Chapter Three: The Ghostly Applause

After idling away most of the day at the yamen, He Chang'an grew weary and, at noon, finally gave in to exhaustion, deciding to slip away and head home. He was utterly drained.

He Chang'an greeted Captain Zhang, claiming he was off to patrol the streets alone, then hurried straight toward his house. Along the way, he “freeloaded” two pounds of marinated pork knuckle, a packet of salted green beans, and half a pound of cheap wine from a small restaurant. As he left, he shouted, “Put it on my tab,” and strode off without a backward glance.

At a mountain goods shop, he “borrowed” a large tray of fine palm rope, two rolls of hemp thread, over a hundred bamboo sticks, and several sheepskins. Passing a blacksmith’s shop, he picked out a sharp machete, a slender wrist knife, and casually grabbed a bundle of small tools—saws, files, chisels—and, tossing out another “Put it on my tab,” walked away.

Truthfully, He Chang'an rather wanted to pay for his own purchases, for he was now, by most accounts, a man of means. Yet he worried that flashing money would frighten the shopkeepers half to death, and sighed at how hard it must be for common folk in Tang to run a stall or a shop.

Upon returning home, his professional instincts—honed in a former life—compelled him to resist his exhaustion and swiftly survey the surroundings, setting up a few “little contraptions.” He remembered the “village girl elder sister” had vaulted the wall to leave, and, after pondering, buried fine ropes along the wall’s edge, tying numerous slip knots—anyone climbing over would trigger the mechanism and be snared.

On the ground, he buried ropes and bamboo sticks, then covered them with thatch and thorny brush to conceal any trace of deliberate arrangement. He also set up small traps on the doors and windows of the three low thatched huts.

Having just crossed over, with not a single tool at hand, he could manage only the simplest setup, but with his experience, once these “little contraptions” were triggered, even a wild boar or two would struggle to escape.

He Chang'an speculated that whatever killed “Quickhand He Chang'an” last night was likely not human. Could it be something sinister?

After these preparations, he wanted to craft a few self-defense weapons—perhaps a miniature crossbow or sleeve arrows—but the pain in his kidneys and the leaden weight of his eyelids convinced him to shut the door and collapse into sleep.

He slept until the sun sank behind the western hills.

He heard his “cheap old father” return home, coughing hoarsely and dragging heavy steps into his own quarters. He thought to get up and greet him.

A clatter sounded as the old man latched the door.

Well, might as well keep sleeping.

After all, he had only just become someone’s son and was still unused to it. Besides, the original character was a rebellious, irresponsible scoundrel who almost never greeted his father.

He Chang'an lay on the hard bed, eyes half-closed, sorting through the memories of that degenerate He Chang'an. He could not make sense of how the original owner’s mind was such a jumble of fragments.

It seemed likely he had been kicked by a donkey as a child.

In the original owner’s memory, only two and a half events remained clear. The first was the “village woman” who “kept” him—not every detail, but enough to leave He Chang'an astonished and his heart pounding. The second was a jealous brawl at the Emerald Red Pavilion, where he broke the leg of a westside thug and, leading Hu Fourth, Jiang Third, and other rascals, extorted three taels of silver.

The half event was witnessing, near Lingyin Temple on the west side of town, a “handsome young monk” battling a female ghost. The monk tossed a sheet of yellow paper, and the ghost howled twice before dissolving into a wisp of black smoke carried away by the wind.

He called it half an event because He Chang'an could hardly believe it.

“A so-called world of immortals and heroes—maybe it was just the little thug’s imagination, a way to give himself hope for a comeback?”

People at the bottom often have a taste for the fantastical…

“What kind of existence is this Night God Cult, really…”

Lying on the bed, recalling the Quickhand colleagues’ behavior and symptoms today, as well as the state of everyone in Weiyang County, He Chang'an’s heart grew heavy. This Tang seemed thoroughly strange.

He had so little information that he could neither analyze nor judge the situation more fully, which irritated him.

He Chang'an preferred to take the initiative…

He got up, laid out the “freeloaded” marinated pork knuckle and salted green beans on the table, poured himself a bowl of cheap wine, and planned to make do with a simple dinner before indulging in more sleep.

His body was badly depleted and needed replenishment.

He had just picked up a slice of meat when a sudden prickling sensation crawled across his scalp, and the hair on his back stood on end.

A cold, ghostly aura appeared out of nowhere. In the courtyard, the two old locust trees at the door stirred without wind, producing a rapid, rhythmic clapping sound.

The lamp’s flame on the table flickered several times, then steadied.

“Ghost clapping at the door—these two old locust trees must be chopped down…”

He Chang'an set down his chopsticks in his right hand, calmly tucked the piece of meat into his mouth and chewed slowly; with his left, he gripped the knife strapped to his leg.

Never let the blade leave your side—a good habit.

He felt himself growing colder, a invisible pressure closing in, making his breath thin, his heart nearly bursting.

He forced himself to eat and drink slowly, as if indifferent to everything, his eyes dull and his face bearing a numb satisfaction.

Just like the other people of Weiyang County.

Strictly speaking, this was his first night in Tang.

As for last night with the village woman… that was “Quickhand He Chang'an’s” doing—what did it have to do with him, He Chang'an?

At most, he was just inheriting the mess.

…

The two old locust trees clapped again; cold wind whistled through the room, the lamp’s flame flickered sharply, nearly extinguished…

He Chang'an’s heart sank.

He felt as if plunged into an ice cellar, his eyes twitching wildly, scalp tingling, and cold sweat soaking his clothes.

His left palm, gripping the knife, was drenched.

None of his “little contraptions” had been triggered—there was only one possibility: whoever—or whatever—had come was not human, nor even a normal living thing.

Demon or ghost?

He Chang'an struggled to remain calm, his pale face fixed in a numb smile, his eyes slightly unfocused as he ate and drank without reaction.

If you cannot kill with one strike, all your actions are meaningless.

That was the repeated admonition from his instructor during special training years ago, and it had been proven true time and again in the bloody grind of his life.

He Chang'an judged precisely: danger was right behind him…

…

The cold aura crept closer, as if some dreadful presence was staring at the back of his head, breathing icy air, inching nearer.

Five feet.

Three feet.

One and a half…

He Chang'an raised the wine bowl in his right hand, took a shallow sip, woodenly set it down, picked up the chopsticks, and with a slight, trembling weakness, managed after several tries to grab a salted green bean;

His left hand, unseen, tightened its grip on the knife handle…