Ch. 011| Breath

He Sanjin stood there, not moving, 10 seconds.

Neither Shen Zhaoye moved.

Not even a shoulder.

A normal living man, even standing still, has his lungs cycling breath, which gives the shoulders a tiny, regular rise and fall. He Sanjin had spent thirty-eight years in the trade and watched people "play dead" too many times—but this kind of "not moving" the two Shen Zhaoyes had now wasn't a played stillness.

He Sanjin had seen men play dead, and seen men truly dead. But this stillness the two Shen Zhaoyes had now was like neither—the muscle was "locked" by some outside force.

He had seen something like it once—2017, that side-chamber in Hubei, the "thing being kept" there; the instant Shen pinned it with glutinous rice and the black donkey's hoof, it froze like this too. But that one had been pinned out; these two Shens now had been "locked" into the state by something.

Both Shen Zhaoyes were in this "locked" stillness now. 10 seconds passed, and neither showed a visible shoulder movement.

He Sanjin's off-feeling now told him two things.

The first—of the two Shen Zhaoyes, one was real and the other was not.

The second—he didn't know which was real. Step to the wrong side, and what the one left behind would do, he couldn't read.

"Not knowing which one it is"—that was worse than the "two Shens" itself.

He crouched, slowly, keeping as quiet as he could.

In his coat pockets were the watch, the rice line, the cigarette pack, the fire-spills, the waterproof notebook. The notebook he didn't mean to take out—Shen Zhaoye's rule was "the man who can't keep things in his head is the one who dies first," and after 10 years running with Shen, He Sanjin had internalized it.

He Sanjin took a cigarette out of his pocket.

Lit it.

Drew 1 lungful.

He Sanjin didn't smoke when he didn't smoke, and when he did, he finished every one. But this 1—he didn't smoke it. He lit it, raised it in front of his nose, and watched the direction of the smoke.

The smell of the air in the gully—he'd already noticed it earlier—under it was a smell of "animal secretions gone dry," like a poultry yard cleaned out a day or two before.

The smoke rose off the cigarette tip; it should drift straight up.

But this 1's smoke didn't drift purely up—it had a very faint lean to the left.

The direction of the left Shen Zhaoye.

A normal person breathing makes a tiny convection in the air around him—on the inhale, air gets pulled toward the person's nose. Smoke caught in that convection gets drawn toward the person.

The smoke leaned left.

But He Sanjin couldn't draw a conclusion right away—the convection might be a natural air current, might be a temperature difference, might be a crack in a wall somewhere. This passage in the gully, he didn't know it.

He filed the smoke clue in his head's "to-be-verified" zone.

He stubbed the cigarette out on the paving stone and tucked the butt into his pocket—rule of the trade, leave nothing behind for the tomb.

---

The second test.

He Sanjin wanted to use his voice to call "Zhaoye." But if both Shens had their backs to him, both deaf, both would turn—and the moment he called he'd expose which side he'd chosen. Old Ge had said "don't turn back after a farewell"; He Sanjin hadn't said farewell, he'd followed in, so Old Ge's rule might not apply—but if it did, calling out would trigger both sides at once.

And besides, if the fake one knew the sound of "Zhaoye," it would learn to turn the way Shen would.

He Sanjin gave up calling the name.

The third test.

Something came to him—before going through the door Shen Zhaoye had picked up the bronze mirror and tucked it into his coat's inner pocket. If the real Shen had the mirror on him and the fake didn't, He Sanjin could see which side's coat pocket bulged.

But right now he was about 5 meters off, and the bulge of a coat pocket wasn't clear at that range. To see it, he'd have to get closer.

Closer meant choosing a side. Choose wrong—and what the one left behind would do, He Sanjin couldn't read.

He Sanjin's off-feeling told him that walking over to stand on either side meant turning his back to the other.

He couldn't just walk over.

---

The fourth test.

He Sanjin pulled the sapper spade from his hip.

The tip of the spade, lightly, set against the dark-green paving stone by his foot, scored 1 mark.

The shape of the mark—a very small Shen-family hand-drawn fengshui compass.

He Sanjin wasn't a Shen; ordinarily he wouldn't draw this. But two or three times he'd watched Shen draw it in special situations—the most recent in 2019, at the mouth of that tomb's side-chamber in Henan, where Shen scored it once before going in. The mark itself, He Sanjin wouldn't necessarily get exact. But the sound the spade tip dragged out of the dark-green paving stone—scrape, stop, scrape, stop, a clockwise rhythm—that, He Sanjin remembered clearly.

He Sanjin scored this mark not for Shen to "see"—both Shens had their backs to him; a mark on the ground they couldn't see.

It was for Shen to "hear."

The clockwise rhythm the spade tip scored on the dark-green paving stone was the Shen family's. After 10 years running with Shen, only the real Shen would know that rhythm. If the Shen on one side understood it—even with his back turned, the small reaction in his shoulder, He Sanjin could read.

Done scoring, He Sanjin stayed crouched in place, didn't stand.

He was waiting.

20 seconds passed.

The left Shen Zhaoye—his shoulder had a very slight, faint sinking move.

Not breath—the "locked" state hadn't released, the whole of him still unmoving. But some muscle in the shoulder, as if lightly let go by half a degree.

It was "the muscle's small reaction after recognizing the signal."

He Sanjin could read it—the left Shen had heard that scraping rhythm, recognized it, wanted to move but was locked, and only half a degree leaked through.

The right Shen Zhaoye—nothing leaked.

Nothing at all.

Neither had broken the lock, neither was in a normal living state—He Sanjin couldn't entirely rule out that the right one was also the real Shen, just couldn't hear, or had heard but was slow to react.

But he chose to believe that "the one that reacted to the Shen-family signal" was the real Shen—thirty-eight years in the trade, and that read had never gotten him killed.

---

He stood up slowly.

And walked toward the left Shen Zhaoye.

As he walked, he kept deliberately to the left paving stones, off the centerline (the path of the feet-together prints).

When he reached a spot 1 meter behind the left Shen, He Sanjin stopped.

He took a fire-spill from his coat pocket, struck it, lit it.

The fire-spill's red light fell on the left Shen's back.

"Zhaoye," He Sanjin said, voice pressed very low. "Don't move. I'm not asking whether you're real—I'm only asking you 1 thing."

The left Shen didn't turn. But his shoulder moved a little, as if getting ready to listen.

"That little lord's tomb from the Five Dynasties in Henan, 2019—which wooden spike went through my calf? Left or right? Outer or inner? Which one?"

A few seconds of silence.

"Left calf, outer side, the third one," the left Shen said. "Counting down from the knee. Eight went in that day; you pulled 2 yourself coming out, I picked out 5 for you, and the last 1 you pulled yourself. When you pulled it you swore once—'fuck.'"

The voice was right.

The facts were right.

That word, "fuck"—He Sanjin really had sworn it then. Apart from Shen Zhaoye, no third person had been there.

He Sanjin pinched the fire-spill out and put it back in his pocket.

"You're real."

The left Shen, slowly, turned his head back from that 10-degree figurine tilt to a normal angle.

Not turning to look at He Sanjin—first turning straight, then, with the corner of his eye, glancing at He Sanjin once.

The eyes were right.

But in He Sanjin's field of view—the right Shen hadn't moved.

Hadn't moved at all.

"That one on the right—" Shen Zhaoye said, in the lowest voice, lips barely moving, "don't look at it. Keep your back to it, and come with me."

He Sanjin didn't ask why.

Rule of the trade—what the real Shen said, He Sanjin did.

---

The two of them started slowly deeper into the passage—toward the gate-guard figures, toward the stone door.

As they walked, Shen Zhaoye's pace was slower than He Sanjin had expected. He Sanjin had thought that after waiting so long before the door, Shen would be in a hurry to head back. But Shen did the opposite—he walked toward the stone door.

"Aren't we turning back?" He Sanjin asked low. "It's nearer out through the cave mouth."

"The way out through the cave mouth isn't safe," Shen Zhaoye said. "That thing—it's between the cave mouth and us. It's already walked past; now it could be behind us, could be circling back ahead."

"Toward the stone door, then?"

"The stone door is dead—it won't follow us," Shen Zhaoye said. "In front of the stone door, I can judge, I can decide. In the figurine array, I can't."

He Sanjin didn't ask again.

The two of them kept walking.

Past the thirty-second, past the thirty-third, past the thirty-fourth . . .

Every figurine they passed, He Sanjin had 1 very slight urge—to look back and check whether the "Shen" on the right was still in place.

Each time he pressed it down.

Shen Zhaoye had said "don't look," so he didn't.

---

Around the fortieth, in the corner of He Sanjin's eye, something moved.

Not a figurine.

It was the "Shen" on the right—slowly turning around.

Slow, very slow. Turning toward He Sanjin and the left Shen.

He Sanjin didn't turn to look clearly.

He only saw, at the back of that "Shen's" head—the same short hair as Shen Zhaoye's—in the corner of his eye, a very fine line, like a strand of hair, dark red, running down from the dead center of the back of the head, along the centerline of the neck.

That line was not a part in the hair.

It was a seam.

As if something, from the dead center of the back of the head, were tearing that "Shen Zhaoye" skin open down the middle, getting ready to peel it off.

He Sanjin drew his eyes back to straight ahead.

Didn't look.

Didn't turn back.

Followed the real Shen.

【Ch. 011 End · before the thirty-first figurine in the array → near the fortieth figurine in the array】