I said, "It's nothing serious. Director Sun's gun accidentally discharged just now. Don't worry, no one was hurt."
As I spoke, Chief Xiong had already reached the area beneath the opera boat. Upon hearing my explanation, he muttered, "A misfire? Five or six shots in a row? Are your issued pistols fully automatic or what?"
Seeing the opera troupe members disembarking with their bundles, Chief Xiong kindly stepped up to lend a hand. Unexpectedly, those actors all dodged and flinched, doing everything they could to avoid letting him touch their bundles. That only made him more suspicious.
When he saw someone carrying the troupe leader off the boat on their back, Xiong Bada went forward to help and asked, "What happened to him? Is he alright?"
"It's nothing. The troupe leader slipped on deck and hit his head on the stage. He'll be fine after some rest," said the old Taoist priest, Master Xiao, who had been silent until then.
Naturally, something had to happen at this point. Right behind Master Xiao came one of the troupe actors. He was carrying two bundles — one his own, the other belonging to the still-unconscious troupe leader. The weight of the two bundles dragged heavily on his arms, and as he stepped off the gangplank, he misstepped and fell.
Chief Xiong, quick-eyed, caught him as he landed, preventing injury. But the actor failed to keep hold of the bundles — they hit the ground and burst open, scattering gold and silver ingots everywhere.
Chief Xiong and our village chief were both dumbfounded. Was performing opera really this profitable?
"No one leaves!" Chief Xiong barked, stepping up to Sun Fatty and me, pointing at the scattered gold and silver on the ground. "Gentlemen, care to explain this?"
Clearly, we had underestimated him. Compared to the stunned and tongue-tied Chief Xiong from yesterday who got an earful from Sun Fatty, this version had some backbone — daring to speak like that even in front of a bureau-level director.
Seeing neither of us responding, Chief Xiong grabbed the actor and demanded, "You! Speak! What's going on here?"
The actor froze. The events on the boat had already rattled him to the core. Now, faced with Chief Xiong's intimidating presence, his psychological defenses completely collapsed. He spilled everything that had happened onboard — gesturing wildly, adding in his own imagination, and exaggerating the whole thing.
Chief Xiong and the village chief had very different reactions. Chief Xiong glared at the actor and snapped, "If you're gonna make up a story, at least make it believable! Ghost stories? You think I'm that gullible?"
"Hold on, Old Xiong," the village chief interrupted. He turned to me and said, "Director Shen, you're our leader and you were there. Why don't you explain it?"
I smiled at him and replied, "Even if I told you, would you believe me?"
The village chief pulled Chief Xiong over and said, "I know you're a big leader now, but you wouldn't lie to your fellow villagers. As long as it's from you, Old Xiong and I will believe it!"
Chief Xiong nodded. "Director Shen, please just tell us. Without your account, this'll be hard to handle."
I nodded slightly and pointed at the unlucky actor. "What he said is mostly accurate. Just cut the part about the Four Dragon Kings and the Grand Supreme Elder Lord descending to earth — then it's about right. Believe it or not, it's up to you."
Chief Xiong's face darkened. "Director She—"
Before he could finish, the village chief stopped him with a hand and said, "I believe him."
Seeing Chief Xiong's look of disbelief, the village chief turned to him and explained, "Someone from our village once fished up a gold ingot like that from the river. The purity was about the same."
After a pause, the village chief got to the real point. "No matter where this pile of gold came from, it's now in our Xiaoqing River Village. You can't just take it all away like that — that wouldn't be right, would it?"
As the argument heated up, Grandpa arrived with Third Uncle, my father, and a bunch of others. The moment they saw all that gold on the ground, everyone's eyes lit up. When it came to the ownership of the ingots, everyone had their own opinion.
Master Xiao even claimed the ingots were bait — a trick used by malicious spirits to tempt mortals. He insisted they must all be sealed in the underground vault of Lingyun Temple, where Daoist righteousness would suppress the evil aura of the treasure.
"Give it a rest, Master Xiao," someone from the Shen family — my own father — scoffed. "Lingyun Temple? You mean Lingyun Temple Film and Entertainment Company, right? Seal them in your 'underground vault'? More like your company's root cellar!"
In the end, Grandpa had the final word. After all the shock and fear we'd endured that night, it wasn't worth dragging things out. The gold ingots were to be split down the middle — half for each side. Half was still better than nothing. The troupe leader was still unconscious, so a martial role actor made the final decision. Half-and-half it was. But once the ingots were divided, the troupe would leave immediately — the rest of the show was canceled.
Not that anyone still cared about the opera. Grandpa glanced at Chief Xiong, who was now a bit at a loss, and whispered something to the village chief. The village chief nodded, walked over to Chief Xiong, and pulled him into the woods by the riverside. No one knew what was said there. When the chief came back alone, we almost thought he'd silenced Chief Xiong for good — until we spotted Chief Xiong's silhouette in the distance, walking back slowly.
The opera troupe dared not return to the village. They called their people to meet them by the river. In front of Grandpa, they finished dividing the gold ingots. Without delay, they loaded their share into a Yellow River-brand tour bus and drove out of Xiaoqing River Village.
The opera troupe had left. Sun Fatty squinted at Elder Taoist Xiao and said, "Old Taoist, they've all taken their share and gone. What about you? Don't play dumb—it's not going to work. Come on, start divvying up the gold."
Elder Taoist Xiao glared at him and replied, "I'm telling you, to someone like me who's renounced the world, there's no such thing as a 'Director' or whatever. That kind of talk doesn't work on me. Besides, you're an outsider. This is a domestic matter for our Xiao Qinghe Village—what business is it of yours?"
"Don't say that. He might be an outsider, but Elder Taoist Xiao, you're not from around here either, are you?" The one speaking was my own father. He and Elder Taoist Xiao had never gotten along. Ever since Elder Taoist Xiao tried to take me as a disciple when I was a child, my father had seen him as a child trafficker. Out of respect for my grandfather, he didn't cause a scene. Now, half to stand up for Director Sun, and half to vent his own resentment, he began aiming fire at Elder Taoist Xiao. "If I recall correctly, you're not a local either. You only came to Lingyun Temple the year the Gang of Four was crushed. The old Taoist who used to run the temple was surnamed Wei. You only took over after he died."
Elder Taoist Xiao's face turned pale, unable to find a rebuttal. Eventually, my grandfather spoke up, "Old Xiao, stop dragging your feet. The troupe already split the ingots. If you don't take your share, it'll look bad. How about this—your temple isn't doing great either. Just take the silver ones and leave the gold."
My grandfather meant well, but Elder Taoist Xiao almost burst into tears—his bundle was filled entirely with gold ingots. He'd nearly come to blows with the opera troupe's boss over them. All that effort—what was it for?
We moved the ingots to the road by the village committee. Somehow, my grandfather convinced the village chief to allocate thirty percent of the ingots to the Shen clan as communal funds. And he did it quite generously, saying, "Uncle Shen, no need to be so formal. It's not like you're taking them for yourself. These haven't even been accounted for yet. Just give your Shen clan thirty percent. If it's not enough, let me know."
In my memory, I'd never seen the village chief be so generous. This man used to be the brigade accountant, famous for being a penny-pincher. His specialty was stinginess. For him to act like this... could it be because of the presence of the "Director" beside me?
I was still pondering when the village chief answered the question himself. "Uncle Shen, there's something I'd like to discuss with you. Where do you suppose all these ingots came from? Director Shen, don't misunderstand—I don't mean anything by it. On the contrary, I completely believe what you said earlier."
"What exactly do you mean? Spit it out—don't beat around the bush and end up tying yourself in knots." Before I could speak, my grandfather cut in.
Sun Fatty also came up beside me and muttered under his breath, "Careful. This village chief of yours, the way his eyes dart around when he talks—he's up to no good. I'd bet anything he's laying a trap."
I snorted. Honestly, whether or not I was really a Director, this village chief wouldn't dare set me up. In our little patch of land in Xiao Qinghe Village, the only one who truly called the shots was my grandfather, the same man who once burned down the long-distance bus station in a single night. The village chief was just a figurehead. Real authority lay with the head of the Shen clan. If not for the ancestral rule that no member of the Shen clan could serve as village security chief, that position wouldn't even have gone to him. Even so, whenever village elections rolled around, all the candidates had to line up at my grandfather's door with boxes of pastries, just hoping to hear him say, "Do your best—I'll vote for you." That one sentence from him guaranteed the votes of over eighty percent of the villagers, all surnamed Shen.
The village chief glanced at Sun Fatty, hesitated, then said, "Why don't I drop by your house later to talk?"
"Cut the suspense. Just say it here. Young Sun, the Director, is my grandson's old comrade—not an outsider." Grandfather was getting impatient. He was eager to tally up how much of the treasure our Shen clan would receive, but the village chief kept yammering in his ear. Later, Grandfather told me that if he had known the man would be so annoying, he never would've supported him for village chief in the first place.
The village chief forced a smile and said, "Uncle Shen, I once read the village chronicle. Since the third year of the Daoguang reign, when the chronicle began, not counting tonight, over sixty gold and silver ingots have been fished out of the Da Qing River. I've seen photos of a few of them—they're identical to the ones tossed on the boat tonight."
Grandfather had heard about that a few times. The most recent—and biggest—case happened over ten years ago. A fisherman who had worked the Da Qing River his whole life suddenly got rich. He tore down his old house and built a two-story one, feasted every day, and even installed a motor on his hand-rowed boat. Every day, he cast his nets in the river, but strangely, he didn't even look at most of the fish he caught. He tossed the smaller ones back and only kept the big ones to go with his liquor. Neighbors were baffled. Had he gone mad?
Some got jealous and anonymously reported him to the police, accusing him of smuggling, trafficking, murder—you name it.
The accusations were absurd, but the part about unexplained wealth had a ring of truth. The police summoned the fisherman. He feared authority and spilled everything. Turned out that during one fishing trip, he pulled up not fish, but sixteen gold ingots.
Each ingot weighed over a jin (about 1.1 pounds). Even if he sold them cheap, he made nearly a million yuan. Word got out and caused a local frenzy. Anyone with a boat took to the river, and even those who could barely swim dived in hoping to strike gold. But apart from fish and shrimp, nothing else ever came up.
No gold was found, but one man lost his life. One of my distant cousins dove in and never came up again. They found him the next day, his legs entangled in river weeds, his body floating with his arms raised—as if in surrender.
Just as things were spiraling out of control, the man who had bought the fisherman's gold came forward. He had the ingots tested, and it turned out they were fake—mostly lead and copper with only trace amounts of gold.
That news ended the gold rush amid a flurry of curses and tears. The whole affair had almost faded from memory—until the village chief brought it up again. We were all stunned. My father asked, "Are you saying tonight's gold is fake too?"
"I didn't say that," the village chief replied, shaking his head. "Also, those sixteen ingots back then were real."
"What?" everyone blurted out in unison.
"Keep your voices down," the village chief hissed. "Don't draw attention. I just managed to send Chief Xiong away." He looked around to ensure no one was watching, then whispered, "The man who bought the ingots back then was a relative of mine. He was arrested for gold trafficking and forced to change his story at the police station. That's how the 'fake gold' claim came about."
My father pressed him, "So were they real or not?"
The village chief chuckled. "The day after he bought them, my relative wasn't sure, so he found an expert in the jewelry business. The verdict? Pure gold, no doubt—just slightly lower in purity due to old smelting methods. Because they were antiques, they were actually worth more."
Grandfather nodded and said, "So you're saying the gold ingots from the river were real, but they covered it up to avoid more trouble?"
"You could say that," the village chief replied. "But that's not the main point." His voice trembled with excitement. "The main thing is, judging from tonight, there must be a lot more gold and silver scattered on the riverbed of the Da Qing River. If we had just one day, we could find them all."
The village chief then revealed his plan: two years ago, a dam was built upstream on the Da Qing River. So far, it had only been used for flood control, and the gates had never been closed.
Now, if they shut the dam gates for half a day, the river would dry up and expose the riverbed. Everything lying there would be in plain sight. Plus, most of the dam workers were members of the Shen clan. Whether the plan could be executed depended on one word from my grandfather.
The village chief finished his pitch, and now it was Grandfather's turn to scratch his head. Closing the dam even for half a day could be a big deal—three villages lay downstream. Once the river ran dry, it would be impossible to keep things under wraps. The village chief read his thoughts and added, "Uncle Shen, I've been thinking. We can put up a notice at the dam, saying it's a routine test of water retention capacity. Just a temporary closure for one day."
I glanced at the village chief. I'd known him since childhood, but still couldn't see through him. From the riverbank to now, barely a ten-minute walk, and he'd already plotted out so much. What kind of man was this?
Grandfather was somewhat persuaded. With Elder Taoist Xiao persistently urging beside him, saying, "Old Shen, what are you still hesitating for? This is truly like picking up gold—better sooner than later. Just a single word from you."
Grandfather thought for a moment, then shook his head and said, "No, I can't. I promised County Magistrate Gan. The big show still has a few days left. Even if the dam is to be closed, we have to wait until the boat opera ends, right?"
"Heh heh." The village chief laughed and said, "Uncle Shen, the opera troupe has already run away. How can the show go on? Besides, our village has been having deaths every day during the boat opera these past few days. You think County Magistrate Gan isn't worried about it? This is the perfect excuse—the troupe leaving breaks up the boat opera. Don't worry, you don't need to get involved. I'll talk to County Magistrate Gan."
Seeing everyone so eager, Grandfather could only nod and go with the flow.
Good things shouldn't be delayed. The next day when I woke up, I heard that the village chief had already reached an agreement with County Magistrate Gan Daye: due to insufficient preparation for this hundred-year boat opera, several villagers died unexpectedly. On top of that, the previously hired opera troupe suddenly left without reason. The hundred-year boat opera was officially over, and the village would handle the aftermath on its own.
That afternoon, the Qinghe River Dam upstream issued a notice: starting from 8 a.m. tomorrow, the dam would close the gates to begin water retention testing. The test would last about ten hours. The gate reopening time would be announced separately. Downstream villages were asked to prepare accordingly.
It was about to begin. The opera was over, and my great-grandfather's birthday celebration was effectively done for. I originally didn't want to get involved anymore and had talked with Sun Fatty about going back early. But unexpectedly, Sun Fatty seemed to have taken some strange medicine—he insisted on seeing what was really at the bottom of the Qinghe River.
Yet, it was precisely because of his persistence that, after the ghost opera ended, another story's curtain was raised...
— End of Volume One —