Chapter 17: Master Qin

If Chi Yun were to believe in ghosts, pigs might as well fly.

I shrugged and brought up the other case that overlapped at the crime scene.

Because the half-shadow, half-light line in the Eye of the Nether Dragon only appeared after the ghost fetus was killed, I was more interested in this case. After all, solving it promised immense benefits.

In just over a month, I had transformed from a clueless rookie into a fledgling onmyoji; my body’s strength and agility had surpassed ordinary people. This intoxicating sense of power left me wanting more.

“It’s nearly closed. The couple quarrelled over trifles, and in his rage, the husband lost control and pushed his pregnant wife off the rooftop. Now his mind has snapped, and he’s gone mad,” Chi Yun said.

“You’re fooling yourself. What about your colleague Lao Luo? Has he lost his mind too?” I countered.

Chi Yun pressed her lips together, “You’re a doctor. You ought to look at things from a medical perspective, not as a charlatan.”

I chuckled, “Sorry, but the two slaps that woke Lao Luo up—that’s precisely the trick of a charlatan.”

She grew annoyed, “I won’t argue with you about this. From our professional standpoint, do you expect me to write in the file that it was due to possession?”

I paused, gave a forced laugh, “You’re right.”

...

By the time I left the Junyue Grand Hotel, it was already ten in the morning. With the information Chi Yun had given me, I found the home of the parents of the woman who had fallen to her death.

This was at the outskirts of Dongjiang District, in Li Family Village—a sizable administrative village, home to over three hundred households and nearly two thousand people.

The woman’s name was Li Mei. Her parents ran a furniture business, and their life was prosperous; their home was a five-story villa they had built themselves, with spacious courtyards front and back.

At that moment, a mourning tent was set up in the courtyard. Although Li Mei’s body had not yet been brought home, the rites had already begun.

Friends and relatives of the Li family had gathered—there were two to three hundred people.

It was easy enough for me to blend in, but I was disappointed: the person connected to the half-black, half-white line in the Eye of the Nether Dragon was not here.

“Li Mei was so pitiful. Why would she marry such a scoundrel?”

“Exactly. Everyone opposed it at the time, said the Cao family were no good.”

“If anyone’s to blame, it’s Li Mei’s boss. If she hadn’t played matchmaker, Li Mei would never have met that bastard.”

Listening to their discussion, I paused nearby, sensing there was something to dig into here.

But the conversation drifted to other matters, leaving me unsatisfied.

That wouldn’t do.

I composed myself, adopting a somber expression, and stepped forward, “Everyone, I was Li Mei’s classmate. Hearing of her tragedy, my heart aches. In those days… alas. Just now, I heard you mention her boss was involved. What happened?”

Seeing my grief, they supplied their own melodramatic assumptions—perhaps the unspoken love of youth, love left unsaid.

Soon, I learned what had transpired.

Li Mei had met her husband, Cao Min, through her boss, who claimed he was a distant cousin. Li Mei was reluctant but went along; though Cao Min’s looks were average, he was charming and generous. Gradually, they became genuinely involved.

Li Mei’s parents investigated and found nothing good: the Cao family had once had money, but squandered it. Cao Min’s father was a notorious local thug; his mother, unable to endure domestic violence, drank pesticide and took her own life. Who would willingly marry their daughter into such a family?

But Li Mei was resolute. When she became pregnant, her parents reluctantly agreed.

After the wedding, Cao Min changed—he became indifferent, sometimes even cruel and mocking.

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Because of this, they argued constantly.

It was said that once, when drunk, Cao Min even raised his hand against Li Mei, accusing her of carrying another man’s child.

Hearing this, I asked, “Which company did Li Mei work at?”

“Aren’t you her classmate? You don’t know?” one person asked, puzzled.

“We haven’t been in touch for years. Meeting again would only add to the sorrow, so… But I never expected…” I replied, my voice tinged with misery.

“True enough. She worked as an assistant to the CEO at a company called Xianglan Cosmetics.”

Armed with this information, I took my leave.

On the bus back to the city, I searched for Xianglan Cosmetics on my phone. When I saw the company’s profile and the CEO’s name, my pupils contracted sharply.

“Xianglan Cosmetics, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Zhang Group. CEO: Zhang Shanshan, granddaughter of Zhang Guang, chairman of the Zhang Group.”

A chill crept over me—how could it be the Zhang family?

After the Zhangs went bankrupt under Xu Baoguo’s relentless vendetta, Xianglan Cosmetics was no exception; it was acquired by a large company allied with Xu Baoguo, and Zhang Shanshan and her entire management team were purged. As Zhang Shanshan’s assistant, Li Mei was laid off at the same time.

The odds were high that the ghost fetus Li Mei carried was a trick of the Zhang family. Could the nine bodies in the water tank also be their doing? The Zhangs certainly had the means to make nine people vanish without a trace.

Could it be that the Zhang family’s involvement extended beyond those two old ghosts?

I called Xu Baoguo to ask about the Zhangs.

He told me that after the Zhang family’s bankruptcy, aside from Zhang Huixiang and Zhang Hanshan—one mad, one dull, both locked away in a psychiatric hospital—all direct blood relatives had been sent back to their hometown.

The Zhangs’ ancestral home was in Wushan City, a neighboring city. Though adjacent to Linjiang, Wushan’s economy was far inferior.

Linjiang had a population of five million and ranked just below the provincial capital in economic growth, while Wushan languished at the bottom, with less than eighty thousand people.

Wushan was mountainous, its transport inconvenient, its culture and economy backward. In some remote villages, people still used kerosene lamps.

If the Zhang family was behind the case of the nine bodies, someone must still be in Linjiang, orchestrating events.

I made a decision: I went to the psychiatric hospital for a drop of Zhang Huixiang’s brow blood, then headed to Mingpin Street in Wuyi Alley.

Wreaths, coffins, paper effigies, incense, shrouds—these were the unique sights of Mingpin Street.

Originally, these shops were scattered throughout the city, but for urban planning and aesthetics, the city designated Wuyi Alley as the specialized district for funerary goods. Nearly all such shops were concentrated here.

Surprisingly, this measure not only made things convenient for residents but also brought flourishing business to Mingpin Street. Whenever there was a funeral, everyone flocked here.

I entered a shop called “Liu’s Coffin Store.” The place was empty, so I walked straight to a coffin and knocked on its lid.

“Crack.”

The lid shifted, then slid aside. A drowsy figure sat up from inside.

Anyone unaware would have screamed in terror.

But this wasn’t my first visit, so I knew: sleeping in coffins was the owner’s peculiar habit.

The owner’s name was Liu Goudan—yes, that was the name on his ID. He was in his forties, broad-foreheaded, big-eared, and corpulent.

According to Liu Goudan, coffin-making was unlike selling incense or paper money. Only those with auspicious features could succeed, or misfortune would surely follow.

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By Chi Yun’s account, Liu Goudan was a seasoned devotee of old superstitions. He crafted all his coffins himself, with elaborate rituals for every transaction—never a careless affair.

“Master Qin, here for your order?” Liu Goudan hopped from the coffin and asked.

“Yes. Are the compass and peach talismans I requested ready?” I inquired.

“All finished, exactly to your specifications,” Liu Goudan replied.

I followed him into the back room—a large space cluttered with timber and tools.

Liu Goudan wasn’t only a coffin maker; he could craft anything from wood, and his skills were second to none.

He handed over my items: a compass made from blackwood and three peach talismans.

I inspected them carefully, nodded with satisfaction. The compass was an essential tool for an onmyoji; the peach talismans, once empowered, could be reused, while paper talismans were single-use only.

“Master Qin, I’ve been making compasses and peach talismans for twenty years, but I’ve never seen such an unusual compass or such intricate talisman carvings. Which school are they from?” Liu Goudan asked.

I laughed, “That cannot be divulged.”

He smiled and didn’t press further, then handed me a QR code. I scanned and transferred two and a half million yuan.

Just the blackwood was worth one and a half million, the ancient peach wood fifty thousand, and his craftsmanship another fifty thousand.

...

Few shops on Mingpin Street stayed open at night; those in the trade were all somewhat superstitious.

Liu’s Coffin Store still glowed with light, but it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Liu Goudan usually worked at night and slept by day.

At this moment, he was carving a floral design into a coffin lid.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed behind him, blocking the light.

He turned to see a figure shrouded in a black coat, staring at him intently.

“Looking to buy a coffin? I’ve got all kinds of timber, custom orders welcome,” Liu Goudan offered.

“I was referred by Master Mo Wuji,” the person said, her voice clear and youthful—a young woman. She took out a blackwood bead and showed it in her palm.

Seeing this, Liu Goudan’s smile grew warmer, his hand with the carving knife relaxed.

“So you’re sent by Master Mo. Just tell me what you need,” said Liu Goudan.

“I want a piece of blackwood. I heard you have some in stock,” she replied.

Liu Goudan shook his head, “If I’d known, I would’ve saved it for you. A few days ago, a Master Qin used it to make a compass, picked up the order just this afternoon.”

“Qin? Using blackwood for a compass—which school is he from? Could he be from the Qin family in southern Xiang?” she pressed.

“Probably not. His accent is local, and the compass he ordered was very unusual, unlike any school I know,” Liu Goudan answered.

She thought for a moment, “Never mind then. Prepare three taels of millennium cinnabar, a portion of black dog’s blood, and a hundred-year-old dragon tendon for me.”