(Note: The title of this chapter is derived from the ancient Chinese novel Journey to the West. The place where the protagonist, the famous character Sun Wukong, once lived was a cave behind a waterfall on Flower and Fruit Mountain.)
"Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack," snarled Wang. "Get over here—what the hell is this thing?" Before any of us could move, Ranger Lin leapt into the pool, hauled out the strange driftwood, and braced it upright in front of us.
Only then did we see it was no plank but a weathered wooden stele. Its red paint had almost entirely flaked away, though the grain still spoke of its recent submersion. The carved inscription, rendered in Traditional Chinese characters, remained shockingly legible:
"Heaven gave birth to all things to nourish the people,Yet the people repay Heaven with nary a kindness.Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!The unfaithful: to be slain!The unfilial: to be slain!The unbenevolent: to be slain!The unjust: to be slain!Those lacking propriety, wisdom, or trust: under the great Western King's orders—kill, kill, kill!I was not born to vie for power;
I will not build gilded towers in the capital—All officials, high or low, are but dogs; beneath my blade they quiver.My four princes: at city walls you need not sheath sword or dagger.On this mountain, under Heaven's decree, this stele stands—Those who defy Heaven, whether kneeling or standing, shall meet death!"
Wang's brow furrowed. "What twisted crap is this?"
Among us, I was the one with the highest education—though I'd failed university entry, history had always been my strongest subject in high school. I stared at the text and pronounced, "This is Zhang Xianzhong's 'Seven-Kill Poem.' What on earth is it doing here?"
Song Chunlei sidled up, peering at the stele. "Zhang Xianzhong? Sounds familiar—wasn't he a Kuomintang general or something?"
I rolled my eyes. "Chunlei, do us all a favor and read a history book sometime. Zhang Xianzhong was a rebel leader in the late Ming—every bit as notorious as Li Zicheng."
Chunlei's face turned beet-red. He muttered, "I knew I'd heard the name somewhere…" I turned to Lin. "Ever seen this stele before?"
Lin shook his head. "Never. I thought Zhang Xianzhong was limited to Sichuan. I've never heard he came this far south."
I shrugged. "Not necessarily planted by him—could have drifted here through legend or later travelers. But it makes no sense to find it at the bottom of this pool."
"Enough of this nonsense," Wang barked. "Lin, pack the stele out. We'll circle the area and then head back."
The terrain revealed itself at a glance: the fall and pool formed a dead end—only the same route out. Wang led us around the basin, found no hidden egress, and marched us straight back.
On the return, Wang sidled up to me. "La-zi, what was that Zhang Xianzhong all about, anyway?" he whispered.
I sighed. "So you didn't know either? Even elementary textbooks cover him. How did the both of you graduate nine years of compulsory schooling without knowing?"
I explained: Zhang Xianzhong had started as a constable, then joined the Ming army. Accused of insubordination and facing execution, he escaped one night, joined rebel leader Wang Jiayin—earning his place through sheer ruthless daring. After Wang's death, Zhang broke with Li Zicheng and marched southwest into Sichuan, eventually seizing Chengdu and founding the short-lived "Great Western" regime—only to descend into paranoid massacres, slaughtering soldiers, officials, and countless civilians. His reign of terror gave Chengdu a grim reputation as a "city of the dead." He himself fell to Qing forces a few years later. So severe was his depopulation of Sichuan that the Qing court forcibly relocated a million people to repopulate the province.
At the fork in the trail near the pool, Ranger Lin bid us farewell—reminding us not to return to the falls.
Old Wang led us back to our assigned ambush positions before nightfall. Oddly enough, once we left the waterfall's vicinity, my throbbing headache subsided—another three points of unease added to my fear of this place.
We split into teams of three, each hidden a hundred meters apart along the path the traffickers would take. After hours of silent watch, Wang received word from headquarters: Mot and his entourage were still in Myanmar. No action tonight—each squad to hold position; resupply of food and water would follow shortly.
We'd been through false alarms before. Some welcome downtime: we could relax, stretch, and slip a smoke without fear of giving ourselves away. Speaking of which—I'd given half my pack of Military-Brand cigarettes to Lin. Scanning my squadmates, I realized I needed a smoke break. I pondered whose pack I might borrow…
"Boss Wang—got a smoke?" I held out my hand. He grudgingly fished a pack from his pocket and tossed it to me. "Never see you offering smokes to the leadership—only taking."
"Just one, don't be stingy." I grinned and lit a cigarette. "Besides, bumming your smoke has its perks. I hear our deputy company commander is retiring at year's end—and they'll promote one of the team leaders to fill the slot, right?"
Song Chunlei, ever eager, brightened. "Really? Wang's moving up to deputy? How come nobody told me?"
"Back off, kid—grown-ups talking," I waved him away like shooing a fly. Chunlei had less time in service than I did—one of the few I could boss around.
I turned back to Wang. "Next month's shooting match, right? Your marksmanship could use work. Last time you were second to last—only eighty-five rings on the 100‑meter moving target, two rings above Zhao from Dog‑Tooth Squad. Wang, no offense, but at that rate, deputy commander's pipe dream. How about I give you some private coaching?"
Wang eyed me warily. "And what's your plan?"
I exhaled a smoke ring, pocketed the pack, and said, "Simple. I'll give you special training—guaranteed, one month from now you'll be shooting like a new man. Ninety‑five rings at least."
Before Wang could reply, Chunlei piped up, green‑eyed: "Shen Ge—can you coach me too? One sheep or two sheep—both get herded, right?"
Wang's eyes blazed. "Chunlei, shut it! You're the sheep! Your whole family's sheep!"
I intervened, producing the pack again. "Boss Wang—seriously, have a smoke. Don't be shy." I handed him a cigarette and lit it for him, then pocketed the rest. Wang couldn't fuss—he admitted, "La-zi, you really know your stuff. Tell me—what's this training method?"
"Just borrow your rubber baton," I said with a chuckle. "Missed the 100‑meter moving target? No problem—we stretch it out to 200 meters. Think that's impossible? Then—" I made two mock baton swings in the air.
Wang scowled. "I knew you little troublemaker had something up your sleeve." He ripped the pack from my pocket before I could object. "I'm taking my own smoke!"
I shrugged. "Fine by me—but the high command did forbid officers from shaking down enlisted men."
"High command be damned!" Wang snapped. "It's my smoke!"
I was about to argue more when Chunlei wheedled, "Shen Ge—how about some coaching for me? If you can get me to ninety rings on that 100‑meter moving target, I'll do anything you say."
Wang and I exchanged a look and said in unison, "Kid, pipe down!"
Truth is, I'm not cut out for long-term sniping—snipers need solitude. Sitting alone for days, waiting a single instant to take a life is routine for a sniper. But I crave company—and mental fortitude aside, I'd be restless alone. Thankfully I had Old Wang and hotheaded Chunlei around. Even on extended ambush, boredom never set in.
A few more hours passed and our field rations and water arrived. We wolfed down cold rice cakes and water, then Wang set up our watch rotations. He took the first rest; Chunlei and I kept watch.
Chunlei, ever the "ten‑thousand whys" kid, seized his chance. "Shen Ge, how do you shoot so precisely?"
"Shen Ge, I heard you killed four men with your first mission shot?"
"They say you never look through your scope—is that true?"
"Shen Ge, it's so hot—if they don't show up tomorrow, let's slip off to the waterfall to cool down?"
"Absolutely not!" Old Wang's voice jolted Chunlei awake. "Chunlei, don't even think about it! Trying to take leave during a mission—forget it!"
Before Wang could finish, the company commander's voice crackled over the radio: "All squads, targets have crossed the border and are heading toward the Falcons' position. Monitor and coordinate with them."
Chunlei grumbled, "Didn't they say no action tonight? Smuggling at midnight—what a joke." Wang and I ignored him, adjusting our camouflage and donning night‑vision goggles.
Two hours later, Dog‑Tooth Squad called in: the traffickers had passed their ambush point and were approaching ours.
Almost an hour on, we heard faint footsteps on the trail. Through my night‑vision scope, I counted eleven figures: Mot and the portly mole in the center, flanked by nine henchmen, each with a bulging canvas bag—AK‑47s, no doubt.
"Boss Wang," Liu Jingsheng whispered, "ten men—none look like real soldiers. Piece of cake."
"Don't underestimate them," Wang replied. "Stay sharp. Once they reveal the cache, we move in."
Just then, the mole halted, unzipped his pants, and began to pee right on the path—still complaining about the slow route. Mot simply nodded, wary of angering him. Had I not known him to be our mole, I'd have sworn he outranked Mot himself.
"He must have prostate trouble—gone on forever," I muttered.
Wang jabbed me. "They've moved."
The mole zipped up and signaled Mot toward a thicket. He pulled aside brush to reveal the same hidden path to the waterfall's pool. Mot followed, still muttering about time wasted.
My heart hammered. "I know where they hid the drugs." Eight voices crackled: "Where?"
I quipped: "Where did Monkey King declare himself Great Sage Equal to Heaven?"
Wang snapped: "Tell us now, don't toy with us."
"Flower–Fruit Mountain—the Water‑Curtain Cave."
That old track offered no cover—only tall grass. After regrouping, we crept down the trail, finding no sign the traffickers had doubled back. We arrived once more at the mugwort thicket by the waterfall's lip.
Inside the waterfall's boundary, my headache flared again, but there was no turning back. I swept my scope across every nook a person could hide. When it was clear, our entire squad stepped carefully to the pool's edge.
Under the full moon, the falls and pool took on a ghostly gray. An indescribable unease gripped us all—Wang's face matched the pool's pallor. If we let Mot slip away, none of us would survive the fallout.
"La, you sure about this?" Wang whispered.
"Only one way to find out," I replied, shoulder settling the rifle.
The roar of the waterfall swallowed our breaths—our nightmare begun.