Chapter Six: Captain Zhang Is Dead

The death of Captain Zhang, along with the reactions of Hu the Fourth and the others, served as a sobering reminder to He Chang’an: treating colleagues as friends has always been a beautiful mistake.

It also sharpened his awareness that, in the present situation, the only one who could save him was himself.

The County Constable of Weiyang, Master Yang Zhen, was a middle-aged man with a fair and lustrous complexion. At this moment, he sat at his desk, leafing through a dossier.

“Master Yang, you summoned me?” He Chang’an entered the room and bowed immediately.

“Sit.” Master Yang kept his head down, perusing the documents, and spoke casually.

He Chang’an apologized and took a seat on a wooden bench near the door, his heart uneasy as he glanced at the one reputed to be the county’s foremost martial expert.

He noticed Master Yang’s complexion was ruddy and vibrant—a sign of robust health, not the pallid, listless look of those outside whose spirits seemed half-dead. This observation set his mind whirring.

Could it be that, once one’s cultivation reached a certain level, those monsters and ghosts dared not approach? Or perhaps, holding official rank itself was a kind of ward against evil spirits?

“Captain Zhang is dead,” Master Yang said calmly. “For now, you’ll act as the head of the Swift-Hand Squad.”

“Sir, I…” He Chang’an assumed an expression of humble awe, quickly rose to his feet, clasped his fists, and declared, “I will lead the men of the Swift-Hand Squad to follow you loyally, ready to give my life without hesitation!”

“Ah, so you’ve advanced to the first stage of the Qi-Absorbing Technique?” The constable finally looked up, a flicker of interest in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

He Chang’an froze, unsure how to respond, so he scratched the back of his head and replied, “It’s all thanks to your guidance and cultivation, sir.”

Flattery never fails. Sure enough, the constable’s mood improved. He casually pulled a small booklet from his robe and tossed it to He Chang’an, chuckling. “I hear you, He Chang’an, are fearless in a fight, and your flattery is smooth as well. This is the county’s Handbook for Catching Ghosts. As squad leader, you ought to be familiar with the basics.”

A Handbook for Catching Ghosts? So, the authorities are indeed aware of these supernatural disturbances—yet why do they never intervene?

“Thank you for your trust, sir.” He Chang’an quickly accepted the booklet and bowed in gratitude.

“All right. Now that Zhang the Tiger is dead, his widow and orphan have no one to rely on. Take a few men to help with the funeral matters. Any necessary funds can come from the county’s pension.”

The constable raised his teacup, signaling the end of the audience.

“On behalf of Captain Zhang, I thank you, Master Yang!” He Chang’an bowed deeply, feeling sincere gratitude.

The so-called Three Divisions and Six Offices might appear prestigious—wearing the official black uniform and strutting before the masses—but in reality, they were nothing more than the lowest level of ‘temporary hires.’

From what he knew, many constables could only receive compensation if they died in the line of duty. If someone like Zhang the Tiger died at home, depleted to death, the most the county office would pay was two or three coins for burial, and then wash their hands of it.

This Master Yang, it seemed, was not without compassion…

After taking his leave, He Chang’an went straight to the Swift-Hand Office, gathered Hu the Fourth, Xing the Elder, and the others, and headed south to Zhang the Tiger’s home.

On the way, He Chang’an kept his lips pressed tight, saying nothing. Behind him, Hu the Fourth, Xing the Elder, and the other squad members also dared not utter a word.

He Chang’an was notorious in Weiyang County—a scoundrel known for turning hostile at the drop of a hat, quick to draw his blade. Even his fellow officers, the small-time ruffians among them, felt some trepidation.

Especially now that he had been promoted…

As expected, Zhang the Tiger’s household was much like He Chang’an’s own: three thatched rooms, a small walled courtyard, all of it in a state of disrepair.

Zhang the Tiger’s widow, with her son not yet ten by her side, was draped in mourning white, kneeling at the gate to receive guests. The mother and son wept bitterly, a sight that made He Chang’an’s nose sting.

He was not a good man, but neither was he truly evil. He, He Chang’an, was simply an ordinary man, with ordinary joys and sorrows, desires and obsessions—yet also a man with blood in his veins.

At present, he was beset with his own troubles, his fate uncertain after being ‘kept’ by a shadowy ghost. But he swore to himself that, should he ever gain power, he would see that ‘female ghost’ destroyed!

Expressionless, he entered the gate, came before the mourning hall, and performed the rites with due solemnity: burning incense, offering paper, pouring wine. He led the brothers of the Swift-Hand Squad in a formal kowtow before rising again.

“Hu the Fourth, you and the others go buy some incense, candles, and wreaths, and pick up some wine, meat, and vegetables as well.” He Chang’an pulled out a handful of loose silver and handed it over. “Remember, buy these things. Don’t take them on credit and don’t extort them.”

He knew better than anyone what sort of men these were—ruffians wrapped in the guise of officers.

“This is at Master Yang’s instruction,” He Chang’an added.

“But, boss…” Hu the Fourth hesitated as he took the silver, clearly troubled, wanting to say more but cut off by He Chang’an’s wave.

He was worried that the shopkeepers would be too frightened to even accept their money…

“This is at Master Yang’s instruction,” He Chang’an repeated, leaving the rest unsaid to avoid trouble later.

Hu the Fourth and the others left, full of confusion but not daring to protest. Still, they grumbled inwardly: since when did the county office pay in silver for such matters?

He Chang’an walked to the doorway, helped Zhang the Tiger’s widow and son to their feet, and spoke gently, “Sister-in-law, go rest inside for a while. The men will take care of things outside.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” Zhang the Tiger’s widow was decent-looking, though her face was sallow and thin, much like others in the city—her complexion dark and ringed with heavy shadows beneath her eyes.

He Chang’an didn’t need his spirit-sight to know she, too, was being ‘kept’ by some monster.

He couldn’t quite understand it. Ghosts kept men for their vital yang energy—could these monsters be keeping women for their yin essence?

But Zhang the Tiger’s son, not yet ten, had bright red lips and pearly teeth, plump and healthy, and seemed remarkably mature for his age.

“What’s your name?” He Chang’an asked.

“Zhang Long.” The boy replied softly.

So, the father was Zhang the Tiger and the son Zhang the Dragon—a case of each generation stronger than the last…

Pity that, by the time he turned eighteen, he’d be prey for the spirits as well…

He Chang’an pulled out two taels of silver from his robe and pressed them into the widow’s hand. “This is the pension from Master Yang. Please accept it for now. There should be more money and provisions coming. Once it arrives, I’ll send someone over.”

Unfamiliar with official procedure, the widow took the silver with countless thanks, nearly dropping to her knees in gratitude. Two taels would keep her and her son well-fed and clothed for two or three years.

He Chang’an said no more. He wandered the small courtyard, quietly investigating, and did find some unusual traces: marks of deliberately set traps at the corners, doors, and windows, and in the outhouse, a half-burned yellow talisman paper.

He knew his situation was dangerous…

Zhang the Tiger, as the county’s third most skilled fighter and leader of the Swift-Hand Squad, was vigilant and prepared, leaving many precautions—yet still could not escape being drained to death by a ghost.

He Chang’an’s heart grew heavier still.