Chapter Sixty: The Aura of a Vengeful Spirit
Chapter Sixty
Wu Datong’s life seemed to revolve entirely around his son. By this reasoning, the ghost case should center on Wu Liren. Wu Dajing’s account confirmed this—after all, it was the Wu Liren family, dozens in total, who had disappeared in this case.
Yet Zhao Fusheng caught the critical point amid the confusion: memory interference. She did not let herself be sidetracked by the tangled clues, but aimed directly at the heart of the matter—disordered memories. And this confusion stemmed from another unknown son of Wu Datong. Zhao Fusheng keenly seized upon this, and what had appeared a muddled, headless ghost case suddenly gained a clear focus.
Using this mysterious “son” of Wu Datong as the axis, Zhao Fusheng began to connect the other clues. Now, investigating this ghost case no longer felt like chasing shadows.
The horses pulled the carriage over an uneven path, the wheels clattering loudly, the carriage rocking so violently that Zhao Fusheng had to brace herself firmly, lest she be tossed from her seat. She gripped the walls tightly, her mind replaying the moment of Wu Dajing’s second memory lapse. A thought surfaced: perhaps Wu Datong’s death was linked to this mysterious son, and Wu Dajing’s chaotic memory was proof.
Once she realized this, her thoughts cleared as if a veil had been lifted. She turned to Wu Dajing and said, “Tell me about Wu Datong.” Then, recalling that this village elder might be affected by the ghost’s power, and that his mind might not be clear when talking about Wu Datong, she changed her question: “Wu Datong died on July 21st. How old was he?”
As soon as she asked this directly, Wu Dajing’s spirit revived. “He was forty-one,” he said.
Zhao Fusheng was momentarily stunned.
Zhang Chuan-shi didn’t hesitate to lash out. “You old man, you must be cursed.” He had arrived late at the scene, but afterwards, Fan Bisi had pulled him aside and probably explained the gist of the ghost case; he had a rough idea of the situation in Doghead Village. Forced to handle the case, he was uneasy to begin with, and now listening to Wu Dajing’s nonsense, he couldn’t hold back. “You yourself said Wu Datong was older than you, only died last month, and you don’t look like you’re in your thirties! You’re clearly an old man—why are you talking like a lunatic?”
He vented his frustration, grumbling, “Wu Datong had children in his thirties, and now his son is forty-one. You claim his father is younger than him? Does that make any sense? Unless he died years ago—”
Zhang Chuan-shi didn’t want to handle the ghost case; grievances filled his heart. He dared not direct his anger at Zhao Fusheng, so he unleashed it all on the muddled village elder from Doghead Village.
Wu Dajing was shaken by his scolding, bewilderment filling his eyes. Then, as if waking from a dream, he hurriedly corrected himself: “Yes, yes, my mistake, I remembered wrong. Wu Datong was seventy-one this year…”
“I see you, old man—” Zhang Chuan-shi heard the apology but didn’t let up, about to continue his tirade when Zhao Fusheng lazily interrupted, “Enough.”
“But—” Zhang Chuan-shi, still simmering, tried to muster the courage to argue back. “He’s talking—”
“Quiet,” Zhao Fusheng said again.
He heard the warning in her tone and his composure broke. “Master Zhao, we’re supposed to be on the same side. Why do you silence me, when the old man is clearly rambling? I think he’s up to something.”
As he spoke, he half-turned his head, his face sharp and monkey-like, with mustache bristles trembling as he talked.
“Then tell me, what’s he after?” Zhao Fusheng asked, her gaze settling on Wu Dajing’s face.
The elder still looked bewildered, scratching absentmindedly at his waist. At the same time, she sensed a strange, sinister aura spreading—a ghostly presence flickering faintly.
After opening the first layer of hell, Zhao Fusheng’s sensitivity to ghostly presences had heightened. She was certain of the ghost’s existence. While bantering with Zhang Chuan-shi, she silently unfolded hell, hoping to force the ghost to manifest and trap it within.
Shadows spilled out suddenly, spreading from the carriage in all directions, reaching a yard’s distance. The Divine List prompted: Nothing found.
Hell had been deployed, but she had not captured the ghost. Worse, by recklessly using hell’s power, the ghost and the spectral hand in her sleeve began to stir restlessly.
Zhang Chuan-shi drove the carriage, oblivious to the danger, still talking:
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“…I think he might be trying to trick me into going to Doghead Village. In these times, what kind of person isn’t out there?”
Within Zhao Fusheng’s sleeve, the ghost hand released its grip on the human-skin parchment. Its five fingers spread and tightly seized her wrist. The icy, lifeless grip crept up her arm; without a trace, Zhao Fusheng used five points of merit to force the ghost hand and the ghost into slumber once more.
The moment passed in a flash, but its peril was extraordinary. Sweat broke on Zhao Fusheng’s brow. Unhurried, she lifted her sleeve and glanced at her inner wrist, answering Zhang Chuan-shi as she did, “Trick me if you like, but what’s there to gain from an old man like you?”
On her wrist were several frightening, dark bruises left by the ghost hand, which had nearly awakened before being subdued by merit, now transformed into a miniature, docile arm nestled in her sleeve.
Though she had narrowly escaped danger, Zhao Fusheng’s composure was astonishing. Her tone was so calm that Zhang Chuan-shi failed to notice anything amiss. Hearing her words, he protested, “You’re looking down on old men, Master—”
“All right, enough nonsense,” Zhao Fusheng said, steadying her breath and cutting off Zhang Chuan-shi’s complaints, then turned to Wu Dajing, her expression serious. “Wu Dajing, how old was Wu Datong, really?”
“Master, Wu Datong was seventy, or seventy-one,” he said, now anxious after Zhang Chuan-shi’s scolding. “I must have been confused, even got this wrong.”
He himself could not fathom why he’d so muddle-headedly claimed Wu Datong was forty-one. But Zhao Fusheng, by now, was certain he’d been influenced by the ghost. This Doghead Village elder had a ghost on him, and wasn’t even aware of when it had attached itself.
And this ghost was peculiar.
She recalled her battle with the ghost in Beggar’s Alley: for humans, a ghost’s body flickered between form and formless. Only by using ghostly power could one grasp its “body.” Yet the ghost attached to Wu Dajing was different; when she tried to capture it with hell’s power, she caught nothing.
In other words, the ghost on Wu Dajing was a phantom even hell could not grasp—forgotten in human memory, vanished from ghostly sight…
What had this ghost of Doghead Village in Wu’an Town experienced, and why had it awakened?
Zhao Fusheng had identified its existence, but its killing rules and patterns were still unknown. How could she force it to manifest, to then capture it?
These questions swirled in Zhao Fusheng’s mind—answers she would have to seek herself.
“Everyone’s memory slips, now and then,” she said, suppressing her tangled thoughts, gently reassuring Wu Dajing. “It’s nothing to worry about, if you occasionally misspeak.”
For some reason, Zhang Chuan-shi felt a pang of sourness at this. Since dealing with Zhao Fusheng, he’d seen her cunning, suspicious, and domineering side—terrifying and intimidating, but never gentle. Hearing her kindly reassure someone, he scoffed, “It’s just a country bumpkin…”
“If Master wants answers, a slap or two would make him spill everything.”
Zhao Fusheng frowned, her tone harsh. “If I slap you twice now, will you behave?”
Zhang Chuan-shi shrank his head, falling silent immediately.
Once he was subdued, Zhao Fusheng asked Wu Dajing again, “Tell me about Wu Datong.”
“Yes… yes,” Wu Dajing nodded repeatedly.
He was now anxious; back in Doghead Village, he was respected and authoritative. But in the city, surrounded by important figures, he felt sluggish and timid. After Zhang Chuan-shi’s scolding, he was embarrassed and fearful, but Zhao Fusheng’s gentle words gave him the sense that he could be of use to her.
He worried that another mistake would disappoint Zhao Fusheng, so he paused and then asked, “Where would Master like me to start with Wu Datong?”
“Start wherever you wish, or from his youth, if you’re unsure,” said Zhao Fusheng, then added, “You’re close in age and a village elder. I doubt anyone in Doghead Village knows him better than you.”
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With this unobtrusive praise, Wu Dajing’s eyes brightened and his chest puffed. “Master, you’re quite right.”
He was energized by the compliment, and after gathering his thoughts, his account of Wu Datong’s past, instead of being muddled, grew coherent.
“Wu Datong’s father, while alive, was my father’s cousin, separated by a branch of the family,” Wu Dajing began, his expression becoming solemn. “I heard from my father that Wu Datong’s grandfather died young. His father had a hard life, raised by relatives, barely surviving on scraps and handouts, frail from the start. Not long after Wu Datong was born, his father passed, leaving a widow and orphan.”
Zhao Fusheng hadn’t expected him to begin with Wu Datong’s birth, but the journey was long and she had nothing else to do, so she let him continue.
Perhaps, feeling his words would be of great help to Zhao Fusheng, Wu Dajing was filled with enthusiasm. He organized his thoughts, and as he spoke of Wu Datong’s life, his speech was unexpectedly orderly.
“Wu Datong’s mother raised him alone. They were poor, and often went hungry. To survive, his mother would take him out to beg for food.”
Thus, many in the village looked down on them. Children frequently bullied him, threw mud, vermin, and other things at his home, and no one played with him.
“We were distantly related. My father saw that Wu Datong and I were about the same age, so occasionally, behind my mother’s back, he’d send them soup and provisions.”
Times were hard for everyone. And so, life stumbled on.
Growing up in such circumstances, Wu Datong developed an unusually extreme character.
“He loved to boast, always telling people he’d grow up and make his mother’s life good, and that those who looked down on him would someday kneel to him.”
He also loved to show off, seeking out excitement wherever he could. People mocked him, but he didn’t mind—as long as he was noticed, that was enough.
Unfortunately, by thirty, Wu Datong was still too poor to marry.
As an adult, his personality changed drastically, becoming withdrawn and less talkative. But he remained close to Wu Dajing, who knew that Wu Datong’s silence was born of growing resentment at his lot.
“He often complained about fate, angry at the world,” Wu Dajing continued. “He no longer sought attention, and when people mocked him, he would just walk away, swallowing his anger.”
“I was a few years younger, but my third child was already seven. Wu Datong, meanwhile, kept more and more to himself.” Here Wu Dajing paused, then went on, “One day, he came to my house mysteriously and said he’d found a wife.”
Zhao Fusheng’s interest piqued. “Where did this wife come from?”
“I don’t know where he found her. I suspect she was abducted; she seemed mentally unstable, crying whenever she saw people,” he said, puzzled. “As for her looks, I didn’t see clearly. It was evening, the house dark, and I only glimpsed that she was young.”
He sighed deeply. “After that, she vanished from sight. Wu Datong kept her locked away, and no one in the village knew.”
“A year or so later, his mother came to my mother and my wife asking for help, saying his wife was about to give birth.”
At this point, his head seemed unbearably itchy. He raised his hand and scratched vigorously, digging at his scalp until he tore off a patch of skin.
The skin, still attached to a few graying strands, he inspected, then rolled between his fingers and flicked from the front of the carriage.
The wad of skin brushed Zhang Chuan-shi’s cheek, who cursed, “You old fool, what are you throwing at me?”
The ghostly aura surfaced again. Zhao Fusheng ignored Zhang Chuan-shi’s curses, her expression calm, but tension rising within. Wu Dajing, embarrassed after being berated, rubbed his fingers nervously.
He dared not speak to Zhang Chuan-shi, so returned to the story of Wu Datong’s child. “My wife couldn’t leave to help, so my mother went over. Afterwards, she said a son had been born.”
“Was it Wu Liren?” Zhao Fusheng asked, now connecting the ghostly aura with the story, and forming an inkling of suspicion.
Wu Dajing’s reply confirmed her hunch.
He shook his head. “No.”
When recalling Wu Datong’s other son, his memory faltered yet again.
(End of chapter)