Chapter 59: Undercurrents Stir, Crisis Lurks

Yi Zhonghai was holding that broken earthen jar standing outside the new wall, his pant legs still stained with white lime, his complexion stiffer than the tofu drying in the Courtyard. Zhao Jianguo didn't rush to take it, instead lowered his head to look at his shoe sole—a ring of red mud, as if stepped from the wasteland behind the factory.

"Jianguo," Yi Zhonghai forced a laugh twice, handed the jar forward, "Yesterday I was reckless, this jar… is yours."

"Yo, Master Yi still remembers?" Zhao Jianguo only then reached out, took it, weighed it, "Empty?"

"To make amends," he grinned, "You can't have me carry a brick, can you?"

Zhao Jianguo smiled, turned toward the stone table: "Yushui, make an entry—Yi Zhonghai returns one old item, ID 'Broken Jar No. 1', stored."

He Yushui was flipping the ledger, heard and laughed: "Stored? You really keep it?"

"Of course," Zhao Jianguo placed the jar in a corner, "Someone sincerely repents, we can't deny a chance."

Yi Zhonghai stood still, his eyes scanning the exchange table on the Blackboard, then glanced toward the children—several youngsters lined up, trading repaired socks for corn cakes. His lips moved as if to speak, then he only hummed, leaning on his cane and left.

Sha Zhu jumped down from the roof, wiped a bead of sweat: "This old thing, what medicine is sold in the gourd?"

"Whether it's medicine or not is irrelevant," Zhao Jianguo crouched, scraped the jar's outer wall with his fingernail, "What matters is where it came from."

He didn't explain—the ring of red mud matched the soil outside the abandoned boiler house behind the factory. No one had gone there for a long time, except for people sneaking around at night.

At night, Su Qing heated rice over the stove, Zhao Jianguo pulled out an old cotton quilt that the system had just signed in, preparing to stash it in the storage cabinet. When he pulled the cabinet door, he paused—a bit warm.

He pressed his hand against it, not the warmth of sun‑baked cloth, but like something just taken out, residual heat still lingering.

"Qingzi, who entered this house today?"

"Jia Zhangshi came by," Su Qing stirred the porridge, "took a few old clothes, said to alter a small jacket for her grandson."

"She went into the cabinet?"

"Didn't see her, just left it stacked on the table for a while."

Zhao Jianguo stayed silent, dinner was quiet. After the children dispersed, he sat beside the stone table in the Courtyard, spread the ledger open, checking column by column.

When he reached Wang Defa's page, he stopped.

"Twenty‑eight jin, short two jin for a blanket"—the last time he remembered clearly. But now the ledger shows "Thirty‑three jin".

He pulled out He Yushui's draft notebook, leafed page by page. The draft clearly only recorded twenty‑eight, the last entry was Yanbugui pre‑paying Meal Ticket for seeds, unrelated to Wang Defa.

"It was added when copying," he thought, having figured it out.

The day the Blackboard was soaked by rain, He Yushui recopied it, so anyone could see it thereafter. But to alter the ledger, one must get hold of the ledger—either Yushui herself, or someone who could write while she wasn't watching.

He closed the notebook, made no fuss, but drew a red circle around the "Wang Defa" column, writing "Pending Investigation" beside it.

Early the next morning, he called Sha Zhu to the Courtyard corner: "Zhu, don't sleep too soundly tonight."

"What's up? Afraid Yi Zhonghai will come dig the wall again?"

"Whether it's a wall or not doesn't matter," Zhao Jianguo slipped him a flashlight, "Watch the stone table area, whoever flips the ledger at midnight, photograph it."

"Shoot? With what?"

"Your broken camera in your pocket, hasn't it been repaired?"

Sha Zhu slapped his head: "Right! I just loaded film yesterday!"

"Then it's worth a night, overtime pay doubles."

"Done!"

At night, Zhao Jianguo didn't stay inside, moved a small stool to sit in the center of the Courtyard, holding a matchbox, half‑scratched. He listened to the doors closing of each household, waited until everyone was quiet, then rose and walked around to beneath the drying‑clothes rope.

The rope was hastily stretched by the children two days earlier after finishing chores, one end tied to a tree, the other to the eaves. Zhao Jianguo tied a knot in the middle, wrapped a thin line around it, the other end attached to the storage cabinet door handle—whoever opens the cabinet, the line loosens and the knot will sway.

He tested it, returned to the house satisfied.

At midnight, he heard movement outside.

It wasn't footsteps, but the sound of a garment edge scraping the wall. He didn't turn on the light, peered through the window crack— a silhouette hunched at the waist, reaching for the storage cabinet. Moonlight revealed it was Jia Zhangshi, clutching a small notebook.

She opened the cabinet door, hand probing inside, then crouched to rummage the box on the floor. Zhao Jianguo stayed still, watching the knot on the drying‑clothes rope—it swayed three times.

When Jia Zhangshi emerged, she slid the cabinet door back on, but didn't lock it tightly. She slipped along the Wall Base to the Courtyard Gate, glanced back, then hurried away.

The next day Zhao Jianguo didn't mention it, instead placed the ledger on the stone table, deliberately pressing it with a brick, glaringly sun‑exposed.

At noon, Qin Huairu passed by, glanced: "Jianguo, don't leave the ledger unsecured, lest someone alters it."

"If it's altered, perfect," Zhao Jianguo didn't lift his head, "I've been worried I couldn't tell who got itchy fingers."

Qin Huairu was startled, smiled: "You say that, who would dare?"

"Many wouldn't dare," he looked up at her, "but there's always someone who doesn't believe in fate."

In the afternoon, He Yushui came with the ledger: "Jianguo, I think I recorded a line wrong yesterday, Wang Defa's five jin… did I write too much?"

"Oh?" he took the book, glanced, "It's fine, consider it an advance. Isn't his son about to marry? Saving early is good."

"But I don't recall…"

"If you can't remember, stop thinking about it," he closed the book, "Go be busy."

He knew this would spread.

At night, Sha Zhu came mysteriously, slipped him a photo—under dim light, a figure crouched at the stone table, hand reaching for the ledger, face hidden in shadow, but the blue cloth coat matched exactly the one Jia Zhangshi wore.

"The shot isn't very clear," Sha Zhu whispered, "but it's definitely a woman."

"Enough." Zhao Jianguo put the photo away.

He didn't act immediately, instead the next morning carried the old quilt taken from the system, delivering it to Wang Defa's house.

"Uncle Wang, your twenty‑eight jin is enough," he said, "the quilt has been delivered to you."

Wang Defa was stunned: "I didn't exchange, how come…"

"You have it stored," Zhao Jianguo smiled, "the ledger is crystal clear."

"But I heard… someone altered the ledger?"

"Who said that?" Zhao Jianguo pretended ignorance, "In our Courtyard, who would do such a despicable thing?"

Wang Defa fell silent, his gaze changed.

Zhao Jianguo knew this news would spread house to house like ants moving, someone altered the ledger to frame Wang Defa, but he had already seen through it.

Outside the wall, at an unknown time two pairs of shoe prints appeared, one deep and one shallow, stopped at the corner, then retreated.

At night, Zhao Jianguo sat in the courtyard, a discarded ledger in his hand, struck a match to light it. The flame leapt upward, illuminating half of his face.

He stared at the firelight and suddenly whispered, "You want to rot me from the root?"

When the flame burned to his fingertips, he finally released his grip.

The paper fluttered down, struck the stone table, and the last spark flickered and went out.

Outside the courtyard, a leg whose pant leg was stained with red mud tried to step back, but another person grabbed the sleeve; the two, one forward and one back, slipped silently into the alley entrance.