Three months later, I worked a miracle. Though I failed every test except marksmanship, I was nonetheless assigned to a unit—of all things, to the Falcons, an elite nine-man squad reputed to be the best of the best. I replaced their recently retired sniper.
You can imagine how the Falcon team leader reacted. Word went that he stormed into the company commander's office, slapped his fist on the table, and spent three hours in a shouting match—only to discover the decision was final and irreversible.
Once I joined the Falcons, my days remained filled with relentless training. Team Leader Wang Donghui had one motto above all: "Train!" Couldn't keep up on five kilometers of uphill loaded runs? No problem—he'd double it to ten. Think a task was impossible? A rubber baton would materialize at my side, and it would sweep diagonally across my nose—he held back 80% of his strength, but it was enough to send stars spinning before my eyes and my nose running like a faucet. No chance to even cry "uncle"—he'd grab me by the collar and drag me, half carrying, half beating, through another ten kilometers.
By the final six kilometers, I was entirely on his back: my own weight plus gear meant he was lugging over 160 pounds, yet he jogged every step back to camp. Though I took every hit, I couldn't help but respect his stamina. Looking back now, Old Wang was—what's the saying—like a drugged-up Xu Sanduo!
From that day on, before dawn every morning, Wang would yank me from my bunk, strap twenty kilos of gear to me, and set me off on a five-kilometer cross-country run (no matter how hard I tried, ten kilometers was out of the question). Fail to match his pace, and the rubber baton would connect. Breakfast done, I'd curl under a thirty-meter barbed-wire fence and crawl back and forth three hundred times—my back a maze of lacerations and welts. As if that weren't enough, after lunch we'd head to the indoor sparring hall to "clear our guts." Thank goodness I still had an hour's target practice each day to blow off steam.
Under Old Wang's ruthless regimen, I somehow kept pace with special-forces training, though my scores still hovered perilously around passing marks.
Then, one midday as I crawled under the wire, a sharp alarm bell rang. Wang kicked the fence aside and called out toward the command post, "Move out—today we'll cut you some slack. We've got a mission."
Two hours earlier, a gang of four had robbed a bank and fled, only to be spotted by a patrol. A firefight ensued, and though none of the robbers were killed, they were driven back into the bank, where they'd taken staff and civilians hostage. Reinforcements arrived, and the standoff dragged on.
Because the incident occurred in the capital's vicinity—a major crisis—the Capital Public Security Bureau requested our help. Half an hour later, Old Wang led me and seven others to the scene.
His plan was the standard drill: my first shot as sniper would be the signal. At that cue, he and his men would storm in and neutralize the criminals as quickly as possible.
I took up position in a building across from the bank and settled on the perfect sniper's nest. Through my earpiece came Wang's voice: "La-zi, take out the guy at the corner with the five-round rifle…"
Crack… crack… crack… crack!
Before he could finish, I'd squeezed off four rapid shots.
"Damn it! Why the rush? I'm not ready!" Wang yelled in frustration. By the time they stormed the door, there was no one left to target—other than the four bodies lying on the floor and hostages trembling in the corner.
My first kill mission had been flawless. From the first shot to the last, it took just over two seconds. (Rumor says that when the company commander tried to transfer me out of the Falcons afterward, Wang banged fists on the desk again and insisted I stay.) Back at battalion headquarters, they sent me for mandatory psychological debriefing after my first live kills. The conclusion: Shen La's mental fortitude was exceptional. The four confirmed kills had left no trace of trauma.
From then on, Old Wang truly took me under his wing. The daily grind stayed brutal, but the rubber baton never reappeared.
Two years flew by. I spent them running nonstop missions and training—still just an enlisted man, but now promoted from second lieutenant to first lieutenant. Meanwhile, Third Uncle had left the service and taken a deputy director's post in a state-owned company's security department. I visited him several times; he was proud of me, but behind his smile I saw something like regret.
Our squad's next mission took us to the China–Myanmar border in Yunnan Province. Upon arrival we met with Director Sun from the Ministry of Public Security's Narcotics Division, who outlined our target:
He handed each team leader a photo of a middle-aged Cambodian man named Mot—now the Golden Triangle's top drug trafficker. Intelligence placed over a ton of narcotics hidden somewhere along this border. Though the precise cache location was unknown, they'd learned Mot would escort a high-value buyer to that site within days—an opportunity not to be missed. Our mission: locate and destroy the cache, capturing or killing every trafficker.
Team Leader Wang assigned tasks: "Falcons, you'll do the stalking. Once you confirm the location, send the signal. All other squads form the outer cordon. On our mark, we move in to wipe them out."
"Yes, sir!" a hundred voices responded. Wang nodded: "Falcons remain. Everyone else to positions."
As the other teams dispersed, Director Sun handed Wang a photo: "This man is our deep-cover agent. When shots ring out, ensure his safety."
The photo reached me. The "mole" was an unmistakable figure—a rotund fellow with a broad grin and a mouth full of small white teeth. Every other squad member chuckled—how hard could spotting him be?
After everyone had seen the photo, Director Sun collected it. Wang scanned our faces and asked, "Any questions?" When none came, except the two usual murmurers, I hesitated before stepping forward: "Sir, how many traffickers are we expecting, and what weapons might they carry?"
Wang nodded, "Exact numbers unknown. Likely at least five. Probably some automatic rifles—more than one."
That drew no reaction from the Falcons—they'd faced worse. A dozen men, some AK-type rifles—it was nothing a well-trained team couldn't handle.
Wang then summoned the local police guide, "Show them the terrain. By nightfall you must be in position and concealed."
Our guide—forest ranger Lin—led us into the humid tropical jungle. He wore a beaten cap, eyes downcast. In twenty years of patrolling, he'd learned the hard way that some questions went unanswered.
About two hours in, we heard rushing water. Wang kicked aside the brush and called, "Lin, is there a spring up here? Let's rest."
"That's not a spring," Lin stammered. "It's a waterfall. Nothing special—better to press on."
Engineer Li Yan piped up: "A waterfall? I've never seen one! Let's go take a look." Zhang Yunwei and Li Jiadong chimed in agreement.
Lin hesitated. "Captain, I'd rather not. That place… it's cursed."
"Cursed?" teased Liu Jingsheng, who elbowed Wang. "You're still unmarried at your age—what's more cursed than that?" He and Wang had been brothers in arms since boot camp.
"Liu, enough!" Wang barked. Lin visibly flinched, then cleared his throat. When he mentioned the waterfall's curse, my right eyelid fluttered uncontrollably—and memories of that drowned "ghost" washed through my mind.
"Lin, what's so cursed about this waterfall?" Wang pressed.
Lin sighed, reached into his pocket, and fished out… nothing. He patted around as if searching. I smiled, pulled a half-pack of military-issue cigarettes from my pocket, and tossed it to him.
Lin blinked in surprise. "Military-brand—can't buy these in stores," he murmured, tucking half the pack into his pocket. Liu Jingsheng offered his lighter, but Lin shook his head. "No fire up here—high risk of forest fires. Rules of the forest service."
His steps slowed, and he finally spoke: "The local Miao call that place 'The Devouring Pool.' I've been a ranger here for twenty years, and almost every year someone's body is pulled from the pool. Enough bodies to cover its surface."
"Come on, Lin—that's ridiculous," scoffed Song Chunlei.
"Quiet," Wang snapped. Lin pressed on: "Most of those bodies aren't locals. Some have been underwater so long their bones surface first. Even in drought, the Miao won't draw water here. They hear the waterfall and turn back. It's been forbidden ground for generations."
"Last year I even saw a blond foreigner pulled up from there," Lin continued. "His skin wasn't bloated yet—we could make out a face. The city PSB and foreign affairs office searched for months, but never traced him. They eventually classified him as a tourist who drowned."
Wang, though skeptical, was now uneasy. "And the PSB never locked the place down?"
"They tried—brought in divers from the water police, scoured the pool for weeks. Found nothing. It was the big drought earlier this year that made the old path glow through new grass."
"Then how do we get there?" Wang asked, eyeing the dense undergrowth.
Lin brightened. "Come with me." He led us twenty meters through a patch of mugwort grass to a hidden dirt track. "Twenty minutes and you'll be at the fall."
I frowned. "Lin, you said no one visits this place—how did this trail appear?"
He shrugged. "When they hauled up that foreigner's body, the PSB and diplomats tromped it out. At first the path stood out in the bare spring grass. Now it's covered again."
"Let's go—just sight the terrain and head back to our ambush positions before dark," Wang said, setting off.
The closer we drew, the louder the roar of the falls. Unspoken tension wrapped us all: the story of drowned bodies, the howling rush of water, Lin's uncanny unease… My forehead throbbed as if some force sought to burst free from my skull. I thought of that water-ghost I'd nearly become.
"Here we are." Lin led us through the last thicket. Suddenly, the jungle opened onto a thirty-meter-high cliff, its torrents crashing down into a basin the size of a soccer field. Sunlight danced through the mist in a vivid rainbow.
Song Chunlei snorted, "What's so ominous about this?" But halfway through his next word, his jaw dropped: fifty meters ahead on a shallow sandbar, something was drifting in the pool.
Could it be? As we stared in slack-jawed shock, Wang squared his shoulders and marched forward—after all, he was still our leader. We followed, rifles raised, hearts pounding. I gripped my rifle so tightly my palms trembled; the headache behind my eyes blazed anew.
When we finally drew near, we saw it wasn't a corpse at all, but a plank of driftwood—floating eerily in the heart of the pool.