Chapter Sixty-Seven: Inspecting the Wu Residence

Chapter Sixty-Seven

At this thought, Zhao Fusheng called out, “Old Zhang.”

Zhang Chuan-shi shuddered all over, shrinking into the crowd and feigning ignorance.

Zhao Fusheng warned, “Zhang Chuan-shi!”

With a pained expression, Old Zhang stepped forward. She casually handed him a stack of skin fragments that she had been holding. “Hold this for me. Don’t lose it. I have great use for it.”

When Zhang Chuan-shi realized she wasn’t sending him to fight ghosts, he instantly breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“But why are you collecting these things—”

These items were quite disgusting upon closer thought—a pile of human skins, likely from victims of ghostly disasters. He found it inauspicious. Yet the instant he touched the pile, an ominous premonition swept over him.

Wait! This is human skin!

And just now, Zhao Fusheng had torn a piece of skin from his own face!

His eyes widened in shock.

Having lived next to the Demon Suppression Office for years, Zhang Chuan-shi was hardly a fool. Zhao Fusheng was shrewd, never one for useless gestures. If she had deliberately torn a strip from his face and told him to keep it, there had to be a reason.

At the time, he’d thought Zhao Fusheng must have been addled from a long day’s travel and, considering the skin useless, had tossed it aside—stomping it into the mud just in case she noticed.

But now, seeing Zhao Fusheng gather so many fragments at the scene of the ghostly incident, he realized these skins might be part of the murderous rules of the vengeful ghost.

Which meant, despite all his prayers and precautions, he had likely already been marked by the vengeful spirit without knowing.

“My lady, I—I…” Zhang Chuan-shi wished he could slap himself hard. His face shifted between pale and green, terror flooding his heart, and he stammered, wondering if it was too late to retrieve the discarded skin.

Zhao Fusheng paid him no mind. Steadying herself, she pushed open the grand doors.

Before she entered, the previously chattering villagers of Doghead Village seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere and fell silent in unison.

Everyone held their breath, their nerves taut with anxiety. Although Zhao Fusheng had said there were no ghosts in the Wu Li family home now, and their journey had been uneventful, the family’s disappearance was a fact. Perhaps it was Wu Li’s old reputation for severity that also weighed on them; standing before his doors, even now, was oppressive.

But as the door creaked open, no vengeful apparition appeared. Instead, the night wind swept through the open doorway, sending a swirl of silvery fragments dancing through the air.

It was as if snowflakes filled the Wu family’s room, blinding the eyes of all present.

At the sight of this strange phenomenon, the crowd panicked, shouting in alarm. The countless fragments flew everywhere, some landing lightly on faces, hands, and necks. Instantly, people began scratching furiously, a cacophony of harsh, rapid scraping sounds filling the air.

Zhao Fusheng herself felt a maddening itch. She scratched twice and peeled away another large chunk of skin.

Though she had lost part of her memory, the journey thus far had made her keenly aware of the sinister nature of these skin scabs. She didn’t hand them off to Zhang Chuan-shi this time, but gripped them tightly, then stepped fully into Wu Li’s room.

“Stop shouting!” Zhang Chuan-shi, nearly frightened out of his wits at first, quickly recovered. Seeing Zhao Fusheng enter, he hurried after.

He had realized that Zhao Fusheng’s way of handling cases was different. She seemed reckless but was actually meticulous and decisive; staying close to her was still the safest option.

The crowd was still in chaos, but if Zhao Fusheng hadn’t promised them tax reductions, they’d have scattered like birds by now. Even so, no one dared enter the house—only hovering outside, legs trembling with fear.

Wu Li’s room was newer than the other wings and, aside from the drifting fragments, everything else matched a house left empty for half a month.

Following her usual routine, Zhao Fusheng inspected the tables, chairs, cupboards, and bed legs—finding no trace of mold.

Curiously, the wardrobe held only a couple of sets of clothes, its shelves nearly bare—not fitting the image of a wealthy family.

Touching the garments, she found them sticky to the touch, as if they’d aged for years, ready to crumble at the slightest squeeze—like clothes untouched for ages.

She then lifted the bedding.

The bed seemed recently slept in, yet there was no odor of sweat or body—only a subtle, elusive trace of ghostly aura.

Sensing this, she followed it with her hand and soon found a soft, supple piece of skin hidden within the quilt’s lining.

It was slick, unusually broad, and slightly cold.

Tracing the edges, she realized there were seams, and no clear boundary. An audacious thought arose: could the entire quilt lining be one large, stitched-together piece of human skin?

The more she felt, the more certain she became. She called out, “Old Zhang!”

This time, Zhang Chuan-shi hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward. “My lady?”

Zhao Fusheng had called on him several times, and though she hadn’t led him to his death, she seemed to be guiding him.

As he approached, Zhao Fusheng instructed, “Find a pair of scissors and carefully unpick the stitches of this quilt.”

“And be careful not to damage what’s inside.”

Bedding was often sewn with large needles, the stitches tight. Only by carefully unpicking the seams could both layers be separated and the human skin inside revealed.

Zhang Chuan-shi agreed, but the others looked awkward. Wu Li-you said, “My lady, I fear there’s not even a chopstick left in this house.”

Doghead Village was poor. After the Wu family disappeared with their doors wide open, not even rumors of ghosts could stop villagers from looting. Only the larger items remained—small valuables had all been pilfered. If Zhao Fusheng had arrived any later, even the bedding and furniture would have vanished.

Zhao Fusheng rubbed her forehead.

Wu Li-you said cautiously, “My lady, it’s getting late, and you must be tired from traveling. Why not return to my home, wash up and eat, and come back to investigate tomorrow?”

The Wu mansion at night was deeply eerie, chilling to the bone. His words were quickly echoed by the rest.

“That’s right, my lady.”

“If you want to inspect the quilt, I can carry it for you. Once we’re at Uncle Li-you’s, you can examine it by lamp light,” Wu Shao-chun offered eagerly.

Zhao Fusheng nodded. “Very well.”

“Let’s go to my house. My father earlier—”

Wu Li-you suddenly paused, confusion crossing his face. “Strange, why did I mention my father? He…”

He thought for a while, his memory a muddle. “A few days ago, my father said he had to go to town to report a case—should be back in three or five days if all goes well.”

He scratched his face unconsciously. In the torchlight, flakes of skin scattered from his cheeks like coarse salt, yet he seemed unaware.

“Never mind, my lady, let’s go to my house. My mother and wife are already cooking and have lit the lamps.”

Zhao Fusheng did not object.

The group left Wu Li’s mansion in a mighty procession for Wu Li-you’s home.

Wu Li-you’s house was nothing compared to the Wu family’s, but it was a tidy farmhouse, kept spotlessly clean by its inhabitants.

When the crowd entered, several women with children stood nervously in corners, while Wu Li-you’s brothers hovered by the door, unable to contain their excitement.

“My lady, should we send villagers to the town tonight to fetch reinforcements to assist you?” Zhang Chuan-shi whispered to Zhao Fusheng, “This house is so bare, why not have them bring more food and drink? They wouldn’t dare disobey.”

This was the standard procedure for the Demon Suppression Office—wherever they went, a grand entourage followed, and even in the most remote villages, a sumptuous feast could be assembled.

“No need,” Zhao Fusheng replied, seeing through Zhang Chuan-shi’s ulterior motive—not only did he want to eat well, but he probably hoped for backup from Wu’an Town, who could act as scapegoats if needed.

She chuckled. “We’re here to handle a case. Those people are not command envoys—they’d only get in the way.”

Zhang Chuan-shi glanced at her, muttering inwardly: What an odd woman.

This trip was really a pain. He never got to enjoy the perks of the Demon Suppression Office, and now he was marked by a vengeful ghost—his survival uncertain. Still, he dared not contradict Zhao Fusheng, so he vented his frustration on the Wu family, barking orders, “Hurry and kill some chickens and ducks for the guests. Send the children away; women, come serve the lady. Men, go gather people tomorrow to slaughter a pig for a banquet.”

Wu Li-you, though reluctant, remembered the promise of tax reduction and suppressed his complaints, agreeing.

Zhao Fusheng glanced at Zhang Chuan-shi, who worried she’d stop him, but she did not object. She only said, “No need for such a grand affair. If you’re hungry, a chicken will suffice—we can’t finish so much food.”

Zhang Chuan-shi, as a command envoy of the Demon Suppression Office, did face life-threatening risks on ghost cases; a chicken or two as a show of authority wasn’t unreasonable. Besides, if she refused too much, the Wu family might grow uneasy. With their taxes reduced, the family would fare well next year and could afford a couple of chickens.

At first, Zhang Chuan-shi feared a scolding, but seeing her acquiesce, he was overjoyed. He had suffered under Zhao Fusheng’s hand more than once, so her indulgence now made him feel all the more grateful—a rare sense of being cared for welled up, and he was almost moved to tears.

“My lady—” he began emotionally, almost saying something he shouldn’t, but caught himself in time. Zhao Fusheng looked at him and smiled.

“Prepare a clean room, and have everyone else leave,” Zhao Fusheng instructed the villagers. “All who came with me to the Wu family home tonight will have three months of their taxes remitted.”

At her words, the crowd erupted in joy. Seeing this, Zhao Fusheng added, “But only if I finish this ghost case. If anyone hinders the investigation and the case is left unresolved, the promise is void.”

At this, everyone sobered. Old Wu Nine’s father declared, “Rest assured, we’ll help with all our might—anyone who slacks is no better than a dog!”

“Yes, yes!”

“Shall we go back to the Wu house right now?”

Everyone clamored, but Zhao Fusheng shook her head. “Tomorrow.”

She feared the villagers might be shortsighted and timid, easily swayed by small gains. From their earlier words, she had realized that, though Doghead Village was small and rife with family ties and petty feuds, it was fiercely united against outsiders.

For example, forty years ago, Wu Da-tong had abducted a wealthy girl. Before that, people scorned and bullied him, but when her family came to the village, everyone closed ranks and kept silent, sending the girl’s relatives away in frustration.

This showed the village’s character: backward, stubborn, but fiercely protective of their own.

They were not eager for the ghost investigation; if Zhao Fusheng didn’t make a weighty promise, she’d lose control. But if she promised too easily, and the case implicated the villagers, they would close ranks and refuse to help.

The best way was to use tax relief as bait, keeping them motivated.

People always chase after benefit.

Once she finished, the villagers reluctantly dispersed. Some friends of the Wu family tried to linger, lured by the smell of food.

At that time, food was precious, and since the Wu family was only hosting Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuan-shi, Wu Li-you hurried them out. “Go on, go on, the lady needs to rest so she can work tomorrow. Don’t disturb her.”

The rest left one by one, except for Wu Shao-chun, who stayed with the bedding. “Aunt, where should I put the mattress for the lady?”

“The main room on the east side is ready. The lady will rest there tonight,” a woman said shyly.

Wu Li-you explained, “My lady, the main room belonged to my parents—it’s the biggest and the bedding is fresh. I hope you don’t mind.”

Zhao Fusheng was here to handle a ghost case and didn’t care about accommodations. This farmhouse was certainly better than the beggars’ alley where she’d stayed during her first case. She nodded. “Put it in there.”

After a moment, she casually asked, “When your father went to report the case, did he go alone? How long has he been gone? Where is he now?”

Wu Li-you, not thinking much, replied, “He left before dawn three days ago to report the case in town. He said if all went well, he’d be back in three to five days.”

A hint of suspicion stirred in Zhao Fusheng’s mind.

Doghead Village was far from Wan’an County. She and Zhang Chuan-shi had driven a carriage nonstop, taking almost a whole day to get here. For such a remote place to have a ghost case, she would never have known if no one reported it.

But now, here she was—proving Wu Da-jing had succeeded in reporting the crime. So where was Wu Da-jing now?

(End of chapter)