Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Strange Occurrence in Martial Village

Chapter Fifty-Seven

When Fan Bisi led Magistrate Pang and the others into the room, Zhao Fusheng was nearing the end of the case file she was reading. Though the side chamber had been tidied up and the bloodstains scrubbed away, everyone present was well aware of the tragedy that had recently taken place within the Demon Suppression Office, and they entered with a palpable unease.

“Sit.”

Zhao Fusheng, upon hearing the commotion, did not even lift her head, her gaze fixed to the case file as she nodded in their direction.

Two servants stepped forward to pull out the chairs by the long table. Magistrate Pang and his companions, trembling with apprehension, sat down. The table surface, yet unrepaired, bore the scars of claw marks, sending shivers down their spines. No one dared even to draw breath.

Only when Zhao Fusheng had finished reading did she close the file and finally look to her visitors. Most of them were familiar faces, save for one, an older stranger.

This man, around sixty, wore a loose, dark-blue robe cinched with a bright blue belt. The fabric, half-new and half-worn, was creased as if it had long lain at the bottom of a chest, seldom used. His cheeks were hollow, and a goatee adorned his chin. Under Zhao Fusheng’s scrutiny, he shifted uneasily, repeatedly glancing at Magistrate Pang, even bracing himself on his knees as though preparing to rise.

“Lord Zhao—” Magistrate Pang hastily stood to speak, an awkward look on his face.

It had been over ten days since the ghostly disaster in Beggar’s Alley. That day, before all Wan’an County’s local gentry, Zhao Fusheng had publicly promised to take charge of ghostly cases, and afterward, the Fan brothers had privately warned everyone not to leave the county lightly.

If Zhao Fusheng truly intended to handle the ghost cases and could protect Wan’an County, the local gentry and wealthy households would naturally stay. But these people were not commoners; they had long dealings with the Demon Suppression Office and knew well the temperament of its envoys. Ghost-handling envoys lived with spirits, their natures fierce and unpredictable, their moods capricious. Dancing perpetually on the edge of life and death, they often feared ghosts more than ordinary folk. When it came to such cases, their actions spoke louder than their words: most envoys, being human, cherished their own lives and would avoid such cases if possible.

Though Zhao Fusheng had publicly agreed to accept ghost cases, Magistrate Pang and the others thought it mere politeness. After all, the more an envoy used a deadly ghost’s power, the closer they drew to death. Outwardly, Zhao Fusheng seemed affable, but behind closed doors, the Fan brothers’ threats left the gentry anxious and undecided. They wished to leave, but dreaded offending those who commanded ghosts; yet, if they remained and disaster struck, it would be the unprotected commoners who suffered.

Each day, the magistrate’s office was visited by those seeking counsel. All eyes were on the new envoy of the Demon Suppression Office, pressing Magistrate Pang to take the lead. Feeling the mounting pressure, he resolved to probe the new envoy’s character, taking Zhao Fusheng at her word and presenting a ghost case as a test. After all, she had made her promise before them all.

If the new envoy was approachable and truly willing to take on cases, it would prove the office’s usefulness. More than that—if she could resolve another ghostly case, her power would even surpass Zhao Qiming, her predecessor. With her as guardian, the county would rest easy and root itself in her protection. But if she refused, or if she accepted and perished, everyone else would need to seek other means and not be tied down to Wan’an County.

It was not difficult to find a case. Since the appearance of ghostly mists, incidents had multiplied, only left unresolved because the Demon Suppression Office had turned a blind eye. The villages and towns under the county’s governance had been left to their own devices. Now, with the gentry paying close attention, a strange event was soon discovered within ten days.

...

“You’ve only just finished handling the matter in Beggar’s Alley,” Magistrate Pang said carefully, choosing his words with the utmost caution, “We ought to let you rest a while—”

He had served as magistrate in Wan’an County for two years and dealt with Zhao Qiming, the former envoy. Zhao Qiming, once a scholar, had seemed refined, but after taking on a ghost, his temperament turned unpredictable and murderous, his gaze cold and bestial. To speak with him was like conversing with a vengeful spirit—enough to chill one’s bones.

Zhao Fusheng’s gaze settled on him, and Magistrate Pang shivered, glancing about for support, already regretting coming today.

“I—”

“If you have something to say, then say it,” Zhao Fusheng said, tapping her case file twice against the table, the sound sharp and clear. “Is there a ghost case?”

She brought it up herself; Magistrate Pang exhaled in relief, then, steeling himself, nodded. “Last time, you said we should report such cases promptly. I dared not delay—” He then glanced around.

“What say you, gentlemen?”

The others nodded with forced bravado, voices echoing in agreement. In the past, all knew that dealing with ghosts was a deadly affair and would not have dared urge an envoy thus. But times had changed. The Demon Suppression Office had nearly been destroyed, and the court seemed intent on abandoning this place. Though Zhao Fusheng had taken over and solved one case, none knew her well; their confidence in her was thin.

Hearing there was a ghost case, Zhao Fusheng was momentarily taken aback, uncertain whether to feel anxious or relieved. The others scarcely dared breathe. Fan Bisi, stealing a glance at her face, found her calm—not a hint of fear or unease. His confusion was interrupted as Zhao Fusheng spoke again.

“Then tell me about this ghost case.”

Her demeanor was tranquil, showing no dread at the mention of ghosts. Magistrate Pang, tension melting from his body, nearly collapsed into his chair with a loud scrape that drew no laughter—only sympathetic looks from the others.

Wiping his brow with his sleeve, Magistrate Pang called to the old man in blue, “Wu Dajing, you tell it.”

The old man immediately stood, replying, “Yes, sir.” He nervously tugged at his clothes and, under everyone’s gaze, began, “I am from Goutou Village, Wuan Town, under Wan’an County…”

As Wu Dajing spoke in his trembling voice, Zhao Fusheng pieced together the story. Goutou Village, named for the dog-shaped mountain at its back, was small—twenty-one households, one hundred sixty-five people, most of them surnamed Wu, all closely related. The village lay only three or four li from town.

The strange affair began some ten days prior. With so few people and simple relations, most disputes were settled by the village head or elders.

“Half a month ago, Wu Lifu accused Wu Jiu of letting water from his field flood his own, so he ran to Wu Jiu’s house and cut down the tree before his door…” Wu Dajing, perhaps out of nerves, rambled off-topic, recounting old quarrels and forgetting the ghost case altogether. “Those two families have long been at odds—”

Zhao Fusheng frowned. Fan Bisi, adept at reading moods, barked, “Who wants to hear all that? Get to the ghost case!”

Startled, Wu Dajing quickly replied, “Yes, yes.” Cowed, he returned to the matter at hand. “They fought fiercely, and both sides went to the village head for justice. The head, Wu Liren, his father was quite a man in his day, once did business in Wan’an County—”

Here, Wu Dajing glanced at Zhao Fusheng. Seeing she remained silent, he continued, “He made a windfall, returned home in glory, and was elected village head. Quite the figure.”

“What was his father’s name? What business did he do in Wan’an County?” Zhao Fusheng asked offhandedly.

Wu Dajing, encouraged by her question, perked up. “His father was Wu Datong. We grew up together, brothers in all but name. Back then, we roamed the hills together, but Datong’s family was poor, and he married late—”

Zhao Fusheng rapped the table with her file.

With a jolt, Wu Dajing quickly added, “…I don’t know what business, only that he found a powerful patron who gave him a large sum when he returned.”

“Is that relevant?” Zhao Fusheng, finding Wu Dajing’s tale meandering, decided to guide him.

“He returned home with money and found several concubines for Wu Liren…” Wu Dajing, now a bit fearful, trailed off.

Magistrate Pang, seeing him ramble on, grew anxious that Zhao Fusheng would lose patience. In his panic, he slapped the table. “Insolent! What nonsense is this—”

At the sound, Wu Dajing fell to his knees, trembling uncontrollably.

“No need to rush,” Zhao Fusheng said, frowning at Magistrate Pang, who recoiled and quickly kicked Wu Dajing, urging, “Hurry and tell Lord Zhao what happened.”

Wu Dajing, struck, only cowered on the ground, sweat soaking through his clothes.

…

A heavy silence fell.

Magistrate Pang’s heart sank, his face ashen, fearing Zhao Fusheng would turn her anger on him. But she did not scold him, instead asking, “How old is Wu Liren?”

She knew the importance of gradual progress. This old man, though from the countryside, was a village elder with some experience, hence he could still speak up before the county's dignitaries. But once rebuked, his innate timidity took over. Rushing him would only make things worse and risk missing key details. When dealing with vengeful spirits, every clue was precious.

She did not coddle him, but engaged him in the idle, domestic manner he was used to. After a while, the clattering of Wu Dajing’s teeth faded, and he looked up, face as pale as if dredged from water, eyes unfocused.

Patiently, Zhao Fusheng asked again, “How old is Wu Liren? If you and Wu Datong grew up together, Wu Liren should be in his thirties or forties, yes?”

“Wu… Wu Liren…” Wu Dajing’s wildly contracting pupils gradually steadied. After a long pause, he finally focused and answered, “Yes, yes. I am sixty-seven; Wu Liren is forty-one.”

Nervously, he glanced at Magistrate Pang, who now dared not meet his eye for fear of incurring Zhao Fusheng’s displeasure.

Seeing no rebuke, Wu Dajing grew bolder. “His father was older than me, married late because the family was poor—he was over thirty when Wu Liren was born.”

Zhao Fusheng nodded and asked, “You said Wu Datong returned home with wealth and found several concubines for his son. Did the Wu family have few descendants before then?”

“Yes—no, no. At that time Wu Liren had three—” Here, Wu Dajing looked puzzled, then said more firmly, “Two children, and another who was Wu Datong’s—” He seemed uncertain, hesitating before stammering, “…young… youngest son.”

His expression was most peculiar. Though he claimed to have grown up with Wu Datong and lived in the same small village, he now seemed unsure about the family’s descendants.

“Was it the eldest or the youngest?” Zhao Fusheng pressed.

Wu Dajing, uneasy, thought again, then stammered, “Young… the youngest, definitely the youngest…” He then nervously scratched his backside, an unseemly gesture among such company. Magistrate Pang, both embarrassed and fearful, regretted bringing this uncouth old man along.

Zhao Fusheng paid no mind to the others’ thoughts, idly tapping her file as she made note of Wu Dajing’s odd behavior, then asked, “Since Wu Liren already had children, why did Wu Datong insist on finding more concubines for his son?”

...

Fan Bisi and Magistrate Pang both found it strange. Wu Dajing was here to report a ghost case, yet he rambled on about village gossip, the conversation wandering far afield. Zhao Fusheng, too, seemed oddly willing to indulge him, as if their idle chat was a way to avoid the ghostly affair.

Each entertained their own suspicions, but Wu Dajing, oblivious, answered, “Naturally, to ensure his line would flourish.”

Speaking of these private matters, his fear gradually subsided. “It’s said that while working in Wan’an County, he suffered an injury and could no longer father children, so he pinned his hopes of continuing the family line on his son.”

Wu Liren took many concubines. Many families with pretty daughters were glad to send them to the Wu household, for they would never want for food or clothes—a good life for all.

“In the next ten-odd years, Wu Liren lived in style, marrying seven or eight concubines, and some without formal titles, fathering many children—but here’s the odd thing.” Wu Dajing paused, his eyes taking on a strange look. “Not a single daughter. Over twenty children, all sons—every last one.”