Chapter 125: Interrogating the Ghost (Part 2)

Chapter 125: Interrogating the Ghost (Part 2)

The lanterns were relit, casting a jumble of shadows against the walls.

Whether it was to save trouble or for some other hidden agenda, the yamen runners only lit a few incense candles in the main hall.

Shadows sprawled messily across the walls, making it impossible to tell ghost from man.

Hou Peng broke out in a sweat, beads rolling off his head like marbles.

Once he steadied his nerves, he looked again and saw that the figure seated high on the lotus throne was still the Arhat Subduing the Tiger.

Astride a fierce tiger, prayer beads in hand, long beard and crimson robes, eyes wide and blazing.

Not a trace of Zhong Junxiong anywhere!

The gentry and village elders nearby had barely recovered from Hou Peng's scare when the magistrate's words sent another jolt through them.

Rattled by one shock after another, they stood frozen, jaws hanging open in dumbfounded silence.

When Le Wuya repeated the name "Zhong Junxiong," Shi Liangyuan dared not show any reaction. Forcing himself to stay calm, he reached out and grabbed Hou Peng: "Brother Hou, what happened?"

Hou Peng grabbed Shi Liangyuan's sleeve and demanded, "Did you see it? Huh? Did you or didn't you?"

Shi Liangyuan followed his gaze to the Arhat Subduing the Tiger. His skin crawled, but he was also completely confused: "What?"

Hou Peng swallowed thickly.

His palms were ice-cold, but his cheeks burned like he had a fever. Every muscle in his body clenched and twitched, as if he wanted to shrink straight into the earth.

But since he hadn't magically mastered the art of shrinking into the ground, he could only stand there shaking with terror, back hunched and shoulders curled, like some giant shrimp that had become a demon.

Outside, the wind had died down a bit, but the window had been knocked clean off its frame—beyond fixing.

He Qingsong stepped up to check it, then said in a gruff voice, "Magistrate, the window's busted. Can't close it."

Le Wuya, his loose official robes rippling like water in the wind, said softly, "No matter. Once this case is done, it'll go back the way it came."

At those words, a chill ran down everyone's spine.

Was the magistrate holding court in the underworld, trying a ghost's case?

The magistrate could walk the line between black and white—and now he could even bridge the living and the dead?

If anyone else had put on a show like this, the village elders would've just laughed it off.

But after a year of the magistrate's "training," and remembering all his weird, uncanny tricks, no one dared say a peep.

All that could be heard was the ragged, panicked breathing of the crowd.

As the air grew thick and heavy, Le Wuya closed his eyes and gave a slight nod, as if some wronged ghost were truly whispering in his ear from the unseen world.

Soon, someone couldn't take the tension anymore and asked in a shaky voice, "Magistrate, what's going on?"

Le Wuya ignored him and kept listening.

After a long pause, he said, "He Qingsong, the paupers' burial ground is right next to the City God Temple, right?"

He Qingsong answered, "Yes, Magistrate, that's right."

Le Wuya said, "Fetch a zhang of white burial cloth."

After giving the order, he smiled at the crowd. "Other things just don't have enough yin energy."

Hearing all this ghost talk, everyone wished they could run off with He Qingsong.

But no one dared bolt. If they ran, crashing into something would be the least of their worries—if the magistrate decided they had a guilty conscience, they'd be screwed, with nowhere to turn.

Soon, a zhang of white cloth was cut and brought in.

Per Le Wuya's instructions, the big sheet was cut into strips about a shoulder's width each.

Le Wuya said, "I didn't know Shopkeeper Zhong well—we weren't close. Maybe that's why he can't speak plainly, just waving his hands around. I can't make out what his grievance is, and it's been bothering me."

"All of you knew Shopkeeper Zhong well, making your fortunes together here in Nanting. You understand him far better than this county magistrate ever could."

"So I've come up with a plan."

"Burial cloth wraps the dead and sees off their souls—it's the very thing that links the world of the living to the underworld. Drape it over your shoulders, and yin and yang will meet, the living and the dead will come together. Maybe Shopkeeper Zhong can point out one of you to finish what he couldn't say."

With that, Le Wuya held up a strip of white cloth. "I ask you all, please drape this over your right shoulder."

At those words, goosebumps prickled across everyone's skin.

The magistrate wanted a ghost to tap them on the shoulder?

One brave soul spoke up: "Magistrate, this... this can't really work, can it?"

"On my own, of course I can't. The living and the dead walk separate paths." Le Wuya paced slowly through the crowd, his voice calm and deliberate. "But the City God is the local official of the underworld, and I'm the local official of the mortal world. Put us together, and maybe we can crack this case."

As he spoke, he put a hand on a village elder's shoulder, making the old man flinch.

But Le Wuya just straightened the burial cloth on the man's shoulder. "Remember: three parts in front, seven in back. Don't let it shift. That's the rule."

He spoke as if he'd been doing business with the City God for eight lifetimes, totally calm and full of authority. "Have you all heard the legend of the ghost's shoulder tap? Every person has two flames on their shoulders. If you're walking at night and someone taps your shoulder, you must never look back. If you do, the flame goes out, and evil spirits will snatch your body on the spot."

"So I've only draped the cloth over one shoulder for each of you."

"Don't turn back. If you get possessed, or worse, taken by the City God as a substitute, there's nothing I can do. I'm just a minor official in the world of the living—I can't exactly chase you into the underworld and demand you back, can I?"

At that, he let out a chuckle that made everyone's hair stand on end and their faces go pale as death.

With Master Chen before and Zhong Junxiong now, the gentry had long since been trained to fear Le Wuya.

Even the few natural troublemakers among them were caught up in the eerie atmosphere and tucked their tails between their legs.

And on top of that, Hou Peng's inexplicable yell earlier...

In short, everything here reeked of the supernatural. Better to do what the magistrate said than to bring trouble down on their own heads.

Everyone, operating on a "better safe than sorry" mindset, sat cross-legged in neat rows on the prayer mats, faces gray as frostbitten eggplants, wishing they'd never shown up today.

When the candle flames went out again, bells and drums suddenly rang out from inside and outside the hall.

Le Wuya boomed in a full, resonant voice: "Court is now in session!"

The yamen runners each grabbed their staves and pounded them on the ground.

A strange voice with a deep resonance drifted over from the statue: "Rise—Yin—Hall—"

A chill suddenly crept up from the soles of everyone's feet.

Everyone present squeezed their eyes shut, afraid of catching a glimpse of something they shouldn't see.

But with sight cut off, their other senses naturally sharpened.

A complicated, watery stench wafted past their noses, mixed with the cold, damp smell of algae that had been frozen at the bottom of a pond all winter.

The crowd didn't dare take another breath, racking their brains to think if they'd ever crossed anyone named Zhong, and silently making promises:

No matter how he died, they'd burn a whole basket of ghost money for Zhong Junxiong the second they got home, so he could rest easy down there and never come back up.

As for Hou Peng and Shi Liangyuan, they were soaked in sweat.

If they weren't afraid of blowing their cover, they'd have passed out right then and there.

Amid the repeated thumping of the rods, Hou Peng gathered his courage, squinting through the sweat pouring down his face, and peered ahead.

It was a heavily overcast day, and the magistrate had only called them in at dusk; outside the window there was no moon or stars, just a faint glimmer of twilight coming through the open window.

By that faint light, Hou Peng saw something that chilled him to the bone.

A pitch-black human figure, dressed in baggy, ill-fitting clothes, was hunched over the left shoulder of a gentry member sitting in the second row, sniffing like an animal, its palm resting right on that burial shroud.

It looked exactly like Zhong Junxiong from behind.

Hou Peng ripped the white cloth off his shoulder, crumpled it into a ball, and silently tossed it to the ground. Bracing himself with both hands, his eyes wide and fixed on his own shoes.

Without the white cloth, the yin and yang couldn't communicate, right?

Big beads of cold sweat trickled down his neck.

Until an icy, water-soaked palm brushed his left shoulder.

Hou Peng's face went pale in an instant, every pore on his body closing up, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

The ghost, not finding the cloth, flew into a rage, slapping his shoulder over and over like someone knocking on a door.

Each slap was like a silent, wronged scream.

Shaken to the core by those blows, Hou Peng's soul nearly left his body.

He screamed and scrambled away a few feet, rolling and crawling: "It's not my fault! Don't come after me! Don't come after me!"

The thumping of the rods stopped at once.

In the lingering echoes, everyone there heard Hou Peng's desperate scream.

The lamps were lit again.

Le Wuya, holding a lamp, walked over slowly, lighting up a sea of confused, terrified faces.

Forgetting all about being possessed, Hou Peng grabbed that sliver of light and looked behind him again.

Behind him, there was nobody.

Le Wuya walked step by step until he stood in front of him, his face serious: "Manager Hou, what's wrong?"

Lamp after lamp flickered back to life.

Many ripped the white cloths off their shoulders and looked at them closely—only to cry out in shock, their faces going pale.

On the back edge of each cloth, a wet, dripping palm print had appeared, no one knew when!

Le Wuya picked up the crumpled cloth Hou Peng had thrown away, examined it closely, then let out a soft chuckle: "Manager Hou, this didn't even touch you."

Hou Peng struggled to move his stiff tongue, trying to defend himself, but before he could, Manager Zhu behind him shouted in a high pitch: "Aiyo, Manager Hou's back—"

Hou Peng was wearing a light autumn-yellow padded jacket today, pale enough that any mark on it stood out even more clearly.

Manager Zhu cut himself off mid-sentence and gave Hou Peng a suspicious once-over.

Hou Peng had no idea what was on him, and couldn't see his own back; getting more frantic by the second, he ripped off the padded jacket and flung it to the ground.

He stared at it, and his eyes turned red:

—Several vivid red handprints were seared across the middle of his back!

Le Wuya picked up the jacket and sniffed it: "It's not blood. It's cinnabar."

He added casually: "And there's a hint of wine smell too."

At those words, Hou Peng couldn't take the immense pressure anymore and let out a wild, off-key roar.

After the roar, his limbs went limp as noodles, and he collapsed to the ground like a pile of mud, his mind swept by a gale that blew every thought to the winds.

In the end, only one feeling remained: unwillingness.

"Why just me?! Why just me?" Hou Peng cried out in despair, on all fours. "Why not Shi Liangyuan?!"

Shi Liangyuan's face went pale, and he wished he could stuff Hou Peng's mouth shut: "Old Hou, are you drunk or possessed?! Why bring me into this?!"

Hou Peng lunged up and grabbed the hem of Shi Liangyuan's robe: "And him too! Zhong Junxiong, why do you only haunt me?!"

Le Wuya, holding the lamp, watched the two of them tangled together and slowly broke into a smile.

Meanwhile, Zhong Guotai, who had slipped out the door under cover of darkness, was already soaked in tears.

He wore only a plain hemp robe, his body frozen a mottled purple-blue, hardly any better off than a ghost.

Biting his own sleeve, facing the biting north wind, he wept and laughed silently.

...

Le Wuya lit every lamp and candle in the City God Temple, and while the iron was hot, picked up the brush himself. Using the leftover roll of burial cloth, he wrote down all of Hou Peng's confession, had them press their fingerprints in cinnabar, and only then dismissed the yin court session, taking Hou and Shi away for detention.

With the big matter settled, Le Wuya waved his hand with a flourish and ordered the yamen runners to escort the shaken gentry home.

The gentry and village elders, having witnessed this underworld trial, were so terrified they practically flew out the door, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

When everyone was gone and only Le Wuya remained, Wen Renyue finally stepped out from behind the City God statue.

It was him who had answered Le Wuya's call to open court just now.

Wen Renyue draped a thick robe over Le Wuya's shoulders: "So you just scared them like that, without telling them the truth?"

Le Wuya nudged him in the chest with his elbow: "Letting them be a little more afraid of me—what's wrong with that?"

Wen Ren said, at his wit's end, "You want to wield authority in the world of the living, and also wave the underworld's banner?"

Le Wuya spun around smugly, "I'm happy to!"

Seeing him swaggering and preening without a shred of decorum, Wen Ren could only smile and turn his head to ask, "Hey, where's Zhong Guotai?"

Le Wuya clapped a hand to his forehead, "Damn, I forgot. Hope he hasn't frozen to death!"

Fortunately, Zhong Guotai now had the sense to seek warmth, having hidden himself in a side hall and bundled himself up in a tattered straw mat.

Good thing it was him.

Had it not been for a blazing hatred burning in his chest, no one could have endured it—barefoot, in thin clothes, with a piece of ice pressed against his skin—climbing up and down, enduring the bone-chilling cold, and playing ghost for so long before a crowd.

Under the cover of darkness, Le Wuya brought Zhong Guotai back to the yamen.

After entering the yamen, Zhong Guotai, who hadn't said a word the whole way, asked him bluntly, "How did you know pretending to be a ghost would do the trick? They're vicious and cold-blooded—what if they didn't fear ghosts and demons? What would you have done?"

"Ruthless in their actions, maybe, but not truly cold-blooded," Le Wuya commented openly. "If they had real nerve, they'd have bribed the boatmen, worked with river bandits, and wiped out your entire family, taking your belongings as payment to get rid of the problem for good. Killing only Zhong Junxiong, and doing it on the sly with poison, shows they don't have the stomach for real ruthlessness."

Zhong Guotai went quiet.

After a long pause, he asked, "If it were you, you'd have done the same, wouldn't you?"

Kill the whole family, leave no mercy.

Even though it was a question, his tone was sure.

Le Wuya whipped out a small fan from his sleeve and pointed it at him, "Don't go bad-mouthing me with lies."

Zhong Guotai kept his head down and walked alongside him for a bit before asking, "How could you summon spirits? Aren't you afraid my father might actually come after you?"

"It's fine," Le Wuya said, since he felt the cold easily, wrapped in his padded robe, striding along like the wind. "Ghosts fear the wicked."

Le Wuya's bluntness left Zhong Guotai speechless.

Seeing that Le Wuya was about to go into the private quarters, and knowing it was now or never, he grabbed Le Wuya's wrist and knelt down right there. "Master!"

Le Wuya, with one foot inside the moon gate and the other outside, turned to look at him. "What now?"

"Master, I said before—if you avenged my family, my life would be yours." He hung his head and forced the words out, "I lived twenty years in a daze, and only today did I realize what a waste it's been... I, I'm ashamed to call myself a Zhong..."

Seeing him rambling, Le Wuya tilted his chin up with his fan. "Why are you telling me this?"

Zhong Guotai looked at him, tears welling up in his eyes. "I can't keep the Zhong name any longer. I beg you, Master... to give me a new name, and take me as your servant—"

Le Wuya snapped his fan shut and gave him a quick little smack on the cheek, like a crisp little slap. "If you want to change your name, figure it out yourself—what's that got to do with me? I know you've been a vine clinging to a tree for years, used to latching onto someone to get by. With nothing to hold onto, you think you can't stand on your own, that you'd just be a lump of mud?! Let me tell you, I don't keep dead weight here. Your parents are gone, and now you want to latch onto me? In your dreams."

He let loose a string of scolding, then waved him off lightly. "Scram!"

With that, Le Wuya put his hands behind his back and walked off without looking back.

Zhong Guotai knelt there, staring off into space in the direction Le Wuya had gone, speechless for a long time.

Only when the sting on his cheek had slowly faded did he brace himself against the brick wall and slowly get to his feet.

A hand suddenly clapped onto his shoulder.

Zhong Guotai had been drifting for so long and been bullied so often that, under normal circumstances, he would have smacked it away without a second thought.

But tonight, with his revenge done, his heart was somewhat at peace, and he no longer felt the need to snap at the world.

He looked over.

A handsome young man with a charming grin was watching him, clearly unaware that he had just narrowly missed getting slapped.

The newcomer pointed with his chin toward where Le Wuya had gone. "He's been bullying you too, huh?"

Zhong Guotai didn't recognize the face, but the tone sounded familiar.

Back when he was still a rich young lord, his wild friends all spoke in that same careless, devil-may-care way.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

A world he could never go back to.

He looked away and kept staring in the direction Le Wuya had gone. "Yeah."

Yuan Zijin's mood lifted.

Ever since arriving in Nanting, all he'd seen and heard was praise of Wen Ren Ming Ke, as if the man were the king of the place.

He had been bottling up a bellyful of complaints with nowhere to vent, about to brew into a vat of wine inside him.

Now, at last, he'd found someone to gripe with!

Yuan Zijin slung an arm around him warmly. "Don't bother with him! He's a real piece of work, always messing with people! Come chat with me—I'm from the capital city, my family name's Yuan, but call me Yuan Xiao'er. What about you?"

"I..." Zhong Guotai hesitated for a moment. "My name's Zhong, Zhong Piaoping."

Yuan Zijin blinked, and in the light of the courtyard lanterns, finally saw the dried tear stains on his face.

In the past, he would have asked without a second thought, being the heartless guy he was.

But after spending so much time with his aunts, though he hadn't improved much, he at least knew to avoid poking at others' pain, or he'd get his ass kicked.

He tsked and said, "That's a fine name—Piaoping. 'Let them laugh at this drifting life, a floating duckweed'—pretty free-spirited!"

Zhong Piaoping hadn't thought of it that way. For a moment, he was confused, then gave him a weak smile. "...Oh, is that right? I'd like to think so."