Chapter 77: The Miao Maiden from the Southern Borders, A Startling Encounter Outside the Morgue

A few lonely nights and moons, many changes of seasons. In the revolving lantern of Wang Guangyao’s corpse, Song Mo saw himself, and only then did he realize, quite coincidentally, that he had watched the same street performance that day as Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao. The lantern spun on, and sure enough, next came his own act of “exposing” the Miao woman’s trick. Not long after, the spectators dispersed, and the Miao woman packed up her things and left Yunying Pavilion.

Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao exchanged glances, a bit nervous at heart. After all, the Miao woman could, with nothing but a long whip, spin two hundred-pound stone locks like tops; her strength under that whip was at least a thousand pounds. Though their courage was fueled by lust, they knew their own limits. Yet, as fate would have it, Song Mo, disguised as a square-faced burly man, stirred things up so that the two friends felt emboldened once more.

Before the Miao woman had gone far, Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao openly followed her. The stone locks sat steadily atop the stage; had their lust not gotten the better of them, delaying their pursuit, they would have seen curious onlookers try their hand at the locks. A burly man, exerting all his strength, barely managed to lift them. The remaining spectators immediately understood: the Miao woman was genuine, not a mere show; she had offended a master who deliberately embarrassed her, hoping for her downfall.

No one suspected Song Mo. First, his disguise was impeccable. Second, beneath the bridge at Yunying Pavilion, trickery, sabotage, and cheating were common; regular patrons had seen it all before. After all, the space beneath the bridge was limited—if you draw a crowd, you eat well, but you can’t stop others from going hungry. Driven by hunger, who cares for the bonds of the underworld? As the saying goes, rivals in the same trade are enemies.

Thus, Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao were doomed to misfortune, wrongly believing the Miao woman’s act was a sham and following after her with giddy excitement. These two young masters were always arrogant and made no attempt to conceal themselves, sticking close behind the Miao woman as she walked through the bustling streets.

Near midday, the Miao woman turned into Sun’s Lamb Soup Shop by the street, ordered a bowl of lamb soup and two white buns. Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao followed, seating themselves directly across from her. Sun’s lamb soup was famous: steaming hot, the milky broth crowned with chili and chopped scallions, drizzled with fragrant sesame oil—a scent that filled the shop and was its best advertisement.

Wang Guangyao and Qin Dabao didn’t bother with food, sitting on the bench with leering eyes fixed on the Miao woman’s proud chest. Saliva dripped copiously—whether for Sun’s lamb soup or the Miao woman’s body, who could say?

“Gentlemen, you’ve followed me all the way. Tired, aren’t you?” the Miao woman teased charmingly, her hands busy breaking the buns into pieces and soaking them in the soup. The fine white flour carried the aroma of new wheat, saturated with the flavor of lamb broth, both filling and appetizing.

But the brothers’ greedy eyes ignored the culinary delight, instead gazing at another beauty entirely. They watched the Miao woman’s slender, pale hands—hands that, contrary to those of a wandering performer, seemed more exquisite than those of the refined courtesans in Jade Lane of South Bay, who served nobility with incense and scripture.

Jade Lane was an exclusive place, barred to anyone below third rank or outside the great families. These two, at best nouveau riche, could only indulge themselves in Secret Fragrance Alley. Now, seeing the Miao woman’s uncommon beauty and rare grace, their hearts and souls soared beyond the clouds.

Wang Guangyao grinned lewdly and said, “My brother and I saw how hard you worked performing under the bridge and couldn’t help but feel compassion, so we wanted to bring you some warmth.”

“Oh? Is that so?” the Miao woman feigned innocence, stirring the soup with her spoon, the lamb slices bobbing up and down in an amusing dance.

The two men thought they’d stumbled upon a treasure—a naive little rabbit, how could they not be ecstatic? Wang Guangyao quickly leaned closer, grinning, “Miss, there’s some dust in your soup. Let your good brother blow it away for you.”

He pursed his lips, but his intent was not to blow the soup, but to take advantage of her.

A flicker of disgust crossed the Miao woman’s eyes; she calmly flicked her fingernail. From her nail flew a black speck, ant-sized, which, in an instant, darted into Wang Guangyao’s open mouth.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Wang Guangyao cried out in agony, at first just groaning, but within the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, he was writhing on the floor like a donkey.

Qin Dabao, a spoiled scoundrel, had never seen such a sight; terrified, he bolted, caring nothing for the fate of his brother. The Miao woman’s expression remained unchanged. As Wang Guangyao howled like a slaughtered pig, the surrounding patrons lost their appetite and paid their bills to leave. The Miao woman, meanwhile, ate her bun and soup with relish.

When she finished and departed, Wang Guangyao had fainted from pain. The Wang family, upon hearing the news, rushed over to find him purple all over, barely breathing, at death’s door. After dragging their precious son home, the old physician took one look, said not a word, and walked out with his medicine chest.

The Wang family hurried after him, offering any fee if he could cure their son. The physician snorted coldly, “Heaven’s misfortune may be forgiven; self-made disaster cannot be survived. Your son has been cursed. No amount of money will help.”

“Cursed? Impossible! We’re under the emperor’s nose,” said Wang Guangyao’s father, a short, stout, dark man.

“Trying to raise your fee, are you?” Wang Guangyao’s mother, a plump, well-dressed woman, complained.

“If you don’t believe me, just lift his eyelids and see if there’s a white thread hanging in his eyes,” the physician replied, restraining his anger.

The Wang family did as instructed, and sure enough, a visible white thread hung in Wang Guangyao’s eye. Now truly panicked, they begged the physician for help.

He glanced at the once-haughty matron and said coldly, “Instead of wasting time with me, you’d better think about whom your son has offended lately.” With that, he left without a backward glance.

The Wang family pondered his words in distress. Wang Guangyao had bullied men and women for ages; his enemies numbered in the dozens, if not hundreds—how could they possibly investigate them all?

Just when they were at a loss, Wang Guangyao woke up. Oddly enough, he said nothing, but walked straight out the door. The Wang family sent someone after him, and soon discovered he had gone to Secret Fragrance Alley in South Bay.

Wang Guangyao’s mother now believed the doctor was incompetent; all talk of curses was just a ploy for money. But that night, Wang Guangyao died in Secret Fragrance Alley. At midnight, a swarm of ant-sized insects crawled out of his nose, eyes, and mouth; by the time he was found, much of his face had been eaten away.

Only then did the Wang family realize he had provoked someone he should not have. The wealthy are always timid—the Wang family dared not seek revenge, quietly sending his corpse to the Mortuary Office.

...

When the lantern ran its course, the lingering soul was collected into the summoning banner.

Soul, return. Guide the soul into the register.

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

The Soul Register finally gave its appraisal: Sixth grade, yellow character.

Shadow-chasing curse.

According to the Chronicles of the Strange: In the land of the Miao, in the autumn of the slippery tree, there are insects that love to pursue shadows, tireless over hundreds of miles. When encountered by white Miao curse masters, they are placed in bamboo tubes and refined by secret arts to become shadow-chasing curses, highly effective in tracking and searching for missing persons.

“This thing is useful—best keep it for now,” Song Mo said, examining the bamboo tube in his hand. Each curse insect was the size of a grain of rice, with wings as thin as gauze—hard to spot if not closely observed.

As he put away the shadow-chasing curses, Song Mo was seized by dread. His discerning eyes had seen it clearly: in Sun’s Lamb Soup Shop, the black speck flicked from the Miao woman’s fingernail was indeed a curse insect.

In other words, she was a Miao curse mistress.

By rights, Miao lands are a thousand miles from Jian’an Capital. Had she come all this way just to perform?

Even ghosts wouldn’t believe it.

Weary in body and soul, he surrendered himself to sleep.

Song Mo slept soundly until the next morning, when a commotion erupted outside.

“Deception! This is deception, don’t you understand?” A voice cried out, as if deeply aggrieved.

Song Mo woke instantly, recognizing the voice.

“How can I, a dignified Chief of the Bureaus, do mortuary work? Isn’t that a laughingstock?” the voice protested again.

Song Mo was stunned. This time, he recognized it.

The noisy person outside was none other than Fatty Xia!