Chapter Sixteen: Haunted!

On the twenty-ninth day of the twelfth lunar month, Li Qiwen was buried.

Life is never easy; death, on the contrary, is simple. No matter how grand a funeral may be, it holds no real significance for the deceased—it is staged for the living. Li Qiwen’s adopted son, Li Futang, was not poor, so the funeral could not be too shabby, but it was only just respectable. It was said that Li Futang originally intended to make the ceremony even grander, but his wife opposed him.

Her reasoning was simpler still: the old man left barely ten thousand yuan as inheritance—did he ever truly care for this son? Of course, her words spoke otherwise: his passing was not honorable, and a lavish funeral would not fit propriety.

Li Futang hesitated, but in the end agreed to a modest arrangement. This meant that mourners were limited to close relatives and villagers, the band was kept small, the grave modestly maintained, though the rituals remained and there would be no skimping on the funeral feast.

Even with such reasonable grounds, there were still many gossiping behind his back, mostly speculating that Li Futang, though wealthy, was stingy—a thankless son.

But it mattered little to Li Futang’s family. They did not live in Li Village, and whether they would return to pay respects was uncertain at best.

A bad reputation was left behind.

Dawn had not yet broken; the sky was brushed with a fine misting rain, occasionally drifting across faces, bringing a chill.

A string of firecrackers sounded, and Li Qiwen’s coffin was carried in procession up the mountain. The journey was long, and apart from the start, the band played only briefly; the rest of the way was nearly silent, no one spoke.

The soul-calling banner was blown into a tangle by the wind and was simply rolled up and carried on a shoulder. Luo Ming, holding a copper bell and dressed in a threadbare Taoist robe, walked with the visiting Taoist priest who had been tasked with merit-making rites (Luo Ming had to guard the temple these days, so he gave up the honor). As they hurried along, shaking the bell, its crisp, rhythmic sound became the only voice in the funeral procession.

“Ding, ding, ding…”

Chen Tianyu walked among the mourners—he had volunteered, though he offered no reason, and Li Yiting did not ask.

He walked silently beside Li Yiting, letting the fine rain bead on his face, then gather into rivulets that slowly traced the sharp lines of his features.

His mood was strangely calm, neither joyful nor sorrowful.

The funeral made him think of many things, his senses sharpened, as if the atmosphere heightened his mind’s clarity. Perhaps this was the true reason he wished to join the procession—a peculiar intuition he had never felt before. Since entering Li Village, aside from the warmth of rural kinship, there was a mysterious undercurrent stirring deep within him.

He had once lived reclusively in the countryside for five years; by rights, such feelings should not arise.

For days, he had pondered: what made Li Village remarkable?

Just now, he had found his answer: it seemed every person in Li Village harbored a secret.

First, Li Qiwen’s death was inexplicable, yet not a single face showed curiosity. How could this be explained? Was it numbness, or did everyone already know the story?

Li Fuqi was lively and cheerful, but the manner of his father's death was never discussed, not by him nor by anyone else. And what of his mother?

Fifth Uncle Li Qiumao’s family had conflicts, and he had clearly been injured that day, but none of his brothers seemed to care.

Then there was the adopted son Li Futang, who resembled a small businessman—away for years, indifferent to Li Qiwen. How did he manage it? People grumbled about his stinginess, but no one mentioned his long absence from the village—why was that?

And eldest Li Qisi, steady and authoritative in the village, yet rarely spoke. He appeared detached from all matters; his brother’s death drew only one outburst at the Guanyin Temple, nothing more. This could be seen as experience, but could it not also be apathy?

Even Li Qihuai, warm and sincere, eager to help, never pursued matters to their roots. He was clearly close to Li Qiwen, but regarding his suicide he only remarked, “Third Brother was too stubborn,” nothing more. That hardly matched his character.

And then, youngest Li Qiubin—who did not even attend the funeral!

Faced with all these questions, Chen Tianyu never asked Li Yiting. Not because he distrusted him, but because he believed Li Yiting did not know the answers either.

Isn’t that hard to understand?

Not at all, for Chen Tianyu realized Li Yiting too abided by an unspoken rule—

The rules of Li Village, ingrained in Li Yiting’s very blood, beyond his own awareness.

Those involved are blinded, while the outsider sees clearly.

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All of this can be explained as the rural struggle for survival. Living is hard; death is a release.

So Chen Tianyu simply pondered—he would never speak of it. Some things need not be spoken, nor acknowledged.

The funeral procession stopped on a relatively flat stretch to rest.

Villagers dispersed to smoke.

“Ding, ding, ding…”

The copper bell continued to ring. People could stop, but the ritual instrument could not. Luo Ming, expressionless, kept it moving.

Suddenly, Chen Tianyu shivered deep within.

He seemed to hear a sound: something keratinous scraping against a hard, smooth surface—a frequency so bitter it raised goosebumps.

The sound persisted. Chen Tianyu looked around, unable to locate its source; no one’s expression changed.

At last, his gaze settled on the coffin at the center of the clearing.

He focused, listening closely—

The copper bell’s rhythmic chime could not mask the faint scraping: someone inside the coffin was clawing at the wooden boards!

Chen Tianyu was horrified. He instinctively looked to Li Yiting, who showed no reaction, merely smoked in silence.

If those closest to the deceased are most prone to hallucinations, then Chen Tianyu was a complete outsider.

Why could he hear so clearly, when relatives did not? Even the eight pallbearers nearest the coffin were unperturbed.

As if compelled, Chen Tianyu stood and walked toward the coffin. Before the eyes of all, he squatted down and pressed his ear to the cold, lacquered wood.

The scraping thundered in his ears.

Chen Tianyu struck the coffin’s side forcefully; inside, the scratching quickened.

Li Yiting sprang up like an arrow, staring at Chen Tianyu in bewilderment.

Chen Tianyu waved him off, whispering, “Yiting, listen.”

Li Yiting, confused by Chen Tianyu’s actions, unsure why he was so out of sorts, pleaded, “Fourth Brother…”

Chen Tianyu ignored him, turning to say, “Yiting, the person inside is still alive!”

Li Yiting was anxious, tugging at Chen Tianyu’s sleeve to urge him away.

The sound vanished, never to return. Chen Tianyu, puzzled, tapped the coffin again; still nothing. He rose, noticing Li Yiting’s anxious expression.

“Oh… you didn’t hear it?”

Li Yiting shook his head, utterly perplexed.

Chen Tianyu scanned the crowd; not one person showed the slightest interest in his actions, not even Luo Ming, who kept the bell’s rhythm unchanged.

Chen Tianyu stared at them in astonishment, an unprecedented fear flooding his body. He did not fear an uproar, nor people fleeing in terror, or even being attacked; that would be normal.

But the calm—utter, unwavering calm.

Disappointed, Chen Tianyu returned to his place beside Li Yiting and sat down to smoke.

He fell into deep thought. When he finally came to, Li Yiting spoke.

“Fourth Brother, have you been overworked these past few days? This is the first time I’ve seen you…” Li Yiting trailed off.

Chen Tianyu replied bluntly, “Yiting, perhaps your third uncle isn’t dead.”

Li Yiting stared at him, then finally said, “How could that be?”

Chen Tianyu did not conceal anything: “I just heard someone scratching the boards inside the coffin.”

Li Yiting was doubtful: “Really? But without air, how could anyone survive?”

“What do you mean?” Chen Tianyu looked up.

Li Yiting patiently explained, “Fourth Brother, you may not know. Don’t underestimate this little coffin—it’s made from precious rosewood. Our village produces rosewood; it’s dense and hard, impermeable to water and air. Plus, we use a special wood glue, coating every seam thickly before sealing. So…”

He spoke with certainty: “There is absolutely no air inside.”

If it were anyone else, such an explanation would require more argument, considering the possibilities of corpse transformation or haunting. But for Chen Tianyu, it was unnecessary.

Chen Tianyu nodded, accepting Li Yiting’s judgment.

Yet he was even more certain of his discovery: Li Village not only possessed special rules, but also a unique confidence.

Where did this confidence come from? Chen Tianyu could not tell. Calmed, he made another unexpected observation: the villagers of Li Village seemed remarkably agile—not like ordinary farmers.

Li Yiting said worriedly, “Fourth Brother, maybe you’re not yet used to our local customs?”

“Perhaps.” Chen Tianyu nodded.