Chapter Sixty-five: The Death of the Village Elder

Chapter Sixty-Five

The heart of the problem lay in Old Wu Jiu’s description: sleeves so wide that, when his hands were folded together, it looked as if he were holding a coffin lid across his body.

In the case of the Headless Ghost, Liu Huacheng had offered the lid of the Ghost Coffin as payment to invite Zhang Xiongwun to resolve the haunting. She had only known the coffin lid must be in Zhang’s possession, neglecting the peculiar sleeves he wore. Now, reminded by this old farmer, Zhao Fusheng was struck by a sudden realization.

“At the time, I was scared and anxious. That old man unnerved me, and he said a few things to Wu Datong—” Wu Jiu walked a few steps before continuing, “He said that with the way things are in the county now, Old Liu might be suspicious, and he should keep a low profile.”

Hearing this, Zhao Fusheng glanced at Zhang Chuanshi, who struggled to appear calm, but his restless eyes betrayed him.

“Then he seemed to notice me, saying there was a living person in the house. I panicked, but just at that moment, I heard a woman groaning inside.”

Wu Datong interjected, “My wife was about to give birth.”

The child’s timely arrival swept away the old man’s earlier wariness. “He didn’t seem to like being around childbirth and left quickly. Afterwards, Datong told me I was lucky—that I’d escaped a calamity because his wife was giving birth.”

This small episode etched the birth date of Wu Liren deeply into Wu Jiu’s memory: “Wu Liren was born on July 31, 206 of the Great Han. I remember it clearly.”

Though he didn’t know who the old man was or why Wu Datong claimed he had escaped disaster, Wu Jiu’s instinctive sense of life and death made him remember Wu Liren’s birth date with unusual clarity.

“Good! Wu Jiu’s household will have three months’ taxes reduced, and all miscellaneous levies from the Demon Suppression Office for the first half of this year will be waived as well.”

“Thank you!” Zhang Chuanshi responded joyfully.

Now, it was Wu Dajing’s turn to grow uneasy. “Sir…”

Perhaps because of his age, his memory was confused and unreliable, prone to lapses. Yet, for some reason, he vividly remembered his conversation with Zhao Fusheng in the carriage, where he had sworn Wu Datong’s eldest son was born on July 31.

Now, Wu Jiu’s account was entirely different: he claimed to have met Wu Datong in Wanan County in 206 and personally witnessed Wu Liren’s birth, even giving a precise date.

Different times, different places, two different men—yet both had met Wu Datong. If no one was lying, then something truly supernatural was at play.

“Don’t worry,” Zhao Fusheng waved a hand. She was now almost certain that the village’s memories regarding Wu Datong’s “eldest son” were compromised.

Her earlier suspicions had been correct. Wu Dajing had mistakenly given Wu Liren’s birth date as his eldest son’s, blurring the villagers’ memories. Wu Jiu’s testimony also supported her theory: Wu Datong had likely helped Zhang Xiongwun steal the coffin nails, earning great merit.

Yet, that he survived working for the likes of Zhang Xiongwun and returned home to live a peaceful life was itself suspicious—Zhang Xiongwun was hardly a kind soul. A man who skinned people to make lanterns, raised corpse-slaves, and consorted with ghosts was no good man. How did Wu Datong escape with his life, return home, marry and raise children?

Was there something strange about Wu Liren as well?

Some mysteries were solved, only for new ones to arise. Zhao Fusheng steadied herself, deciding to focus on the mysterious “eldest son” of Wu Datong.

This “eldest son” had become an unspeakable entity, forming murderous rules after death—a sign he had become a vengeful spirit. This ghost’s unique law allowed it to conceal its existence: even after a killing, no one realized it had ever been there.

With this, Zhao Fusheng suddenly understood how Wu Datong had managed to steal the coffin nails. He must have discovered his “eldest son’s” unnatural trait and exploited it to take the nails right under the Liu family’s noses.

With this key point clear, her spirit lifted. Now, all she needed was to confirm the birth date of Wu Datong’s eldest son to solidify her theory.

But when it came to the laws of vengeful spirits, mentioning Wu Datong’s “eldest son” would throw everyone’s memories into chaos. She prepared to approach the subject indirectly—

She steadied herself and asked Wu Dajing:

“Which year did your mother pass away—”

“I know this!” called Wu Liyou from the crowd, having waited a long while for his chance. “My grandmother died on September 17, 205 of the Great Han—”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” Wu Dajing snapped instinctively at his son’s answer.

“I’m not making things up,” Wu Liyou protested, aggrieved. “I remember it clearly.”

“How is that not nonsense?” Wu Dajing’s eyes bulged, bloodshot with agitation, coughing from rage. “Your grandmother clearly died on September 17, 206, not 205! You can’t even remember her death anniversary—”

Earlier, Zhao Fusheng had exempted his family from half a year’s taxes, a sum worth ten taels of silver. Terrified she might retract the favor if she thought he’d lied, his anxiety made blood gush from his eyes and nostrils. “You—you’re going to be the death of me—”

The sudden turn shocked everyone. Wu Liyou, frightened by his father’s violent reaction, hesitated, “But it’s true—she died in 205, Ligung was born in the twelfth month, just before New Year, and turned seven then. I remember Grandmother sighing before she died, afraid she wouldn’t live to see New Year or Ligung’s seventh birthday meal—”

“Nonsense! Nonsense!” Wu Dajing retorted loudly.

Now, a cold, oppressive air coiled around him, and the previously faint aura of a vengeful ghost grew stronger. He scratched feverishly at his hands and face, the sound setting everyone’s teeth on edge.

Torches had been lit along the path, illuminating the village lane, and in the flickering light, flakes of skin drifted like snow, Wu Dajing’s face darkening, his eyes losing their light, black-red blood streaming from his nose and eyes.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. What began as a discussion of Wu Liren’s family affairs had taken a horrifying turn—no one expected Wu Dajing to react so violently.

Zhao Fusheng sensed danger. The vengeful ghost’s aura was spreading, but the villagers, slow to notice, thought it nothing more than a father-son quarrel that had made Wu Dajing’s nose bleed.

In Doghead Village, people dying from inexplicable bleeding wasn’t uncommon. Seeing Wu Dajing’s state, someone called out, “Uncle Wu must be overheated, Liyou, take your father home!”

“I’m not going!” Wu Dajing seemed bewitched. “I’m staying to speak with the official. My family’s taxes must be reduced—Wu Liren’s family is almost here, I won’t leave.”

The more he spoke, the more desperately he scratched himself.

Zhao Fusheng glanced into the distance and saw, sure enough, a shadowy mansion standing under the mountain’s looming darkness, not far along the path.

Wu Dajing’s situation was becoming dire. The old villager had triggered the vengeful ghost’s murderous law by mentioning Wu Datong and his son on the way into town—his life now hung by a thread. His anxiety over taxes had provoked the ghost once more.

Zhao Fusheng gripped the ghostly arm at her side, jaw set tight.

At that moment, the shrewd Zhang Chuanshi sensed trouble too. He crept closer to Zhao Fusheng, uneasy. “Sir, is this old man about to go mad?”

He dared not mention the word “ghost,” but after living near the Demon Suppression Office for years, he was more knowledgeable than the rest. He could tell something was wrong with Wu Dajing.

Zhao Fusheng said nothing. The ghostly arm in her sleeve, sensing her tension, began to stir restlessly. After spending nearly all her merit points to suppress the arm after resolving the Beggar Alley haunting, she had only nine left. The vengeful ghost had not yet shown itself—if she drew the arm to suppress Wu Dajing now, she didn’t know how much merit it would take to subdue it again.

As she hesitated, the vengeful aura on Wu Dajing flared.

Suddenly, a prompt from the Investiture of the Gods board sounded: Detected a Calamity-grade vengeful ghost. Use Hell Capture?

A Calamity-grade ghost!

Zhao Fusheng instantly abandoned the idea of using the ghostly arm.

When the Beggar Ghost was intact, it was only Calamity-grade; now that its corpse had been divided, the arm, while powerful, could not reach that level by itself.

Fearing for Wu Dajing’s fate, she shouted sternly, “Wu Dajing, come to your senses! I know all about this already. Stop talking!”

“Sir, don’t believe them, I remember clearly—” Wu Dajing, heedless of the blood pouring from him, thought only of ensuring his family’s tax reduction was not revoked—a sum enough for a comfortable year’s living, free from worry over their crops.

“Sir, listen—back then, Wu Datong brought home a young wife, surnamed Shen, a daughter from a wealthy family. He didn’t dare let anyone see her and kept her hidden in their cellar.”

The more he spoke, the more blood streamed from his nostrils, eyes, and now his ears as well, his mouth bubbling blood and froth as he spoke. Meanwhile, he scratched himself raw—chest, back, cheeks, scalp.

Night had fallen; the torches crackled. The villagers, who had been arguing moments before, were now stunned to silence.

Beyond, the Wu family’s mansion loomed black and forbidding. Wu Dajing’s world was stained red; he was oblivious to his own horror, his voice hoarse: “That Shen woman gave birth to a child. The baby didn’t cry or fuss, like a corpse, born exactly on July 31—no mistake. My mother held him, said he was like the dead—except he could move—”

As soon as he finished, he suddenly stiffened.

Wu Dajing seemed to realize something. Through the mask of peeling skin on his face, a look of terror and despair emerged. His bloodshot eyes sought out Zhao Fusheng, pleading for help.

But once the vengeful ghost’s killing law was triggered, there was nothing Zhao Fusheng could do to save him.

The shadows on the ground writhed; the vengeful ghost seemed to lurk behind Wu Dajing, fixing a chilling gaze on Zhao Fusheng.

As Wu Dajing scratched himself desperately, Zhang Chuanshi began to itch unbearably as well, clawing at his neck and arms, muttering, “Does this old man have some contagious disease—”

Zhao Fusheng ignored him.

She was gripped by a sense of helplessness—knowing the truth yet powerless to stop it. Her heart churned.

“All taxes for Wu Dajing’s family are cancelled for this year,” she declared.

She had already foreseen Wu Dajing’s death; beyond relieving his family’s taxes, she could do nothing.

At her words, Wu Dajing’s dying face lit up with joy.

“Thank—” he began, but before he could finish, his body exploded like an overinflated bladder. With a loud pop, fragments of skin sprayed everywhere, splattering Zhao Fusheng and the villagers nearby.

Wherever the skin touched, it stuck like maggots to the bone; everyone began scratching themselves uncontrollably.

The abrupt horror sent the crowd into panic.

Someone shouted, “Ghost!”

But the moment the word “ghost” was uttered, the vengeful aura vanished as if it had been swept away by the tide, leaving no trace.

Yet Zhao Fusheng’s body still itched intensely.

After Wu Dajing’s explosion, fragments of skin had landed on her cheek. She rubbed hard, peeling off a layer thin as a cicada’s wing, the size of a child’s palm.

Biting back the urge to scratch, she took out the dossier hidden in her sleeve and pressed the skin fragment inside.

Once she finished, the fragments drifting in the air turned to dust and slowly dissipated.

A strange silence fell.

When the dust had settled, the flames of the torches flickered quietly once more. The vengeful presence had completely disappeared.

The villagers, who had been clawing themselves moments before, lowered their hands in confusion. Someone looked up at the looming house ahead and shouted excitedly, “Sir, we’re almost at Wu Liren’s home!”

Zhao Fusheng lowered her head in bewilderment. She found herself gripping a loosely rolled dossier in her hand, but couldn’t recall when she had taken it out or begun handling it.

A chill crept into her heart, and a single, undeniable thought took hold: the vengeful ghost had appeared.

It had done something—yet neither she nor anyone around her had noticed at all.