Two days later, news came from the hospital that Ma Shuangxi had succumbed to his injuries. Tens of thousands had been spent on the futile attempt to save his life.
The property company compensated his family according to the standard for temporary workers. After deducting the 20,000 yuan advance payment for medical expenses, what remained for Ma Shuangxi’s parents was pitifully little.
Still, Ma Shuangxi had a younger brother, so the family line wasn’t completely severed. After staying in Jiangcheng for seven days, the elderly parents took their son’s body back to their hometown, focusing their care on their remaining child. They had initially hesitated at the cost of transporting the body—several thousand yuan—but in the end, the security guards pooled money to have the funeral home send it back.
There was a minor episode in the newspapers. Ma Shuangxi’s parents were received by Wang Han, who praised them for raising a good son. Before parting, he apologized on behalf of the police department for failing to prevent the criminals from committing the crime. “From now on,” he declared, “every police officer is your son.”
All the elderly couple received, apart from this platitude, was an 800-yuan condolence payment. The newspapers lauded Wang Han’s noble character, portraying him as a model of progressive ideals. Several papers even featured close-up shots of the compensation money. Rumor had it that the reporters who covered the story each received a 500-yuan “public relations fee” upon returning.
Along with Ma Shuangxi, the two thugs who had arrived in the white Fukang sedan also died. Being the perpetrators, no one cared about them. Their parents, ashamed, slunk away without a word.
At least on the road to the underworld, Ma Shuangxi wouldn’t be lonely—he had two companions.
Sun Junliu’s near-fatal stabbing was officially classified as an attempted robbery.
As for Sun Junliu himself, his involvement in breeding gu insects led to him being labeled as engaging in cult activities. Combined with his apparent mental instability, he was temporarily confined to the psychiatric ward of the hospital, pending evaluation by experts. If deemed truly unstable, he would be sent to a mental institution for “humane treatment.” Wang Han reiterated, “We will never abandon any citizen. We care deeply for every mentally ill individual.”
Xie Lingyu saw me holding the newspaper and said, “Don’t dwell on it. It’s all in the past. Since ancient times, the poor don’t fight the rich, and commoners don’t challenge officials. Sun Junliu overestimated himself. You’re a feng shui master—worldly affairs aren’t your concern. Come to my room. There are two things I need your opinion on.”
This was the first time Xie Lingyu had invited me into her room. My heart raced with excitement. A faint, pleasant fragrance filled the space.
On a table she had bought from Taobao lay an array of small black stones—tokens exchanged from the little ghosts—arranged in a circle. At the center sat a porcelain doll.
“Don’t stare,” Xie Lingyu warned.
“Heaven and earth as my witness, you’re not a beauty queen, and you don’t wear modern women’s clothes. There’s nothing about you that tempts me,” I retorted.
Xie Lingyu glared at me, raising a finger as if to flick my forehead, but I dodged.
Pointing at the porcelain doll, she said, “It’s been restless these past two days. I don’t know why. Take a look.”
I placed my hand on the doll and immediately felt a surge of agitation. Over a month had passed since the incident with the cement-filled iron drum, yet the little boy inside the porcelain doll was disturbed again. I couldn’t fathom the reason.
Concentrating, I tried to communicate with him, but there was no response. It was like speaking different languages—he didn’t understand me, or perhaps he simply refused to engage. Metaphorically, it was as if I dialed his number, only for him to hang up immediately. On a physical level, our magnetic fields didn’t align.
“He’s completely ignoring me,” I said. “Communicating with ghosts isn’t my forte.”
Xie Lingyu shrugged. “He used to talk to me, but these past few days, he’s been silent. At night, he grinds his teeth, making it impossible to rest…”
“Maybe he misses his mother,” I suggested.
“Forget it,” she said. “Now, tell me who this person is.”
She pulled up a large photo on her computer—a group shot from the 17th Taoist Conference, with accompanying news coverage. One figure stood out: the Flying Centipede. The caption identified him as Ji Ruyue, a representative from Sanqing Mountain in Jiangxi.
I chuckled. “That thieving Taoist bragged about being part of the national Taoist association. Turns out he really did attend the conference. Yufan mentioned it—held at the Weiyang Hotel, a five-star establishment. The Taoist association must be rolling in money.”
Xie Lingyu smirked coldly. “I don’t care what conference it was. He dared to scheme against me, so I won’t let him off easy. He’ll regret it.”
I wondered how a century-old female ghost would deal with a perverted Taoist who collected underwear.
Seduction? Hah, I was almost looking forward to it.
After finishing her questions, Xie Lingyu promptly kicked me out of her room.
With time to kill, I resumed reading. Having finished *Eight Mansions Bright Mirror*, I moved on to *The Shaking Dragon Classic*, another work by Yang Yunsong. It was grand and sweeping, discussing the art of locating geomantic points. The opening lines read:
*“Mount Sumeru is the bone of heaven and earth,*
*A colossal pillar anchoring the cosmos.*
*Like the spine and neck of a man,*
*From it extend the dragon’s mighty limbs.”*
Here, Mount Sumeru referred to the Kunlun Divine Mountain in the topography of the Nine Provinces. Ming Dynasty scholars expanded on this, proposing the “Three Dragons of China” theory—all branching from this central axis.
Viewing the feng shui dragon veins of the Nine Provinces as the bones and bloodlines of a human body was, philosophically, an act of external objectification. Simply put, people understand the world through their own lens. Gods, for instance, are imagined as enhanced versions of humans, embodying desires like immortality, health, and supernatural powers. Similarly, in interpreting nature, people assigned human traits—Kunlun as the spine and head, the mountains and rivers as blood vessels and bones, the soil as flesh. From a modern scientific perspective, this aligns with the formation sequence of continental shelves.
Before I knew it, the afternoon had waned, and it was time to open the flower shop. Xie Lingyu emerged, beaming. I asked if she had figured out how to deal with the Flying Centipede.
Mysteriously, she replied, “It’s already in motion.” No matter how I pressed, she wouldn’t elaborate, only smiling knowingly.
Downstairs, Xu Guangsheng was burning joss paper, surrounded by stacks of “Heaven Bank” currency—gold ingots for the afterlife.
Dusk had fallen, and the smoke from the burning paper drifted faintly. I mused: Would currency issued by the Heaven Bank be accepted in hell? If I ever ended up there, I hoped no one would burn that stuff for me.
Would opening a Hell Bank be more profitable?
As Xu Guangsheng burned the offerings, he muttered, “Shuangxi, we were good buddies, but on your ghost night, don’t come looking for me.”
It had been seven days since Ma Shuangxi’s death. Apart from Xu Guangsheng, it seemed no one remembered him. I stepped forward to help burn the paper, remarking, “People who die violently often return to take friends with them. You and Shuangxi were close, right?”
Xu Guangsheng shook his head vigorously. “No, no! We just shared some dirty jokes—lowbrow stuff. He wouldn’t actually come for me, would he?”
Those who died naturally were far less likely to return as ghosts. But for those who died unjustly, the underworld might permit a solitary return. There was still a chance Xu Guangsheng would be visited.
“Here’s what you do,” I said. “Take a willow branch, pour a bowl of Shuangxi’s favorite liquor, and place the branch inside. Play some exciting music—give him one last thrill. Then hide outside the door and watch. If he drinks the liquor, you’re safe. If not, you’ll still be fine—at worst, he’ll cling to your legs until morning, leaving you with a nasty fever. Since you didn’t kill him, he won’t take your life.”
The willow branch trick was based on its yin-aligned, cold nature. Folklore held that skilled mediums, feng shui masters, and yin-yang practitioners would always add a willow branch when offering drinks to ghost envoys.
Xu Guangsheng was still uneasy. “What if he grabs me and won’t let go? Master, give me another trick.”
“Don’t worry—curse him. Curse him with all your might. The fiercer, the better. And here—” I handed him a ghost-catching talisman. “Keep this in your pocket.”
Xu Guangsheng accepted it gratefully. “Thank you, Master. If I make it through tomorrow unscathed, I’ll be forever indebted.”
“No problem,” I said.
Xiao Jian let out a few odd barks. I scolded him. “Don’t bark for no reason—you’re making me nervous. Let’s go to the shop. You and the kitten need to bond. She still looks down on you. Who knows when your yin-yang eyes will open? One swipe of her claws can dissolve a ghost. You’d better step up your game.”
Xiao Jian, sulking, fell silent.
At that moment, like a fool, I forgot something crucial.
Something very important.
Alongside Ma Shuangxi, the two thugs—who had drunk themselves bold but succumbed to their injuries in the hospital—had also died.
After burning the offerings, Xu Guangsheng bought a 17-yuan bottle of Huanghelou liquor, some peanuts, and two pig’s trotters. At a night market stall, he picked up a Western adult film—something like *Granny Inferno vs. The Black Titan*—featuring brutal, fiery combat scenes…
Xiao Jian and I arrived at the flower shop to find Yu Yuwei, like a delicate blossom, flanked by Liu Jibao and Tie Niu. By the time Xie Lingyu and I entered, the trio was already deep in conversation about a sudden online exposé.
That afternoon, news had broken that a Taoist attending the 17th Conference was an underwear collector who had engaged in group activities with multiple women, employing “Taoist combat techniques.” The posts, complete with vivid descriptions and explicit images, spread across several forums.
Xie Lingyu smiled faintly and whispered to me: When the Flying Centipede fled, he had left his phone behind. He Xiao had carried it in my bag, then given it to her.
The phone contained numerous photos, exposing all of the Flying Centipede’s depravities. Sharp-eyed netizens quickly identified Ji Ruyue from the descriptions, sparking an uproar.
“Can I see the unreleased photos?” I asked.
Xie Lingyu kicked me. “No! What’s wrong with you? Why would you want to see those?”
“You’ve seen them,” I countered.
By ten that night, all forum posts had been scrubbed. Within half an hour, a rebuttal emerged: the claims were malicious fabrications, slandering Taoist culture. Comrade Ji Ruyue, an esteemed scholar of Taoist studies, had long transcended worldly desires. This was a smear campaign against the Party’s religious policies, deserving of public condemnation.
Soon, defenders emerged, praising Ji Ruyue’s noble demeanor and calling him a renowned immortal of Sanqing Mountain, victimized by vile slander.
Xie Lingyu fumed. “I should’ve released everything at once.”
“Sis, don’t,” I urged. “Ji Ruyue had those posts deleted—he must have powerful connections.”
Reluctantly, she conceded. But through gritted teeth, she vowed, “This isn’t over.”
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