Chapter 99: Golden Swallow Village

Early the next morning, just after eight o’clock, everyone finished breakfast and continued on their journey.

From then on, they no longer took regular vehicles but had to charter a van, since the county town was still quite a distance from their destination.

The so-called Golden Swallow Village sounded pleasant enough by name, yet in reality, it was a very remote mountain hamlet.

Once they left the county, the scenery gradually opened up. The landscapes of Hunan Province have long been renowned for their beauty—not just the world-famous Zhangjiajie, but many places here boast exquisite mountains and waters.

The terrain was quite complex, featuring hills, karst formations, and some basins. Towering peaks and flowing streams stretched endlessly. Alongside the road were vast stretches of verdant greenery. Especially when the vehicle veered onto a narrow mountain path, the midday sun was not too harsh, and the air was refreshingly pure. Compared to the clamor of big cities, this closeness to nature felt infinitely better.

Opening the windows, the crisp breeze soothed their spirits. There was no need to fix their gaze in any particular direction; everywhere was a picturesque scene, as if immersed in a living painting. Setting off early in the morning, distant mountain peaks were still shrouded in a faint mist.

Looking down from the mountains, the gentle river was not wide but meandered intricately among the uneven, towering stones.

The scenery was undeniably beautiful, but after driving further, the road deteriorated into a rough mountain trail. If they were in an off-road vehicle like a Land Rover, it would be fine, but in a van... well, the experience was hardly worth describing.

Though none of them had been here before, Xuanxuan had done her homework: “Because the mountains and rivers between Hunan and Guizhou are numerous and the terrain complex, transportation here is less convenient than on the plains. Building a road requires far more funding than in flatland areas.

“So, in the southwest, aside from cities near provincial capitals, many remote and underdeveloped villages still exist.”

“Nowadays, wherever convenient transportation exists, development has generally followed. Take the Golden Swallow Village we’re about to visit: it was once predominantly inhabited by ethnic minorities living in poverty, but after road renovations in recent years, things have gradually changed. With some rural entrepreneurs investing, life is better than before. If you’d come four or five years ago... it would have been truly bleak.”

Qi Yan felt the van’s bumps and jolts and asked curiously, “What kind of mindset do you think that Yinpai holder we’re looking for has? To travel all the way from Luzhou, a world-class metropolis, to this godforsaken place—what is he chasing? Could it be... he’s renounced worldly pleasures and wants to live in seclusion, maybe even seek immortality in the mountains?”

Uncle Yan, sitting up front, chuckled, “Youngsters probably don’t get it. You folks born in the ’90s would surely want to live in big cities, preferably downtown. Party all day long. Places like this... phew—ah! I just bit my tongue.”

The car jolted, causing him to bite his tongue mid-sentence. “Uh... places like this are oxygen bars; living here among the forests could add five or six years to your life!”

Qi Yan couldn’t quite understand and replied dismissively, “Maybe. Perhaps when I’m old, I’ll come to a small place like this for a quiet life. But honestly, I don’t have high demands. My goal is just to live past fifty. Living too long can be a torment—especially when you grow old... you can’t eat as you used to, nor enjoy yourself as before...”

Uncle Yan glanced back at him, “Hey... you ’90s kids have some scary thoughts.”

Even Ding Lingzi, usually quiet, quietly chimed in, “It’s true. If someone lives a miserable life, then peaceful release early on is a kind of relief.”

Her words silenced everyone. The meaning of life is a deeply philosophical matter, and everyone holds their own views. What started as casual chatting was not meant for deep debate.

The driver, amused by their conversation, joined in with Uncle Yan: “You all here for sightseeing, right? This place has seen visitors in recent years—exploration teams, tourism developers... Golden Swallow Village used to be very backward, full of dilapidated low houses. Now it’s much better. Most villagers from the old village have moved to a new settlement. It’s still good for tourism and hiking. Oh, I heard there’s even a hot spring!”

Uncle Yan politely replied, “Yes, we came to see an old friend and also to enjoy the natural scenery.”

As they neared the final stretch, the road became smoother again—apparently newly built near the village.

The driver called out, “Look, we’re almost there.”

Everyone perked up and looked ahead. In a low valley below the mountain road, several densely packed new houses came into view, some perched halfway up the hillside. By all appearances, it wasn’t too remote.

At last, they arrived. The fare was several hundred yuan, but the experience wasn’t as bad as imagined. At least some small inns and convenience stores were available.

There were also half-finished small Western-style houses under construction, mostly no more than three stories.

The name Golden Swallow Village had two origins. One said that after spring, many swallows would flutter around the surrounding Bangmin River. At dusk, the dazzling yet gentle sunlight reflected off the water’s surface in golden waves, making even the black-feathered swallows seem as if they were dyed gold.

The other, more mystical explanation came from when the village was mostly ethnic minorities. An elderly man of the Zhuang people rescued two bright yellow birds—perhaps not swallows, but their tail feathers were sharply forked like scissors. He believed them to be golden swallows.

The village’s development had indeed improved greatly. Not only ethnic minorities but people from other small villages had moved in.

After carrying their luggage a short distance, Qi Yan and the others noticed red flags waving in the distance. It was likely a Hope Primary School or similar. This was far better than some truly impoverished areas they’d seen on television, where children had to walk several miles along mountain trails just to attend school.

They found a relatively clean guesthouse to settle in and planned to dine there.

The aroma of farmhouse cooking was mouthwatering. Small towns like this were straightforward—the food was cheap and hearty, unlike in the city, where ordering a plate of green pepper shredded pork often meant mostly green peppers, leaving one unsure whether it was green peppers cooked with pork or vice versa.

Qi Yan, Xuanxuan, and Ding Lingzi fared well, but Hao Dalong and Uncle Yan suffered—they couldn’t handle spicy food. Hunan cuisine was inseparable from chili peppers. Even after asking for less spice, they still found it unbearable and had to sip pumpkin broth with a few mouthfuls of rice.

On the table was a seemingly unremarkable dish: a kind of vegetable dressed with chili, looking like a heap of ordinary wild greens with tiny, pointed leaves no larger than fingernails. Its taste was reminiscent of bitter melon, with a hint of pungency.

The innkeeper explained it was a local wild vegetable called "Juan Cai Miao," known for its bitter flavor and medicinal properties. No matter how it was cooked, it never tasted good, but it was excellent for clearing heat and toxins. For those with internal heat or acne, eating this was more effective than medicine.

The name itself was awkward to pronounce in Mandarin. Nearly every household in the village loved to gather it from the mountains. It was more like medicinal cuisine than food.

Because its heat-clearing effect vanished when cooked, it was only eaten cold with seasoning, which made it taste even more bitter.

Outsiders generally couldn’t get used to it, so the group barely touched it.

While eating, Uncle Yan casually inquired with the innkeeper about the man they were seeking. Knowing his name and the fact that he was an outsider made it easier to ask.

The moment Uncle Yan mentioned He Yulong, the innkeeper immediately recognized the name but his expression turned strange as he recalled.

Seeing this, Uncle Yan and the others grew anxious—could it be that after traveling all this way, the man was no longer here or something had happened?

Sure enough, Murphy’s Law was relentless—the more you feared something, the more likely it was to happen.

The innkeeper, with half a cigarette dangling from his lips, spoke in the local dialect, “Oh, you’re asking about He Yulong? Haven’t seen him for a long time. He used to do some livestock farming east of the village, built a small shed to raise pigs, but later, no one knows where he went.”