Chapter Thirty-Eight: A Register

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Dinner is ready.”

The young man saw the crowd shrinking back, afraid to step forward, and he lowered his head.

The harsh white light cast an eerie glow upon his face; his brow was pronounced, deep shadows pooled in his eye sockets, giving him an air of melancholy.

For a long moment, the muscles in his cheeks clenched, and he called out once more.

A ripple of unrest spread through the crowd, but still, none dared to take the initiative.

He fell silent, then sighed, placing the spoon down with a clang. After rubbing his hands on his clothes and taking several deep breaths, he lifted his head, calmly picked up the book at his left hand, and opened it at random.

The scene was nothing short of bizarre.

The Liu family was known for its generosity; Liu Jia was famed for his benevolence in Wan’an County, and Beggar’s Alley had earned its name from the continued charity of the Liu family after they moved away, drawing destitute souls from all four directions.

Once the ghost domain enveloped this place, those inside could not leave, and many were trapped without food or drink. Yet, the Confucian temple continued its charity, becoming almost the sole source of sustenance for the trapped people.

By rights, the crowd should have rushed the food, but now, with the meal ready and served, not one dared step forward. Only those called by name would approach.

A question slowly arose in Zhao Fusheng’s mind: Could it be that the people of Wan’an County in the Han dynasty were so well-behaved?

She was lost in such thoughts when she noticed, as the young man flipped through the book, that those around him grew increasingly uneasy and fearful.

Many wrung their hands in anxiety, barely able to sit still. After a time, the young man’s eyes settled on a spot in the book, and he called out:

“Wang Shuicai—”

“Is Wang Shuicai here?”

At the sound of his voice, many gathered around the Confucian temple seemed as if granted amnesty.

Just as relief began to show on their faces, the young man waited in vain for Wang Shuicai’s reply.

The silence stretched; the smiles froze on the faces of those who had felt lucky, and a strange tension once again descended.

The young man called again:

“Is Wang Shuicai here? Is he still alive?”

This question was odd. Zhao Fusheng glanced around, but everyone’s expressions were numb, as if such things were commonplace.

The young man sighed, “It seems Wang Shuicai is already—”

He did not finish, but everyone understood: Wang Shuicai must be dead.

Without emotion, the young man flipped to another page and called out:

“Sun Fu—Sun Fu.”

No sooner had he spoken than someone in the crowd collapsed to the ground.

The man who fell was pale with terror, shaking uncontrollably.

The moment this happened, the previously lifeless crowd suddenly surged with activity. The cold silence was shattered; several people eagerly lifted the fallen man and dragged him toward the table where the porridge was served.

The man struggled desperately, shouting:

“I don’t want it, I don’t want the food—spare me, spare me—ghost lord, spare me!”

His words revealed much, and Zhao Fusheng’s eyes brightened as she caught a glimpse of the truth.

Indeed, there was something wrong with the temple’s charity. Those called by name acted as if they were mourning. The first, Wang Shuicai, made no reply—clearly dead; the second, Sun Fu, was so frightened that being named seemed to signal impending death.

He cried out for the ghost lord’s mercy. Could it be that the vengeful spirits hunted according to the register?

The thought was so absurd that even Zhao Fusheng could hardly believe it.

The young man’s face became wooden. He stared at Sun Fu for a while, then set the book aside, scooped a generous ladleful of thin soup into a bowl, and handed it to the man:

“I’ll give you more—”

“I don’t want it—I don’t want to die—”

But Sun Fu’s cries were useless; the moment his name was called, it was as if the King of Hell had summoned him.

He sat limply, hands clenched, his thin legs kicking wildly, so violently that his bare feet left bloody marks on the ground.

Yet no one cared whether he wanted the food. Several people twisted his arms with such force that his bones cracked audibly.

A trace of hesitation flickered in the young man’s eyes, but in the end, he placed the full bowl of porridge in Sun Fu’s hands.

At that moment, Sun Fu burst into tears.

The bowl clattered to the ground, shattering into pieces, watery porridge spilling everywhere, a few grains of rice floating amidst unknown grains.

“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die—”

He screamed madly, but as soon as he had received the porridge, the others drew away from him as if avoiding the plague.

Page 2/3

With the first person having received porridge, those who had previously avoided the charity now surged forward, crowding around the young man.

Zhao Fusheng hurried to squeeze into the throng, realizing the nature of this ghostly calamity was peculiar, intent on observing the connection between the young man’s charity and the spirits.

The crowd pressed so fiercely that, unlike their earlier avoidance of the food stand, the survivors now fought desperately to get porridge, turning the scene into chaos.

Zhao Fusheng was nearly suffocated, carried along by the frantic crowd, lifted off her feet, almost dying not from the ghost, but from the hands of those desperate for porridge.

“Cough, cough, cough—”

Her cheeks flushed from coughing. Most drank their porridge in haste and fled, while she stood before the stand. As time passed, the young man grew increasingly anxious, losing his composure.

He glanced around frequently, as if watching for something, then mechanically scooped porridge, handing a bowl to Zhao Fusheng. At that moment, he seemed to realize something and looked at her intently, exclaiming:

“You look unfamiliar!”

After speaking, he seemed to recall something, startled:

“Was it you banging on doors and shouting this afternoon?”

When Zhao Fusheng first entered the ghost domain, she caused a great commotion.

The silence of the domain meant her voice echoed through Beggar’s Alley, and the young man giving charity in front of the temple had clearly heard her.

Since entering Beggar’s Alley, Zhao Fusheng had tried repeatedly to communicate, but others were either terrified or hostile, no one willing to speak.

Now, finally spoken to, her eyes brightened and she was about to reply when the young man’s face darkened, quickly withdrawing the bowl:

“Hurry and leave—”

He stopped, realizing his error:

“Once you’re inside, there’s no way out.”

“You—” He held the bowl of watery porridge, troubled.

“Hurry up, hurry up!”

The others urged desperately. The young man, who had been wooden since beginning the charity, now showed slight changes, perhaps because he was meeting Zhao Fusheng for the first time.

He seemed indecisive, uncertain whether to hand the porridge to Zhao Fusheng.

His expression shifted, and under the pressure of the crowd, he finally passed the porridge to her:

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

Zhao Fusheng nodded. The young man said anxiously:

“You don’t know the situation here. Once you finish the porridge, find an empty house, don’t come out no matter what you hear, just survive until tomorrow.”

“I have something to ask you.” Zhao Fusheng hesitated, cautiously refusing to take the bowl.

But as she held back, someone darted from the side, snatched the bowl, and thrust it into her arms.

“Damn it!”

She cursed as the porridge spilled, soaking her.

The culprit sneered, eyes bloodshot with malice.

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” the young man tried to comfort her, but Zhao Fusheng sensed something was wrong.

The moment she received the porridge, a chill enveloped her, as if cold eyes lurked in the shadows, waiting to claim her life.

That feeling of being watched was all too familiar.

Whenever she touched the Soul Register or when the vengeful ghost clinging to her was about to awaken, it was just like this.

Most despairing of all was the warning from the Divine List.

In her mind, the Divine List reminded: Host’s name entered the register.

“What is a register?”

Her eyelids twitched, her body trembling, her face blank with uncertainty, but her body was far more honest than her words, her gaze drifting toward the young man’s book, gradually growing desperate.

From earlier events, it was likely a name register, perhaps a record of those who received charity at the temple. Once named, one might face an attack from the vengeful spirits.

!!!

Zhao Fusheng was furious. She threw the bowl aside and tried to seize the one who had just framed her.

But the person was no fool; having done his deed, he quickly melted into the crowd, vanishing without a trace.

The young man saw her muttering, her gaze fixed on his book, and silently cursed:

“It can’t be.”

He reached to touch the book, but the moment his fingertips brushed it, he jerked back, hissing in pain.

The book had no temperature before, but now it was icy cold.

Having lingered in Beggar’s Alley and touched so many lives, it had become tainted.

The young man’s face was grim. He took a deep breath and lifted the book.

Page 3/3

In moments, his hands were blue with cold. Desperate, he flipped several pages, his eyes settling on a name.

He had been giving charity here for so long, he knew every face and name.

His eyes paused on a name, then he looked at Zhao Fusheng:

“Your name is Zhao Fusheng?”

Hope lingered in his gaze, but Zhao Fusheng’s face was even darker.

She didn’t speak, but her expression was answer enough.

“Hurry up! Hurry up! The ghost is coming!”

As they tried to speak again, someone beside them screamed in panic, and Zhao Fusheng’s mind went blank.

She was forced to accept a bowl of porridge, and as she did, her name was entered in the register, which was steeped in deadly energy, seemingly linked to the vengeful spirits.

But now was not the time for questions. With shouts of “the ghost is coming,” danger was imminent.

Things had reached the worst, yet Zhao Fusheng grew calm.

If fortune favors, so be it; if disaster strikes, there is no escape.

She looked down at the half-empty bowl in her hands and suddenly laughed:

“It seems I’m destined to eat this bowl of food.”

She handed the bowl back to the young man:

“Hey, give me another bowl.”

Her name was already branded onto the register; anger was useless now. Newly reborn and still starving, she had already accepted the porridge. If she didn’t eat, she would die of frustration.

She added,

“Make it thick—I’m hungry.”

The young man was stunned by her reaction, then gave a bitter smile, scooping another bowl for her.

As she requested, he scraped the bottom of the pot, mostly grain. He watched as she took the bowl and remarked:

“You’re surprisingly calm.”

“If I weren’t, what could I do? Are you going to erase my name?”

The young man fell silent under her retort.

Zhao Fusheng quickly swallowed the bitter, grainy porridge and said,

“I have something to ask you.”

He was busy serving others, confirming each recipient’s identity as he handed out bowls.

Hearing her question, he nodded:

“Not now. I’m too busy. Find an empty house and hide; come find me tomorrow—”

He seemed to recall something and warned:

“Don’t come inside. Don’t enter the Confucian temple.”

“Just stay at the entrance,” he repeated, “Call my name and I’ll come out.”

The place was shrouded in the ghost domain; he couldn’t escape and had to remain here, serving porridge. Zhao Fusheng nodded, put down her empty bowl, and immediately left.

Beggar’s Alley encircled the temple, vast and sprawling. After the ghostly calamity, many houses were empty. She picked one at random, entered, and locked the door.

Soon after, faint footsteps and the sound of doors being barred echoed outside.

She heard the clatter of dishes and belongings being moved, then all fell silent.

Darkness descended. The vengeful ghost arrived.

In the utter stillness, Zhao Fusheng heard her own heartbeat thundering.

Each beat shook her chest; she held her breath, and in her anxiety, her ears caught strange sounds.

Besides the pounding of her heart, another rhythm seemed to mingle with it.

Thump-thump-thump—tap—thump—tap—

Her blood froze, icy ghostly energy swept through the street, thick black mist rolling into the ruined house through cracks in the door.

Tap, tap, tap.

Heavy footsteps sounded.

(End of chapter)