Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Entire Village Gathers

Chapter Seventy-Seven

The room where Zhao Fusheng stayed was the best in Wu Liyou’s house, the main chamber. It was said to have once belonged to Wu Dajing’s parents in earlier years. After their deaths, Wu Dajing and his wife renovated it once, and the old couple lived there. When Zhao Fusheng arrived, the Wu family tidied up this finest room for her, cleaning it thoroughly and changing the bedding to new sheets.

Yet, as she lay down and pulled the quilt, she caught a faint trace of blood in the air. The bedding and sheets were evidently several years old, likely reserved for guests and rarely used. Because they’d been stored in the bottom of a chest for years, the sheets bore deep marks from being pressed, and to prevent moths, they’d stuffed aromatic wood and herbs among them, leaving a sharp herbal scent.

Zhao Fusheng searched the room but found no visible bloodstains. Where did this bloody scent come from? She reached to her chest and felt the folded human skin quilt.

Taking it out, she pushed aside the bedding and spread the quilt—taken from Wu Liren’s bedding—over herself. The bloody odor faded instantly.

That night, Zhao Fusheng slept deeply. Early in the morning, she was awakened by Zhang Chuan-shi’s knocking at the door.

“Master, master,” came his voice, eerily from outside. Zhao Fusheng opened her eyes, momentarily unable to tell if she was still dreaming or awake.

She had rested the night, but felt no improvement in her spirit—only an inexplicable exhaustion. Perhaps it was the fatigue from yesterday’s long journey; her body ached everywhere, and her head throbbed.

Her mind was muddled, memories tangled and confused. She even forgot to respond to Zhang Chuan-shi’s call.

Her eyes were bloodshot, her expression wan. She glanced around—

The room was dim and shabby, the upper corners thick with dusty cobwebs. She lay on a strange bed, beside which stood a cabinet half her height.

On the cabinet sat a small oil lamp, still burning after a night, the oil nearly spent and the light faint.

A peculiar, pale pink quilt, soft as some tanned skin stitched together, was draped over her.

“Master—” Zhang Chuan-shi’s voice called again.

Zhao Fusheng pulled her scattered thoughts together, forced herself to sit up, and was about to pull aside the quilt when she saw, stitched in tiny characters at its center: “There is a ghost in my house!”

“There is a ghost in my house!”

These four words were like a key, suddenly unlocking the door of her memory.

Last night’s events flooded back: she had received Wu Dajing’s report and followed him to Dog Head Village—midway, Wu Dajing stopped to pay respects to his early-deceased brother Wu Datong, thus separating from Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuan-shi. She arrived at the village to inspect Wu Liren’s old home, found the bedding, and upon examining it, discovered the human skin quilt.

Later, Wu Dajing returned at midnight, and Zhao Fusheng, piecing together the clues, instructed Wu Shaochun to gather the villagers today in Wu Liren’s old house to resolve the ghost case.

Now, Zhang Chuan-shi was calling her—Wu Shaochun and the others must have arrived!

Indeed, without her response, the knocking outside grew urgent, accompanied by the shuffle of many feet and the crackle of torches. Wu Shaochun lowered his voice and asked, “Has the master not woken yet?”

“Not sure,” Zhang Chuan-shi shook his head, anxious.

“Did you hear anything happen last night?” Wu Liyou asked.

“No. I dared not sleep last night—the master’s lamp stayed lit all night,” Zhang Chuan-shi replied.

“Did something happen?” a woman asked nervously.

Her words threw everyone into panic.

Dog Head Village had seen the strange disappearance of Wu Liren’s family; everyone believed it was a ghostly curse and had called the magistrate from the Demon Suppression Bureau to exorcise it.

If Zhao Fusheng died here, the whole village might be doomed.

“No, we must go in and check!” Zhang Chuan-shi grew alarmed.

At that moment, Zhao Fusheng, sorting through her memories, was shocked to find she had lost a portion of them. She recalled asking Wu Shaochun to gather the villagers, but couldn’t remember why.

Meanwhile, Zhang Chuan-shi and the others were preparing to knock the door open. Zhao Fusheng suppressed her fear and called out, “I’m fine. Come in.”

She had slept in her clothes, wary of trouble. Rising from bed, she nearly collapsed from dizziness, grabbing the cabinet for support until she steadied herself.

Outside, the people sighed in relief at hearing her voice.

They filed in, seeing Zhao Fusheng leaning on the cabinet, head bowed and gasping for breath. The bedding was pushed aside, the thin human skin quilt sprawled across the bed, sending chills through everyone. No one dared speak, feeling the Demon Suppression Bureau’s magistrate was indeed a strange one.

Zhao Fusheng endured her initial discomfort, stood firm, and calmly folded the human skin quilt, tucking it into her arms.

“Master, Wu Shaochun has gathered the villagers. They’re waiting outside,” Zhang Chuan-shi reported.

Zhao Fusheng nodded. “I’ll wash my face and go.”

Though she couldn’t recall why she’d summoned the villagers, her intent must have been prompted by an important clue, to resolve the case at Wu Liren’s home.

She had lost a crucial segment of memory, and was acutely aware of her unnatural weakness. Since she began commanding ghosts, though her life was threatened, her physical strength had grown far beyond her former self, thanks to the influence of vengeful spirits.

But now she felt distinctly unwell, likely a result of being harmed by a powerful ghost.

“Wu Liyou made flatbreads—I’ll bring some for you to eat on the way,” Zhang Chuan-shi offered, more attentive after Zhao Fusheng’s promise last night.

Zhao Fusheng did not refuse.

A Wu family woman brought in water for washing; Zhao Fusheng quickly wiped her face and hands with a cloth, but the water stung her skin, burning painfully—perhaps a sign of her ailment.

The cloth fell back into the basin. The water was clear, showing no blood or skin flakes.

Zhao Fusheng gazed into the basin, seeing her own pale face, dark eyes staring back. No one dared hurry her. After a moment, she slapped the water, breaking her reflection, and called, “Let’s go!”

Leading Zhang Chuan-shi and the others out, she found Wu Shaochun and several young men from Dog Head Village waiting outside Wu Liyou’s house.

Seeing her, Wu Shaochun’s eyes lit up; he stepped forward and bowed. “Master.”

Zhao Fusheng looked behind him. About a dozen people stood there, mostly young men of similar age.

Wu Shaochun explained, “After your instructions last night, I went and woke the villagers, passing on your orders. Most are waiting at Uncle Liyou’s house; we’re here to accompany you.”

“All have come?” Zhao Fusheng asked.

Wu Shaochun replied, “All notified.” He added, “Matters of taxation—no one will lag behind.”

He watched her face for approval; when she nodded, his heart eased and he smiled.

Wu Liyou’s female relatives, overhearing, asked, “Must we go too?”

“The master has already seen us. We needn’t go—there’s work at home—” another woman began, but Zhao Fusheng cut her off:

“Everyone must go. This case requires every person to be present at Wu Liren’s house.”

The women exchanged glances, puzzled and dissatisfied, but ultimately fell silent, bowing their heads.

Leaving the courtyard, Wu Liyou, eager for tax reduction, pushed his women to quickly lock up and follow.

When they arrived at Wu Liren’s house, the gate was already crowded with villagers.

Seeing Zhao Fusheng approach, excitement surged and they surrounded her:

“Master is here!”

“Shaochun said we’re gathering to discuss tax reduction?”

“What taxes will be cut?”

…

The crowd’s questions made Zhao Fusheng’s head ache.

Zhang Chuan-shi, seeing her poor complexion, shouted, “Quiet! Stop talking!”

His rebuke silenced the crowd.

“The master hasn’t spoken, yet you’re already noisy. How to reduce taxes, how much—she knows best.”

He scolded, “You petty-minded folks, always breaking your word, think others are like you? The master says she’ll reduce taxes—she will! Such ignorance—she’s here to solve your case!”

His words stung little. To Dog Head Village’s people, the existence of a vengeful ghost was uncertain. Even if there was a ghost, only Wu Liren’s family suffered—what concern was it to the rest? So long as their own didn’t die, what matter if there’s a ghost? The Demon Suppression Bureau’s magistrate was here for her own advancement; if she wanted cooperation, tax reduction worked better than ghost stories.

Zhang Chuan-shi saw through their thoughts, about to continue, but Zhao Fusheng stopped him.

“How many people have come?” she asked.

Wu Shaochun looked around, saw the mass of villagers, and counted quickly. “Almost everyone is here,” he replied.

Hearing this, Zhao Fusheng felt a strange unease. She said nothing, only nodded: “Let’s go inside.”

Wu Liren’s house was large, with three courtyards. The central courtyard was spacious, now cluttered with items—these were belongings the villagers had taken after Wu Liren’s disappearance but returned overnight.

Zhao Fusheng instructed Wu Shaochun to organize people to move the items aside, leaving the courtyard clear.

Then she announced, “Follow my instructions. When this ghost case is resolved, every household will be exempt from six months of Demon Suppression Bureau taxes.”

At her words, the crowd’s spirits soared. “We’ll do as you say!”

The people of Great Han suffered under heavy taxes. The imperial taxes could be deferred, paid once a year; but the Demon Suppression Bureau’s taxes affected the local officials’ lives and could not be delayed.

Each year’s tax weighed like a mountain. Now, with half removed, relief spread across their faces.

Zhao Fusheng continued, “Now, group yourselves by household and find a seat. Old Zhang will count.”

Everyone hurried to obey, seating themselves in family groups.

Zhang Chuan-shi understood her intent and wondered, “Master suspects the village’s numbers are wrong?”

Zhao Fusheng nodded.

After her sleep, she had forgotten why she summoned the villagers to Wu Liren’s house. But she trusted her own judgment—there must have been a reason.

Upon arriving, the reason became clear.

She had lost some memories, but recalled her conversation with Wu Dajing at dinner last night, when she asked about the village’s population.

Wu Dajing had answered, “Dog Head Village has twenty-one households, totaling one hundred twenty-six people.”

Yet now, at Wu Liren’s gate, she found, with Wu Liyou’s family included, only a few dozen—far short of a hundred.

Turning to Wu Shaochun, he insisted nearly all had arrived.

This was an obvious discrepancy.

Once everyone was seated, Zhang Chuan-shi coughed and began counting: “One, two, three…”

He first counted the households, repeating thrice, finally stopping at “nineteen.”

“Master, Dog Head Village has nineteen households,” Zhang Chuan-shi reported.

He had not realized the gravity of the situation. As he spoke, Zhao Fusheng’s perception began to shift.

Last night’s memory of dining with Wu Dajing twisted; the household count changed from “twenty-one” to “nineteen.”

But Zhao Fusheng was alert, and held fast to her original recollection, refusing to be swayed.

Zhang Chuan-shi’s memory had been distorted, but he noticed nothing amiss. He prepared to count the population.

He and Wu Shaochun agreed, “Let each family report their number; I’ll tally them.”

Wu Shaochun called, and each household reported its members; Zhang Chuan-shi quickly calculated.

He was practiced in business and mental arithmetic, soon reporting, “Master, Dog Head Village has seventy-nine people.”

At that moment, the population figure in Zhao Fusheng’s mind shifted again.

The villagers, unaware of her purpose, watched as Zhao Fusheng finally spoke: “I think this number is not right.”

She shook her head.

“Not right?” Wu Shaochun, seated in the front, was puzzled, scratching his head.

“Master, these are all the people in the village.”

He glanced around; every familiar face was seated in the courtyard.

Wu Shaochun sat alone, sensing nothing strange.

“You report nineteen households and seventy-nine people.”