HDRDTH -Chapter 81 Five Sons Carry the Coffin

The next morning.

Dashan Town, Chenjiagou.

The autumn rain had stopped. The air was filled with the smell of damp earth and the pungent scent of burnt paper offerings.

In the open space at the center of the village stood a thin coffin made of poplar wood.

Old village chief Zhao Laogen wore a worn black cloth shirt. He squatted on the ground smoking a dry tobacco pipe, his eyes swollen like walnuts.

Qingshan’s deaf-mute elderly mother sat beside the coffin, her hands like dry tree bark gently stroking the rough wooden surface. The faded red cotton jacket she had washed until nearly white was neatly draped over the coffin lid.

Everyone in the village had come—men, women, young and old—wearing mourning clothes.

Liu Jianjun, accompanied by five rescue team members not in uniform, stood quietly to the side holding thick hemp ropes prepared for carrying the coffin.

“Captain Liu,” Zhao Laogen extinguished his cigarette, his voice hoarse. “The auspicious time is almost here. Please… trouble you to send Qingshan off on his final journey.”

Liu Jianjun’s eyes reddened. He was just about to reach for the rope—

When suddenly, the roar of engines came from the muddy dirt road at the village entrance.

All the villagers turned around.

Five luxury cars with Jiangcheng license plates, like five beasts breaking into a flock of sheep, came to a hard stop in the muddy ground.

The doors opened.

Zhang Deli, Li Jianguo, Wang Hai, and two other prominent businessmen from Jiangcheng scrambled out of the cars in a panic.

They were wearing custom-made black suits worth hundreds of thousands of yuan, each pinned with a glaring white paper flower.

Their Armani leather shoes sank into the mud, instantly turning grayish-brown.

Their faces were pale, sweat streaming down their foreheads. Ignoring the stunned villagers, they rushed wildly toward the thin coffin.

“Thud! Thud! Thud!”

Five millionaires knelt in unison in the mud before everyone’s shocked eyes.

Exactly 5:59 a.m.

Not a second late.

A black Mercedes G-Class slowly entered the village.

The door opened, and Yu Xian stepped out wearing anti-slip boots. The cast on his left arm stood out clearly in the morning mist.

Liu Jianjun froze. “Master Yu, this is…”

“They’re here to repay a debt,” Yu Xian said, walking up to the coffin and bowing slightly toward the old woman.

Then he turned and kicked Zhang Deli’s shoulder.

“The dead don’t rise, the living don’t delay. The time has come—lift it!”

Zhang Deli staggered from the kick but didn’t dare utter a word.

Last night, he had investigated Yu Xian’s background overnight.

What he found nearly scared him to death. This was someone capable of summoning military helicopters and sending top entertainment executives in for questioning!

“Mr. Li! Mr. Wang! Hurry! Help!” Zhang Deli cried, grabbing the muddy hemp rope from the rescue team.

The five men—who normally wouldn’t even carry their own briefcases—now placed the rough ropes on their expensive suit shoulders, gritted their teeth, and stood up.

The thin coffin was slowly lifted.

“Lift—!”

Zhao Laogen cried out in grief and scattered a handful of white paper money.

The funeral procession began to move.

This was undoubtedly the most absurd yet most shocking funeral in Jiangcheng’s history.

Five wealthy tycoons, now acting as the lowest coffin bearers. Their shoulders were raw and bleeding from the ropes. Their designer suits were soaked in mud. They walked at the very front, trudging step by step along the rugged mountain path.

Any pause, and Yu Xian’s cold gaze would sweep over them—like a whip striking their souls—forcing them to continue forward gritting their teeth.

At the rear of the procession, Wang Fei wore sunglasses and a black trench coat, walking silently with the crowd.

Beside her, Qin Yue held a high-definition camcorder, recording everything.

“Sister Fei, which platform are we posting this on?” Qin Yue asked in a low voice.

Wang Fei looked at the figure ahead—Yu Xian with his left arm in a cast, walking calmly.

“All platforms,” she said, removing her sunglasses. Her eyes were bloodshot but unusually bright. “Buy every headline on every major portal. I want everyone in China to see what a real hero looks like.”

Paper money fluttered through the air.

Chen Qingshan, an eighteen-year-old village boy, was carried to his final rest on the shoulders of five tycoons.

On the yellow earth slope behind Chenjiagou, the coffin slowly descended into the grave.

Zhang Deli and the others collapsed in the muddy ground nearby, their hands torn and bleeding, gasping for breath.

They stared at the fresh soil being piled up, the fear in their eyes slowly turning into something complex and indescribable.

This journey, this heavy coffin—it seemed to have scraped away the thick layer of filth from their souls.

Zhao Laogen and the villagers filled the grave with soil.

The old woman knelt before the tomb, placing the final handful of earth on top. She didn’t cry aloud—she simply pressed her face against the gravestone and stayed there for a long time.

Zhao Laogen wiped away tears with the back of his rough hand.

At the same time, this moving scene was streamed live to the entire internet by Wang Fei’s team.

The trending list exploded instantly!

#Ten-mile funeral procession, five men carry the coffin#

#He lifted five families, but couldn’t lift himself#

#18-year-old hero Chen Qingshan returns home#

#Barefoot hero in slippers, unmatched in the nation#

#Find the fisherman with the arm cast#

Five blazing red “爆” (explosive) tags burned through Weibo, forums, and major news portals, crashing servers everywhere.

The internet was in complete uproar:

“I’m a grown man crying in the office watching this…”

“These five scumbags should’ve been made to kneel at the grave! Carrying the coffin is too good for them! Master Yu is basically a god!”

“Wait… that guy with the cast—doesn’t he look like the one who fished up nuclear waste? Is he a fisherman or a karma enforcer?”

Even official media with military backing reposted a photo of Yu Xian injured but standing firm, captioned with just four words:

“Unmatched national hero.”

Those four words triggered a devastating collapse of Zhang Deli and the others’ businesses. Partners canceled contracts, funding chains broke instantly, and within a night, the once-arrogant businessmen were bankrupt and turned themselves in to authorities for tax violations.

Justice had its net wide and merciless.

On the yellow earth slope, Yu Xian crouched in front of the old woman, pulling out a bank card and placing it into the pocket of her red cotton jacket.

Inside was the five million yuan rent Wang Fei had paid him—he hadn’t touched a single cent.

“Ma’am, Qingshan was a real man. This money is a state reward for him. Please use it to buy something good to eat,” Yu Xian said, patting her hand.

He also handed her a note.

“This is my number. If you ever face anything you can’t handle, call me.”

Then he stood up and stretched, his joints cracking loudly.

“Dafu, let’s go home.”

Yu Xian yawned, exhaustion written all over his face.

“I’m starving. Whoever wants to deal with this mess can do it. I just want to be a lazy fish.”

Jiangcheng, Jinshui Bay Villa.

Warm yellow lights filled the dining room. The kitchen was rich with the aroma of stewed old hen soup.

Su Wanyi wore an apron, carefully bringing out a clay pot and placing it in the center of the table.

“Xiao Yu, wash your hands and eat,” she said gently, looking at the absent-minded Yu Xian on the sofa.

She had already seen everything from Chenjiagou on television.

This man always claimed he hated trouble and just wanted to lie flat—but when lives were at stake, he was fiercer and more righteous than anyone else.

“Uncle Yu is a super hero!” Su Qian ran in like a little rocket, hugging Yu Xian’s leg, eyes sparkling. “Everyone at school watched your video! They say you’re the reincarnation of Poseidon!”

Yu Xian rolled his eyes and ruffled her hair.

“What Poseidon? Does Poseidon catch fish while getting skunked every day?”

He walked to the table. Even with his left arm in a cast, it didn’t stop him from using his right hand to sip soup.

The warm chicken broth slid down his throat. He let out a satisfied sigh.

This was the ultimate life he had been chasing after his rebirth—wife, kids, and a warm home. A hot bowl of soup beats any throne.

Ding dong!

The doorbell rang.

Wang Dafu, still chewing on a chicken leg, ran to open the door—then froze.

“…Why are you here?”