Chapter Thirty-Seven: Still Giving

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Zhao Fusheng couldn’t help but feel suspicious as she considered these matters. The characteristics she’d deduced about the vengeful ghost seemed inconsistent with the rules of ghostly calamity that occurred forty years ago during the Liu Huacheng birthday case. Liu Wu had explained quite clearly that at the Liu family’s banquet forty years ago, most survivors owed their lives to Sulong, who controlled the chaos by gathering everyone together and forbidding them from wandering about, thus preventing the ghost from “switching heads” too frequently.

Yet the trait of each person staying behind closed doors in Beggar’s Alley matched Sulong’s prohibition on movement, leaving Zhao Fusheng unsure: was this ghost advancing in power because it had killed too many, or was there another reason? Something felt off, but since she had not yet confronted the ghost directly, she refrained from drawing premature conclusions.

Another source of unease was the Confucius Temple. Everywhere else was shrouded in darkness, but the temple was lit, its circumstances unknown. The youth whom Fan Bisi had mentioned—the one who went to report to the Demon Suppression Bureau—where had he gone after being rejected? The information from Zhang the Paper Man was half true, half false. He claimed the ghost was hiding in the temple, and that the temple’s caretaker had presided there for forty years—could it be that the caretaker had coexisted with the ghost all this time?

Outwardly, Zhao Fusheng appeared calm, but this was her first time actively handling a vengeful ghost case, and she was alone—her anxiety and fear gnawed at her, forcing her to think ceaselessly to prevent fear from clouding her judgment.

Time crept by, and the darkness deepened. The room she’d chosen was devoid of any light, and Beggar’s Alley was utterly silent. Every survivor seemed to deliberately suppress their presence; in the gloom, danger brewed, as if poised to descend.

Zhao Fusheng felt as though someone had died in this room before, the scent of blood strong and cloying. The endless waiting was an ordeal. With the coming of night and her vision lost, her other senses heightened. Perhaps because she hadn’t eaten all day, she suddenly caught the scent of rice porridge.

Her stomach growled in protest, loud enough to be jarring in the quiet. She had been in silence so long that the sound startled her, but she quickly set aside her worries. For soon after the aroma wafted through, a distant clang of a brass gong rang out.

Her first impression upon entering this ghostly realm and stepping into Beggar’s Alley had been silence. The survivors here seemed desperate to erase their presence, whether out of fear or caution; even when running, they hunched and tiptoed, terrified of making a sound.

Thus, when the gong struck, she was momentarily dazed, thinking it absurd—how could anyone deliberately sound a gong in this haunted street where everyone trembled with fear? But she quickly dismissed this thought; she wasn’t hallucinating. Someone had really struck the gong, for soon came two more loud clangs, echoing throughout Beggar’s Alley.

Then a young man shouted, “Dinner’s ready!”

Perhaps it was hunger, but at the mention of food, her mouth watered uncontrollably. The man said nothing else; his voice was clear, young, likely about twenty. His call, accompanied by the gong, resounded along the street, fully audible to every ear in this tranquil place.

Another clang sounded, and the youth shouted again, “Dinner’s ready!” Clang. “Dinner’s ready!” Three times the pattern of gong and shouting repeated, and then Zhao Fusheng heard movement from the “neighboring” room.

She realized for the first time that she had neighbors; not only they, but others too began to stir, as if aware of something. Doors creaked open, and many who had been hiding emerged into the night.

Zhao Fusheng was bewildered. At first, Beggar’s Alley had one person per room, a method contrary to Sulong’s “gather everyone together,” but it also reduced the chance of encountering the ghost alone.

Now, with one call for dinner, the hidden survivors began to gather, contradicting their previous principle of avoiding each other.

She began to sense something strange about the ghost of Beggar’s Alley.

According to Zhang the Paper Man, the ghost here was the same as the one in the Liu clan’s ancestral hall forty years ago. But Liu Wu, the coachman, described the ghost as one who primarily took heads, exploiting chaos to swap human heads onto its own body.

In that scenario, the quieter everyone was, the safer. Yet now, after the gong, survivors were leaving their rooms—odd indeed.

Those who had survived this long must understand the ghost’s killing rules; it made no sense for them to knowingly walk into danger.

Zhao Fusheng sensed a contradiction between Zhang and Liu Wu; one of them must be lying.

She trusted neither completely, but Liu Wu, though suspicious, feared being dragged into the ghost realm and should have no reason to hide anything from her—the likelihood of him lying was low.

Zhang the Paper Man, by contrast, was her sworn enemy; now that she commanded the Demon Suppression Bureau and had shown her strength upon their first meeting, he surely saw her as a threat to be eliminated. The easiest way for him to kill her would be to use the ghost.

Zhang’s words might be eighty percent true and twenty percent false, which made them appear credible. If he withheld a crucial detail and misled her just slightly, he could easily put her in mortal peril.

Analyzing this, Zhao Fusheng concluded that the story of Liu Huacheng’s ghostly resurgence in the capital due to a case was true, and that he returned to Wanan County with the ghost’s dismembered body, using the Liu clan’s fortune to suppress it—also true. But the specifics of the ghost’s killing rules were glossed over, making the ghost’s origin suspect.

He was eager to link the current Beggar’s Alley case with that of forty years ago, prompting Zhao Fusheng to be wary. Even though he later tried to be friendly, gifting her the ghost lamp and recounting Liu family history, her suspicions remained.

In comparison, Liu Wu’s appearance and identity were also suspiciously convenient, but his words seemed more credible.

With that thought, her mind cleared further: if Liu Wu was telling the truth, then the ghostly disaster in Beggar’s Alley was not caused by the same ghost as the Liu clan’s ancestral hall forty years ago.

The realization gave her a headache. She had prepared thoroughly for the old case, but if the two disasters were unrelated, she knew nothing about the ghost here, and was trapped in its realm.

Her expression flickered uncertainly.

But now that everyone else was moving, she couldn’t stay put either.

If you don’t enter the tiger’s den, how can you catch the tiger’s cub?

Sometimes staying still isn’t best; action might bring a turning point.

She steeled herself, took several deep breaths, and finally resolved to stand, yanking open the tightly shut door.

By now, outside was pitch dark. But after hiding in darkness for so long, her eyes had adapted, allowing her to see the street.

Beggar’s Alley was nothing like when she’d first entered; all those who’d hidden during the day had emerged, drifting in small groups like wandering souls, heading deeper into the street.

Their destination was precisely the brightly-lit Confucius Temple.

The street, once deserted, quickly filled with people.

Perplexed, Zhao Fusheng hurriedly joined the crowd.

She noticed that although people moved forward, each kept a distance from the next, as if consciously avoiding others.

Zhao Fusheng tried to approach someone; he looked frightened and uneasy, biting his lip constantly, as if fearing something. Sensing her approach, he instinctively edged away.

She followed again; he avoided her.

After several tries, he realized something, turned his gaunt face with terror in his eyes, and looked at her with a warning, signaling her to keep away.

“Hey, neighbor,” Zhao Fusheng said cheerfully, greeting him. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm.

The instant she touched him, he seemed utterly terrified, frantically shaking her off, making hoarse noises, his legs buckling as he collapsed.

His reaction startled Zhao Fusheng; she didn’t let go, but squatted down. He scrambled desperately to crawl away.

The others behind and beside them circled around, consciously avoiding the pair as they continued toward the Confucius Temple.

Zhao Fusheng hesitated, seeing the man’s eyes rolling wildly in terror, frothing at the mouth. She let go, and he instantly pulled in his tongue and crawled away, putting distance between them and melting into the crowd.

She raised her brows twice, watching him weave through the crowd, quickly blending in, impossible to distinguish in the darkness.

Forget it!

After all, people surrounded her; she didn’t have to interrogate that particular person.

But the Confucius Temple was clearly suspicious. She decided to follow the crowd and investigate.

As she walked, the aroma of food grew stronger, making her ravenous.

Observing those around her, she saw their expressions were complex, fearful and uneasy, not at all joyful at the prospect of eating.

Could there be something wrong with the food?

Both Fan Bisi and Liu Wu had mentioned that, whether in the Liu family or later at the Confucius Temple, there was a tradition of charitable distribution of porridge to the poor.

A wild thought struck Zhao Fusheng: could the temple still be offering charity now?

“That’s impossible…”

The ghost realm enveloped Beggar’s Alley, vengeful spirits roamed, and yet the Liu family’s philanthropy continued?

But as she looked around, the people heading toward the temple did so as if facing a catastrophe, not at all like recipients of charity.

Suppressing her doubts, Zhao Fusheng hurried forward, weaving into the crowd, which parted to avoid her, faces showing surprise.

After about fifteen minutes, she finally saw the Confucius Temple.

It was still brightly lit, several lanterns shining with white light, the upturned eaves hung with a blue cloth sign bearing a single large character: “Charity.”

The temple doors stood wide open.

Compared to the dazzling lights outside, the interior was unlit.

The hall was deep, at least a thousand feet. Several massive pillars supported the temple, raising the roof high above.

Standing in the light, Zhao Fusheng peered inside; the shadows reached halfway into the hall, but the depths were so dark they resembled a bottomless abyss, impossible to see clearly.

Directly in front of the entrance lay a large open space paved with blue stone tiles. To one side, a stone table like a tribute altar had been built, holding a huge bronze cauldron and stacks of bowls.

A young man with a blank expression stood behind the table, holding a ladle, regarding the crowd with cold eyes.

It really was charity!

Even after Beggar’s Alley was beset by ghosts, the temple continued to distribute food.

Zhao Fusheng instantly sensed something was amiss.

When things behave abnormally, there’s often something supernatural at work.

With the ghost realm covering Beggar’s Alley and everyone struggling to survive, the temple’s routine seemed to ignore the horror of the vengeful ghost’s killings—there must be a reason.

She had intended to stride forward and question the youth, but after a moment’s hesitation, she restrained herself.

Realizing the temple’s abnormality and the youth’s possible motives, she did not rush to reveal her identity, but stood aside, observing the scene.

Unexpectedly, the crowd that had hurried over did not rush forward.

Everyone had been eager when leaving home, but now they seemed fearful, unwilling to be the first to eat.

“Could it be that the sooner you eat, the more likely something strange happens?” Zhao Fusheng wondered.

Her gaze landed on the young man with the ladle, studying him.

He was young, no more than twenty, and compared to the emaciated people around him, he was tall and sturdy—at least 1.8 meters, she estimated.

His cheekbones were prominent, his features handsome, but the gloom in his expression made him appear lackluster, his complexion dark, lacking youthful vitality.

Behind him sat a brass gong, with two wooden mallets wrapped in red cloth—clearly, he was the one who had struck the gong and called for dinner.

But Zhao Fusheng’s attention was not drawn to these; she noticed a not-too-thick book by the youth’s left hand.

The book was stitched with cotton thread, its cover blank, its purpose unclear, but the crowd eyed it with terror and dread.

(End of chapter)