Chapter Seventy-Three: The Return of the Dead

Chapter Seventy-Three

"You look a little tired, sir. Is it because of the journey?" Wu Liyou had just seen her hanging her head low, then suddenly snapping awake, and couldn't help but ask with concern, "Would you like to go inside and rest for a while?"

Zhao Fusheng shook her head.

She was certain she had encountered a ghost.

The case in Doghead Village was far more complicated and thorny than she had imagined. Her merit points had inexplicably decreased, now only six remained. Something must have happened in between, and she had used them up. What was most terrifying was that she had no memory at all of what had transpired.

This time, the vengeful spirit possessed the power to manipulate human memory and perception, erasing part of her recollection regarding ghosts.

She furrowed her brows and looked at what she was clutching in her hand.

What was this?

It was extremely thin, somewhat translucent, with tiny white flecks, resembling the delicate dead skin peeled off after an injury—

Since she held it so tightly, its importance was self-evident; it was likely a clue related to this ghostly case.

Zhao Fusheng pondered, glanced at the scroll in her other hand, and pressed the piece of dead skin into the scroll.

She simply intended not to discard any clue related to the ghost case, so she tucked it into the scroll as a temporary bookmark. Unexpectedly, as soon as the dead skin touched the scroll, it vanished instantly without a trace, as if the entire scroll had devoured it.

Zhao Fusheng shuddered.

She hastily flipped the scroll over, only to find it perfectly ordinary, with nothing strange about it.

The dossier recorded an old case concerning the Demon Suppressing Bureau, which she had already reviewed during her service there. She had no idea why she carried it with her, or how it ended up in Doghead Village.

Strange events kept occurring, yet Wu Shaochun, Wu Liyou, and the others seemed completely oblivious.

"Did anyone come by just now? Did anything happen?" she asked.

Wu Liyou exchanged glances with Wu Shaochun, the two of them bewildered and shook their heads. "No, no one—"

Wu Shaochun added, "After we returned from Uncle Liren's house, Uncle Liyou began preparing to slaughter the chicken and cook. You were in the house for a while, then came out to chat with us, and before we knew it, you fell asleep—"

"You must be tired, sir. Go back and rest; we'll call you when it's time to eat."

With that, Wu Liyou called out loudly, "Ligong, Ligong! Tell your wife to come cut the chicken and start cooking. Who left it lying here like this—"

As he spoke, seeing the butchered meat tossed about, he felt a pang of regret.

After shouting, he sensed something was amiss, pausing in confusion. "Hmm..."

His words felt vaguely familiar, as if this situation had occurred before and he had uttered the same phrase.

For Zhao Fusheng, the sense of déjà vu was even stronger, yet try as she might, she couldn't recall under what circumstances Wu Liyou had said those words.

This time, no one responded to Wu Liyou's call, and his tone grew increasingly impatient. "Ligong—"

Ligong was in trouble!

The thought flashed through Zhao Fusheng's mind, immediately chilling her heart.

Wu Liyou hadn't realized his brother was in trouble; he was simply frustrated after repeated calls went unanswered. "Father's out and hasn't returned, fine, but this brother of mine is just as unreliable. With guests at home, how could he be wandering around?"

Grumbling, a woman soon came over, sat before the chopping board, and quickly resumed butchering the meat.

It was still early for dinner, and Zhao Fusheng now sensed something was off.

The vengeful spirit was likely lurking nearby, having already manifested. Though she couldn't recall anything about it, she clearly felt her body growing weaker.

She stood up. "I'm going to take a walk. I'll be back later."

"But sir, it's already dark—" Wu Liyou quickly urged, "Better wait until tomorrow."

"No." Zhao Fusheng shook her head. "You go about your business; don't worry about me."

Wu Shaochun, holding the chicken, hurriedly said, "The road is dangerous at night; let me fetch a torch and accompany you."

"No need." Zhao Fusheng shook her head again, then called, "Old Zhang, Old Zhang!"

She had previously sent Zhang Chuan to leave; who knew where the old man had wandered off to.

She paused to think: Why had she sent Zhang Chuan away? What had she said to make him unafraid of ghosts here, willing to hide alone?

The confusion in her memory brought on a sharp headache. The more she thought, the more her head throbbed, and her whole body ached.

Fortunately, after she called, Zhang Chuan's voice soon answered.

He was hiding in the shadows, afraid to get too close to the others, yet equally scared to stray too far.

He was unfamiliar with this place, and with a vengeful spirit in the village, he feared that if he encountered a ghost, no one would hear his cries, and he'd die unknown.

Hearing Zhao Fusheng call, he quickly crawled out from behind the woodshed and asked,

"What do you need, sir?"

"Come with me for a walk."

Zhao Fusheng noticed he was in a sorry state.

Who knows which pile of firewood he had burrowed into; his hair was wild, his body covered in grass and leaves, and his exposed face and hands bore tiny cuts from the sharp edges.

It was hot, and he dared not move, sweating profusely. When sweat ran over the wounds, it stung so badly he grimaced.

When Zhao Fusheng mentioned going out, Zhang Chuan's face soured.

"But—it's dark, and there are ghosts in the village—"

"You have plenty of courage. Did you ever consider others might not dare step outside?"

"Enough nonsense, grab a torch and come with me," Zhao Fusheng cut him off.

Zhang Chuan, though angry, dared not protest, silently cursed, grabbed a torch, and followed behind her with a mournful expression.

Once they left Wu Liyou's courtyard and walked to a deserted spot, Zhao Fusheng asked, "Where is the carriage we arrived in?"

Zhang Chuan hadn't expected her urgency to be about the carriage; his expression shifted, but he kept walking forward.

"At the time—"

Recalling their arrival, he should have remembered it clearly, but his mind suddenly grew muddled. After a moment, he said, "There were lots of villagers at the entrance, so we decided to park the carriage at Wu Lifou's house by the village gate. Their family is tending the horses; nothing should go wrong."

Doghead Village wasn't large; most houses clustered around the granary, with only one main entrance. At night, the gate was bolted, making it hard for thieves to sneak in.

"Nothing important was left in the carriage. Are you worried about something?" Zhang Chuan probed.

Zhao Fusheng didn't answer, urging him to hurry.

When they reached Wu Lifou's house, the family had just washed up and were about to sleep. Hearing knocks, they were annoyed, but upon hearing Zhang Chuan's call, they hurried to open the door.

"The carriage is parked in the backyard. My father had me cover it with a straw mat because of the dew. Please rest assured, sir."

"Don't worry, I'm just here to look over the carriage. I think I lost something while riding earlier. You all return inside; I need to sit here for a while."

She dismissed the anxious family.

They were worried, frightened by her presence, but dared not object. They returned to the main room, occasionally glancing her way.

"Sir—" Zhang Chuan didn't know what she was up to, so he asked, "Did you lose something? Should I help you look?"

Zhao Fusheng's expression was cold.

Maybe it was his imagination, but her face looked deathly pale, lips tinted blue, her gaze eerie and unsettling, making his heart tremble and his voice fade.

"Bring the torch up and check the carriage for—"

She recalled the missing piece of dead skin and tried, "See if there are any fallen skin flakes."

"Why look for that?" Zhang Chuan was puzzled.

But Zhao Fusheng had handled ghost cases and shown her skills; he dared not defy her. Though confused, he obediently climbed onto the carriage and began searching.

He grumbled, not expecting a response, but Zhao Fusheng replied, "I suspect the ghost is already following us."

Her words sent chills through Zhang Chuan, making him drop the torch.

"Don't set anything on fire," Zhao Fusheng glanced at him.

He quickly picked up the torch, stomping out the sparks, his lips trembling. "Don't scare me."

"Someone from Doghead Village went to the city to report a haunting, which is why we came," Zhao Fusheng said calmly.

At this, Zhang Chuan looked up at her, eyes filled with suspicion.

Zhao Fusheng also found it strange.

Their conversation felt oddly familiar, as if they'd discussed the same topic at another time, another place, but neither could recall when.

"I inquired—the informant was Wu Liyou's father, the village elder, Wu Dajing. He went to the city three days ago and hasn't been seen since."

The two exchanged glances, and Zhang Chuan immediately understood her implication.

Doghead Village was remote, so without a guide, they couldn't have arrived by chance.

The village elder went to report the haunting; since they were here, the report must have succeeded. But where was the elder now?

Suppressing her unease from memory loss, Zhao Fusheng forced calm. "We must have traveled together, but neither of us remembers being with Wu Dajing."

—Clearly the work of a vengeful ghost.

Even after losing her memory repeatedly, Zhao Fusheng's sharp intuition led her to deduce the truth.

She recalled suddenly losing consciousness at Wu Liyou's house and then abruptly waking up.

She didn't know what had happened in between, but Wu Dajing's strange disappearance was a warning.

If the ghost could manipulate perception, then during her blackout, could others in Doghead Village have vanished too, without anyone noticing?

The more she dwelled on it, the more horrifying it seemed. The memory loss made her anxious, eager to search for more clues.

The aftermath left Zhao Fusheng vulnerable: not only was her body weak, but the confusion in her mind kept her nerves taut.

She woke up clutching a piece of dead skin, and its ultimate disappearance was deeply unsettling.

With her temperament, she liked to carry important things with her. Though she couldn't recall, she was certain: the scroll held secrets, and the dead skin might be connected to the ghost's murders.

Thus, she was determined to return to the carriage and search for crucial clues.

Human vision and memory could be manipulated, but clues would not vanish without reason.

If Wu Dajing had traveled with them, he would have left traces in the carriage.

With a ghost case at hand and her own life at stake, Zhang Chuan dared not be careless and began searching the carriage thoroughly.

"Don't rush."

Zhao Fusheng stopped him calmly, sitting where she'd been before. "I sat here on the way. If someone traveled with me, you were driving, so anyone speaking to me would have sat at either side."

She sat in the center, allowing her to look out through the open door. Wu Dajing would not have sat as her equal, but in a lower seat.

"You check the left; I'll check the right."

With these instructions, Zhang Chuan nodded, and both searched every corner, afraid to miss a single clue.

Soon, Zhao Fusheng found faint smudge marks on the lower right side.

"Bring the torch closer."

She called calmly.

Zhang Chuan's heart lurched, and he trembled as he turned.

In the torchlight, Zhao Fusheng's fingers pressed against a spot in the carriage.

Her fingers were slender, nails trimmed short, but that wasn't what caught Zhang Chuan's attention.

Beneath her fingers, several dark brown streaks stretched a few inches, angled upward, forming several marks.

"These look like blood stains."

Zhao Fusheng leaned closer, and a faint but sharp scent of blood entered her nose.

These marks were not left by the carriage itself.

Even if Wu Dajing had left blood prints, the smell should have faded after hours; it shouldn't be so strong.

The act of smelling blood triggered a bodily memory, as if the sight of blood made her recall something instinctively.

She pursed her lips and inhaled deeply; the scent came from inside her own airways.

She seemed to have bled—or perhaps coughed up blood.

The notion made her hair stand on end.

She had spat blood, yet had no memory of it herself. If not for the blood marks awakening her senses, she would never have noticed.

Steadying herself, she suppressed her horror and examined the blood marks again.

"There are four streaks."

Two were darker, one lighter, and the last was thin, as if a finger had unintentionally brushed against it.

Zhao Fusheng sat in the lower right seat, reached behind her, and rubbed the spot.

Zhang Chuan's eyes lit up. "That's exactly how it looks."

This meant that someone had been sitting here, probably wounded and bleeding, wiping their hand, and leaving blood on the carriage.

That person was—

"Wu Dajing."

"Wu Dajing!"

Both spoke in unison.

At the utterance of his name, their expressions grew grim.

"Sir, is Wu Dajing dead?" Zhang Chuan asked nervously, trembling. "Did he die in the carriage, right before us, and we—"

The thought chilled him.

The vengeful ghost might have killed someone right in front of them, yet they remembered nothing.

Witnessing it might be less frightening, but imagining it was terrifying.

Before Zhao Fusheng could reply, she noticed the blood stains inside the carriage fading, as if vanishing.

"Old Zhang—" The sight was unnerving, and she called out loudly.

Before Zhang Chuan could answer, a loud knocking sounded at the main door.

"Who is it!"

Wu Lifou, awakened by the commotion, donned a coat and shouted impatiently.

Doghead Village was remote and seldom saw strangers. Occasionally travelers would stay overnight, but such things happened rarely.

Normally, it wouldn't matter, but with the Demon Suppressing Bureau officials in the house, Wu Lifou's family was already uneasy. Nighttime knocking made him grumpy.

After his shout, the knocking paused.

Soon, a strange yet eerily familiar old man's voice sounded, slow and muffled as if his mouth were full of sand, ending with a couple of coughs.

"Wu Dajing," he said.

At that, Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuan froze in place on the carriage.