Chapter Eighty-Two: Striking a Deal with the Miao Woman, Stitching Corpses at Night Reveals the Uncanny

Smoke and the chill of autumn hang over the orange groves, the old plane trees stained with the season’s age. Song Mo, returning from Dark Moon City, happened upon Xia Yu, who was thoroughly drunk. Displeased, Xia Yu muttered, “Song Mo, did you just come back to use the latrine?” Song Mo, burdened with troubles he could not share—especially those concerning Jiang Wanyi—could only respond offhandedly, “I’m particular about where I go.”

Fortunately, Xia Yu wasn’t truly upset; the two bantered their way back to the mortuary, though Song Mo’s mind was clearly weighed down. Room Six had already been cleaned and fitted with fresh bedding; only when Xia Yu was settled did Song Mo return to his own Room Seven. His brow clouded by worry, Song Mo could only force himself to sleep.

But before the afternoon hour had arrived, he awoke, unable to rest further. He anxiously waited for the hour of duty, fidgeting as he anticipated a customer—today, business would surely come.

Indeed, before long, a knock sounded at the door. Opening it, he found the Wei family uncle and nephew. After brief greetings, they carried in a corpse shrouded in white cloth and laid it on the table.

“Is there anything unusual about this one?” Song Mo asked, affecting nonchalance.

Wei Chen shook his head. “Brother Song, today’s body is just an ordinary one—nothing out of the ordinary.”

Song Mo nodded, thinking to himself that the Miao woman handled matters discreetly—at least nothing conspicuous. Indeed, earlier that day in Dark Moon City, Song Mo had struck a deal with her: to stitch up this corpse.

Though he sensed something was amiss, sewing corpses was hardly a troublesome task, so he’d agreed.

The Wei family soon left. Song Mo lit the soul-calming lantern, placing it in the corner, then uncovered the white shroud from the corpse.

At first, he was startled, but soon regained his composure. The body appeared unremarkable, save for the face, which was slashed with crisscrossed knife wounds, rendering it grotesque.

“So it’s just a ruined face…” Song Mo relaxed, took up needle and thread, and began to sew.

Thread fine as hair ran through a slender silver needle; he stitched each scar so tightly that no seam or thread was visible. Gradually, the face regained its features.

…

As the fourth watch of the night sounded, Song Mo straightened his back and rubbed his eyes, exhausted from his labor. On the table, the corpse’s features had been restored—a man of about thirty, with sword-like brows and sharply chiseled features, exuding a masculine air.

“Could this be someone the Miao woman cared for?” Song Mo wondered.

In a trance, the soul-summoning banner unfurled, and the Book of Spirits appeared. The revolving lantern of the corpse’s life began to spin.

…

The deceased was surnamed Han, given name Mo Yi, styled Qiye—his background obscure. Han Mo Yi’s early years were uneventful until the thirty-fifth year of Tai Kang under the Great Zhou.

In that year, the town of Three Banners in the northern desert was brightly decorated for the Mid-Autumn Festival, which promised more merriment than ever before. The reason: the grand wedding day for the town’s two leading families—the Hans and the Fangs. The Han patriarch was Han Kongnian; the Fang’s, Fang Nianshan. In seven days, at Mid-Autumn, the families would be joined, and the eighteen-year-old Han Mo Yi would wed Miss Fang Wanru.

Han Kongnian, who had fathered Han Mo Yi at forty, cherished him greatly. The Han family traded medicinal herbs, supplying nearly every pharmacy in the town, while the Fangs dealt in jade, sending caravans of precious stones and herbs from Three Banners, from both houses, across the desert to the Central Plains, the camels’ bells ringing in ancient, lingering tones, bringing back silver in return.

Han Mo Yi grew up amidst the desert’s endless yellow sands. Drawn by dreams of the Central Plains—perhaps weary of the sunsets over the vast desert, the lone columns of smoke in the dusk, or eager to see with his own eyes the painted boats on the Qinhuai, or southern girls playing the zither—he escaped a year earlier, at seventeen, upon hearing of his impending marriage. Disguised among the Fang family’s jade caravan, he slipped away to the Central Plains.

There he stayed three months. The local customs and scenes almost made him forget his desert betrothal—until his money ran out, and he had to return with the Han family’s caravan. Having seen the world, he now regarded Miss Fang Wanru with even more indifference, though he had never met her.

Days slipped by, and at last he turned eighteen, meeting Fang Wanru for the first time. Only then did he realize how shallow he had been. Fang Wanru was breathtaking—combining the boldness of desert women with the gentle grace of the south.

After that first meeting, Han Mo Yi sought every excuse to visit the Fang household, delighting in telling Fang Wanru tales of his travels. At first she listened quietly; eventually, one day, she smiled at him—a smile cleaner, purer than any southern belle’s, and he knew he had entered her heart.

On the fourteenth day of the eighth lunar month, all was ready. Han Mo Yi, restless and uneasy, wandered the streets of Three Banners. His gaze drifted until a wooden sign caught his eye. On it, in archaic calligraphy, were two words: Fortune Telling.

Compelled by some impulse, he approached. The fortune-teller was not blind, but a man in Daoist robes.

“Aren’t fortune-tellers supposed to be blind?” Han Mo Yi began conversationally.

“A blind man cannot see beneath the will of heaven,” replied the robed man, serene and unhurried.

“Oh? Then tell my fortune,” Han Mo Yi said, intrigued.

“No need,” the man replied, not even glancing at him. “Great joy is often followed by great calamity.”

“What do you mean by that?” Han Mo Yi’s expression darkened. He didn’t really believe in fate—he just wanted a good omen.

“I merely speak of what is to come. Your fate is not yet sealed; you can survive by becoming the gentleman upon the beam,” said the Daoist, packing away his things.

“Hmph, charlatan,” Han Mo Yi retorted.

“Believe or not, tomorrow will tell,” the man said, then left, soon vanishing from sight.

After returning home, Han Mo Yi was distracted the rest of the evening, until the following day.

On the fifteenth of the eighth month—the Mid-Autumn Festival—Han Mo Yi led the wedding procession early to the Fang residence, collected Fang Wanru, and returned smoothly to the Han mansion. Not a single mishap occurred, not even a stumble from the horses, so he dismissed the fortune-teller’s warning.

That night, after the formalities, Han Mo Yi and Fang Wanru withdrew to the left wing. The house was noisy with guests. Han Mo Yi sat in silence; Fang Wanru, veiled in red, also said nothing. Then, chaos erupted outside. Gunshots rang out and frantic shouts: “The Demon Blade Immortal is here!”

The Demon Blade Immortal was the notorious bandit chief of Hawk Fortress in the northern desert, commanding a band of desperate outlaws. Han Mo Yi hurried to the door—inside the Han residence, bandits were killing wantonly. He felt sick, nearly retching from the horror of it all. Before he could react, a burly bearded bandit led his men into the main hall—the bandit chief himself.

Han Kongnian shouted, “We paid the protection fee! You can’t do this!”

But the Demon Blade Immortal had no intention of listening. He drew his blade and stabbed Han Kongnian through the heart. When Mu Yuan tried to help, she too was stabbed—both fell dead.

Unconcerned, the bandit chief wiped his blade and said to his men, “How can we let them lie on the floor on such a joyous day? Seat them in the chairs.”

His men propped the bodies in chairs at either side of the hall. The Demon Blade Immortal laughed, and his men joined in, as if this macabre tableau was the height of amusement.

Han Mo Yi, terrified, fought back tears and tried to hide in a cupboard. Suddenly, he recalled the Daoist’s words—only the man upon the beam would survive. He was about to pull Fang Wanru up with him onto the beam, but footsteps already sounded outside. Gritting his teeth, he climbed up alone.

The door creaked open. The Demon Blade Immortal entered, searching the room. He checked the cupboard first—Han Mo Yi shivered with dread.

“Let’s see how beautiful the little bride is,” the bandit chief leered, turning to Fang Wanru. Han Mo Yi, teeth clenched, dared not make a sound.

With a rough hand, the bandit snatched away Fang Wanru’s red veil and was stunned by her beauty—tonight, with the faintest touch of rouge, she looked like a fairy.

“Aren’t you afraid of the authorities?” Fang Wanru rebuked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“The authorities? By the time they arrive, we’ll have had children already,” the Demon Blade Immortal sneered, dropping his blade, grabbing Fang Wanru roughly, and tearing at her clothes.

Fang Wanru was directly below Han Mo Yi; he could see his own reflection in her eyes. A single tear of his fell, landing on her face—unnoticed by the bandit chief.

For when a face is already wet with tears, who will care for one drop more?