Chapter Eleven: The Corpse of Zhang the Donkey Appears in the Morgue, Embalming at Night and Gaining the Divine Art of Swift Movement

Golden lotuses stirred the wind, the bright moon swayed gently.

Song Mo opened the door, and the mortuary attendants carried in a corpse draped with white cloth. Tang Yi, undaunted and rather intrigued, stepped forward to watch the spectacle, but with the body laid upon the table and shrouded in white, its appearance remained obscured.

Song Mo lit the Soul-Calming Lantern, placing it in the northwest corner of the room. The bean-sized flame shone steadily, showing no sign of disturbance; only then did he wash his hands, thread his needle, and prepare to work on the skin.

Tang Yi watched from one side. Song Mo, eager to show off, cleared his throat and declared, “Rules of the trade, ancestral craft—passed from father to son, never to daughters. Outsiders must not watch.”

With a swift motion, Tang Yi half-drew his willow-leaf blade, its dazzling white light reflecting directly into Song Mo’s eyes.

Wiping cold sweat away, Song Mo forced a smile. “Personally, I’m quite opposed to such rules. Good craftsmanship should be for all to see.”

Tang Yi shot him a derisive glance. “Didn’t you say it was an ancestral skill?”

Song Mo gave a bitter smile, spreading his hands. “Mortuary training takes less than half a month to master.”

Tang Yi, satisfied, sheathed his blade. “So that’s all it is—a mere seedling that never flourished, flashy but hollow.”

His words carried a double meaning, mocking both Song Mo’s lack of skill and his opportunistic nature.

Song Mo, face darkening, eyed Tang Yi’s blade at his waist. With the blade in his hand, who could stand firm?

Having been put in his place, Song Mo resolved to reclaim his dignity through his mortuary work and impress Tang Yi.

With this in mind, he lifted the shroud from the corpse. The moment he saw the face, he stepped back in disbelief, eyes wide as thunder seemed to crash in his ears.

“What’s wrong?” Tang Yi watched the corpse on the table warily.

The body’s face was twisted in terror—a flat skull, scab-ridden head. The main artery beneath the neck had been slashed open, flesh mangled, death caused by excessive blood loss.

“I saw this man today,” Song Mo said in a low voice, his furrowed brows alerting Tang Yi to trouble.

Flat skull, scab-head—the corpse was Zhang Donkey.

“I’ll handle the mortuary rites first. The rest can wait,” Song Mo said gravely.

According to the rules of the underworld, with the Soul-Calming Lantern lit, the mortuary rites must proceed swiftly. Leaving the body exposed is a grave disrespect, disturbing the soul and inviting calamity.

Tang Yi nodded and sat on the cold couch, his interest in watching Song Mo work now gone.

Song Mo frowned at Zhang Donkey’s corpse. The man had been gambling earlier that day, and now he lay dead—far too strange.

Could it be connected to the Turks?

But he dared not jump to conclusions. Zhang Donkey was a subordinate of Yu Mofan of the Canal Gang in Dark Moon City—a place where factions tangled, and revenge or accidental killings were all too possible.

Now, there was only one way to uncover the truth of Zhang Donkey’s death.

Mortuary rites.

Glancing at Tang Yi on the cold couch, Song Mo hesitated.

Performing the rites now would expose the Soul Summoning Record to Tang Yi, and that would certainly invite unnecessary trouble.

With this in mind, Song Mo threw out a name.

“What you Six Gates are looking for isn’t with me. Go to Dark Moon City and find Old Ghost Wu—if he’s still alive,” Song Mo said vaguely, but clever as Tang Yi was, he understood perfectly.

The passport ledger was with Old Ghost Wu.

Just as Song Mo expected, Tang Yi stood up, opened the door, and left.

Song Mo closed the door, checked the Soul-Calming Lantern again—it burned calmly, so he could proceed.

There was only one wound on Zhang Donkey’s body, the slash on his neck—not difficult to handle.

Song Mo first stitched the windpipe with fine thread, then closed up the shredded flesh, finally using transparent thread to tighten the skin around the wound.

Midnight arrived. Brush in hand, he prepared for the next step.

In a daze, the Soul-Calling Banner appeared, and the Soul Summoning Record manifested.

Zhang Donkey’s life flashed before Song Mo’s eyes.

Jian’an’s capital, with its nine rivers and twelve streams, was a hub for canal transportation, populated by boatmen and haulers.

Zhang Donkey’s father was a hauler on the riverbank. From an early age, Zhang Donkey helped his father pull boats, eventually honing a remarkable skill—he could run faster than most.

Unlike his honest, upright father, Zhang Donkey was mischievous from childhood—stealing chickens and piglets, spying on widows bathing at night, extorting guests on boats, hiding in brothels.

By day, he stole neighbors’ chickens and piglets to satisfy his appetite; by night, he lurked outside widows’ doors, peeping as they bathed. As a hauler, he always demanded extra payment from passengers, spending his earnings in brothels every night.

Eventually, Zhang Donkey tired of plaguing the countryside and sought to become a local boss in Dark Moon City.

He soon discovered the city’s waters ran deep, but thanks to his quick feet, Yu Mofan recruited him as a runner collecting protection money. Hence the nickname Zhang Donkey.

At first, he hoped to make something of himself, but after entering the casino and falling for Little Peach Blossom in the brothel, he gave up entirely.

Zhang Donkey’s life was uneventful—collecting protection money, gambling, frequenting brothels. The cycle repeated endlessly.

Soon, the vision reached August 11. Zhang Donkey, hidden in a pile of leaves, witnessed something that explained how the passport ledger ended up in his hands.

The vision sped forward to August 14—today.

Zhang Donkey lost money at the casino, misplaced the passport ledger, and endured a tirade from Old Ghost Wu. Frustrated, he scratched his scab-ridden head, gave a lewd smile, and slipped into the brothel.

He was a regular with Little Peach Blossom, so the madam suspected nothing.

But Zhang Donkey was shameless—he skipped out on his bill.

A rogue has no sense of honor; after indulging himself, he hopped over a low wall and fled.

The brothel wouldn’t let him escape so easily. Seven or eight burly men chased after him, fists clenched and cursing.

Had they caught him, he’d have been beaten senseless.

But Zhang Donkey relied on his quick feet and familiarity with the alleys; in a blink, he vanished, leaving the men to curse and return empty-handed.

He ducked into a deserted alley, patting his belly with delight.

Suddenly, a shadow leaped out.

A curved blade, cold as ice, pressed against Zhang Donkey’s throat. The figure wore night robes, face masked, with only a pair of ruthless, vulture-like eyes exposed.

“Where is it?” The man's speech was rough, clearly a masked foreigner.

Zhang Donkey paled, thinking he was being robbed.

“Sir, I have no money on me,” he said, his face drawn.

“Where is it?” the man repeated coldly.

“Sir, what exactly are you looking for?” Zhang Donkey stammered.

“The passport ledger,” the black-clad man said in a chilling tone.

Zhang Donkey finally understood—the man was searching for the book Old Ghost Wu had taken. At that moment, he also recognized the assailant: the ruthless one who killed Chief Zhang Wei outside Yongle Gate.

Trembling, Zhang Donkey told the black-clad man where the ledger was, thinking he’d be spared. But the man slit his throat without hesitation.

The vision ended.

Song Mo’s expression darkened; he remained silent.

Spirit, return. Soul enters the record.

Heaven and earth, mysterious and yellow, four ranks and nine grades.

The Soul Summoning Record appraised the corpse: Yellow, fourth grade.

As a reward, Song Mo received an ancient, yellowed book.

The book stated: “Paper horse, commonly known as armor horse. In Zhou times, the emperor revered spirits; Wang Yu used paper as currency. Paper horses are offered to spirits, continuing the tradition. Later generations printed gods and Buddhas on colored paper for sale, burning them before deities—thus called paper horses. Some say that in ancient times, gods were painted upon paper, always depicted riding horses, hence the name.”

“The Divine Armor Horse Technique”

Song Mo flipped through it—it was a technique.

Learning the Divine Armor Horse Technique, one seemed to ride the clouds, feet flying, crossing mountains and towns in a flash. Armor horses truly connect with the divine, bringing distant places near.

Song Mo’s heart leapt with joy; he immediately took rice paper and a brush, ground ink, and drew two armor horses.

One could be tied to each leg, then run circles around the room, feet swift and tireless.

A hundred yards in a few moments—a human rocket.

Song Mo marveled; with this skill, he had a means to escape and survive. The world was vast; nowhere was out of reach.

As he reveled in his newfound ability, the door to Mortuary Room Seven was suddenly pounded.

Song Mo frowned. It was still midnight—far too early for corpse handover.

Though puzzled, he opened the door.

Outside stood Tang Yi, flanked by over a dozen Six Gates constables.

“Seize him!” Tang Yi ordered, and the constables surged forward.

Their target: Song Mo.