Chapter Sixty-Three: Entering the Village

Chapter Sixty-three.

But there was still another possibility—

Zhao Fusheng’s gaze shifted toward Wu Dajing.

The old man’s face was ashen, his cheeks sunken, and blood clung to his beard, congealing at the tip.

Could it be that this village elder’s words were half-truths, intended to deceive her? Or perhaps he had fallen under the influence of a malignant spirit, his memories confused, causing his statements to contradict themselves.

Her eyes flickered, and, without drawing attention, her hand drifted to the withered, shriveled ghostly arm. Her fingertips lingered upon it for some time, and at last, she gradually calmed the agitation in her heart.

Now, even at this stage, there were still many suspicious aspects to this ghost case. Yet, by this point, Zhao Fusheng had also gleaned much unexpected information.

She displayed extraordinary patience in this investigation and did not lose heart simply because her thoughts had reached a temporary impasse.

Unable to make sense of this thread for the moment, Zhao Fusheng set it aside and questioned Wu Dajing again:

“When did your nosebleeds begin?”

The old villager, unaware how close he stood to the threshold of death, replied,

“Just a few days ago—”

“After Wu Liren’s family disappeared?” Zhao Fusheng’s words carried a certainty close to conviction.

Wu Dajing paused, then raised his thumb in admiration:

“Madam, your foresight is uncanny—it’s just as you say.”

He spoke lightly, but Zhao Fusheng’s heart sank.

The vengeful ghost had begun to kill.

By now, she could almost conclude that Wu Liren’s entire family had perished.

Moreover, this ghostly calamity had spiraled out of control because of Wu Liren’s father, Wu Datong’s death.

Wu Datong was at the center of this incident, and there was every reason to believe this case might be connected to the Liu Clan Ancestral Hall ghost case from forty years ago, as well as the forebears of Paper Zhang. Unfortunately, Paper Zhang was currently in hiding and could not be found.

Seeing Zhao Fusheng’s grave expression, Wu Dajing assumed she was worried about his illness and was moved:

“Madam, you needn’t worry about me. Perhaps our village’s feng shui is poor. Over the years, people have died from bleeding like this.”

Zhao Fusheng lifted her head at his words, and Wu Dajing continued,

“We suspect perhaps one of the family graves wasn’t properly buried, bringing misfortune to the descendants.” At this, hope flickered in his eyes as he looked at Zhao Fusheng. “I wonder if you could look at our village’s burial grounds, advise us on our feng shui, see if it can be improved—”

Having already formed a strong impression about his situation, Zhao Fusheng shook her head.

“I do not know how to read feng shui.”

Disappointment clouded his face.

“Ah, can it be that the Demon Suppression Division doesn’t understand feng shui?”

Zhao Fusheng shook her head again, and the light in his eyes dimmed instantly. The once-talkative old man now betrayed a hint of terror.

“Then… then what am I to do—”

Zhao Fusheng said nothing. Zhang Chuan-shi responded quietly,

“Life and death are decreed by fate. You’re sixty-seven—you’ve had your share already.”

“I don’t want to die…” Wu Dajing murmured.

After that, the carriage fell silent. Only Wu Dajing, scratching at his skin and coughing occasionally, broke the quiet.

The rest of the journey, apart from giving directions, Wu Dajing said little.

Zhao Fusheng’s words seemed to have cut off his last hope, leaving him dejected and listless.

The road out of the county was rough; the carriage jolted as if its wheels might fly apart. By nightfall, Wu Dajing, who had been silent the whole way, finally seemed to revive a little.

“We’ve arrived.”

His words shattered the heavy stillness, and Zhang Chuan-shi, feeling the tension of the whole journey, exhaled in relief.

Zhao Fusheng leaned out to look: beneath the dusky twilight, she saw a mountain village nestling against the hills, hidden in a hollow.

The sun had already set. Ordinarily, families would now be gathered together, but above the village, there was neither smoke nor firelight—only cold desolation. From afar, it resembled an abandoned village.

If not for Wu Dajing’s guidance, Zhang Chuan-shi might never have realized that anyone still lived here.

“With the place so dark, how is it no one lights a lamp?” Zhang Chuan-shi muttered.

Mist hung heavy in the mountains.

The lay of the land revealed that Doghead Village lay in a valley, shrouded in mist. The moon had yet to rise; the sky was dark, and the unlit village appeared almost sinister.

“Where’s the money for lamps?”

Wu Dajing replied with a forced smile.

“But surely there’s at least firelight from cooking?” Zhang Chuan-shi pressed.

“We cook food at midday. In this heat, who needs it at night? Why waste fuel and firewood—?”

As he spoke, he scratched his back, the sound rustling in the silence.

Their conversation broke the quiet. Though Zhang Chuan-shi didn’t much like the “bringer of ghost cases,” after a day with no one to talk to, he was willing for even Wu Dajing’s company.

“Is your village really this poor?”

“Not exactly poor,” Wu Dajing replied. “At least we have food—it’s passable.”

“How much silver does your family earn in a year?” Zhang Chuan-shi asked offhand.

“My family is large. I have three sons and two daughters—my daughters are married off, my three sons have given me seven grandsons, all married with children. More than twenty in all, and each year we earn this much.” He held up three fingers.

“Thirty taels?” Zhang Chuan-shi guessed, and Wu Dajing nodded.

“Yes.”

Though the topic had little to do with the ghost case, Zhao Fusheng, upon hearing this, glanced at Wu Dajing in surprise.

“Your family is actually wealthy.”

From her inherited memories, she knew that the Zhao family had struggled all year without saving a penny, sinking deeper into debt. Every autumn, creditors would come pounding at the door. After a year of toil, the grain harvested would be carted away, leaving nothing. This year, at their wits’ end, they sold their daughter to the Demon Suppression Division, and in the end, the whole family died at the hands of a vengeful ghost.

“That’s not necessarily so,” Zhang Chuan-shi shook his head, explaining to Zhao Fusheng. “Just because they make thirty taels a year, doesn’t mean much. With all the taxes, they might look prosperous on the surface but could well be in debt behind closed doors.”

“Exactly.”

Talk of money made Wu Dajing look even more pained than when Zhao Fusheng had refused to read their feng shui.

“In a year, we pay nearly twenty-nine taels in head taxes, tolls, and protection fees,” he said.

The little left over barely fed the family. In the off-season, everyone had to take odd jobs or raise livestock to supplement their income.

“On top of that, we must pray for the heavens’ mercy, lest disaster strike.”

In a bad year, with poor harvests, not only would there be no profit, but families might be forced to sell their sons and daughters.

“In years of famine, you could walk into the county town, and people would give away their kin for a bite of food—”

Zhang Chuan-shi glanced furtively at Zhao Fusheng, knowing her background and fearing she might take offense.

Zhao Fusheng was momentarily stunned.

She knew the commoners of the Han dynasty were poor, but since her rebirth and entering the Demon Suppression Division, though her life was precarious, she’d never tasted true hardship.

Hearing Wu Dajing speak of these things, she felt it more terrifying than ghosts.

“Are taxes really so high?” she asked.

Zhang Chuan-shi exchanged a wry look with Wu Dajing.

The atmosphere cooled. After a pause, Zhang Chuan-shi broke the silence.

“The court taxes land by measurement,” he said, urging the horse carriage toward the village. “But the authorities have half given up on this area, so there’s no harm in saying so.”

“In the old emperor’s time, they encouraged farming.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Zhao Fusheng hesitated.

“What good is it?” Wu Dajing shook his head. “It was a foolish policy. The court urged us to clear new land, promising rewards of grain, so we did, toiled for months, and in the end, no grain was given—only an official ledger entry.”

The people grumbled, while the officials who claimed credit for the land surveys were rewarded and promoted.

“The newly cleared land was registered under our names, and the next year, we were taxed on it.” The poor, having little seed or food to spare, let most of the new fields go to waste. Yet the land remained in the records, and taxes became fixed and inescapable.

“Year after year it adds up—a heavy burden.”

Zhao Fusheng’s face showed disbelief.

“So the officials faked their achievements and left the burden to the people?”

Wu Dajing gave a bitter smile.

“There’s another local tax besides,” he added, anxiety evident.

“What tax?” Zhao Fusheng asked.

“The Demon Suppression Division’s protection fee,” Zhang Chuan-shi answered glibly.

“What?” Zhao Fusheng was astonished. “I’ve never collected such a fee.”

Regret flashed on Zhang Chuan-shi’s face. He’d spoken too quickly and now had to brazen it out.

“Madam, you are merciful, and you haven’t collected it,” he said. “But by the Division’s usual rules, the Commanders don’t handle the collection themselves—it’s done by the underlings. This fee is even heavier than the court’s taxes, and each person must pay. There’s no way around it.”

He added quietly,

“In the past, we had to pay, too. Even the corpse servants in my shop cost two coins of silver a year.”

The underlings, after collecting the money, would hand a portion to the Commanders, another to the higher-ups, and keep some for themselves.

So when Zhao Fusheng suggested recruiting more underlings, Fan Wujiu had been perplexed: why pay to recruit, when word alone would bring crowds eager for the post?

Zhao Fusheng’s face darkened.

Sensing her displeasure, Zhang Chuan-shi grew uneasy, unsure if he’d gone too far.

“But, Madam, you are not like the previous Commanders. Since you took office in Wan’an County—”

“That’s enough flattery,” Zhao Fusheng cut him off, turning to Wu Dajing. “Have you paid the protection fee these last few months?”

Wu Dajing dared not speak, glancing pitifully at Zhang Chuan-shi.

Even he knew this topic had soured Zhao Fusheng’s mood, but she pressed,

“Speak!”

Startled, the old man stammered,

“Yes, we have. The officials in town said the court’s taxes could be delayed until spring, but the Division’s fee could not be put off for an instant.”

“How much does your family pay each year?” Zhao Fusheng asked.

“Twenty taels,” Wu Dajing replied honestly.

A silence fell.

Zhao Fusheng suddenly realized that the troubles of Wan’an County went far beyond murderous ghosts.

With such exorbitant taxes and fees, it was nearly impossible for ordinary people to survive, let alone with vengeful spirits abroad—how could anyone live?

“The Demon Suppression Division takes all this money, and yet some cases go unaddressed?” She was incredulous.

Zhang Chuan-shi curled his lip.

“Why is that surprising? Isn’t every life worth saving?”

To wield a vengeful ghost’s power as a Commander was to risk one’s life. Collecting the fees was one matter—risking death was another.

Besides, with such power in their hands, could the people refuse? Even if the Division took the fee and did nothing, what could the people do?

“There’s nothing more to say.” Zhang Chuan-shi shook his head.

Zhao Fusheng stood dumbstruck, silent for a long while.

During this time, the carriage drew closer to the village, and the grand arch at the entrance came into view.

As Wu Dajing had said, Doghead Village was small, with few households. The villagers, likely all related, lived close together, the settlement built like a vast courtyard, clustered in the mountain hollow, with a single archway gate as entrance and exit.

Far from the town, visitors were rare. The arrival of the carriage drew much attention.

Many stood at their doors, bowls in hand, peering curiously into the distance.

As they neared home, Wu Dajing leaned out and spotted a middle-aged man with a bowl in hand. He waved and called out,

“Li You! Li You!”

At his shout, the man turned, saw him, and cried,

“Father!”

“Hurry home and tell your mother to light the fire at once—we have guests! I’ve brought Madam Zhao and Lord Zhang from the Demon Suppression Division to the village to handle the case!”

At the words “Demon Suppression Division,” the crowd gasped and drew back several steps.

Wu Liyou, bewildered, hesitated until Wu Dajing barked,

“Go on, quickly!”

“Oh, oh!” The man sprinted off, shouting, “Mother! Mother—”

Wu Dajing was both a little embarrassed and a little proud.

The carriage halted before the village gate; the horse stepped over the threshold, but the wooden wheels stuck outside.

“Madam Zhao—” Zhang Chuan-shi hopped down and called. Zhao Fusheng, without waiting to be urged, followed him out.

As soon as she disembarked, Wu Dajing got down as well, and the villagers crowded around, abandoning their bowls to help lift the carriage into the courtyard.

“Li Gong, take the horse and tend to it properly,” Wu Dajing ordered. “The Madam and Lord have come to handle our case—see what good things you have at home, bring them all out. Don’t hold back—”

Wu Dajing was now utterly different from the meek man he’d been at the Division. His back was straight, his commands sharp; the villagers answered at once, some pulling the carriage, some leading the horse, others even warmly inviting Zhang Chuan-shi to wash his hands and face in their homes.

They mistook him for the great figure from the Division, while seeing Zhao Fusheng as his attendant—a most comical blunder.

(End of chapter)