Zheng Mashui looked puzzled. "Really? You don't like pig kidneys? With your build, they'd be really good for you. You don't know, do you? When the old painter was still alive, he'd have me save him a pig kidney every day. He lived to be over seventy, and it was all because of those pig kidneys. In our town, not everyone gets to eat them. I only saved them for the old painter—anyone else who wanted them had no chance! I figured, since you're here, you'd probably like pig kidneys too, just like the old painter. So, I saved one for you today."

  Song Ke was completely confused.

  Zheng Mashui bent down and pulled out a pig kidney from a basket under the counter, shaking it in front of Song Ke. "This pig kidney is for you. I won't charge you today."

  Zheng Mashui didn't care about the strange look on Song Ke's face. He quickly tied the kidney with a wet straw and handed it to him.

  Song Ke hesitated for a moment, but as if moved by some unseen force, he reached out and took the pig kidney. Zheng Mashui appeared pleased, grinning widely, revealing a mouthful of dark, crooked teeth.

  As Zheng Mashui's ughter echoed in his ears, Song Ke turned and walked back toward the painting studio. His figure looked fragile and frail, as though even a gust of wind could blow him away from the narrow street of Tang Town.

  Zheng Mashui watched Song Ke's retreating figure, mumbling to himself, "That damn Zhong Qi, I gave him the pig kidney, and he didn’t even come to collect it. Next time, I won't leave him any."

  Zheng Mashui's nose twitched a few times as he caught a faint, rancid odor. He wondered if the pork he hadn't sold had gone bad, but that seemed impossible. The pig had been sughtered just this morning, and the weather wasn't too hot yet. There was no way the meat could have spoiled.

  He picked up a piece of fatty pork and sniffed it carefully. After a moment, he concluded that the pork was still good. So, where was that faint, fishy smell coming from?

  The sun had not yet set when Song Ke closed the door to his painting studio. After spending a day and a night in Tang Town, he had come to realize that no one would come to him for a portrait unless someone died. Whether the door to his shop was open or closed, it made no difference. Song Ke would rather keep the door shut, hiding inside his shop, hoping that perhaps his soul could find some peace.

  He stared at the pig kidney, his expression one of dejection.

  Song Ke had never eaten animal organs. He thought they were filthy, and just the thought of them made him feel disgusted, let alone actually eating them. He couldn't understand why he had accepted the pig kidney from the butcher. Was it some form of surrender to his desote reality? He didn't believe his life in Tang Town would change fundamentally. The only reason he had come here was to escape even more thoroughly.

  There was a feeling in his stomach, like a worm wriggling inside.

  He felt nauseous.

  Song Ke suppressed the urge to vomit, drawing on the extraordinary self-control he had developed during his years of wandering. He fought to calm the seething worm wriggling inside his stomach. He had to face this pig kidney; otherwise, he didn't believe he could survive in this seemingly closed-off mountain town.

  He thought of the old painter, Hu Wenjin.

  At this time, Song Ke almost wished he could appear before him and talk. Perhaps he would ask him why he had spent his life eating pig kidneys.

  Song Ke stood in the center of the painting studio, feeling suffocated by the tightly packed portraits of the dead on the walls. He couldn't bear the way their eyes seemed to torment his soul. Suddenly, an idea struck him: to take all of these paintings down. Without hesitation, he put the idea into action. He climbed onto a stool and began removing the portraits one by one from the walls.

  Once he was done, he was left wondering where to put the old painter Hu Wenjin's prized works. He couldn't just throw them into the town's trash heap. That would be disrespectful not only to the deceased and their living family members but also to Hu Wenjin's spirit, which would never find peace in the afterlife.

  Song Ke thought for a moment and decided to store the portraits somewhere safe. But where would be suitable? It clearly wouldn't be right to leave them on dispy in the shop, and the cramped kitchen downstairs was out of the question. Eventually, Song Ke came up with a solution—he would store them all under the rge bed in the upstairs bedroom.

  By the time he had finished, the sky had darkened. Song Ke lit an oil mp and descended back into the shop. He took the portrait he had painted of the old artist Hu Wenjin and pced it in a frame, hanging it in the center of the right-hand wall. Beneath it, he set up a table, and on top of it, he pced the pig kidney that still made him feel sick, as though it were some kind of offering for Hu Wenjin.

  In this strange, unsettling arrangement, the pig kidney seemed like a sacrifice to the dead artist—something that both repulsed and yet, in its own twisted way, seemed necessary.

  As soon as the news reached You Changshui, the town's leader, he immediately stood up, his face tightening. "He's back..." he muttered under his breath, a mix of surprise and concern in his voice. You Changshui had not seen his nephew, You Wuqiang, for years. The young man had left the town under mysterious circumstances, and there had been no word from him since.

  The return of You Wuqiang was a significant event for the quiet town of Tangzhen, and it seemed to stir something hidden within the town's air, something both heavy and unsettling. For years, the town had been still, untouched by major change or news, and now, this unexpected return felt like a shift in the bance.

  Back at the painting studio, Song Ke remained unaware of the stir his presence had caused among the town's residents. He stood silently in front of the portrait of Hu Wenjin, reflecting on the words he had spoken in the stillness of the room. The long sigh that had echoed in his ears remained in his memory, though he could not expin it.

  As the evening shadows deepened, Song Ke sensed that something was about to change in this pce—the return of the man from the past could not be ignored.

  You Changshui and Zhong Qi were in the middle of a conversation when they both suddenly looked up, their expressions tense as they focused on the messenger.

  You Changshui asked, "What did you say?"

  The man responded, "Mayor You, your nephew, You Wuqiang, has returned!"

  You Changshui widened his eyes in disbelief. "Really? Wasn't he supposed to be dead on the battlefield?"

  The man nodded. "He really is back. If you don't believe me, go to the street and see for yourself. He’s talking with Zhang Shaobing, the coffin maker."

  Zhong Qi's face turned pale, his voice shaky. "How could he be back? I saw him die on the battlefield! Is he... a ghost?"

  The messenger, noticing their anxious and confused expressions, lost interest and quietly slipped away.

  You Changshui scratched his head and sighed. "Well, if he's back, he's back. Let him be. If he recognizes me as his uncle, he can join the security team as a deputy. If he doesn't, then so be it. I never mistreated him. He chose to join the army on his own; I didn't force him to leave Tang Town. Zhong Qi, do you think I′m right?"

  Zhong Qi nodded vigorously, his posture bending low in deference. "You're absolutely right, Mayor. You’ve done everything you could for him!"

  Despite his words, Zhong Qi's face remained ashen. The name "You Wuqiang" echoed in his mind like a sharp knife, cutting deeply into his thoughts. After a moment of tense silence, Zhong Qi spoke again. "Mayor, I think I should go and handle things with Wuqiang first. After all, he's still your nephew. With him back, you should show some grace. It wouldn't look good if people think you're distant or cold about it."