Volume One, Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Purpose of the Assassination

The flying squirrel fixed its gaze on the thick, jet-black ants native to the tropics, scurrying every which way across the ground. This behavior was nothing like the orderly, single-file lines of ants he’d seen inland, where they seemed to whisper to each other, relaying information along the chain.

Out of curiosity, he’d once run an experiment: in the midst of a long, straight ant procession, he’d pressed his finger down, killing a few. The first ant to reach the site of the massacre would halt abruptly, extending its delicate antennae to probe the scent of its fallen kin, appearing startled. It would then immediately turn back, using its antennae to warn the approaching comrade. That companion, too, seemed to pause in shock before quickly turning around, and the two would split up, warning the ants behind them.

He observed that after just a few relays, even those ants who hadn’t encountered the scene would naturally turn back, their steps far more frantic than when they’d arrived.

The flying squirrel surmised that the initial warning ants might gradually emit an unusual scent, signaling danger to the others and prompting a retreat.

Taking the experiment further, he repeated the process at the opposite end of the line, killing a few more ants. After a brief round of warnings, the ants caught in the middle would completely lose formation, scattering chaotically in all directions, perhaps never to find their way back to the nest.

He concluded that ants can seamlessly shift roles: they start as “workers,” but become “danger informants” when necessary. Those that detect peril emit invisible signals—perhaps a scent of fear—which keeps the group orderly as they retreat along their original path. Only when danger signals arise from both ends does chaos break out, and the group collapses.

Ants, as social insects, share many behavioral traits with humans. For example, for the sake of the group’s safety, even unrelated individuals bear the responsibility to warn others. Unless panic reaches a certain threshold, the group remains orderly. But when terror comes from all sides, humans, too, collapse, losing their judgment and hastening their own destruction.

What surprised him was that ants can fear death.

Borges once wrote in “Immortality”: “Immortality is insignificant. Except for humans, all animals are immortal because they do not know what death is.” At the very least, ants know what death is, the flying squirrel mused.

That day, he’d staged a diversion, drawing the hotel’s guards away and sowing fear from multiple directions. This small, tactical confusion disrupted their judgment and bought him time to escape.

This was a “tactical feint,” something usually requiring two people to execute, but with precise timing, he’d managed it alone.

He’d barely been in Mang City for any time at all; Yan Nuo never expected him to act so quickly, and their guard was down. Even he himself was surprised at how smoothly things had gone.

The wind picked up, blowing into the wooden cabin, making the bulb sway violently and further unsettling his nerves. He hurried to the bed and wrapped his arms around Ame from behind. Her breathing was rapid, and beads of sweat dotted her smooth skin—he knew she was aflame with desire.

After their intimacy, Ame couldn’t sleep. She got out of bed and poured him a cup of rice wine. Outside, the night wind moaned, and the mountains and forests whistled, making the darkness and silence even deeper.

Inside, the light was dim. The cabin was simple, cold, and sparse.

She thought to herself that when he left, she’d be alone in this little wooden house once more.

“Squirrel,” she whispered, her voice so quiet she could barely hear herself, “if you can, you should leave soon. It’s not easy for someone to wander alone out there for so long.”

His eyes grew gentle, tinged with sadness—a look his profession should never allow. This was what set Tai girls apart from Han girls: knowing full well that once the flying squirrel left, they’d never meet again, yet she cared only for her lover’s safety and asked for nothing else. Even if she were to become pregnant with his child one day, she would never blame him or demand that he “take responsibility.” On the contrary, she would see the child as a blessing from the Buddha.

If it were a Han woman, there would be endless demands for responsibility, talk of marriage after sleeping together, followed by tears, tantrums, and threats.

He felt even more tenderness for Ame. He set down his cup and pulled her into his arms. Ame’s pale, sparse hair shimmered in the incandescent light, and her slender shoulders looked fragile. She was indeed petite, but her muscles were firm—a result of years of hard work.

He, too, murmured like her, “If I leave, who will protect you?”

Ame laughed softly. “Squirrel,” she said, “can’t you wish me to find a good man instead?”

That scent of fresh grass welled up again, and the flying squirrel felt conflicted. “Ame, for you, I’d die.”

Ame tilted her head to gaze at him, sighed gently, and brushed his beard with her hand. “For me, you have to live,” she replied.

The flying squirrel had returned to this safe house, waiting for the informant to page him so they could meet by the reservoir at the foot of the mountain. But the informant still hadn’t sent word, and anxiety gnawed at him. The alcohol helped him keep his emotions in check.

The Lone Wolf was dead; no one else in the tactical team knew that the flying squirrel had met with the informant. He needed to confirm Yan Nuo’s fate with the informant.

He had one more objective—to uncover the traitor.

He decided to check the mountain road.

Donning a battered straw hat, he rode the “Great White Shark” motorcycle, braving the pouring rain and thunder as he slowly made his way down the mountain. Reaching the halfway pavilion, even before he stopped, he saw a body in a white shirt collapsed on the ground.

Letting go of the throttle with his right hand, he drew the knife from his waistband, pressing the brake with his foot but keeping the engine running. He scanned the area for an ambush before parking the “Great White Shark” and cautiously approaching the pavilion.

Dao Laobo had arrived early at the pavilion by the reservoir. He knew the flying squirrel would be there in ten minutes. Leisurely, he filled his pipe, thinking that tonight would finally bring everything to an end. His daughter would go to Yunting for high school, and then to university in Thailand.

He’d grown up in a working-class family in Mang City. His father was an illiterate farm laborer, and from as early as he could remember, his mother—a Shanghai intellectual relocated during the Cultural Revolution—would repeat a single phrase: “All pursuits are inferior; only study is noble.”

Later, he learned there was another line: “Within books, you’ll find beauties; within books, you’ll find gold.”

Wearing a new pair of straw sandals, he made his way to Yunting University.

In 1990, he graduated from the architecture department of Yunting University of Technology and was assigned back to Mang City. His dream was to use his skills to build five- or six-story buildings in his hometown, just like in the provincial capital. He never reported to the housing bureau. Instead, he wanted to carve out his own success.

He rallied unemployed city youth and struck deals with local rural officials: no need for the township to invest a cent, yet the township would hold shares, and together they established a construction team under the guise of a township enterprise.

He happened to catch the wave of every household building new homes in the countryside.

He designed the houses himself, teaching the inexperienced youths how to lay bricks and tiles, how to climb onto roofs. They rose before dawn and toiled through blazing sun and torrential rain. Accidents were common.

Everything was done by hand, as primitively as possible. In the beginning, they couldn’t even afford gloves, and everyone’s hands were covered with wounds and scars; eventually, their knuckles bulged and calluses grew thick.

They tore down old mud-and-wood houses and built new, sturdy, comfortable homes with small courtyards.

In three prosperous years, after paying dividends and wages, he made over three million. He gave half to his fellow workers. They went home, bought new materials, and built their own houses.

Dao Laobo often lamented that his academic success had taught him nothing about human greed and treachery. What he regretted most was sharing too much with the township. Several officials wanted the construction business for themselves.

Never had they been so united as when plotting to seize the lucrative construction team.

Those barely literate officials schemed through the night in the township office, thick with the acrid scent of water pipes and corn liquor, to take over the construction team—never discussing how they’d run it after the takeover.

The town’s tax office accused him of severe tax evasion, and the township claimed he’d illegally appropriated collective assets. The police, bullies who preyed on the weak, dragged him from his new home’s bed, leaving behind his bewildered wife and newborn daughter.

For years, Dao Laobo never spoke of, nor dared to recall, the twenty-nine harrowing days and nights in the town police station’s dark cell, though the memories haunted his nightmares.

In the end, he “voluntarily and proactively” handed over all his shares, his property, and cash to pay taxes and compensate the collective. Penniless, he returned with his wife and daughter to the old city, their new home confiscated.

He cursed himself for all his years of study—not only had he found neither beauties nor gold in books, but now his wife and child had to live in a leaky shack, and what he’d earned was taken by local bullies and petty tyrants. “No, that’s not right!” he scolded himself. “They can’t even read; how can they be called ‘gentry’? All those years of study, and I’m still using the wrong words!”

His path to wealth through hard work was blocked, and his dream of using his learning to make a difference was shattered. The once law-abiding intellectual sought out the true underworld boss, Yan Nuo, and became his strategist and chief aide.

He needed money, but more than money, he needed power—even if it was the power of crime.

Only with both could he realize his idea of justice. He had intelligence, knowledge that the locals lacked, clear logic, and a sharp, calculating mind.

For several years in Yan Nuo’s organization, he never miscalculated; his local roots earned Yan Nuo’s deep trust.

But now, their boss was ready to retire, and some did not agree.