Chapter Seventy-six: The Strange Corpse Lacks Five Features, and There Is Myself in the Zoetrope

Startled swallows scatter, their spirits unsettled; over desolate marshes, the fallen drift like withered leaves.

Seeing that the Wei uncle and nephew had donned their hempen shrouds again, Song Mo understood that there must be something amiss with the corpse delivered today. Indeed, he noticed young Wei Chen glancing at him, as though wanting to speak but holding his tongue.

Perhaps familiarity breeds courage; this time, Wei Xi did not try to stop him. In a low voice, Wei Chen murmured, “Brother Song, why not claim a sick day today?”

Song Mo frowned and cast a sidelong glance at the corpse on the cart, shrouded in white cloth. He asked in a deep voice, “What’s wrong? Is there something unusual about today’s body?”

Wei Chen, still a boy, wanted to warn him, but whether from fear or some other concern, he stammered for a long while and failed to express himself clearly.

Wei Xi sighed and, lowering his tone, confided, “Brother Song, I’ll not keep anything from you. This corpse is from the prominent Wang family in the city. Rumor has it that it’s their most beloved youngest son. No one knows why, but he died mysteriously last night in Anxiang Alley of Nanwan Quarter, Eastern Market. The Wang family seems intent on keeping it secret, evasive and unwilling to reveal any details.”

Nanwan Quarter’s three alleys—Jade, Anxiang, and Brocade—were well-known pleasure districts in Jian’an’s capital.

A dissipated young master frequenting such places was no surprise. But how did he come to die so abruptly in Anxiang Alley?

“Could it be some venereal disease?” Song Mo ventured carelessly.

Wei Xi glanced around to ensure they were alone before replying in a whisper, “If it were a simple disease, do you think we’d be making such a fuss?”

Song Mo nodded in silence. It seemed the corpse was no trivial matter.

“That’s all I can say. We still have bodies to deliver. Brother Song, do as you see fit.” With that, Wei Xi and Wei Chen carried the body into the mortuary room, set it down on the table, and hurried away, lingering not a moment longer.

Song Mo thanked them repeatedly. The fact that they had risked warning him filled him with warmth.

Yet, Song Mo couldn’t help but feel uneasy about He Yiming and Wu Wanlin. Those two clerks seemed to have a knack for sending all the problematic corpses to Mortuary Number Seven, almost as if they knew something. In a chaotic world, Song Mo feared anyone discovering the existence of his Soul Guiding Record and Spirit Summoning Banner. To possess such things was to court disaster.

Later, through subtle probing, he learned the truth: those two clerks were simply kindhearted and always considered his mortuary first when distributing corpses. Pure coincidence had led to the misunderstanding. Of course, the bodies from Changning County had been deliberately assigned to him, a gesture of trust.

…

Dark clouds swallowed the sky; the night stretched endless and deep. At the four bridges, the moon was scarce and the torches dim. Inside Mortuary Number Seven, all was cold and clear, but the brightness was enough to soothe Song Mo’s anxiety.

He lit the soul-calming lantern in the corner. The flame was but a bean-sized glow, and who could say how much straw would be needed to keep it alight?

Carefully, Song Mo drew back the white cloth from the corpse on the table. Even with the warning from the Wei uncle and nephew, he was startled by what lay beneath.

He had seen countless corpses in recent days, but never one like this.

The body was entirely purple, its face black, resembling nothing so much as a withered yam. Such an appearance would frighten away most morticians.

The features could hardly be called grotesque—for even “features” was a stretch. The ears looked as if something had gnawed them off, both eyeballs dangled loosely, their ends still tenuously connected by thin strands of muscle, and the nose was simply gone.

Even with Song Mo’s clever mind, he nearly died of fright. Small wonder the Wang family was so evasive about the cause.

Despite his unease, Song Mo retrieved his needle, thread, and brush.

What choice did he have? This was his livelihood.

Half an ear missing—no matter; mold a piece from black bean paste. Nose gone? Stuff some straw to make one. Then came the eyes…

By the third watch of the night, Song Mo felt as though he’d spent hours sculpting a clay figurine.

With a sweep of his brush and a dusting of white powder, he finally fashioned the corpse into something resembling a human.

In a haze, the Spirit Summoning Banner appeared, the Soul Guiding Record unfurled.

The corpse’s carousel of life began to spin.

…

The deceased was named Wang Guangyao, the youngest son of the wealthy Wang family in Jian’an. His parents had given him a name that meant “to bring glory to the family,” but fate mocked their hopes.

By age seven, the boy still could not speak. His eyes rolled restlessly, always fixed on his wet nurse—though certainly not for the milk.

A born scoundrel.

When he finally reached ten, the family, desperate for him to succeed, hired a venerable tutor. But Wang Guangyao, learning his letters, turned out even worse. The classics—Three Character Classic, Hundred Family Surnames, Thousand Character Text—he was clueless, but he became enamored with “The Plum in the Golden Vase.”

Why? Because it had illustrations.

The tutor, after repeated attempts to discipline him, was mocked in turn and left in a huff.

The Wangs, seeing their son’s antics as childish mischief, let him be.

With wealth enough to spare, what did it matter if he became a wastrel?

By fourteen, Wang Guangyao had fallen in with another young rake, Qin Dabao. As the saying goes, “Villains are quick to bond.” The two became inseparable, soon regulars in the pleasure districts of Nanwan.

First, they squandered their money in Brocade Alley, then lavished it in Anxiang Alley, indulging in drunken revelry.

As they grew older, their boldness grew too. Backed by their families’ riches, they prowled the city, harassing any unaccompanied beauty they chanced upon, leaving a trail of ruined reputations.

Several innocent girls lost their good names—and, by night, their virtue down the well.

With Wang and Qin money behind them, any trouble with the poor was easily swept aside.

But soon, even this grew dull.

Pondering their boredom, Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao decided to visit the bridge beneath Cloudshadow Ward in the West Market, seeking not just sleight-of-hand performances, but also pretty girls for mischief.

Men of action, they wasted no words, heading straight to the spot.

Beneath the bridge, the scene bustled—jugglers, ballad singers, drummers, all performing for the crowd.

Acrobats in painted masks, fire-breathers from Shu, wiry monkey-men climbing iron poles—none of this impressed the pair.

Then Qin Dabao’s eyes lit up. He nudged his companion, pointing to a crowded stage: “Now, that’s a beauty!”

Wang Guangyao looked up and was instantly entranced.

On the stage stood a Miao girl, ethereally beautiful, her skin whiter than snow, lips fragrant as cassia—truly a beauty to topple kingdoms.

The two exchanged glances, lecherous intent glinting in their eyes, and squeezed into the throng.

At that moment, another figure pressed in from the side.

Song Mo glanced over and was stunned—for the newcomer was himself.

It was then he remembered: the Miao girl on stage was the very one he’d disguised himself to tease as a broad-faced brute before.

Sure enough, from the crowd a booming voice rang out: “Is this the best you’ve got? You take us Jian’an folk for fools?”