Chapter Thirty-Five: Entering the Realm of Spirits

Chapter Thirty-Five

"Alright," Liu Wu replied hastily.

"Lord Zhao, you already know the story behind Wenchang Road. But after the disaster with the ghosts, the Liu family was left in ruins. As soon as the haunting ended, many distant relatives wasted no time in distancing themselves, believing the place to be unlucky."

Many who had once clung to the Liu family for advantage—kin and clansmen alike—scattered. The once-mighty Liu family collapsed overnight, its decline evident for all to see.

As Fan Bisi had said, many of Liu Huacheng's descendants died in the aftermath, and he lost half his fortune. So he decided to move his entire household away from this place of sorrow, to start anew elsewhere.

Because the ancestral hall had been the scene of the haunting, people considered it ill-omened. Before leaving, Liu Huacheng converted it into a Temple of the Sage, dedicated to Confucius, and left a caretaker there.

"The caretaker is kind-hearted. On the first and fifteenth of every month, he distributes free porridge, which attracts many people lining up for food."

Eager to curry favor with Zhao Fusheng, and knowing she was soon to handle the haunting at Beggar’s Alley, Liu Wu did his utmost to share everything he knew about the place:

"Over time, as word spread about the charity, more and more people came."

Many homeless folk gathered there, and whenever the Temple gave out food, Wenchang Road would be thronged with crowds.

"The caretaker, unable to bear seeing the poor suffer, eventually began distributing food regularly. Over twenty years ago, he started giving out a meal every day."

Thus, the number of beggars swelled, and the area near the Temple became a haven for the homeless. The locals began calling it "Beggar’s Alley."

As for the original name of that street, after decades, hardly anyone remembered it.

People in this era rarely lived long.

Ordinary folk struggled to survive, often lacking sufficient food and clothing. Besides toiling for a living, they also risked attacks from vengeful spirits. In just forty years, an entire generation in Wan’an County had been replaced.

She counted herself lucky today. Upon reaching the county yamen, the magistrate had found a constable distantly related to the old Liu family, whose grandfather had lived through the haunting forty years ago. Only thus did Zhao Fusheng learn the story.

"So that’s how it is," Zhao Fusheng sighed, caught in a daze, when Liu Wu suddenly spoke, anxiety creeping into his voice:

"Lord Zhao—"

His voice trembled, as if gripped by fear. As soon as Zhao Fusheng looked up at him, he wore a pleading expression.

"Spare me, please. I have elderly above and children below. My son hasn’t yet taken over my work. I don’t want to go into Beggar’s Alley—"

The Demon Suppression Bureau was notorious for its caprice, caring little for human life.

When handling ghost cases, they often forced innocents to act as scouts, using them as bait to test the rules by which the vengeful spirits killed.

He had been summoned by the magistrate today to drive the carriage, but he knew it was really to have him serve Zhao Fusheng—likely a one-way trip.

He’d been terrified all the way here, but Zhao Fusheng’s demeanor was even-tempered, not bloodthirsty, and she spoke to him gently. He had tried to please her, and their conversation had been smooth. Only now did he dare to beg for his life.

Those who dealt with vengeful ghosts rarely survived, and even the officials in charge often died. Ordinary people with neither courage nor experience stood even less chance.

Zhao Fusheng was taken aback, but before she could answer, Liu Wu, now half in despair, said, "We’ve reached the southern city."

He gestured with a trembling hand, "Go forward a few dozen paces and you’ll see Beggar’s Alley. Look, the sky is ominous over there—something’s off."

Following the direction of his shaking arm, Zhao Fusheng saw that the sky in the distance had indeed darkened. Thick black clouds churned overhead, the entire area below shrouded in gloom, devoid of any sign of life.

A chill, ominous air swept toward her, making her hair stand on end.

A ghost domain!

Zhao Fusheng’s heart tightened. Liu Wu’s face was ashen, his nostrils flaring as he fought for breath.

"Please, Lord Zhao, spare my life—"

Steadying herself, Zhao Fusheng saw the terror on his face—gone was the servile eagerness from earlier, replaced by anxiety and unwillingness.

She knew the journey ahead into Beggar’s Alley was dangerous, and from Liu Wu’s behavior she had guessed the Demon Suppression Bureau’s usual “methods.” But she had come from a world at peace and could not ignore a human life.

"Do you have a fire-striker on you?" Zhao Fusheng suddenly remembered something and asked Liu Wu.

He started, then nodded quickly. "Yes!"

He hurriedly produced a fire-striker from his clothes and, trembling, handed it over.

"Go, now!" Zhao Fusheng took it and tucked it away, then ordered coolly:

"Don’t get in my way!"

Liu Wu, as if granted amnesty, was gone in an instant.

A clatter rang out, and both turned to look toward the sound. Zhao Fusheng noticed, ten paces ahead at the street corner, a makeshift stall.

Upon the stall sat a stove with a large pot, water boiling vigorously and steam rising.

An old woman, about sixty, stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding a large iron ladle that had just clanged into the pot.

The conversation between Zhao Fusheng and Liu Wu seemed to have caught her attention. Hearing a woman’s voice, she stepped forward, apparently trying to see Zhao Fusheng’s face more clearly.

The sound of the ladle striking the pot had made Zhao Fusheng wary, and the two women’s eyes met. The old woman squinted at Zhao Fusheng for a long while, then the light faded from her eyes.

Flustered, she fished the ladle from the pot, burning her hand and grimacing with pain. Meeting Liu Wu’s gaze, she shrank back a little, but mustered her courage to call out:

"Would you two like a bowl of hot soup?"

Liu Wu had no thought for soup. The moment Zhao Fusheng let him go, he wished he could sprout wings and fly away.

As Zhao Fusheng stepped down from the carriage, he didn’t even bother to say goodbye before snapping the reins. The whip cracked, the horse bolted, and he was gone.

The old woman, ladle steaming in hand, watched the carriage disappear, then turned to Zhao Fusheng.

The girl’s gaze was steady, staring directly at her.

She was an elderly woman, short, thin, and slightly hunched. Her hair, already white, was tied back with a ragged cloth. The apron at her waist was worn, her clothes patched, and she looked impoverished, not at all sinister.

Though she dared set up her stall near the site of a ghost case, she was clearly no ghost or demon. Zhao Fusheng’s suspicions faded, her gaze softening.

The woman grew uncomfortable under her scrutiny, but relaxed as Zhao Fusheng’s eyes changed. In a small voice, she asked again:

"Would you like some soup…?"

"What’s in the soup?" Zhao Fusheng asked absently, glancing around.

Perhaps because of the haunting in Beggar’s Alley, the area was unusually deserted. The street felt like a dead end, emptier even than the one where the Demon Suppression Bureau was located.

The old woman’s presence here was strange, her pot steaming with an unknown broth. The aroma was not that of rare delicacies, yet whether it was because Zhao Fusheng was alone, about to walk into danger, or because she hadn’t tasted a grain since her rebirth, she found the scent mouthwatering.

"Just some wild herbs—would you like a bowl?"

Nervous, the woman rubbed her hands on her apron and shuffled to fetch a bowl from the tall stack nearby.

"No, thank you," Zhao Fusheng responded quickly.

She glanced once more at the pot, then said thoughtfully,

"I won’t have any now. If I survive and see you again, perhaps then I’ll have a bowl."

She didn’t know who this old woman was, or why she dared set up a soup stall so near the haunted alley, but her eyes were gentle, and she had a heartbeat and breath—plainly human, not ghost. That was enough.

"You—" The woman was taken aback by her words.

Zhao Fusheng smiled and turned to leave, but the woman suddenly called out,

"Child." She tossed the ladle back into the pot, wiped her hands on her apron, and warned,

"Don’t go any farther. There’s a haunting up ahead."

Zhao Fusheng paused and turned.

The woman shrank under her gaze but found her courage to say again,

"Beggar’s Alley ahead is haunted… Many have gone in and never come out, trapped inside. You’re so young—don’t go there—" Her voice was earnest, her eyes falling on Zhao Fusheng’s ill-fitting clothes, her expression softening from suspicion to sympathy.

The woman didn’t know who Zhao Fusheng was, but from her attire and thin frame, she guessed her means were modest. Seeing her step from the carriage and head toward Beggar’s Alley, mentioning "if I survive," the old woman’s heart was touched. She hurried to fetch a bowl.

"Don’t go. Are you out of money? Let me treat you to a bowl of soup—warm yourself and find somewhere to hide."

Perhaps because, since her rebirth in this world, Zhao Fusheng had not met a single good-hearted soul, the warmth of this stranger, so eager to offer her a bowl of hot soup, swept away her loneliness in an instant.

"Alright," Zhao Fusheng answered with a smile, but pressed her hand down to stop the woman from ladling soup.

"Not now—when I return, I’ll come back for that bowl."

With that, she turned away.

"I’m off."

"Ah—" The woman wanted to say more, but Zhao Fusheng walked on without looking back, heading straight for Beggar’s Alley.

"A good child, in times like these… I wonder if—" The woman’s voice trailed off as Zhao Fusheng disappeared, her face full of regret. She muttered to herself, her eyes reddening with unshed tears as she lowered her head.

Zhao Fusheng paid the incident little heed. Following Liu Wu’s directions, she soon turned into another street.

If, farther from Beggar’s Alley, there had still been a few street vendors, the closer she drew, the more deserted it became.

Rows of low, dilapidated houses lined the street, which was about ten feet wide, the ground uneven. Shopfronts along both sides had long been abandoned, doors collapsed and spotted with mold, the interiors a chaotic mess—evidence of hasty flight.

There was no sign of livestock, no human voices, not even the sound of wind. The silence weighed heavily, oppressive and cold.

But Zhao Fusheng’s attention was focused elsewhere: the center of the street ahead.

A faint gray mist hung over the middle of the road, dividing it in two—one half bright, the other lost under the approaching storm clouds.

This was the ghost domain Fan Bisi had spoken of.

She could sense the thick stench of death within, and a wave of dread swept over her.

Even separated by several paces, the shadow of death reached for her, a danger far greater than when she’d faced the paper effigy.

Her fingers tingled, trembling slightly as her feet, following instinctive fear, retreated two steps.

Then her reason overcame her fear, and she stood firm.

She let her mind sink into her spiritual sea, where the still-unsealed Divine Register floated, blood seeping across its surface, a chill wind howling—a vision of unspeakable dread.

She tried to touch the register with her spirit. The register prompted: "Do you wish to spend 100 merit to unlock a divine seat?"

The reply was immediate: "Insufficient merit. Unlock failed."

Prompt: "Complete the Demon Suppression Bureau’s first commission to earn merit."

...

Uphold justice. Rebuild the underworld.

Expressionless, Zhao Fusheng let out a long breath. The register’s prompt steeled her will, helping her master her fear.

"Well, there’s no turning back for me," she whispered.

But the silence was so deep it magnified her voice, echoing in her ears.

Steadying herself, she set her resolve and strode toward the ghost domain.

With each quiet step, she drew closer and closer, until the gray mist, as if sensing the living, unfurled to envelop her.

As the fog swirled, her vision faded into the haze.

She had been prepared to encounter a ghost the moment she entered Beggar’s Alley.

But as she crossed the threshold, there was a moment where she could hear nothing at all.

Everything was utterly silent. Air, light, even the lingering trace of life—erased.

Sensing something was wrong, Zhao Fusheng spun around, but the path behind her was no longer what she’d seen coming in—now it, too, was swallowed by the ghost domain.

(End of chapter)