Chapter Forty-Four: Following the Ghost

Chapter Forty-Four

Time slipped by little by little, and soon darkness fell. Once again, Zhao Fusheng forced open a tightly shut door. Under the venomous, furious gaze of those inside, she swept her eyes over the room, and then that familiar sound of clanging gongs echoed in her ears.

Clang—

Clang—

Clang—

“Come for your meal.” The sound of the gong shattered the deathly stillness of the ghost realm. Liu Yizhen’s shout rang out at the same time:

“Come for your meal.”

For a moment, Zhao Fusheng couldn’t tell if these words were meant for the survivors or for the ghosts.

The bell for the meal signaled the time for the vengeful ghost to hunt.

The survivor in the room, who had been trembling with fear, froze at the words, despair flooding his eyes as he began to tremble uncontrollably. After a long pause, he suddenly sprang up, as if terrified to fall behind, and rushed out of the room.

Zhao Fusheng sighed in disappointment and stepped onto the street.

Today she had gained nothing except mapping out the rules of the roads here. All she could do was wait for the night, hoping to find another opportunity when the vengeful ghost emerged.

The streets, empty during the day, now gradually filled with shadows. Those who had hidden away for a day and a night burst out of their hiding places as if released, barely able to catch their breath and fill their bellies with a bowl of thin porridge, sustaining their lives for another day.

These people did not yet realize that their names were already on the ghost’s list. Sooner or later, the vengeful spirit would come for them. Still, they clung to hope, perhaps even fantasizing that the Court’s Demon Suppression Bureau would one day save them.

At this thought, Zhao Fusheng furrowed her brow.

Before the Confucius Temple, quite a few people had already gathered in scattered groups, and from distant alleys, more hurried over.

On the stone table in front of the temple stood a large cauldron filled with clear porridge. Liu Yizhen, holding a large ladle, stood before it, and beside his right hand lay the infamous register.

“Come for your meal,” Liu Yizhen called again.

People rushed at the call, but once they drew near, everyone knew who stood at the front—and who might be eating their last meal.

Thus, the scene that had played out the night before unfolded again. No one wanted to be the first to accept the distributed meal.

“Sigh—” The look on Liu Yizhen’s face was one of helplessness and anguish. He sighed, about to put down the ladle and reach for the register.

At that moment, Zhao Fusheng stepped forward from the crowd.

“Serve me first.”

She was an officer of the Demon Suppression Bureau, here to resolve the ghostly calamity—hiding would solve nothing.

Besides, she had already deduced the ghost’s killing rules. Delaying any longer would only cause more needless death.

Her name was already on the register. Sooner or later, she could not escape the ghost’s pursuit, so why waste more time here watching innocents perish?

Her move brought relief to everyone; many faces lit up with joy and gratitude.

Liu Yizhen hesitated, his hand on the ladle.

“You—” He already knew Zhao Fusheng’s identity and her reason for coming here.

He had explained the circumstances to her: if she were wise, she would conceal herself and wait for a chance at survival.

Was this recklessness, relying on her ability to command ghosts? Or was it misplaced pity, a futile attempt to save others?

“You know what this ghost—” he began, frowning, but Zhao Fusheng cut him off.

“It’s fine.”

She had made up her mind.

Zhao Fusheng was not one to waver. Once she decided, all hesitation vanished from her face.

Seeing Liu Yizhen’s indecision, she calmly fetched a bowl and handed it to him.

“Serve me. I am from the Demon Suppression Bureau. I came here to solve the ghostly calamity.”

Of course, her purpose was not wholly selfless.

The Investiture of the Gods had once instructed her: Uphold justice, rebuild the underworld.

Whether to rebuild the underworld or restart the Investiture, she needed merit points.

And how did one earn these points? By solving cases.

In the Bureau, handling the vengeful Zhao couple had earned her just one point. She’d wondered if this amount was fixed.

If so, the danger and horror of each case hardly matched the reward. The first god position on the Investiture required a full hundred merit points—meaning she would need to handle a hundred such cases, and might even have to spend points suppressing the vengeful spirits she wielded.

Therefore, Zhao Fusheng speculated that the merit reward might not be fixed.

If not, perhaps the points depended on the gravity of each calamity and the number of lives saved—much like sales performance in her previous life.

But all was conjecture; she would have to test it herself. Now was the perfect time.

Liu Yizhen could not know her calculations. Hearing her words, his gaze turned odd. After a long pause, he looked at her deeply, lips moving as if to speak, but in the end, he said nothing.

Zhao Fusheng had no interest in his thoughts. Seeing him dip the ladle into the pot, she reminded him,

“Scoop the solids. I’m hungry; give me another bowl.”

Then she turned to those around her,

“I’ll eat first, and eat more. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

No one dared respond.

Liu Yizhen’s mouth twitched. Silently, he served her. She drank two bowls, finally calming her ravenous hunger.

As she ate, she recalled the old woman selling soup before the Beggar’s Alley—how fragrant the broth had smelled. If she resolved this ghostly calamity, she would certainly return to eat her fill—the woman had promised her a meal.

Finishing her porridge in a few gulps, she set the bowl down and turned away under Liu Yizhen’s complicated, worried gaze.

Thanks to her daytime wandering, she had memorized the layout of Beggar’s Alley.

Some of the houses here had been modified—after all, not everyone faced with a vengeful ghost simply waited to die. Some tried to fight back.

In a few of the rooms she’d checked, people had dug pits and set traps.

Unfortunately, the ghost was too fierce for such measures. The traps never held it, and those marked by the ghost could not escape death.

Even so, these houses, paid for with blood, were prized refuges.

During the day, Zhao Fusheng had seen that people hid in these houses regardless of whether death had occurred there.

The advantage of eating first quickly became apparent.

Visualizing the locations of several houses, Zhao Fusheng made her way to one and hid herself.

The house she chose had a two-foot-deep pit at the entrance, lined with sharpened bamboo stakes. At the bottom was a thick, dark brown crust of dried blood, reeking foully.

Carefully skirting the pit, she jumped inside.

Though she knew from last night’s ordeal that the vengeful ghost’s body was neither wholly tangible nor intangible, she followed custom and wedged a wooden stick against the door, shrinking into a corner to take inventory of her belongings.

Even though she was mentally prepared to face the ghost tonight, Zhao Fusheng still felt apprehensive.

Having only recently been reborn, she carried little with her: a roll of human-skin parchment, a box of lamp oil, and a half-finished ghost lantern taken from Zhang the Paper Man. A soul register as well.

As Fan Bisi had said, being entered in the soul register was as good as selling oneself to Jia Yi’s ghost, becoming one of its ghostly minions.

“Make sure you protect your interests—don’t give up easily,” she murmured, clutching the register.

Ghostly script began to crawl across her hands from the register, but Zhao Fusheng was not alarmed; she was even a bit pleased.

If, when the vengeful ghost came, the soul register could act so powerfully, the two ghosts might contest each other and she could survive.

But she could not rely on these two things alone. Her greatest asset was still the fierce ghost under her command.

According to the Investiture’s hints, the ghost she wielded had reached the Sha level—on par with Beggar’s Alley’s ghost, unless the latter had advanced from excessive killing. If the two clashed, she had a chance.

Having made up her mind, Zhao Fusheng took deep breaths, forcing herself to calm.

Outside, those who had eaten quickly returned to their hiding places as night fell.

Twice, someone tried her door.

After last night’s ordeal, the sound of knocking made her scalp tingle. She shouted,

“Get lost!”

The person outside, perhaps recalling who she was, did not persist and left quickly.

When calm returned, Zhao Fusheng clutched her wildly beating heart and thought of herself knocking on doors upon her arrival. No wonder the residents had refused to open up—those who finally couldn’t bear to yield their shelter must have been on the verge of collapse. In hindsight, the survivors’ restraint the day before had been remarkable.

Time passed swiftly in her nervousness.

She did not know how long had gone by. All was silent.

Out of the oppressive stillness, the familiar pressure from last night returned. The eerie, terrifying atmosphere seeped through the black mist, transmitting silently through the air. Heavy, measured footsteps sounded once more.

The blackness of the fog deepened.

The vengeful ghost was here again.

Bang, bang, bang—

Though Zhao Fusheng had prepared herself, her heart now pounded wildly.

She gripped her belongings tightly, almost on instinct.

Before the footsteps began, she could not tell which direction the ghost came from, nor could she guess where it lurked.

It seemed to materialize out of thin air on the nearby street, moving steadily in her direction.

Her blood was almost frozen; her hand stiffened as she shoved the jade scripture into her mouth and bit down.

Whether it was the headless ghost of legend or last night’s home-invading specter, each carried a severed head after killing. She had to protect her own.

Ghostly runes crawled across her lips and cheeks, making her head feel icy cold. At the same time, the ghostly presence within her seemed to sense the vengeful spirit, threatening to stir.

Fortunately, the runes quickly faded, suppressing the ghost’s remnant will.

Taking out the human-skin lantern, she unfolded it and placed the oil inside.

As she did this, the footsteps outside drew closer, the hunting ghost apparently heading straight for her.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she gripped the lantern. Before she could make her next move, the footsteps suddenly paused.

Apprehensive, Zhao Fusheng crept toward the door.

With a rattling clang, even her quietest effort made a sound as she cracked open the door.

Holding her breath, she peered out.

The ghost stood in the street. After a moment, it slowly turned, revealing a face of intermingled blue and white, chilling and sinister.

Its eyes were lifeless, but every place they “looked” upon was gripped by a nameless terror.

A wave of cold and malice swept over Zhao Fusheng, agitating the fierce ghost hiding within her.

She could wait no longer.

She grabbed her fire striker. Sparks flashed, but before she could light it, something strange happened.

The ghost stood for a while, then dragged its heavy steps forward.

Heavy, ragged breathing came from the next room—Zhao Fusheng realized, surprised, that someone was living next door.

That person, less bold than she, had not dared peek at the ghost. But the overwhelming evil of the ghost’s presence must have warned them.

Zhao Fusheng hadn’t expected this.

Liu Yizhen had mentioned that the ghost of Beggar’s Alley killed according to the register. Her name was listed, and she’d eaten first; logically, she should have been the first target tonight.

Did the ghost choose victims at random, not by the order of the meal?

As she pondered, the ghost drew nearer, its shadow pressing close, black mist seeping through the cracks into the neighboring room.

A chill spread, making her shiver.

The footsteps ceased. The ghost, stiffly, raised its arm.

Knock, knock, knock.

The familiar knocking sounded—but not at Zhao Fusheng’s door. The person next door had been chosen as tonight’s sacrifice.

Zhao Fusheng could not tell whether to pity her neighbor’s misfortune or thank her own luck.

A despairing, helpless scream rose from the next room.

The ghost pushed the door open.

The barricaded door was nothing to the vengeful ghost—a splintering crash rang out, followed by a piercing scream that cut through the night.

Zhao Fusheng saw the walls tremble as the chosen victim struggled desperately.

In the next instant, a tremendous force pressed down. She could hear the crack of bones being twisted.

Then came the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart, and the screams ceased.

The thick stench of blood seeped in through the cracks, signaling another life claimed by the ghost.

The room next door was lifeless. Yet the noises did not stop.

In the uncanny silence, a wet, sticky noise arose, as if someone were wolfing down a meal.

Compared to the violence of the killing, this sound was small, but it made one’s skin crawl.

Blood seeped through the wall, soaking Zhao Fusheng’s shoes.

She snapped out of her shock, realizing the ghost had not followed her expectations but had killed someone else.

The ghost, having fed, slowly left the house.

The heavy footsteps were joined by the sound of blood dripping to the ground.

The ghost was leaving!

The thought jolted Zhao Fusheng’s nerves. In the darkness, her eyes flashed with struggle. After a moment’s hesitation, she threw her things into her arms and, with a bang, yanked the door open.

The sound was like thunder in the deathly stillness of Beggar’s Alley.

But the ghost, its work done for the night, was unaffected.

As the night before, it dragged its victim’s entrails across its body, carrying a severed head in its hand, blood dripping down its neck and splattering with each step.

At that moment, a wild and audacious idea seized Zhao Fusheng—she wanted to follow the ghost and find its lair.

At first, the idea seemed suicidal. Ordinary people hid from the ghost; who would dare approach? It was madness.

But thinking it through, Zhao Fusheng saw the possibility.

The ghost killed according to its rules. During her two days here, Zhao Fusheng had seen the pattern: it selected its victims by the register, hunted after the meal, knocked on doors, killed, and then departed with its trophies. Afterward, there was a period of safety.

If the ghost did not break its own rules, following it now should not be too dangerous.

Even if something went wrong, she was prepared. She had come to resolve the calamity and was ready to face the ghost tonight; at worst, she would only meet it a bit sooner.

“No risk, no reward!” Zhao Fusheng encouraged herself. How else could she resolve this crisis without venturing into danger?

Seizing her courage, she rushed out, not giving herself a moment to hesitate or retreat, and followed the ghost.

With the ghost’s hunt done, the rest of Beggar’s Alley survived one more day.

But now, all the survivors heard not only the ghost’s heavy steps, but also the sound of someone running.

At night, Beggar’s Alley belonged to the ghost—who would dare be out after a killing? Perhaps it was not a person at all, but another ghost.

Many were so frightened by their own suspicions that their souls nearly left their bodies. As Zhao Fusheng hurried forward, stopping when she was two or three rods behind the ghost, she held the lantern in one hand and the fire striker in the other.

If the ghost turned, she would light the lantern and flee.

But luck was with her.

Her guess was right—the ghost, having killed, was oblivious to anyone following. It neither heard nor sensed her, but simply carried its head and walked on.

Entrails swayed and dangled from its body, making an eerie sound. It trudged heavily across the street toward the heart of the alley.

The farther she went, the more Zhao Fusheng felt something was wrong.

To maximize her chances, she had explored every street during the day, running through the alleys repeatedly until she knew them well.

Now, she recognized at once where the ghost was heading—the Confucius Temple.

“It can’t be—no, it can’t be—” she muttered, her skin crawling at the thought.

Driven by suspicion, she crept closer.

The ghost took no notice, merely trudging onward with its bloody trophy.

Through the thick mist, the outline of the Confucius Temple grew ever clearer. The ghost lantern’s light scattered the darkness, and the aged, blackened timbers of the temple stood out starkly, the black characters on the blue signboard between the lanterns shining with a fierce brilliance.

“So it’s here!” Zhao Fusheng’s heart sank.

Today’s three chapters are merged into one—six thousand words.

Thank you, tsubaki, for the generous reward! This extra chapter is for you!

(End of chapter)