Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Scholar of the Zhang Family Relies on a Portrait; The Coffin Department's Ma Zhu Reveals His Ruthless Nature

The night was thick with smoky haze, darkness pressing heavily, the stone beams and thatched cottages on the mountain verge all crumbling and dilapidated.

It was deep into the night, behind the Zhang family estate, on the mountainside.

A woman in a cheongsam hurriedly emerged from a half-collapsed thatched hut. The buttons of her dress were misaligned, exposing a swath of pale skin under the moonlight.

The autumn wind, relentless, swept up the loose thatch atop the roof in layers.

Inside, the cold wind swept through the house. A solitary oil lamp burned weakly, its small bead of light barely clinging to life.

Upon the chilly couch, a scholar with a haggard face half-reclined beside the window.

He coughed softly, “cough, cough,” the sound breaking the silence now and then.

He covered his mouth with a plain white handkerchief embroidered with a lotus, like someone afflicted with a chill.

Above his bed hung a scroll painting, a sheet of rice paper about a foot long. Two spaces were left blank, with only the center displaying, in exquisite brushwork, the image of an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

It was a scene from the boudoir—a lady on a swing in autumn. She wore a pale moon-colored skirt, her upper garment a sheer white blouse with an orchid embroidered at the collar. A pure white lotus bloomed vividly across the silvery-white bustier. Her gauzy sleeves floated like clouds, and a moon-colored sash encircled her slender waist, embroidered with delicate, scattered patterns. Her hair was swept up simply and fastened with a single hairpin, letting the remaining glossy black strands cascade down her back.

Her face, unadorned by powder or rouge, was breathtaking—delicate features, a petite jade nose, and lips red as cherries. Only her elegant brows were faintly furrowed, casting a subtle shadow of worry across her refined face. Was it the pangs of longing for her beloved, or the melancholy of autumn that troubled her?

“Jiao-niang, where have you gone?” The scholar gently traced the painted woman’s cheek, his wan face full of yearning and sorrow.

A sudden fit of coughing bent him double.

He took up his handkerchief, and in his eyes flashed a glimmer of despair.

“So, in the end, I cannot escape it?” he murmured, his gaze already growing unfocused.

On the white handkerchief, the elegant lotus now bore a few streaks of crimson.

…

Mortuary No. 7.

It was the fourth watch of the night; darkness still shrouded the sky.

Song Mo stared blankly at the Strength Pill in his hand. He’d heard plenty about this sort of thing—traveling quacks selling pills and playing tricks all claimed to have these.

“Could this be another fraud?” he thought. Yet, everything the Soul Summoning Record had provided so far had proven genuine.

He sniffed it—a faint medicinal fragrance.

He tasted it—well…

The smell was better than the taste.

Once swallowed, the Strength Pill sent a warm, nourishing current flowing through every muscle in Song Mo’s body.

His chest, his abdomen, his biceps, his deltoids…

He felt as if he were a great balloon, slowly swelling.

It took the time of a single incense stick for the transformation to subside.

Beneath the coarse cloth of his shirt, Song Mo’s figure was not as bulky as he’d imagined, but more symmetrical and defined.

Feeling this unprecedented strength and vigor, Song Mo’s brows lifted in delight.

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled off his shirt.

“Tsk tsk, thin in clothes, sturdy out of them—a body to make others envy.” He glanced at his solid frame, grinning nearly from ear to ear.

He dressed and slipped out quietly.

In front of the old street stood two stone lions as tall as a man, each weighing over a thousand pounds.

Exerting his strength, Song Mo lifted the left lion clear off the ground.

“Not a fake,” he declared with satisfaction.

Feeling pleased, he mischievously turned the lion around, making it face west instead of east.

The mortuary’s bronze gong sounded with a clang.

Song Mo, who well understood the wisdom of not flaunting one’s wealth or showing his hand, didn’t hesitate. Taking advantage of the darkness, he scurried back to Mortuary No. 7.

The night passed uneventfully.

…

Early morning.

Tang Yi galloped along the official road, returning straight to the county office of Changning.

“Sir, where were you yesterday?” Xia Yu was waiting at the gate and hurried forward.

“We’ll talk inside,” Tang Yi interrupted in a low voice.

Once inside, the others gathered around.

The coroner, Liu Qi, spoke quietly, “Sir Tang, the Han family is here to lodge a complaint—the body of Han Bing has disappeared. What shall we do?”

Tang Yi frowned, then replied, “Let them go make a scene at the Mortuary Office.”

Liu Qi was surprised but nodded and withdrew.

Tang Yi had no intention of troubling the mortuary workers; rather, he wanted to use the Han family to send a message to Song Mo.

For some reason, Tang Yi found himself strangely reliant on that mortuary rogue.

“Do any of you know whether the woman in the portrait is connected to the Zhang family?” Tang Yi swept his gaze across the assembled officials and suddenly asked coldly.

Though the sun shone brightly outside, inside the office a chill ran through them.

After a long pause, constable Xia Yu stammered, “Sir, we meant no concealment. It’s just… the woman in the portrait is not human.”

“And why do you say that?” Tang Yi pressed, his voice stern.

Xia Yu sighed, as if making a difficult decision, and said, “That woman is, in fact, a fox spirit.”

Tang Yi’s face darkened, recalling the fox hair Liu Qi had discreetly shown him the previous night.

“Could it really be the work of a fox spirit…” he muttered under his breath.

After a moment’s thought, Tang Yi said, “What is the true background of the Zhang family?”

At this, Xia Yu and the others were momentarily stunned. Though uncertain why Tang Yi asked, they answered honestly, “Changning County is full of powerful clans and wealthy merchants. The Zhangs are a family of a hundred years’ standing, but that’s not unusual here. In fact, they rose to prominence only a century ago—their foundation is shallow, and they can’t be counted among the true noble houses.”

Hearing this, Tang Yi’s eyes suddenly brightened. He said gravely, “I want the Zhang family records from the past hundred years, as well as the county annals from a century ago.”

The officials were more confused than ever, unable to guess what Tang Yi intended, but they nodded and went to the archives to retrieve the records.

The Zhang family was large, but their foundation was shallow, so it didn’t take long to bring half a cart of records.

The county annals, on the other hand, were detailed, especially as Tang Yi wanted those from a century past. This made things difficult for Xia Yu and his team, who had to rummage through dusty shelves in the archives.

Tang Yi himself went to the back courtyard mortuary, where Liu Qi was cleaning.

In the business of death, the departed are treated with the utmost respect—clean quarters and dignified remains ensure no trouble arises.

“Have any bodies arrived today?” Though it was a blunt question, Tang Yi still asked.

Liu Qi shook his head.

…

Outside Mortuary No. 7, an ox cart waited before dawn.

“Brother Zhu, do you think that mortuary boy knows something?” Ma Xiaosi sat on the cart, glancing suspiciously at the mortuary.

Zhu Ke tightened the broadsword at his waist, pondering a moment before replying softly, “Perhaps.”

Song Mo opened the mortuary door. Ma Xiaosi and Zhu Ke looked at him strangely.

“The body has been taken care of. You may collect it and go,” Song Mo said, turning to head to the old street for an early breakfast. Freshly fried dough sticks were at their crispiest.

“Stop!” Ma Xiaosi barked, his tone sharp and commanding.

Song Mo turned back, displeased. Ma Xiaosi scowled, “Do you have anything for us to take to Sir Tang today?”

Song Mo shook his head and started to leave.

He knew well enough—Ma Xiaosi and Zhu Ke had been doing the menial work of transporting bodies for days, probably ostracized at the county office. Yesterday, he’d asked them to give Tang Yi a clue.

It might have been nothing to him, but they’d taken note. Now, they were hoping to dig out more information from him and curry favor.

“Damn it, did I say you could go?” Ma Xiaosi cursed and reached for Song Mo’s shoulder, intent on teaching him a lesson. Zhu Ke, with his own plans, did not intervene.

Had it been yesterday, Song Mo would have been shoved aside. But today was different.

Having undergone the cleansing of the Strength Pill, Song Mo knew these two were no match for him.

“Get lost,” he said coldly, using only a fraction of his strength to fling Ma Xiaosi to the ground.

“Courting death!” Ma Xiaosi, his face covered in dust, was humiliated and ready to fight.

Song Mo watched coldly, saying nothing.

Zhu Ke stepped in, looked around, then said with a dark face, “Young man, you’ve hurt someone for no reason. Are you trying to start trouble?”

Song Mo’s expression grew colder. Zhu Ke was a wily one, shifting the blame with only a few words.

As the standoff continued, two figures approached slowly.

When Song Mo saw who they were, a smile played at his lips, and he looked at the two troublemakers with a trace of amusement.

It was He Yiming and Wu Wanlin.