Chapter 1: Unnatural Death

After eight long years, Zhang Shutong returned once more to the small island where he grew up.

— To attend the funeral of a junior high school classmate.

*

The funeral parlor sat in the southern part of the island, adjacent to the newly built lakeside highway.

Leaning against the roadside railing, gazing into the distance, on clear days the lake’s surface reflected the pristine sky like a sapphire gem. The breeze stirred the clouds, creating a gentle ripple that was refreshing to the soul.

But today, the lake was a steel-blue gray.

The sky was overcast. Stepping out of the funeral parlor’s doors, Zhang tightened his trench coat. The cold was biting; he had rushed out without adding an extra layer. Inside, it was warmer, but the mournful songs were dizzying, so after a while, he preferred the chill outside.

The formalities were nearly complete, yet among classmates, with such a special connection, it felt improper to leave immediately.

With time to spare, he glanced at his phone — just past two in the afternoon. The funeral was still ongoing, with scattered attendees arriving from various places.

At that moment, two elderly ladies passed by, murmuring to each other.

“Such a pity, she was a beautiful girl. I watched her grow up.”

“Yes, so young and yet unable to find peace. It’s as if her family line has been cut off.”

“Who knows about that little boyfriend of hers? Didn’t he just call to break up the day before? What a heartless scoundrel…”

Zhang sighed lightly at their words, biting the inside of his cheek—a small gesture he made when speechless.

He had lost count of how many rumors he’d heard today; they left him no room to argue.

Among the two people spoken of, one was naturally the deceased classmate.

The other—the so-called “heartless little boyfriend”—if he guessed correctly, that was himself.

Because of this, throughout the funeral he had not dared reveal his identity, avoiding the crowd; otherwise, no amount of explanation could clear the tangled mess.

Yet, the reason for this baseless misunderstanding was somewhat convoluted.

It had to start from a few days ago.

He received the obituary of that female classmate the afternoon before yesterday.

The incident was sudden. By the time he hurriedly booked tickets, transferred through multiple cities, and took a boat to the island, it was already morning.

Now, with the funeral nearly over, his mind still struggled to process the news.

Shock overshadowed grief.

Zhang Shutong was twenty-four years old.

At this age, he had imagined attending classmates’ weddings, perhaps sharing a bowl of celebratory noodles with jokes from anxious friends.

But never had he thought his first post-graduation class gathering would be a funeral.

Zhang was never sentimental; otherwise, he wouldn’t have avoided returning to the island for eight years.

Yet upon hearing of the girl’s death, a subtle regret stirred within him.

Calling her simply “girl” wasn’t quite accurate, but his memory of junior high was frozen eight years ago.

Junior high lasted four years; at thirteen, he moved to the island with his parents, then at sixteen left for the provincial city nearby after graduation.

His impressions of peers remained youthful and unchanging.

In his memory, she was a very beautiful girl—reserved in demeanor, always wearing a high ponytail, excelling academically;

Yet not fitting the stereotype of a compliant girl.

She spoke little, preferred solitude, and her whereabouts were hard to predict.

Their school was built on the island’s outskirts. Upon leaving, two roads emerged: one led into the town, the other up the mountain behind.

Every day after school, she took the latter.

Whether that path led to her home was unknown, but she neatly slung her backpack over her shoulder, seeming as if she were off to save the world after classes.

This air of mystery drew many boys’ admiration.

Yet she maintained a demeanor that kept others at a distance, so few ever spoke to her—not even peers of the same gender.

In modern terms, even if she wasn’t anyone’s “first love,” she was at least a presence that, years later, would brighten memories of hazy youth.

But what rendered her so unforgettable was not just her beauty, but how “special” she was compared to other junior high students.

Like every “first love” girl who carries a legend, the island of Yanlong was no stranger to ancient tales.

The island was surrounded on three sides by water, with a mountain on the fourth.

Atop the mountain stood an ancient temple called the Green Snake Temple, its origins lost to time. The locals revered it devoutly; incense burned year-round.

Later, Zhang learned that besides being a student, the girl also served as the temple’s caretaker.

Within the temple, only she and her grandmother resided. On major festivals, she would take leave from class, letting her high ponytail down into long hair over her shoulders, returning to help for days.

But the term “temple caretaker” felt alien in modern life.

Zhang and his close friends had argued many times about what exactly that meant.

Some said it was a Taoist priest; others claimed a nun; yet others said a sister of the church. Then someone insisted it was a miko—a shrine maiden.

In any case, for a long time, Zhang pictured her as a fairy-like figure, robes flowing and hair cascading.

Once, she even came to class wearing a long, green robe without changing clothes beforehand.

Unbothered by stares, she looked like a cultivator returned from the immortal realm.

It wasn’t love, but in hindsight, years later, someone might find her wedding photo in a social circle and lament the loss of youth.

But Zhang’s last memory of her was a black-and-white obituary portrait.

There were no further memories.

Perhaps they had other interactions long ago, but time had washed away many things once deemed unforgettable, especially among mere acquaintances.

Adults and children see things differently; problems once incomprehensible now seemed clearer.

Yet, this girl kept surfacing in his mind these days, like an eight-year-delayed riddle.

They were not close, yet what puzzled him was not her death—

But why she had called him late at night, the day before she died—three days ago.

Zhang never answered that call.

He habitually silenced his phone before bed. Upon waking, he saw a missed call from “Lu Qinglian” and pondered for a long time.

Was it a mistake?

Most would think so at first.

Eight years had passed; she might not even remember him. Yet, recalling the good impression, he called back but reached no one.

He didn’t dwell on it, until the next afternoon—

When he received the news of Lu Qinglian’s death.

He was usually a recluse; to be frank, with such a distant relationship, he might not have attended at all, at most sending gifts through mutual friends.

But because of that call, a seemingly trivial connection suddenly became enormous.

Especially after police inquiries revealed she rarely used a phone.

She was the temple caretaker living on the mountain—once thought of as a fairy, perhaps now, after years, truly an ethereal being detached from the mortal world.

She had stayed on that mountain all these years, and on the day before she died, the only person she called was Zhang Shutong.

Honestly, he found this unbearable, suffocating.

Apparently, the police asked around about their relationship, and somehow rumors leaked, spiraling out of control:

Some claimed the call was from her boyfriend, breaking up because she was cold and from a poor family;

Others said it was a call for help;

Still others whispered of murder, with her warning of the killer’s identity;

Even superstitious talk of ghosts and spirits emerged.

Zhang heard at least five versions, but knew little of the truth—only that she had slipped into the lake and drowned, officially ruled an accident.

... Let’s just call it an accident for now.

In truth, Zhang cared little for the truth; he came here only to see if there was any chance to save her.

An accident on the island eight years ago had given him a unique ability.

Because of that, if not for this funeral, he might never have returned in his lifetime.

It was a story akin to the fable of someone who loved dragons but was frightened by the real thing—unfortunately, he was the protagonist.

He recalled: after the high school entrance exam, during summer vacation, the Green Snake Temple held its annual festival.

That day, he and some friends went to watch the festivities, but the crowd was overwhelming.

Being wild-spirited boys, he climbed the temple’s back wall alone but accidentally stepped on loose stones, tumbling down the mountain and losing consciousness.

When he woke, night had fallen, and he lay on a clinic bed.

Friends later told him he had been found unconscious halfway down the mountain by an old woman.

His luck held; if fate had been crueler, who would have thought to search there?

His parents wanted to thank her, but she vanished after saving him.

That near-death experience granted him an extraordinary ability.

That day changed his life forever.

Zhang named his power “rewind.”

The trigger was simple: when something bad happened around him, he would return to a critical moment before the event—sometimes minutes, sometimes days earlier.

It was as if someone forced him to prevent the calamity.

Whether willing or not, he was swept into the cycle.

If unresolved, rewind would trigger again, endlessly looping.

At first, his thoughts were simple: excitement gripped him. Time rewind sounded like a superhero power, something to save the world.

“—Only I am unique.”

No boy that age could resist such a thought.

Initially, he did many “good deeds” by conventional standards.

In his first year of high school, on his daily bike rides to school, he used rewind to prevent several accidents.

Around 2013, when "The Amazing Spider-Man" premiered, he left the midnight theater, energized, walking home unbothered by the cold.

Spider-Man might not be real, but at least in their neighborhood, he was.

Though no villains appeared, that year he stopped two cases of domestic violence and one infidelity, saving three marriages.

High school brought new challenges:

There was a failed confession leading to despair;

A student overwhelmed by academic pressure contemplating suicide;

Family troubles—

Rewind triggered often, every few days.

Helping others brought joy, though it exhausted him.

He liked a senior girl once; in summer, they planned to see a movie after exams, but he missed the date.

Not because he didn’t care.

At the cinema lobby, a young mother wept, surrounded by uniformed police. He overheard talk of a missing child.

Before he could react, rewind triggered.

That day, he rewound five times, finally finding the abducted child, then collapsed at home, utterly drained.

That summer date became an unreachable reality.

That day also revealed a terrifying truth.

He could help others escape their traumatic pasts.

But he himself was trapped in the past.

Rewind kept triggering uncontrollably.

What should have been a five-day school week stretched endlessly for him, like a month.

By senior year, he nearly broke down from endless rewinds, diagnosed nearly with dissociative identity disorder—his mind burdened with impossible “memories.”

At his worst, he hid in a rental, avoiding contact, relying on takeout, only venturing out at midnight.

He took a leave of absence, moved with his parents to a distant city for treatment, and transferred schools.

A miracle happened.

Rewind triggered far less frequently.

Trivial matters no longer sent him back.

But only less often—like a permanent nightmare.

The accident at sixteen had changed his life irreversibly; he could not live normally, only endure.

After university, needing to minimize social contact, he moved out alone and found remote work.

He saved enough to live, though sometimes in the quiet, he pondered the future.

His parents aged. Marriage, children—what lay ahead? He saw no clear path.

He still avoided going out, life was far from ideal, but at least he escaped the endless rewind.

In such a bleak existence, two days ago, he received the obituary.

His experiences made him wary of trouble; forced into events before, it had been painful.

But this time, he wanted to use his ability to hear that phone call.

So, after eight years, he returned to the island that changed his life.

Two hours after arriving, he had just come from the mourning hall, having lingered by the body—still no rewind.

He should have stopped hoping.

Gazing at the distant lake, Zhang sighed.

He had thought about this before coming; rewind required something happening nearby.

She had died where he was not present.

Though hope was slim, he still tried.

But reality, as usual, was harsh—nothing could be reversed.

The lake was still, the steel-blue surface almost frozen.

Leaning on the railing, he lit a cigarette—given out at the funeral.

He had long quit smoking, lighting it unconsciously, not inhaling, just watching the smoke drift.

It wasn’t heavy. One had to learn to make peace with reality—he had long since grown used to it.

Helplessness, despair, self-destruction—he had known all these feelings before.

Eight years passed in a blink.

Now back by the lake, memories stirred no fierce emotion—only a faint regret.

No reason remained to stay.

Just as he prepared to notify the funeral parlor, a sudden tap struck his shoulder.

He turned to see a young man with short hair and a grinning face—a childhood friend.

His name was Du Kang—the only cure for sorrow.

Du was boisterous, stayed on the island, took over the family’s small restaurant, and knew everything about local affairs.

He had informed Zhang about Lu Qinglian’s death.

He was helping at the funeral, now free, and came to chat.

“You still remember to come back?”

Childhood friends after years still felt familiar, but Zhang had no reply, just shrugged apologetically.

“I’ll take you around later. Qingyi didn’t come, but Ruoping and the others are here. Let’s have dinner tonight?”

Zhang politely declined.

He wanted to go but feared that if he drank and talked about his struggles, he might never leave.

“You’re the same as ever.”

Repeated refusals wiped the smile from Du’s face.

“Just like school days, not a word for half a day. Always in black clothes, and in this cold, still a trench coat. What’s with the show? Though the girls say that’s ‘cool,’ I don’t get why you and Qingyi are the most popular.”

Zhang thought it was a misunderstanding. He simply rushed out and had no clothes but black ones at home—no intention to be stylish.

And why would you think that? He didn’t even know himself.

“Don’t be stubborn. After so long, just let me tease you a bit.”

Zhang bit his cheek again, smiling wryly.

They stood by the highway for a while. Du rubbed his face, lit a cigarette, and after a pause said:

“So, shall we talk about her?”

Zhang knew “her” meant Lu Qinglian.

Du had quietly admired their old classmate.

Once, when he found out a girl had slandered Lu behind her back, he threw that girl’s backpack in the boys’ bathroom and stayed home for days.

He was bold, had confessed once but failed.

He didn’t know if, after so many years, anything had changed between them.

Du looked troubled; Zhang posed as a listener, but Du stared intently at the lake and suddenly said:

“She was murdered.”

Zhang was stunned.

“I’m telling you, someone killed Lu Qinglian! I’ve told several people, but no one believes me.”

Du inhaled deeply:

“I saw her last week. She was as normal as ever, busy repairing the temple statues, nothing wrong. Do you really believe she was suicidal because she was upset?

“And falling into the lake by accident? She always stayed at the temple or accompanied kids at school. Why would she run off to the lake, especially late at night? Fishing? Swimming at midnight?”

His voice grew passionate; he slammed the railing.

“When they found her body, it was in the ‘Forbidden Zone.’ You remember that, right, Shutong?”

After a moment, Zhang recalled the term.

It was a codename they coined in their rebellious phase for parts of the island.

“Temple,” “Base,” “Forbidden Zone,” and so on.

“Temple” was the Green Snake Temple on the mountain.

“Base” was an abandoned drainage tunnel, a secret hideout for kids after school.

The “Forbidden Zone” referred to a patch of water in the island’s northern lake, low-lying and shadowed all year, surrounded by sparse weeds and almost no fish, rarely visited.

The reason for the name was both complex and straightforward—

Because people had died there, more than one.

Faded memories surfaced.

Two incidents stood out.

One happened before he moved to the island.

Entering the island required a boat; the dock operated from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.

Over a decade ago, a group of university students came to the island, spent a day in the nearby town, then rushed to the dock in the evening.

The ferry was nowhere in sight.

It was midwinter with heavy snow.

Their noses froze crossing the river. They couldn’t wait all night, and no buses ran back.

They scrambled anxiously until a fisherman’s boat arrived to help.

The boat was large; the group of a dozen set off.

The trip was smooth at first, but halfway through, the boat inexplicably sank.

Strangely, the boat later drifted on the lake, intact, neither capsized nor leaking, yet the dozen people drowned.

No one knew what happened.

The sinking spot was the Forbidden Zone.

An official investigation concluded the heavy snow had sunk the boat, and thawed snow later floated it back.

Because his mother used to scare him with this story, Zhang remembered it well.

The second incident, though vague, was clearer in meaning and happened in their fourth year.

A female classmate disappeared.

Before he could recall more, Du interrupted:

“Remember that murder case?”

Yes—that brutal crime.

In their fourth year, a violent event occurred; the victim was their classmate.

Initially, she missed class, but without modern group chats, the school and parents failed to communicate, so no one noticed.

Ultimately, parental neglect caused tragedy; only after a day of disappearance did her parents report it, delaying rescue.

When found, she had been murdered.

Her body was also discovered in the Forbidden Zone.

The homeroom teacher resigned in shame, the school arranged psychological counseling, and adults deliberately avoided details, blurring the story.

He only recalled she was from a wealthy family, with striking, expressive eyes.

Her voice was sharp and proud.

If Zhang had one deep impression, it was the red scarf she always wore—even in class.

He remembered because his deskmate said she was “pretentious.”

Later, someone stepped on her scarf, and somehow, the blame fell on him, and those eyes glared at him continuously.

He also thought he had seen her somewhere off-campus shortly before her disappearance.

He frowned, but Du abruptly said:

“Shutong, you may have forgotten, but I remember one thing. Do you recall the exact date she disappeared?”

Du coldly named the date:

“December 10th.

“You all forgot, but that was my birthday. One classmate was absent, so I remember clearly.

“Now look at today’s date.”

Du shoved his phone screen in front of him.

Zhang’s pupils shrank.

Today was December 12th.

That meant two days ago was...

“Could it be the police—” Zhang suddenly felt a chill.

“No, not quite. Qinglian had no fatal wounds when found, and the island has cameras now. Unlike before, no one else saw anything besides her.”

Du sighed but insisted:

“That’s why it gnaws at me. I have no evidence, but the coincidence is unsettling. Without a reasonable explanation, I can’t rest.

“I keep dreaming of Qinglian by the lake, silent as always... Tomorrow, after the funeral, I’ll visit the town archives. Maybe that old case holds clues.”

He looked at his friend in silence, then said apologetically:

“Let me know if you find anything. I may not help, but at least...”

“Don’t say that. Shutong, we all have our troubles. It’s not like when we promised to be friends forever—helping or not doesn’t matter. I want to do this. I don’t want to drag you into it. I just...”

Du paused, stubbed out his cigarette.

“I’m just a little jealous.”

“I’ve held this in for a long time, and now I’m saying it. Why did she call you and not me?

“It was just past eleven. I sleep later than this. I would have answered. If I had, no matter what happened, I would have rushed over. Maybe she wouldn’t have died.

“But why call you—a guy she hadn’t contacted for eight years? I know the rumors are false. About boyfriend... I’m sorry.”

His shoulders sagged.

“Enough for now, I have things to do. You probably don’t know, but Qinglian was the last in her family. Her grandmother, who depended on her, died years ago. So no one else was there to handle the funeral—just me, Ruoping, and a few others.

“Sorry if we’ve been poor hosts this time. Come back and visit more.”

He forced a smiling face that looked strained.

Zhang didn’t reply, just patted his shoulder.

“I’ll help too.”

So in the end, he couldn’t leave.

...

He had planned to take the afternoon boat off the island, catch the last high-speed train tonight, and be home by tomorrow evening.

He arranged everything quickly—not urgent, but wary of mishaps triggering that damned power.

Now plans had shifted; by the time they finished, night had fallen.

Du booked a hotel for him, refusing payment.

Some had called for dinner, but fatigue dampened spirits. They ate hastily from boxed meals.

Afterward, sharing old stories unexpectedly turned to Zhang himself.

“Oh, the little boyfriend,” a girl named Ruoping laughed, covering her mouth.

Zhang knew it was deliberate, teasing him with the day’s rumors, leaning on old friendships.

“How do you all know?”

“Already spread everywhere. Remember our homeroom teacher? He asked me today, ‘Where’s Zhang Shutong?’ It’s no longer about knowing, but which version you believe.”

“There’s also another rumor besides boyfriend, help call, or telling the killer info. Want to hear?”

“What?”

“She sent me a dream,” Zhang said seriously. “In it, she asked why Feng Ruoping had always been a gossip.”

“Zhang Shutong, get lost—”

Then a few classmates from other places perked up, shouting to go to bars or KTV to relax, but then remembered—there were none on the island. Never were.

This unexpectedly revived memories of student days.

The island was called Yanlong, though more like a lake-surrounded town.

Not backward, just somewhat isolated.

He hadn’t liked it at first, complaining there was nothing to do.

No malls, cinemas, amusement parks, not even KFC or McDonald’s.

But soon he adapted—adventuring in the mountains, fishing in the lake, eating local festival treats like fried shrimp cakes and fish porridge, sweet lotus seeds in summer.

In some sense, even if he wanted to be a bad kid, there was little room for mischief.

Small island, great lake, deep mountains, temples, old legends, and a group of boys and girls.

Their school was on the island’s edge; climbing to the rooftop, the cool lake breeze revealed the surroundings.

If you wanted a date with a girl, you’d take a boat to the nearby town, but be careful not to miss the last ferry at six p.m.

With school during the day and no one to hang with on weekends, “secretly boating with a girl to see a movie” was a boy’s cherished but unacted dream.

If he could relive it all, maybe the answers would be different.

Sometimes such thoughts arose.

The deceased classmate, the missing girl,

And a normal life.

As people grow, they realize how rare a remedy for regret is.

Zhang held many doses of regret but none he could swallow.

He could never return to his past.

When darkness fully fell, though improper, they bowed thrice before the portrait, parted ways outside the funeral parlor, exchanging farewells.

Before leaving, Du had something to say:

“I just searched online. The killer of that old case was never caught. Some fishermen said they saw someone near the Forbidden Zone before the incident... I’ll check more at home.”

Walking back to the hotel, Zhang kept thinking of this.

... If only the killer was one person. But there was no such luck.

No, it wasn’t luck—it was a thoroughly terrifying story.

He showered, lay on the bed, thoughts swirling.

The only thing left was Du’s irrational guess.

Because it happened on the same day and place, they assumed a serial killer.

But motive?

Would the killer hide for years and dare return to kill again? Such audacity.

If it was murder, then that phone call from Lu Qinglian...

Zhang shook his head, thinking he overthought.

After all, eight years had passed.

He checked his phone—8:34 p.m.

The wind picked up; he couldn’t sleep.

Dressed, fastening the first button on his trench coat, borrowing a flashlight from the hotel front desk, he stepped into the cold wind.

Few cars passed; streetlights were dim.

Fortunately, the hotel was near his destination.

Following memories, after more than ten minutes, he climbed over the lakeside highway fence into a weed-choked field.

— Ahead lay the Forbidden Zone.

No moonlight tonight; the flashlight revealed a pale lake surface.

No frogs or insects called; only the stench of mud.

Looking around, he found trampled dry grass—probably from police searches days ago.

Squatting by the lake, the night wind numbing him, he reflected:

The temple caretaker Lu Qinglian had ended her life here.

The reeds rustled; he felt as if worlds away.

But what could he do?

He smiled bitterly.

No evidence, no leads, not even rewind could help.

Unlike Du, he lacked the obsession born from over a decade of secret love.

Since he couldn’t return to the moment before death, this was the best he could do.

Still, he was sorry.

He stared at the lake.

He hadn’t answered her call. Hadn’t uncovered the truth.

He silently apologized, slowly rising from the cold ground.

It was late; time to go.

Just then, he pulled out his phone.

The wind surged; the grass around him stirred suddenly.

Then, a cold sharp blade pierced his nape.

His phone fell to the ground.

Before consciousness faded, he saw the screen light up.

December 12, 2020.

8:59 flashed, then jumped to 9:00.

Rewind triggered.