Chapter Seventy-Six: The Final Night

Chapter Seventy-Six

When Zhang Chuan-shi saw the empty bed, he let out a long sigh of relief. “At last, that ghost has gone.”

Zhao Fusheng gazed thoughtfully at the vacant bed. “Whether we truly saw Wu Da-jing, and whether he journeyed with us, is still uncertain.”

Zhang Chuan-shi dared not dwell on the implications of her words. He quickly asked, “Sir, what should we do now?”

“Let’s return to Wu Li-you’s home. Things have come to this point, and I have a general idea.” Though she’d lost her memory more than once, Zhao Fusheng had pieced together some clues through guesswork and intuition. She smiled. “We’ve gone hungry all day. Like you said, we should have a proper meal, then a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll gather the villagers, and I expect the matter will be resolved.”

Hearing this, Zhang Chuan-shi was overjoyed. “You’ve found a lead?”

“A slight one,” she nodded.

Zhang Chuan-shi breathed out in relief. “You’ve thought of a way to drive away the vengeful ghost?”

“Not quite,” Zhao Fusheng replied with a beaming smile. “I do have some clues, but I can’t say whether I’ll be able to banish the ghost.”

“Then—” Zhang Chuan-shi was puzzled.

“What I mean is, our time is running short. If we don’t solve this haunting by tomorrow, it may well be the ghost who solves us.”

Ghost mist had appeared in Doghead Village, and the vengeful ghost’s rules were exceptionally fierce. Zhao Fusheng not only had forgotten clues related to the ghost, but possibly even memories of being harmed by it. Such a situation was extremely dangerous; they could delay no longer.

Zhang Chuan-shi couldn’t appreciate her grim humor. His face was stricken with terror, and as he was about to speak, Zhao Fusheng urged, “Enough—let’s go. It’s already dark. We should get back, eat, and wash up.”

With that, she turned and left, leaving Zhang Chuan-shi standing alone. Though he held a torch, the house had belonged to the missing Wu Li-ren, and Wu Da-jing had entered it without a word, lying on the bed as if nothing were amiss. The whole scene was deeply unsettling.

Zhang Chuan-shi lingered a moment, but was soon overcome by an invisible dread. Shivering, he dared not stay longer and called out, “Sir, wait for me!”

When the two emerged, the other villagers were still busy returning things to their rightful places. Unaware of the haunting or Wu Da-jing’s recent visit, they weren’t afraid. Seeing Zhang Chuan-shi running out, some greeted him warmly.

Zhang Chuan-shi ignored them and quickly caught up with Zhao Fusheng. They left Wu Li-ren’s home and, after half a quarter-hour’s walk, returned to Wu Li-you’s courtyard.

From a distance, before even reaching the door, they heard laughter and conversation from within the courtyard. In the chill of night, the lively voices were a comfort, easing Zhang Chuan-shi’s tensed nerves.

He let out a soft sigh of relief and caught the scent of food in the air. As Zhao Fusheng had said, they were already entangled in this matter, their names written in the Book of Soul Fates—there was no escaping it. Rather than cowering in fear, it was better to enjoy a good meal and rest; tomorrow would bring what it would.

The door stood wide open. Zhao Fusheng walked ahead, but as she stepped inside, she suddenly paused, as if she’d seen something.

Zhang Chuan-shi was thoroughly exhausted. He’d reluctantly boarded the carriage to Doghead Village that morning, spent the journey in fear, then followed Zhao Fusheng to investigate. He’d even encountered a ghost. By now, he was tired, anxious, and desperate for rest.

Seeing Zhao Fusheng stop at the threshold, he could not help but blurt out, “Why aren’t you going in, sir? The food’s ready. I’m starving—”

He broke off abruptly when he saw what lay within the courtyard.

Inside, Wu Shaochun and Wu Li-you’s sons were busy around a bonfire, over which hung a large pot. Chicken soup simmered within, the milky broth bubbling, rich with the aroma of oil and meat that filled the courtyard.

By the fire, Wu Li-you was adding wood, while an old man in a loose blue jacket sat beside him, legs apart, hands outstretched to the flames as if he still felt cold, despite the August weather. His cheeks were gaunt, a blue sweatband tied at his waist. Who else could he be but Wu Da-jing, who had vanished so mysteriously from Wu Li-ren’s bed?

Zhang Chuan-shi’s recently eased breath caught again in his chest. He suddenly felt short of breath, his whole body going numb.

“I knew it. I never should have joined the Demon Suppression Bureau—”

He was related to the paper-man craftsman Zhang, and his shop kept corpse servants; his courage far exceeded that of ordinary men. Yet faced with Wu Da-jing once more, he was terrified out of his wits and deeply regretted ever getting involved with someone as fearsome as Zhao Fusheng.

“I, I, I—” he stammered, unable to finish.

Wu Li-you, noticing their return, beamed and stood up, calling, “Our honored guests have returned!”

He greeted them warmly. “What a coincidence—shortly after you left, my father returned. He said he parted ways with you midway to pay respects to my Uncle Da-tong.”

By the fire, Wu Da-jing also stood and smiled at the two, his demeanor honest and awkward, utterly unlike the eerie figure who had journeyed with them earlier. He seemed to have forgotten all that had happened just a quarter-hour before, now nothing more than a humble country elder in the presence of officials from the Bureau.

For Zhang Chuan-shi, this scene was no less than a nightmare. He lost all ability to react, his face ashen as he turned to stare at Zhao Fusheng.

She, too, had been startled at first sight of Wu Da-jing. But she had handled a ghost case before, had fought a beggar-ghost in the alleys, and now wielded the power of a vengeful ghost herself. Living on the edge of death, she quickly accepted even such uncanny events.

Composing herself, she entered the courtyard calmly. “Wu Da-tong? Wu Li-ren’s father?”

“Yes,” Wu Da-jing replied, nodding respectfully. As he bowed and scraped, his image merged with the familiar village elder in Zhao Fusheng’s memory, seeming far more real than the ‘Wu Da-jing’ who had knocked on their door earlier.

But Zhao Fusheng did not relax her guard. She sensed the ghost’s power was evolving—its ability to manipulate perception was growing. Perhaps the ghost mist played a role, or perhaps everyone here was being suppressed, their free will weakened and manipulated.

This was not good news for her.

“So that’s why you left us so abruptly this afternoon—to pay respects to an old friend? What made you think of it so suddenly?” she asked, deliberately.

As she spoke, a strange memory was suddenly implanted in her mind—a vivid recollection of Wu Da-jing excusing himself with a troubled face that afternoon, claiming he’d remembered an urgent errand and needed to part ways. He wouldn’t say what it was, only pointing out the way for Zhang Chuan-shi before hastily leaving.

This memory was far more detailed than the one she’d received at Wu Li-fu’s house, and all the more chilling for it. Zhao Fusheng didn’t dare dwell on it. The memory was so tangible and specific—the tone and expression of Wu Da-jing utterly lifelike—that, were it not for her strong will and the abruptness of its appearance, she would never suspect it was false.

The Wu family, unaware of her thoughts, answered her questions enthusiastically. “Poor Uncle Da-tong,” Wu Li-you said first. “He died young, when Wu Li-ren was still a child. His funeral was simple, and it was the villagers who helped lay him to rest.”

Wu Da-jing nodded. “It wasn’t until last month that Wu Li-ren hired someone to conduct rituals, choosing a new resting place for his father.”

He coughed twice. “I hadn’t been well lately—maybe it’s my age. I started having nosebleeds. When Wu Li-ren held the seventy-first spirit birthday for his father, I didn’t attend.”

As soon as he finished, two streams of black blood suddenly flowed from his nostrils, soaking his mustache and trickling into his mouth. Wu Da-jing grinned, his lips and teeth stained a vivid red.

Zhang Chuan-shi’s breath came in quick, shallow bursts; only by biting his tongue did he keep from screaming.

Wu Da-jing wiped his face carelessly, smearing the blood along his trouser leg. “There, see? Bleeding again.”

Zhao Fusheng was unfazed by his ghastly appearance. Her gaze fell on Wu Da-jing’s leg. He wore light gray trousers, and his casual gesture had left four slanting streaks of blood—three dark, one faint, made by his pinky finger. Most tellingly, these blood marks matched exactly those she’d found on the carriage earlier, which later vanished.

Now Zhao Fusheng could be sure that her memory of traveling with Wu Da-jing was real, and the marks on the carriage were left by this very old man. Something must have happened in between to part them.

Given the current strange events, a wild notion took hold in her mind: Wu Da-jing might have died under the curse of the ghostly law, and what they saw now was a repetition of his memories while alive.

She rubbed her arms and, almost unconsciously, touched her nose. On the carriage earlier, she, too, had smelled blood in her nose and throat—would she one day bleed endlessly like Wu Da-jing?

As she pondered, Wu Li-you said, “Please come inside, sir. If you’re hungry, I’ll have someone bring you a bowl of soup.”

Suppressing her thoughts, Zhao Fusheng nodded. Wu Li-you hurried to set up a table, and several women busied themselves bringing out food.

Once everyone was seated, Zhang Chuan-shi stood behind Zhao Fusheng, eyeing Wu Da-jing warily.

“When did this Wu Da-tong pass away?” she asked.

Wu Da-jing answered with a smile, “He died in July of the 215th year of the Great Celebration. His son Wu Li-ren was still young then, so the funeral was organized by the villagers.”

Wu Li-you nodded. “Later, when Wu Li-ren made something of himself, he held a grand ceremony for his father’s seventy-first spirit birthday, inviting the villagers and hiring a spirit medium. It was a lively affair.”

“Unfortunately, soon after, Uncle Li-ren had his accident. I suspect it was because the family tomb was disturbed,” added Wu Shaochun, gnawing on a piece of chicken.

Zhao Fusheng nodded, then changed the subject. “By the way, Doghead Village doesn’t seem very large. How many people live here?”

Wu Da-jing thought she was going to continue discussing Wu Da-tong, so he was surprised at this sudden shift. Wu Li-you and Wu Shaochun exchanged glances, and Wu Li-you ventured, “Why do you ask, sir?”

“It’s for the case, of course. Just answer the question—what’s with all the fuss?” Zhang Chuan-shi, his fear turning to anger, shouted at Wu Li-you, “Are you the official or are we?”

Wu Li-you, chastened, apologized repeatedly. Wu Da-jing replied, “We have twenty-one households in the village, with a total of 165 people, most surnamed Wu.”

After that, Zhao Fusheng said little, and the group chatted idly to fill the air. Over the course of the meal, she learned much about Doghead Village.

After dinner, as the Wu family cleaned up, Zhao Fusheng suddenly said, “Tomorrow morning, gather everyone in the village. I want to visit Wu Li-ren’s house again.”

At her words, all turned to look at her.

“Everyone in the village?” Wu Li-you asked.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” said Wu Da-jing, smiling. “It’s the busy season, so everyone’s in the village. If you call, they’ll come.”

Wu Li-you quickly ordered Wu Shaochun, “Then, Shaochun, please run and notify the villagers.”

“Alright,” Wu Shaochun replied, face greasy from the meal.

Everyone dispersed. Zhao Fusheng washed up and prepared to rest, while Zhang Chuan-shi, anxious, hovered around her.

“Sir, how can you eat and sleep so peacefully?”

“Why not? Doghead Village may be remote, but the villagers are far more hospitable than during my first case in Beggar’s Alley.”

Zhang Chuan-shi’s wrinkled face twisted in distress. “But there’s a ghost in the village! Just look at Wu Da-jing—”

The thought of Wu Da-jing—neither wholly man nor ghost—made his heart tremble. Zhao Fusheng was sharing a table and a roof with him. If he didn’t know the truth, it would be one thing, but knowing it—how could she sleep?

He sighed, then asked, “How confident are you about tomorrow?” He glanced nervously behind Zhao Fusheng, remembering her reputation as a ghost-controller and wondering if she would unleash supernatural might to drive out the specter.

Seeing his unease, Zhao Fusheng reassured him, “Rest well and gather your strength. If all goes well, we have a long journey home tomorrow.”

She didn’t answer his question directly, but her words calmed his restless heart. Though he hadn’t known her long, for some reason he trusted her deeply.

Since she promised he’d return home if things went well, she surely didn’t intend to treat him as a pawn to be sacrificed.

Tears welled in Zhang Chuan-shi’s eyes. “Thank you, sir, thank you!” He clasped his hands together and bowed repeatedly. “I’ll sleep by your door tonight and keep watch. If the ghost comes, I… I… I’ll hold it off!”

He was greedy for life and timid, only saying these things to show loyalty. Zhao Fusheng didn’t expose him, merely nodded with a smile.

He quickly withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him and making plenty of noise to show he was there.

Once he’d gone, Zhao Fusheng’s smile faded.

The ghost haunting the Wu family village was likely not Wu Da-jing. Far more likely, the vengeful spirit was lurking right at her side, waiting for its chance.