Chapter Twenty-Seven: Meeting Zhang the Paper Man

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Zhang Chuan-shi led Zhao Fusheng into a narrow alley beside the coffin shop. Most houses in Wan'an County were low, old, and dilapidated, with cramped lanes crisscrossing like tangled threads. Yet Zhang Chuan-shi seemed exceptionally familiar with the area, guiding Zhao Fusheng through twists and turns. After roughly half an hour, they emerged from a low alley to stand before a row of red-brick walls.

The wall towered over its surroundings, strikingly out of place among the shabby houses. Its height, more than ten feet, blocked any view of what lay within. From Zhao Fusheng’s angle, she could glimpse only the semi-arched roof inside the compound. The roof was pitch-black, exuding an oppressive and gloomy air—especially where it met the red brick wall, the seamless junction of red and black seeming all the more eerie.

Zhao Fusheng surveyed her surroundings. Compared to the previous alleys, this area was noticeably cleaner. There was no accumulated filth or excrement on the ground, and the tall courtyard wall was worlds apart from the makeshift fences she had seen before. Just a few steps away, a door opened in the wall. The door was not tall, a single panel painted black, with a faint but familiar stench, reminiscent of the leaking lamp oil she’d smelled at the Demon Suppression Bureau earlier that morning.

Zhang Chuan-shi had brought her here to find Paper Zhang, yet he stopped at this spot, suggesting this was Paper Zhang’s residence. For generations, Paper Zhang’s family had lived in Wan'an County and crafted “Ghost Lanterns,” maintaining longstanding good relations with the Demon Suppression Bureau. Their family was certainly not lacking in wealth; the main entrance to their residence should not look so meager—built within an alley, narrow and unimposing. Zhao Fusheng surmised this must be the back door.

She recalled Zhang Chuan-shi mentioning he wasn’t familiar with Paper Zhang, but judging by Zhang Chuan-shi’s ease in finding his way here, their relationship as “distant uncle and nephew” was likely closer than outsiders assumed.

Zhao Fusheng glanced at Zhang Chuan-shi with a half-smile. The old man, sensing her look, coughed awkwardly and stepped forward to knock gently on the door.

The sound of knocking echoed. The back alley was unusually quiet, making the knocking seem especially jarring.

Soon, footsteps approached. The door creaked open, revealing the rigid face of a man. His complexion was deathly pale, like a corpse, with grayish eyes and clouded whites, as though shrouded in mist. After opening the door, he seemed not to notice Zhao Fusheng at all, glancing only at Zhang Chuan-shi before stepping aside.

Zhang Chuan-shi entered first, but before he could turn and speak, the man appeared oblivious to anyone else outside and began to close the door.

Zhao Fusheng raised her brows, quickly pushing against the black door with her hand, then forced it open with her shoulder.

She entered the courtyard. The man neither dodged nor resisted; as Zhao Fusheng bumped into his arm, she was about to speak when she saw the man, who had been standing upright, collapse to the ground with a thud the instant he was touched.

“Is he faking an injury?”

She was startled, then nudged the figure on the ground. The man had lost consciousness; as she kicked him, large patches of livid corpse marks appeared on his pale face, and a pungent smell of decay spread, making it clear he had long been dead.

...

It was the first time Zhao Fusheng had encountered such a situation, and her expression changed.

Zhang Chuan-shi hurriedly said, “Zhao—”

“You old Zhang, how dare you bring strangers into my home and even kill my corpse slave—”

A sinister, aged voice rang out, laced with murderous intent.

Zhang Chuan-shi’s knees nearly gave way at the words, hastily protesting, “No, no—”

Zhao Fusheng turned and saw, beneath the distant eaves, an elderly man cloaked in black robes, standing there unnoticed until now.

The old man looked to be around seventy, his face deeply lined, giving him an ancient appearance. His frame was exceptionally thin and short, seemingly a head shorter than Zhao Fusheng herself. He was hunched, neck drawn in, his hair silver and disheveled, tied in a simple topknot at the crown, the rest draping over his shoulders like wild grass, unkempt and neglected.

His gaze was gloomy, his robe cut in a strange style. Though his body was slight, his garments were unusually large and entirely black. Most striking were his sleeves—each at least three feet wide. His hands were folded beneath his chin, and the vast sleeves hung like two black doors, obscuring everything from his neck to his feet.

As Zhao Fusheng looked at him, he stared back at her, seemingly realizing something, his already unpleasant expression growing even darker.

Zhang Chuan-shi glanced at Zhao Fusheng, then at the grim-faced old man, bowing and smiling obsequiously, unsure which side to favor.

“Paper Zhang?” Zhao Fusheng’s heart stirred; she tilted her head to look at him and called out.

As she spoke, the wind rose from nowhere, lifting one side of the old man’s sleeve to reveal a black silk cord tied at his waist.

Strung along the cord were paper figures. Each one had a hole pierced through its head, a black thread passing through to connect them like a string of bells, fluttering in the wind, their paper rustling with a “hua hua” sound.

All the paper figures’ heads turned, as if in unison, to gaze at Zhao Fusheng.

The old man’s fingers moved within his sleeves, and the fabric fell again, concealing the paper figures once more.

“The Demon Suppression Bureau’s scent?”

Paper Zhang looked at Zhao Fusheng, frowning. “It seems the Bureau has a new Command Officer in charge, and a ghost handler, at that.” He shot a cold glance at Zhang Chuan-shi and chuckled darkly. “I’m an old fool—”

Zhang Chuan-shi felt a chill run through him under that look. He knew Paper Zhang’s methods were formidable, and though Zhao Fusheng was equally difficult, he hurried forward, staying close to Paper Zhang’s side and murmuring, “She is Zhao Fusheng.”

“Who?” The old man’s shadowed face showed no recognition of the name. Zhang Chuan-shi clarified, “The Command Officer brought into the Bureau by the Fan brothers, the one who succeeded Zhao Qiming as another authority.”

With this explanation, Paper Zhang immediately understood Zhao Fusheng’s identity, his expression turning exceedingly ugly.

The Fan brothers had traded objects with him, acquiring the “Diverting Calamity Eastward” ghost-dispelling technique.

Paper Zhang had not known the name of the person meant to draw misfortune, but he understood: if things went as planned, the “Command Officer” brought in by the Fan brothers would surely die.

Yet here was Zhao Fusheng, not only alive but also successfully commanding ghosts, confronting him at this moment—not here for pleasantries, clearly!

Paper Zhang’s already drooping mouth sagged further, the wrinkles on his cheeks deepening.

The Zhang family had presided over Wan'an County for years, their secret “Ghost Lantern” craft giving them firm roots. They enjoyed smooth relations with high officials and nobles, living comfortably.

Though the Demon Suppression Bureau had declined, and Zhao Fusheng was but a new ghost handler—unlikely to truly harm him—trouble without cause still soured Paper Zhang’s mood.

“How dare you—” He vented his anger first on Zhang Chuan-shi, his sleeves trembling as he spoke.

A faint, malicious stench wafted from beneath his sleeves, accompanied by eerie laughter, as something pressed against the fabric.

Within the black sleeves, a single crimson eye glared coldly at Zhang Chuan-shi.

“Please, don’t misunderstand!” Seeing Paper Zhang’s hostility, Zhang Chuan-shi panicked, hastily explaining, “Master Zhao is here to consult you on a matter, not to bring trouble.”

He knew Paper Zhang’s temper well—delay might cost him his life—so he rushed to bring up the main issue.

At his words, Paper Zhang paused in surprise.

“Consult?” He asked darkly, his fingers beckoning. The laughter stopped, and the fluttering sleeves dropped.

The lone eye watched resentfully as the robe fell, glowering at Zhang Chuan-shi before reluctantly retreating into darkness.

“What does Master Zhao wish to consult me about?” With the murderous aura dissipating and the eye gone, Zhang Chuan-shi finally breathed a sigh of relief.

His bald head was slick with cold sweat; he wiped his brow, smoothing the few remaining hairs till they shone, then glanced at Zhao Fusheng.

Faced with Paper Zhang’s question, Zhao Fusheng did not reply, but regarded him with a cold smile.

This posture made Zhang Chuan-shi’s heart skip a beat; neither side was one he could offend.

Fearing Paper Zhang’s wrath at any slight, he quickly said, “Master Zhao wishes to ask about a case from forty years ago—a major case your uncle worked on with the Bureau’s Command Officer when he was still alive.”

Paper Zhang rasped, “The Liu Clan Ancestral Hall?”