Chapter Twelve: Paying One's Debts

Chapter Twelve

These two brothers clearly intended to stand by and do nothing.

Zhao Fusheng let out a cold laugh. “My parents died unjustly. Aren’t you afraid their corpses will stir and become vengeful spirits?”

Upon hearing this, Fan Bisi couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fusheng, you don’t understand,” he explained. “As the saying goes, ‘Two tigers cannot share one mountain.’ Even among ghosts and monsters, there are rules. Powerful vengeful spirits suppress others of their kind within their domain. If your parents become vengeful ghosts, they’ll likely keep each other in check—perhaps creating a perfect balance.”

He paused, then continued, “If only one spirit rises and the other truly dies, then as the Magistrate of the Demon Suppression Office, as you yourself said, it’s your duty to resolve such calamities if you wish to restore the office’s standing. What does that have to do with us?”

From his words, Zhao Fusheng gleaned two valuable clues. First, in this era, the dead really could become ghosts. She had found the source of these vengeful spirits, but that only made things worse. If people burdened with grievances or resentment could so easily turn into ghosts, then such hauntings would be nearly impossible to guard against. Especially since Fan Bisi had mentioned the appearance of “ghost mist,” which seemed to favor the birth of such entities—though, for humans, it was surely a curse.

According to Fan Bisi, the only way to fight a vengeful spirit was with the power of another ghost, but this was fraught with deadly risk for the living. If spirits kept rising, there’d be little hope for survival in Wanan County.

She frowned slightly, troubled, and pondered the second possibility he’d raised: that her parents, as vengeful ghosts, might restrain one another. In her former understanding, ghosts should retain memories of life. Yet from Fan Bisi’s tone, it seemed that here, the dead lost memory and reason upon becoming ghosts, driven by nothing but bloodthirsty instinct.

Of course, this was only her conjecture. Since Fan Bisi realized she wouldn’t hand over the souls of her parents, he clearly wouldn’t offer more information. But she could verify the truth of it herself when she dealt with ghosts in the future.

“So the dead truly do become ghosts,” she replied.

Fan Bisi’s expression soured, and he sneered in silence.

“Since the Demon Suppression Office is penniless, you brothers have no solutions, and you fear not the return of vengeful spirits, I must at least see to my parents’ funerals,” Zhao Fusheng said calmly.

Fan Wujiao was about to speak, but Fan Bisi glanced at him and shook his head.

Zhao Fusheng pretended not to notice the exchange. “Perhaps we could ask Mr. Zhang of the coffin shop to extend us two coffins on credit. Once the Demon Suppression Office is restored, we’ll repay him.”

She had once been timid and anxious, but now she dared to ask for credit, which made Fan Bisi regard her with new eyes.

“We can’t borrow anything,” he said, shaking his head with a trace of regret.

“Can’t borrow?” Zhao Fusheng’s tone grew sharp. “You’re supposed to be officials of the Demon Suppression Office—surely you’re not so upright or benevolent as to be unable to borrow even two coffins?”

Fan Wujiao answered, “Truly, we can’t. Do you know why the coffin shop is still here?”

The Demon Suppression Office’s reputation had collapsed, and nearly all its members were dead in a short span. Local merchants, terrified, had fled overnight.

“The only reason old Zhang hasn’t moved is because he can’t,” Fan Bisi added. “When we arranged funerals, we borrowed coffins from him on credit. The office owes him heavily, and so he’s stuck here, unable to leave.” His tone shifted. “Now that you’re in charge, old Zhang wants you to settle the office’s debts when you have time.”

“We still have to pay?” Zhao Fusheng’s voice rose.

“We wouldn’t dare not to,” Fan Bisi said dryly. “His surname is Zhang.”

“Zhang?” At this, and seeing Fan Bisi’s expression, a name flashed in Zhao Fusheng’s mind: “You mean Paperman Zhang?”

She’d only recently arrived in the Han Dynasty and was unfamiliar with the people here, but the name “Paperman Zhang” had been mentioned several times by the Fan brothers. Fan Bisi seemed rather wary of him and had even made an introduction to Zhang a condition of a previous bargain.

“That’s right,” Fan Bisi admitted. “You’d be wise not to offend him. As for coffins, you’ll have to find another way. Mr. Zhang only accepts silver now, no credit.”

His demeanor was arrogant, his words deliberately provocative, as if trying to ignite her anger.

Zhao Fusheng was silent for a long time, then suddenly gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Call old Zhang from the coffin shop here.”

Her reaction surprised Fan Bisi, who hesitated before letting out a short laugh himself, then turning to Fan Wujiao. “Wujiao, go fetch Mr. Zhang.”

Fan Wujiao obeyed, stepping to the doorway and calling loudly, “Old Zhang, come settle accounts!”

His voice rang clear and loud, echoing through the street. Not only did old Zhang poke his head out of the coffin shop, but even the owner of the incense and paper shop came out for a look.

Fan Bisi grinned maliciously. “Fusheng, I forgot to mention, we owe money not just to the coffin shop, but also the incense and paper shop—”

“That’s fine, call them both,” Zhao Fusheng said calmly after a moment’s thought.

She appeared unhurried and composed, which made Fan Bisi eye her suspiciously, his brows knitting, but he said nothing more.

Old Zhang soon arrived with a gaunt assistant. Half-bald, red-nosed, his narrow eyes glittering with cunning, he looked every bit the shifty rat, instantly repellent.

Summoned so abruptly to the Demon Suppression Office, he eyed Zhao Fusheng warily, unsure what was afoot. He knew her well enough—her connection with Paperman Zhang meant he already knew she was just a scapegoat the Fan brothers had brought in. He’d heard about the Zhao family’s death at the hands of a vengeful spirit and never expected one of the dead to appear before him alive the next morning.

He stared at her, half believing he’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.

“You…”

At such close range, he could see she was pale but bright-eyed, her breath steady—very much alive.

“I hear the Demon Suppression Office owes you quite a sum?” Zhao Fusheng ignored his probing gaze and asked quietly.

Thin and dressed in ill-fitting clothes, her whole manner and tone were utterly changed from before. Her eyes no longer darted nervously; she looked people in the eye with calm.

Old Zhang wasn’t an ordinary man—he wouldn’t have lasted here if he was. Thinking of her, he had the same suspicion as Fan Bisi: a ghost-handler.

Could it be that this girl, meant as a scapegoat, had turned disaster to fortune and tamed that out-of-control spirit?

He pondered, but replied readily, “Yes.”

“How much do we owe? Calculate it,” Zhao Fusheng said.

Though puzzled, Old Zhang called over his assistant—a man with a belly like a drum and a wooden expression, clutching an account book.

The assistant was an odd sight: long-limbed and hollow-cheeked, eyelids drooping over yellowed whites, his eyes dull, though his belly was enormous, making his movements sluggish.

When he stood before Zhao Fusheng, he raised his eyelids, revealing his murky gaze. Up close, Zhao Fusheng detected a faint whiff of decay about him.

Perhaps because she herself was haunted, she was unusually sensitive to the presence of ghosts; his gaze made her skin crawl, as if she stood before something not quite alive.

But the assistant was even more nervous, making strange noises through his nose, his belly squirming as if something writhed beneath his clothes.

Seeing this, Old Zhang relaxed. He signaled for the assistant to set down the account book and withdraw. Only after the man had retreated did he regain some composure, no longer flitting about like a headless fly.

“All the office’s debts are here,” Old Zhang said.

Zhao Fusheng shifted her gaze from the assistant to the ledger, but didn’t bother checking the accounts. “How much in total?”

Old Zhang, a cautious man, was taken aback by her directness, then smiled. “Since last year, the Office has had trouble…” He glanced at the Fan brothers.

Fan Bisi gave a subtle nod, and Old Zhang continued, “We’ve provided thirty-two coffins, at three taels of silver each, for a total of ninety-six taels.” Discussing money seemed to embolden him. “So, ninety-six taels in all. See if that’s correct.”

Zhao Fusheng knew nothing of Han Dynasty prices, but her intuition was sharp. She glanced at Fan Bisi with a meaningful smile.

Fan Bisi had once mentioned an important detail: he’d paid five copper coins for Zhao Fusheng’s life. If a coffin cost as much as six hundred lives, something was amiss.

But the price wasn’t her concern. She responded heartily, “No problem!”

Old Zhang was so surprised by her ready agreement that he blurted, “Are you serious?”

“I am,” Zhao Fusheng replied. “Add two more coffins, for a total of 102 taels. How does that sound?”

Old Zhang was first delighted, then wary. Either she was quick-witted, or she’d come prepared. He’d just made up the price, but she’d calculated everything exactly—clearly not the ignorant girl he’d thought her to be.

The Fan brothers had supposedly found her in the countryside—the Zhao family was illiterate, and he’d seen her before, shrinking from any interaction. She’d never spoken so fluently or confidently.

Suspicious, he asked, “That’s all well and good, but how will you pay?”

“I have no money,” Zhao Fusheng said bluntly.

“What?” Old Zhang was dumbfounded by her frankness. “Are you making sport of me?” He moved to retrieve the ledger.

“Not at all.” Zhao Fusheng pressed her hand atop the book. “Let’s talk this through. I don’t have money now, but in the name of the Demon Suppression Office, I’d like to borrow 110 taels—”

Old Zhang was so incensed that he forgot his fear of her ghostly presence. “Absolutely not! The Office holds no authority anymore.”

In the past, when the former Magistrate Zhao Qiming and others were alive, Old Zhang trusted they’d repay what they borrowed—and he wouldn’t dare refuse them. But now…

He shook his head firmly. “Impossible, impossible—”

The Fan brothers folded their arms, watching the spectacle.

Unperturbed, Zhao Fusheng said, “Then let me borrow two coffins on credit, and I’ll pay you back later. What about that?”

“Still no,” Old Zhang replied.

Even after repeated refusals, Zhao Fusheng didn’t lose her composure. She suggested, “How about giving me some time? Once I’ve taken charge, I’ll borrow silver from the wealthy or gentry in Wanan County to repay you.”

“I can’t wait. This place is doomed—once I collect this debt, I’m leaving with my family…” He clearly had no faith in the county’s future.

As he spoke, the incense and paper shop owner entered—a hunched old man with a gloomy expression, accompanied by two uncanny “children” whose cheeks were bright red, mouths stretched in stiff grins, and bodies exuding a ghostly air, far from human.

Just as Fan Bisi had said, those who remained on this street all had their own means of self-preservation, and none could be underestimated.

Zhao Fusheng glanced at them, then fixed her gaze on Old Zhang. “If neither this nor that will do, what is it you really want?”

“I want…” Old Zhang’s eyes gleamed as he began to speak, but then caught Zhao Fusheng’s half-smiling gaze.

He instantly realized his mistake.

“The Demon Suppression Office has been struck by disaster. Everyone else left, but you stayed—clearly you’re after something else.”

Zhao Fusheng smiled. “I wonder what it is about the Office that keeps you lingering here. Come, tell me—what is it you want?”

Old Zhang’s face darkened, regret flickering in his eyes as he cursed himself for having been led so easily into revealing his intentions.