Chapter Seventy-Five: Manipulation of Memory

Chapter Seventy-Five

The old man’s expression was peculiar; the corners of his lips lifted into a perfectly measured smile—

But Zhang Chuanshi dealt in coffins and had long been used to handling the dead. His shop was next to a store that sold incense and paper figures. He often saw the proprietor and his helpers crafting those paper effigies, and every finished one wore the same stiff, unsettling grin.

In theory, Zhang Chuanshi should have become numb to such eerie smiles by now. Yet there was a difference between looking at a paper figure and facing a living person—especially when he suspected the person before him might be a vengeful spirit, and that he and Zhao Fusheng could have wandered into a ghostly realm.

This time, the ghost manipulated memory and cognition; for all they knew, they might simply be wandering endlessly along a nighttime field path in this remote, desolate village. Perhaps Wu Dajing never existed, and this conversation was nothing but illusion. It was even possible that the one standing before them was a long-dead corpse, and the two of them, deceived by the ghost, believed they were speaking to a person.

The more he thought, the more terrified he became. His body trembled violently as he reached out to prod Zhao Fusheng’s back, signaling her not to speak further with this man and to leave quickly.

Zhao Fusheng ignored him, instead meeting Wu Dajing’s gaze and pressing on with another question: “You didn’t know much about Wu Datong before, but how much do you know about him afterwards?”

Wu Dajing paused for a long while before answering, “He left the village at thirty-one, went to Wanan County, and took up with a man named Zhang Xiongw, who owned a paper figure shop.”

Fragmented memories pieced themselves together. The conversation between Wu Dajing and Zhao Fusheng on the carriage resurfaced in her mind as scattered images.

“That man appreciated Wu Datong’s talent and asked him for a favor.”

Wu Dajing’s words felt unfamiliar. Zhao Fusheng was certain that such a conversation hadn’t occurred before. The novelty of this exchange unsettled her.

Perhaps it was the series of inexplicable lapses in memory that prompted Zhao Fusheng, almost instinctively, to take the dossier she’d tucked in her sleeve and grip it tightly in her hand.

Wu Dajing went on, “Wu Datong agreed.”

Zhao Fusheng recalled the ghost case in Beggars’ Alley, combined it with the flash of memory, and said, “He was asked to steal a coffin nail?”

“It wasn’t Wu Datong who stole it!” Wu Dajing retorted sharply.

“Then who did?” Zhao Fusheng felt an uncanny sense about the question.

At that moment, the moon in the sky began to change color again. The mist, refracted by the light, took on a blood-red hue.

A black shadow slowly peered out from the moon. Crimson ribbons trailed down from its face, and with each ‘drip’, it seemed as if some liquid fell to the earth.

“It was Wu Liren who stole it.”

Wu Dajing replied.

Suddenly, Zhang Chuanshi’s back began to itch intolerably. He scratched fiercely through his clothes, feeling the rough cloth rub his skin raw. The relief from itching was soon replaced by a burning pain.

“Sir, I’m a little scared—” Perhaps it was the eerie atmosphere, but cold sweat broke out all over him, soaking through his clothes and sticking to his back, making him feel clammy and miserable.

Zhao Fusheng sensed the oppressive air as well. But that was not all—the Deification Register in her spiritual sea prompted her: Detecting the presence of a formidable ghost. Do you wish to use Hellish Capture?

She remembered that a large portion of her merit points had been deducted inexplicably; she no longer recalled the events of that time. Her best guess was that she had attempted to use Hellish Capture on the ghost, failed, and then invoked the power of Hell itself, which consumed her merit as compensation.

Now she had only six merit points left and could not afford any further reckless expenditure.

She trusted the Deification Register’s prompt. The ghost was definitely close by, but when her gaze swept subtly around, she saw no sign of it.

The thing was lurking in the shadows, watching, poised to strike.

Her heart raced, yet her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Since Wu Dajing had knocked open the mountain village gate, she’d noticed the entire village was shrouded in a ghost domain. She suspected Wu Dajing was himself a manifestation of a vengeful spirit, but throughout her journey with him, the Deification Register had issued no warning.

That meant, at the time, even if Wu Dajing was a ghostly vessel, he had not fully awakened as a vengeful spirit, or perhaps was merely under a ghost’s influence.

Or, as Zhang Chuanshi suspected, perhaps all her interactions and conversations with Wu Dajing were but illusions. She and Zhang Chuanshi might simply be trapped, wandering in circles inside the ghostly, deserted village.

Zhao Fusheng quickly reined in her wandering thoughts.

For her, the Deification Register’s warning was like a beacon in the darkness. With her memory and cognition compromised, her trust in the Register was absolute.

The Register had only just now alerted her to the ghost’s presence, which meant there had been no opportunity for it to appear before this moment.

What had triggered the ghost? Was it something in her conversation with Wu Dajing?

What had Wu Dajing mentioned?

“Forty-one years ago, Wu Datong, at Zhang Xiongw’s request, stole a coffin nail from Liu Huacheng’s home.”

She thought, then immediately denied it: No, it wasn’t Wu Datong who stole it, it was Wu Liren!

The moment Wu Dajing spoke those words, the ghost had revealed itself.

In other words, the critical point centered on Wu Liren.

"Wu Liren" was a forbidden name. To mention it was to risk the vengeful spirit’s awakening—

As this realization hit Zhao Fusheng, she immediately sensed something was off.

“No! That’s not right.”

To test her theory, Zhao Fusheng asked, “When did Wu Liren’s family disappear?”

As she changed the subject, the dark shadow on the moon withdrew, the bloody ribbons were silently pulled back up by a pair of black hands. The oppressive presence of the ghost faded away.

With a calm demeanor, Zhao Fusheng brought up “Wu Liren.” Wu Dajing replied, “On the fourth day of the eighth month.”

This time, nothing strange happened. The Deification Register remained silent, with no warning.

So, the name “Wu Liren” itself was not the true taboo.

Her thoughts shifted. Could it be that the “Wu Liren” Wu Dajing mentioned was not the village chief, but someone else entirely?

“How old is Wu Liren now?” she probed.

Wu Dajing replied slowly, “Forty-one, madam.”

Zhao Fusheng tucked this clue away.

She was beginning to grasp the ghost’s rules, and with her heart now prepared, she dared not trigger them again. Already marked by the ghost, lost in the ghostly fog and unsure when death might strike, she could not risk another loss of memory before recovering the full truth.

With that in mind, Zhao Fusheng asked no more questions. Instead, she said, “Enough. Let’s talk at home. Let’s go!”

She beckoned Wu Dajing to follow, and took the initiative, instructing Zhang Chuanshi, “I’ll lead. Old Zhang, light the way and walk right behind me.”

Zhang Chuanshi nearly wet himself with fear.

If Zhao Fusheng went ahead, he would be in the middle, with Wu Dajing bringing up the rear. Wasn’t that just putting him between the ghost and Zhao Fusheng?

“Me?” His chin retracted, and his face—sharp-featured, monkey-like—was etched with terror and dread. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Stop talking nonsense,” Zhao Fusheng replied flatly. “Are you familiar with the way back to Wu Dajing’s house? No? Then why would you lead?”

“I, of course—” He caught her warning glare and swallowed the rest of his words. “—of course not.”

Zhao Fusheng strode off, leading the way. Zhang Chuanshi, panic-stricken, clutched the lantern and followed at her heels.

A few steps behind, Wu Dajing’s figure followed unhurriedly.

After traversing two narrow paths, Zhao Fusheng suddenly changed direction, not heading toward the brightly lit house of Wu Liyou, but instead toward a pitch-black, imposing mansion.

“Madam…” Zhang Chuanshi’s legs nearly gave out when he saw her turn. He hadn’t been in Doghead Village long, but it was not a large place. Going in and out of Wu Liyou’s house, he’d picked up a rough sense of the layout.

Now Zhao Fusheng wasn’t leading Wu Dajing home—her path was clearly toward Wu Liren’s house.

Zhao Fusheng said nothing.

Zhang Chuanshi understood instantly: she was intentionally taking the wrong route.

Smart as she was, there was no way she was lost. Why was she leading Wu Dajing to Wu Liren’s house?

He trembled all over, not daring to look back, half-closing his right eye and forcing his left open just enough to watch the ground.

In the firelight, he saw Wu Dajing’s shadow stretch forward, nearly merging with his own.

At first, Zhang Chuanshi thought nothing of it, but then something occurred to him. His whole body jolted, and he pushed Zhao Fusheng forward at a run.

“Madam—”

His limbs went cold, and he swallowed several times before reaching out to prod Zhao Fusheng’s back.

As he spoke, eyes still cast downward, it happened again—the horrifying scene from before.

Within Wu Dajing’s shadow, another, darker silhouette seemed to stretch out its head.

A blood-red ribbon trailed from his shadow, and the shape within seemed to open its eyes and “look” directly at Zhang Chuanshi.

That single glance chilled him from head to toe.

“Madam!” he cried, raising his voice.

Zhao Fusheng turned. Zhang Chuanshi gestured with his mouth, signaling her to look down.

Among the three, Zhao Fusheng was at the front, Zhang Chuanshi in the middle, and Wu Dajing at the rear.

Only Zhang Chuanshi carried a torch.

With the torchlight in the middle, Zhao Fusheng’s shadow stretched diagonally forward, while Zhang Chuanshi’s fell at his feet.

Wu Dajing, in a normal situation, should have cast his shadow backward—but now, his shadow crawled forward, nearly overlapping with Zhang Chuanshi’s.

The instant Zhang Chuanshi realized this, terror nearly made his soul leave his body. As Wu Dajing’s shadow almost touched his own, he bolted forward to widen the gap.

When Zhao Fusheng glanced down, the black shape within the shadow had already withdrawn.

“What’s wrong?” Wu Dajing asked, not understanding why they’d stopped.

As he spoke, his forward-crawling shadow seemed to realize something was amiss, and it squirmed awkwardly back until it settled obediently at his heels and moved no more.

Zhang Chuanshi was so frightened he nearly foamed at the mouth.

But Zhao Fusheng, bold as ever, shook her head. “Nothing, we’re almost there. Why don’t you go ahead?”

She stepped aside, gesturing toward Wu Liren’s old house.

Zhang Chuanshi shrank behind her, not daring to look at Wu Dajing.

Wu Dajing didn’t stand on ceremony; he nodded and walked ahead.

Zhang Chuanshi, hearing his footsteps, dared not look at him, but the memory of those overlapping shadows made him recoil again and again, wishing he could shrink a thousand miles away.

Zhao Fusheng withdrew her hand into her sleeve, gripping the ghost arm tightly but keeping her composure. She reminded, “Old Zhang, keep the torch steady.”

Her calm demeanor soothed Zhang Chuanshi slightly. He forced back his tears, squeezing his eyes open the barest slit, watery and trembling. “Yes—yes, madam—”

He lifted the torch high, casting Wu Dajing’s shadow long and thin ahead.

The three, single file, soon reached Wu Liren’s gate.

When they first entered the village, Wu Liren’s house was their first stop. Now, the doors stood wide open.

Wu Dajing, as if he knew the place by heart, entered and crossed the yard without hesitation.

Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuanshi followed in silence.

He passed through three doors to the main courtyard, pushed open the bedroom door, and, in front of the two, walked straight to the bed. Without removing his shoes, he lay down.

Silence.

Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuanshi exchanged a shocked glance, speechless.

Just then, a disturbance sounded outside.

Zhang Chuanshi, nerves taut, jumped at the slightest noise.

“Who’s there? Who? Who?” he called, his voice a stammer.

A timid reply came from outside: “Reporting to madam—it’s—it’s Wu Shaogu. Shaochun sent me to return—return some things—”

Zhao Fusheng, recognizing the name, thought for a moment and went to investigate.

“Wait for me,” Zhang Chuanshi called tearfully, not daring to remain behind. He avoided looking at the man lying on the bed, and hurried after her.

This time, quite a few villagers had gathered at Wu Liren’s house, each carrying household items.

Earlier that evening, Zhao Fusheng had noticed most of Wu Liren’s belongings had been taken by the villagers. She’d asked about it in passing; after all, she was here to investigate a case.

But the ghost case had fallen into confusion, and she’d promised: if the case was solved, the entire village’s taxes would be reduced.

Wu Liren’s belongings were worth something, but compared to the tax exemption, they were nothing. So, after a discussion, the villagers decided to return everything they’d taken—at worst, once the case was resolved, they could divide things up again.

By coincidence, Zhao Fusheng and Wu Dajing arrived just then, running into the returning villagers.

After clarifying the situation, Zhao Fusheng instructed everyone to return the items promptly.

She and Zhang Chuanshi hurried back to Wu Liren’s room—only to find, to their horror, that Wu Dajing, who had been lying on the bed, had vanished without a trace.