Chapter Four: Broken-Hand Buddha
In the banquet hall, lights and shadows mingled amid a low hum of voices, and every face was lit with an exquisite yet icy sheen. Lin Qishan stood by himself in a corner, his collar slightly open to reveal a sliver of pale skin at his neck. He held a wine glass in silence, his expression aloof as his gaze drifted over the crowd and came to rest on Pang Sainan in the distance.
Pang Sainan, the city's Executive Vice Mayor and father of Pang Yunxiu, had long overseen the political and legal affairs system—a man of unfathomable depth. He wore a deep black suit; though the hair at his temples had turned silvery, it was combed back immaculately. He spoke in a low murmur with the people beside him, occasionally showing a smile—a smile like a half-unsheathed blade, unsettling to behold.
Lin Qishan noticed Xu Huaian standing not far away, his posture stiff and his expression uneasy. Xu kept dabbing at the sweat on his forehead, his movements nervous and overly cautious. Just then, Pang Sainan's son, Pang Yunxiu, walked over and handed Xu Huaian a gift box.
"Director Xu, please open it and have a look," Pang Yunxiu said. His voice was as gentle as water, yet it carried a quiet force that brooked no refusal.
Xu Huaian's hands trembled as he opened the box, and the eyes of those nearby converged on its contents. Lin Qishan glanced over and saw a Buddha statue inside, missing one hand—the surface of the broken limb was smooth as polished jade.
"Th… this is…" Xu Huaian looked up in astonishment, but his voice caught in his throat before he could finish the sentence.
Pang Yunxiu smiled. "The Broken-Hand Buddha. Director Xu, you should understand—surrendering something can itself be a form of gain."
Xu Huaian lowered his head, falling silent for a moment, then forced a weak smile. "You've gone to so much trouble," he managed to say.
Lin Qishan caught a flicker of fear in Xu Huaian's eyes, quickly smothered beneath a dull submissiveness. He then turned to Pang Sainan; the vice-mayor's lips were curved slightly, his demeanor tranquil to the point of seeming almost benevolent.
A moment later, Lin Qishan left the hall and stepped out onto the balcony. He lit a cigarette and gazed at the city lights in the distance, his expression unreadable. He hadn't smoked in years, but tonight he felt he needed the bite of nicotine to ward off the chill inside him.
He heard footsteps behind him, but Lin Qishan did not turn, only exhaled a long plume of smoke. "It seems everyone's giving out Buddha statues tonight," he remarked dryly.
There was no response. Lin Qishan turned to see three or four men in black standing at the entrance of the balcony, their expressions unfriendly.
The leader stepped forward and said quietly, "Mr. Lin, some things aren't meant to be seen too clearly."
Lin Qishan gave no reply, his gaze flicking across the man's face. The men began to advance, but in the same instant Lin Qishan flicked his cigarette butt forward, sending it flying straight toward the leader's eyes. As the man flinched, Lin Qishan ducked aside, seized the man's wrist, and with one deft motion slammed him to the ground.
The remaining men lunged at him immediately. Lin Qishan moved with calm precision—each punch and pivot executed perfectly, the fight unfolding like a silent dance. Moments later, the attackers were retreating in disarray, while Lin Qishan still stood as calmly as before, only a slight wrinkle in the hem of his coat and an icy clarity in his eyes.
He returned to the banquet hall to find Pang Sainan watching him, utterly composed, as though assessing a piece of fine porcelain that had yet to crack. Lin Qishan met his gaze without a ripple of emotion for a few seconds, then brushed past him without a word.
After the banquet, Lin Qishan went home alone. He carefully opened a gift box he had taken from the venue earlier. Inside was yet another Broken-Hand Buddha, identical to the one given to Xu Huaian. Touching the statue's missing arm with his fingertip, he felt as if he were probing a subtle and lingering pain.
At that moment, Jiang Miao called. "Qishan, I've dug up the story behind the Broken-Hand Buddha. The day Atang escaped, a statue like this had one of its hands smashed off. Since then, everyone connected to that incident has received one of these statues."
Lin Qishan was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "What do you think it means?"
There was a long pause on the other end before Jiang Miao replied softly, "Maybe it's a warning, maybe a curse. Or maybe it's nothing at all—just a reminder that some things, once lost, never return."
He hung up and set the Buddha statue on the table. The late-night lamplight slanted in from the side, casting a long shadow from the statue's missing hand. Lin Qishan sat within that shadow, motionless.
Meanwhile, Xu Huaian was at home staring at the identical Buddha statue, sweat beading on his forehead. At last he dialed Bai Jingci's number and said in a low, trembling voice, "Director Bai, I don't think I can hold on any longer."
A gentle yet cold voice came through the phone: "Huai'an, people always try to hold on to too many things, but in the end, how many of them can they actually keep?"
Xu Huaian closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. He hung up, then sank into his seat, staring blankly at the Buddha statue.
In the distance, the city's lights were gradually going out. Only a few stubborn lights still glowed—like eyes unwilling to sleep, waiting in vain for a salvation that would never come.
Lin Qishan lay in bed and closed his eyes. In his mind, Atang's words from that old recording surfaced again, faint but resolute: "I remember, but I'd rather forget."
He rolled over, trying to dispel the chaotic images, but they clung like shadows. In a half-dreaming haze, he seemed to see Atang kneeling before an altar table, her palms pressed together and her eyes downcast. Her expression was devout yet lonely, her lips curved in the faintest smile—like the very embodiment of fate.