Chapter Ten: Old Wu’s Paltry Gains, the Six-Fan Gate’s Morgue Revealed

Taking advantage of the gamblers still making a commotion and no one paying attention, Song Mo was just about to step forward, pick up the travel permit, and quietly leave. Suddenly, a shadow darted in from the side; without a word, this figure snatched up the permit and turned to go. Song Mo looked closely and saw it was a beggar, clad in tattered, filthy rags, hair grey and disheveled, his face grimy, and his body exuded a foul stench.

The old beggar, with a limp, moved with surprising swiftness as he seized the permit and tried to leave, only to be spotted by Zhang Donkey, who was still fuming and spat, “You filthy beggar, where do you think you’re going with my stuff?” True to his reputation, the scoundrel Zhang Donkey, though he had tossed the permit away himself out of embarrassment, now twisted the truth, accusing the beggar of theft.

The old beggar squeezed out a smile uglier than a cry and said, “Then I don’t want it, here, take it back.” As he spoke, he handed the permit back to Zhang Donkey. Zhang Donkey slapped it away with a curse: “Something touched by a filthy beggar is tainted with bad luck! You’ll have to pay me a tenth of a tael in silver.”

Well, now the rogue was trying to extort a beggar—a rare scene indeed. The gamblers nearby, entertained, began to laugh and banter, eager to watch the show. From their chatter, Song Mo learned the old beggar’s surname was Wu, though no one knew his given name. He’d been haunting the gambling dens of Darkmoon City for years, sometimes performing folk ballads for a few coppers, and occasionally gambling himself. The gamblers all called him Old Ghost Wu.

Seeing that the rogue Zhang Donkey had set his sights on him, Old Ghost Wu could only lament his misfortune. Fortunately, after the laughter died down, the gamblers showed some camaraderie and spoke up for him. Zhang Donkey, having regained some pride and realizing the permit was worthless anyway, waved his hand magnanimously and told Old Ghost Wu to sing a folk ballad to amuse them.

Old Ghost Wu grinned, pocketed the permit, then fished out two bamboo clappers from his filthy clothes. Tapping them in rhythm, he sang:

“Heaven’s nine, earth’s nine,
Four men sit down to play dominoes,
Lose ninety-nine pieces of silver,
Wife stands at the door:
‘You good-for-nothing, will you leave or not?
Harm your father, wandering the streets;
Harm your mother, taking up a stick;
Harm your son, sent to herd cattle;
Harm your wife, forced to carry bricks.’”

Finishing his song, Old Ghost Wu spun around and ran. Song Mo could hardly believe that a lame, elderly beggar could move so fast—he shot out of the gambling den like the wind. Only then did the gamblers realize he had been mocking them in his song, and they started cursing, swearing next time they’d break his remaining legs if they caught him.

Song Mo quietly walked out of the casino. Outside, the market bustled with peddlers and vendors, but there was no sign of Old Ghost Wu—he had likely fled swiftly, afraid of the gamblers’ wrath. Song Mo was in no hurry to find him; after all, an old beggar with a limp couldn’t have gone far and would likely linger around Darkmoon City for his next meal.

Besides, the permit was like a ticking time bomb, liable to explode at any moment. The Turks were searching for it, the Six Gates were searching for it—Song Mo had no desire to cross their paths. After careful thought, he decided the safest place for the permit was in Old Ghost Wu’s hands.

First, beggars had their own territories. Old Ghost Wu haunted the gambling dens, so his range of activity was likely limited; Song Mo could always find him there. Second, as Song Mo was currently being used as bait by the Six Gates, if the permit ever appeared in his hands, the ruthless Turks would surely ensure he never saw the next sunrise.

Song Mo spent the day wandering Darkmoon City, spending two coppers for a lunch of a fragrant, freshly baked sesame flatbread and a bowl of lotus leaf and osmanthus porridge—simple fare, free of additives, yet wonderfully aromatic.

By early afternoon, Song Mo left Darkmoon City and headed south toward the mortuary. The coroner’s office required him to check in at dusk, and he dared not be late.

...

Tang Yi had just stepped out of the Spring Breeze Pleasure House when a group of beggar children surrounded him, singing a folk ballad. Frowning, he was about to push them away, but when he looked up and saw their dirty, sallow faces, he simply untied his purse and handed it to the stockiest boy among them.

“Be smart, don’t hand it all over,” Tang Yi said quietly before slipping away.

“Brother Tiger, how much silver is in there?” a little girl asked curiously, her bright eyes sparkling as she gazed at the burly boy.

Little Tiger was the leader of the beggar children. He led them to a secluded corner before slowly opening the purse Tang Yi had given him. The children stared in astonishment: inside, along with a dozen copper coins, was a fine five-tael ingot of pure snowflake silver.

Little Tiger quickly stashed the purse close to his body and sternly warned the others not to mention this to the beggar guild’s bosses. With this money, they could one day start a small business, which would be far better than a lifetime of begging.

At the same time, Little Tiger silently vowed to remember Tang Yi, the benefactor who had given them the purse, and to repay him someday.

...

After sending off the beggar children, Tang Yi was about to head to the southern mortuary to look for Song Mo when a dusty, disheveled figure suddenly stumbled out from a nearby alley. The man wore no coat, his face was smeared with dirt, and as he rubbed his head, he cursed aloud: “So this is the infamous Tang Yi of the Six Gates—never did me any harm, yet you strike at me like this. Just you wait, I’ll go to the capital’s yamen and report you!”

Tang Yi heard these words and stopped abruptly, glancing at the man—someone he did not recognize. He wondered how this stranger knew his name, for there was only one Tang Yi of the Six Gates.

In fact, Tang Yi didn’t know him, but Song Mo did—it was Ma Mingde, head of the Defeng Garden opera troupe.

Hearing Ma Mingde still cursing, Tang Yi approached, frowning, and asked what had happened. Ma Mingde, looking for someone to vent his grievances to, eagerly recounted how “Tang Yi” had knocked him out with a dirty trick and stolen his green robe, embellishing the story as he went.

Tang Yi listened with growing certainty. There was only one person who would dare impersonate him for such a deed: Song Mo.

“There’s no need to go to the capital’s yamen. They can’t help you. Go to the Six Gates instead—they’ll give you some compensation,” Tang Yi said.

Ma Mingde was bewildered and asked, “Who are you?”

“Six Gates. Tang Yi.” With that, Tang Yi turned and left.

Ma Mingde stared after him, eyes wide, muttering in disbelief, “Tang Yi? Another Tang Yi?”

Tang Yi’s figure vanished in a few heartbeats, leaving Ma Mingde standing in confusion amid the swirling wind.

...

As the evening hour struck, Song Mo ambled up to the southern mortuary. Thirty-six mortuary rooms stood in a row, all seemingly calm, but Song Mo’s instincts told him something was off. There were more people on the old street than usual.

Song Mo knew this territory well—normally, you couldn’t even scare up two birds with a stick around here, but now there were many more people loitering in front of the shops along the street. If there was nothing amiss, then that alone would be odd.

After a moment’s thought, Song Mo crouched behind an old tree and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Song Mo, so this is where you’ve been!”

Having done this, he strolled out as if he had nothing to hide, eyeing the unfamiliar faces in the crowd. One glance, and his heart dropped to his stomach. Those people, their eyes sharp and searching, were no ordinary passersby.

Now Song Mo was certain—they were here for him.

If it’s fate, you can’t avoid it; if it’s disaster, you can’t escape.

Bracing himself, Song Mo shed his disguise and resumed his true appearance, swaggering openly past the crowd and returning to Mortuary Room Seven.

The moment he opened the door, he felt a murderous intent lock onto him. Looking up, he saw Tang Yi sitting cross-legged on the cold couch.

“I hear you’ve taken up my name these days?” Tang Yi’s face was icy, betraying no hint of emotion.

Song Mo feigned ignorance. “Tang Yi—‘Tang’ as in grandeur, ‘Yi’ as in brightness—a fine name, sir.”

Tang Yi snorted. “Try impersonating me again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Song Mo fell silent in fright. Fortunately, the check-in at dusk saved him from further trouble.

By full dusk, Song Mo wore a bitter expression as he watched Tang Yi meditate on the cold couch. The officers of the Six Gates were using him as bait; if they succeeded in catching the Turks, he’d get no credit, but if things went awry, he’d lose his life.

As he pondered how to escape this predicament, the door to Mortuary Room Seven was pounded from the outside.

Work had arrived.