it a habit to tidy himself before facing his family, for he was the only one in town who'd ever left the county, even the province.

After the desert expedition with the Xin-Tibet Archaeological Team in mid-1985, he’d returned to his hometown, found work at a reputable construction plant, and with the wages from the archaeological work, life had been prosperous.

But three months ago, calamity struck. A new plant manager had arrived, and for whatever unknown offense, started his tenure with a mass layoff—Zhang Chuyang among those dismissed.

Not wanting to worry his family, Zhang had found work in the neighboring town instead.

Entering the house, he saw his father, face deeply lined with age, seated alone at the table, silently drawing on the old pipe that had accompanied him nearly his whole life.

“Dad…” Zhang Chuyang spoke softly, but his father didn’t answer, merely tilting his head and resuming his pipe. Following his father's gaze, he saw his wife stepping out from the east room.

“You’re back. Xiaolin has a high fever again…” she said, picking up a bowl of water from the tall cabinet before disappearing inside.

Pulling aside the curtain to the east room, Zhang Chuyang saw the gaunt, sunken face of Old Dog.

Old Dog was the village’s medicine man, running a small pharmacy at the western end and treating the sick—a visit to him far cheaper than a trip to the county hospital.

“Uncle Dog, how’s Xiaolin?” Zhang asked, though he never liked the old man. When it concerned his son’s life, he was direct.

“Ah, this isn’t the first time Xiaolin’s been like this,” the old man replied. “I’ll write a prescription. Come fetch the medicine in the morning. Chuyang, step outside with me a moment.” The old man’s keen eyes flicked to the medicine chest by the kang, signaling him.

Zhang Chuyang approached the kang, glanced at his son lying beside the medicine chest—his cheeks flushed, lips tinged with purple—then looked at his mother and wife, keeping vigil.

“Don’t worry too much. Old Dog said it’s nothing serious. Mom, Yanxi, I’ll see him out,” Zhang said, picking up the medicine chest.

He followed Old Dog out. As they left the east room, Zhang Chuyang’s father rose, worry etched on his brow.

“Zhang! Don’t fret, your grandson will be fine. If you keep wearing that look, you’ll bring him bad luck…” Old Dog barked as he passed.

His father shook his pipe, about to speak, but Old Dog was already out the door, shaking his head.

“Dad, don’t take it to heart. I’ll be back soon…” Zhang Chuyang said.

“Uncle Dog, please, just tell me. I know you called me out because of Xiaolin. Whatever it is, I’m ready. If there’s a way to save him, I’ll do anything,” Zhang said, stopping with Old Dog on the western street of the village.

Old Dog stood with his back to him, gazing up at a starless, moonless, muddied sky, silent for a long while, as if seeing something strange within the darkness.

“Chuyang… I’ll be honest. Xiaolin’s illness is worse than before. If a better cure isn’t found, he may not live past twenty-six. I’ve discovered something peculiar about him. Though I don’t believe in spirits, I can’t explain it. You, too, are different from ordinary men. You should try other ways to save him,” Old Dog turned, speaking gravely.

...

When Zhang Chuyang returned, his wife Shen Yanxi had finished dinner. The family ate simply together. Afterward, husband and wife lay side by side on their bed.

“What did Old Dog say?” Shen Yanxi asked, turning to look at him.

“Nothing much. Sleep early. We have to fetch the medicine tomorrow morning.”

Late that night, Zhang Chuyang was startled awake by a muffled rumble from beneath the earth.

He sprang up and shook Shen Yanxi awake.

Just then, the house began to tremble—an earthquake!

He rushed from the west room toward the east, his wife close behind. No cries came from the east room, but as soon as he entered, Zhang Chuyang darted out again, ignoring his wife’s anxious calls.

He ran into the pitch-black street, calling, “Xiaolin! Xiaolin!” His son, a small figure just a meter ahead, ran and laughed back at him.

Zhang Chuyang stopped, staring intently. The child paused too, gazing back.

Is this really my son? he wondered.

But yes—the boy’s every gesture was unmistakably Zhang Qinglin.

The boy spun twice, then dashed forward again. Zhang Chuyang pursued, desperate to catch him but always two meters behind.

He chased the child around Zhangjia Tower in the darkness.

As the earthquake shook the land—first a violent upheaval, then sudden calm—Zhang Chuyang, gasping for breath, found himself on the empty ground at the edge of West Village, Liulianli.