Chapter Thirty-Five: The Unsavory Ones Arrive at the Mortuary; Straw Hearts Replace Missing Hearts

The future brings sea swallows to play with grass, river plums have faded and willows are sprouting down, yellow flowers are dampened on the swing by sparse autumn rain.

On the county road, an ox cart moved slowly through the drizzle, carrying a jet-black coffin.

“I’ve heard strange things are happening in our county lately. The night watchman’s death was suspicious,” murmured Ma Xiaosi, the constable escorting the coffin, tightening the straw raincoat around his shoulders and lowering his voice to the middle-aged constable ahead of him.

“A gentleman keeps his distance from ghosts and spirits. Don’t let your imagination run wild,” said Zhu Ke, the middle-aged constable leading the way, as he patted the saber at his waist and spoke in a deep voice.

“So what you’re saying, Brother Zhu, is that there really is some evil afoot in our county?” Ma Xiaosi glanced nervously at the coffin on the cart and whispered.

Zhu Ke was silent for a long time before finally sighing. “Let’s go. After we deliver the body, we need to hurry back. The county’s short of hands these days.”

Ma Xiaosi couldn’t hide his disappointment; he had planned to spend a merry night in Brocade Alley, but it seemed his plans were dashed.

At the hour of the Goat, the ox cart carrying the coffin slowly entered the Mortuary Office in the southern part of the city. Before long, the cart rolled out again, the black coffin having been unloaded.

Inside the Mortuary Office, minor officials He Yiming and Wu Wanlin looked at the corpse register on the table and could only smile wryly.

Another corpse, and again from Changning County.

“Shall we...?” Wu Wanlin began.

Before he could finish, He Yiming nodded.

Everything was understood without words.

They ground ink, lifted their brushes, and made a new entry in the corpse register.

“Thirteenth year of Jian’an, eighteenth day of the eighth month: corpse from Changning County, assigned to Mortuary Room Number Seven.”

…

The golden censer was filled with the ashes of incense, the sound of the water clock faded, and a chill wind whispered through.

Some tiles had peeled off the roof of Mortuary Room Seven. Fortunately, the rain was light, and water dripped steadily through the gaps.

When Song Mo awoke, a small patch of the room was already wet.

“Looks like I’ll need someone to fix this roof,” he muttered under his breath. He splashed cold water on his face and went to sign in at the Mortuary Office.

After returning, Song Mo placed a clay basin under the leak to catch the rainwater, lest the room be flooded.

Knock, knock, knock.

A familiar sound.

He opened the door to find the porters from the Mortuary Office delivering another body.

Whether by coincidence or not, it was the same group as last night, still clad in gray hemp coats.

“So, tonight’s corpse is from Changning County again,” Song Mo thought to himself.

“Huh? You’re... you’re alright?” The young porter, seeing Song Mo open the door, was momentarily stunned. He nearly blurted out “not dead,” but caught himself and changed it to “alright.”

Song Mo was speechless.

Boy, do you have any manners?

The older porter gave the youth a swift kick and scolded, “Less talking, more working.”

Song Mo recalled their names from his past life’s memories—the two were uncle and nephew, the younger named Wei Chen, the elder Wei Xi.

“My nephew has no filter, don’t take offense,” Wei Xi said apologetically.

Song Mo waved it off, indicating he didn’t mind. He then glanced at the shrouded corpse and asked in a low voice, “Another one from Changning County?”

Wei Xi nodded, glanced around to ensure no one was watching, and then lowered his voice. “Brother, have you offended someone recently?”

Song Mo’s expression changed slightly. “What do you mean by that, Brother Wei?”

“It was a constable from Changning who brought this corpse. For you to be assigned two corpses from Changning in a row—something’s off,” Wei Xi advised kindly.

Song Mo understood at once. Tang Yi must have gained nothing in Changning County, and, mistakenly believing Song Mo possessed some soul-searching secret, had deliberately sent the body to the southern mortuary.

At this realization, Song Mo relaxed. “It’s nothing. This is the job we’ve chosen, after all.”

Wei Xi felt a surge of admiration for Song Mo’s composure. Smacking Wei Chen on the head, he said, “If you had half his spine, I’d have a much easier time.”

Wei Chen scratched his head and grinned. “But Uncle, you never wanted me to be a mortician.”

Wei Xi’s face darkened; he had never expected his foolish nephew to be so loose-tongued. “He’s still here! Can’t you wait till we’re back to talk?”

Song Mo: “…”

Night winds carried the fine rain, and the sound by the window came late.

Song Mo gazed blankly at the corpse on the table, his expression strange.

The shroud had already been lifted, revealing the night watchman from Changning County who had died a violent death the night before. The gaping wound in his chest was gruesome, but his face was oddly peaceful—his lips even curled in a strange, upward smile.

“No heart? This is going to be a lot of work,” Song Mo frowned and shook his head.

In the mortician’s trade, beyond cleaning and repairing, there was the art of “patching.” When a corpse’s heart was missing, it required particular skill.

Human beings possess three souls and seven spirits, five viscera and six bowels—none can be lacking.

If a body is incomplete, it’s hard to bury it, leading to misfortune and even the birth of a corpse demon.

So morticians cultivated the art of bone-patching—using materials to restore missing parts so the deceased could be laid to rest with dignity.

The most common material was straw, for rice is one of the five sacred grains, and straw, as its vessel, is believed to ward off evil—making it the ideal choice.

For the wealthy or noble, gold or silver could be used, or even spirit wood for the most mystical effect.

Lighting the soul-calming lamp in the corner, its small blue flame burned steadily.

Song Mo took a bundle of straw, and with needle and thread, carefully stitched it into a heart. After half an hour, a lifelike straw heart sat on the table.

He fitted it into the cavity, sewed it in place, and restored the skin.

Under the dim yellow light, his expression was one of respect and care.

In this trade, rules and respect for the dead meant everything.

Why?

Simple.

Those who broke the rules and disrespected the dead—

Had already become corpses themselves.

Song Mo focused on his work, oblivious to the shadow slowly emerging from the corner behind him.

It crept from the darkness, inch by inch, drawing closer to his back.

Though it moved slowly, in the time it takes for half a stick of incense to burn, it was standing right behind him.

The shadow reached out, hands stretching for Song Mo’s neck. Just then, the soul-calming lamp flared brightly.

A flash of blue light, and the shadow recoiled as if scalded, vanishing back into the darkness.

At midnight, Song Mo finally finished the restoration.

In a daze, he raised the soul-summoning banner, and the Record of Spirits appeared.

The corpse’s lantern of life flickered on.

The deceased was named Han Bing—an honest, unremarkable man.

His father had served as a retainer for the county magistrate, securing him the job of night watchman in Changning County.

He had performed his duties diligently, until last night.

At the end of the street, Han Bing was drawn to a beautiful woman. Suddenly, he exclaimed in terror, “I remember now, you’re—”

As though he’d seen a ghost, Han Bing turned to run, but soon stood frozen.

Song Mo saw it clearly: a shadow in the darkness gripped Han Bing’s ankle, then slowly climbed up his body.

Han Bing fell. His lantern and gong rolled aside.

…

When the lantern of life went dark, the remnant soul was gathered into the soul-summoning banner.

“Return, soul—enter the record.”

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

The Record of Spirits gave its verdict: fifth grade under the Black character.

Night-Illuminating Lantern.

The “Scripture of Living Gold” states: In the endless night, with no sun or moon, one seeks the golden palace in vain. Only a slender line of sky, speckled and faint—one must light a lantern to see the eight directions.

This Night-Illuminating Lantern not only brings light but also clarity of mind.

Song Mo struck a fire and lit the lantern. Golden light filled the room, slowly merging into his eyes.

His mind was clear as still water, unruffled by the slightest breeze.

At dawn, as pale light crept through the window, Song Mo opened his eyes—clear, calm, as deep as the ocean.

“A fine thing,” he murmured with satisfaction, but his heart soon grew heavy. “It seems Tang Yi has encountered real trouble in Changning County.”