Chapter Thirty-Six: A Fellow Countryman Opens the Door

Chapter Thirty-Six

A mottled, unfamiliar alley unfolded before Zhao Fusheng’s eyes.

The street was uneven, its surface layered with thick, brownish bloodstains. Blood that had not yet dried completely trickled along the gutter, seeping into the drains that connected to the houses on either side.

Low, cramped houses lined both sides of the alley, many already in ruins.

Collapsed walls, their mud and sand mixed with mangled flesh, revealed the decomposing remains within.

Almost instantly, a pungent odor—thick with blood, excrement, filth, and rot—assailed Zhao Fusheng, stinging her eyes and making it difficult to keep them open.

Caught off guard, she inhaled sharply, dizziness and nausea washing over her.

She hastily held her breath, suppressing the urge to retch only after a long moment.

Yet, the shock of that smell dispelled much of her fear and anxiety. Covering her nose with her hand, she turned to scan her surroundings.

The sky in this ghostly domain had not yet darkened, but a lingering, oppressive gloom seemed to shroud the deserted street—no sign of life anywhere.

But she could sense it—people were hiding.

Her gaze moved to the houses flanking the alley. Most of those that still stood intact had their doors and windows tightly shut.

Yet, behind the cracks in those doors, she felt countless, furtive eyes observing her, trying to guess her identity and intent.

There were still living people in Beggars’ Alley!

A flicker of hope sparked in Zhao Fusheng’s heart.

She did not know why these people hid indoors, but she could sense that, for now, this street remained “clean.”

Despite the oppressive atmosphere brought by the ghost realm, and the frequent sight of torn corpses, which assaulted her senses as if she had stumbled into a living hell, she did not sense the presence of any malicious spirit.

In other words, the ghost had not yet appeared.

Since the ghost had not shown itself, Zhao Fusheng decided to observe the area first.

Her sudden arrival had drawn the stealthy attention of many in Beggars’ Alley, and the sensation of being watched made her uneasy. Forcing herself to ignore those gazes, she turned her eyes to the distance.

The alley was larger than she’d imagined, with crossing streets and rows upon rows of houses. What was called a “lane” was, in her view, more like a small village nestled in a hollow.

The light was dim, as if it were around six or seven in the evening outside. The sky’s twilight was enveloped by night, and all was silent and dark. Under the gray sky, rooftops layered like mountains in an ink painting, stretching into the distance.

But amidst the darkness, a temple rose above the rest, surrounded and embraced by the low houses, conspicuous as a crane in a flock of chickens.

The temple soared at least seven or eight stories high, each tiered roof arching towards the clouds like an eagle poised for flight.

Grand and imposing, the temple rivaled even the ancient sanctuaries Zhao Fusheng had seen in her past life.

The humble houses clustered around it only made the temple’s grandeur more pronounced.

But what truly caught Zhao Fusheng’s attention was not the temple’s architecture, but that, in this place of darkness, only the temple blazed with light—on every level hung a striking lantern.

Within the ghost domain, where calamity had already struck, every lantern beneath the temple was lit, and their glow shone brilliantly in the dimness, making the temple gleam like a pearl in the night.

Beneath the lights, the temple’s carved beams and painted rafters were visible, though time had worn the lacquer thin, leaving traces of age.

Yet from the intricate carvings, its former magnificence was still apparent.

Illuminated, the temple hung blue plaques on all sides. On one plaque facing Zhao Fusheng, three gilded characters stood out: Confucius Temple.

This was the very place she sought—the Liu Ancestral Hall, once plagued by a ghost.

Though she’d learned from Fan Bisi, the Demon Suppression Bureau’s files, and the words of Liu Wu and others of the Liu family’s former wealth, it was only now, standing before this Confucius Temple, that she truly grasped the stature once held by the great families of Wan’an County.

Yet such a once-glorious Liu family had been torn apart by a ghostly disaster.

A chill tightened in Zhao Fusheng’s heart as her gaze lingered on the temple.

The darkness was absolute, save for the temple’s radiant lanterns, whose glow dispelled surrounding shadows, revealing the neighboring houses.

The situation in Beggars’ Alley was eerie, but better than she’d expected—those trapped here had not all perished; survivors still hid in the night.

By reason, people seek light. With ghosts prowling, they should flock to the temple’s brightness for protection. Why then did they remain scattered, avoiding the temple?

She stared at the lanterns, a suspicion forming: Could these lanterns be like flames, drawing the surviving like moths?

A crucial detail from Paper Man Zhang’s account surfaced in her mind: the corpse Liu Huacheng brought back was sealed in the Confucius Temple.

Meaning, there was a ghost sealed within; the temple was the most dangerous place in Beggars’ Alley. The survivors likely knew this, and so dared not approach.

After all, this was a ghost domain. Though the ghost had not yet appeared, the very air seemed saturated with its chilling terror. Even standing a short while, Zhao Fusheng felt that insidious dread clinging to her, making her shiver from the core.

Though she too harbored a ghost within her, the guidance of the List of Deification warned her she could only draw on its power once more.

After that, if she failed to accrue merit, she might fall under the ghost’s influence and lose her calm judgment.

Here, to lose her composure would mean certain death.

With this in mind, Zhao Fusheng dared not be reckless.

Unwilling to enter the temple without understanding its situation, she resolved to do as the others and slip into a house, waiting for her chance.

Whether from Fan Bisi’s warnings or what she’d gleaned from case files, she knew that solving a ghost case meant uncovering its patterns.

From Constable Liu Wu, she’d learned that the ghost here killed by taking heads.

According to him, as long as no one struck the ghost’s head, it should not kill at random.

Determined to watch and wait, she chose a house and strode towards it.

The door was tightly shut. She pushed at it, and it rattled loudly; something inside blocked her way. Forcing open a crack, she heard terrified breathing within.

A sharp gasp.

From that sound, she guessed only one person hid inside.

The presence of a living person was welcome news!

If she could learn about the situation from a survivor’s lips, discover the ghost’s rules, it would be a boon.

“Neighbor, open the door.”

She pushed and called, her knocks echoing through the street.

The reverberation fell into a sudden hush, as if all the faint, hidden breaths around her had stopped, amplifying the knocking tenfold.

Zhao Fusheng could feel the terror-stricken gazes from behind doors and shutters, all attention fixed on her.

But things did not go as she expected.

Despite her knocking and calling, the person inside showed no intention of opening up.

She frowned, glancing toward the Confucius Temple, but the lit temple remained utterly silent, as if fallen into a deathly stillness.

Unwilling to give up, she knocked again, calling out,

“Neighbor, hurry and open up.”

After several tries, the person inside finally broke silence, hissing angrily,

“Go away.”

She was undeterred, replying just as quietly,

“Open up.”

Silence fell within; the one who had just told her to leave now feigned death.

Zhao Fusheng hesitated, but seeing no movement from the temple, steeled her resolve, clenched her fist, and began pounding on the door.

“Hurry up and open! I’m human!”

The door thudded under her blows, and her commotion soon drew the attention of the entire street.

That alone might not matter—but such noise risked attracting the ghost.

From the blood-splattered streets, ruined houses, and the oppressive mood, it was clear the ghost had already claimed many lives, and those trapped knew they were in the midst of a supernatural disaster.

Everyone else held their breath, perhaps to avoid the ghost’s pursuit.

Her racket might well bring disaster.

Yet Zhao Fusheng was certain that eventually, someone would lose their nerve. Once one person broke ranks, the deadlock would be over, and she could finally ask her questions.

As expected.

After just a couple of knocks, the person inside did not emerge, but a door to a neighboring house opened soundlessly. A short, thin man, stooped like a mouse, slipped out.

Suppressing his fear and anger, he anxiously beckoned Zhao Fusheng to come in, before hurriedly dashing towards another broken house.

Zhao Fusheng’s eyes lit up. Rather than entering the house he’d vacated, she followed him.

The man first tried to slip through the broken door, but seeing her follow, he panicked, turned, and hurried towards another house.

Zhao Fusheng trailed behind. His expression turned grim, but he said nothing, only quickening his pace toward another house.

The doors he chose were all shattered, bloodstains smeared across them, dried limbs scattered on the floor, the air thick with foul odors.

He crouched to crawl inside through a broken opening, but after being trailed for so long, Zhao Fusheng, seeing him still silent, reached out and grabbed his legs.

Startled, he kicked furiously, trying to shake her off.

But since she had harnessed the ghost’s power, her strength had grown, while the man—perhaps weakened by terror and exhaustion—could not resist. She dragged him from the doorway.

What kind of monster was this!

He had meant only to give her shelter, but found himself pursued instead. Now, desperate for safety, he was caught by someone else.

Unable to escape, he glared at Zhao Fusheng, his face a mask of despair and hatred.

“I’m not a ghost, why are you running?”

Her words, meant as a jest, terrified him so much that he lost control where he stood.

Zhao Fusheng hadn’t expected her remark to frighten him so, and was still stunned when the man, as quick as a rat, scrambled up and darted inside, leaving a slick trail behind.

She braced herself, peering through the broken door. Inside, the man bared his teeth and brandished a stick, eyes bloodshot and saliva drooling down his chin. Clearly, after too long in Beggars’ Alley, his mind was no longer quite sound—he looked ready to fight to the death if she dared pursue.

Here, even the mention of ghosts was enough to terrify.

She doubted this tactic would work again; seeing her persist with this man, others would not fall for it.

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhao Fusheng chose to withdraw for now, not wishing to press further.

The man was just an ordinary person, and she had already caused enough of a disturbance.

Still uncertain about the ghost in Beggars’ Alley, there was much she did not yet understand. There was no need to cause further commotion and risk attracting the ghost before she was prepared.

She had time; she could wait for another opportunity.

Selecting an empty house, she slipped inside and closed the door before beginning to process what she had seen in the ghost domain.

Blood was everywhere—many had died during this ordeal.

Yet the remaining survivors each seemed to occupy a house alone, which puzzled Zhao Fusheng.

In her past experience, people sought the company of others, especially in dangerous times—safety in numbers. Yet here, when she tried to share a dwelling, she was rebuffed.

She wondered: was it safer to live alone?

From the moment Beggars’ Alley was enveloped by the ghost domain, and people were trapped here, to the time the ghost began to kill, there must have been much bloodshed. Only after suffering heavy losses did the survivors discover the ghost’s pattern and learn how to endure.

The fact that each person now kept to a house suggested that the ghost targeted houses, not individuals, for its killings.

(End of Chapter)