Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Tomb’s Undead

The situation was dire; life and death hung by a thread. Song Nianqiang stared unwaveringly at the ghostly parasite, bent down, and hauled the fat man up from the ground.

“Fatty! One of us must make it out alive today! When that ghost parasite comes at me, you run! Go find our master!”

But the fat man refused, “What nonsense! The one dying today isn’t us—it’s that ghost parasite!” Of course, his bravado was pure wishful thinking, but suddenly, the two of them thought of a plan: they would dash in opposite directions.

Counting silently to three, Song Nianqiang and the fat man sprang to either side almost simultaneously. Yet, what greeted them was the parasite’s arms, suddenly lengthened; two meters in reach, they seized the pair and tossed them right back to where they’d started. Something struck Song Nianqiang hard in the back, making him gasp in pain.

He retreated, scrambling backward on the floor. With fresh wounds atop old injuries, he could barely stand. But, fumbling at his side, Song Nianqiang’s fingers closed on a treasure he’d once found in the black market—a wooden sword.

“Fatty! Let’s see if our twenty thousand was worth it!” He drew the sword from beneath him, gritted his teeth, and sprang up. As for the fat man, there was no hope—after being thrown twice, someone of his size couldn’t hold up. He lay on the floor, panting, nearly rolling his eyes back.

Now the ghost parasite’s target was Song Nianqiang. As it saw him charge, it even curled its lip in a disturbingly human smile. But that smile froze on its face as Song Nianqiang plunged the wooden sword into its chest.

White smoke hissed from the wound. The parasite thrashed violently, but its powers seemed sealed by the sword, leaving it flailing in place, unable to move closer to Song Nianqiang. Still, its strength remained, and it forced Song Nianqiang step by step toward the door.

He could no longer count on the fat man, and with his injured ankle, he was no match for the parasite. The door was already ajar from when the fat man had dismantled the security lock, not wide open but enough.

Step by step, Song Nianqiang was pushed toward the doorway. The moment he crossed the threshold, a cacophony of camera shutters erupted, flashes igniting the night into day. The ghost parasite, caught in the reporters’ barrage of light, dissolved at once into a puff of white smoke, not even managing a final scream.

It turned out that the case of the missing corpse from the hospital had attracted the attention of high-ranking city officials. The hospital director, desperate to save his job, had publicly announced that the body was found, thanks to two students. The police chief chimed in, even leaking Song Nianqiang’s address to the idling reporters—hence the scene just now.

Pity the ghost parasite—not slain by a ghost hunter like Song Nianqiang, but by the noble hands of the press. Had its master learned of this, he’d likely be driven to hang himself, then haunt those reporters to death.

“Call an ambulance!” Song Nianqiang cried, collapsing as well. There would be no chance of extracting the corpses’ location tonight. Song Nianqiang’s wounds were not too serious, but the fat man still lay motionless on the floor.

It was ten minutes before the ambulance’s telltale wail finally arrived. Song Nianqiang lived near the hospital—it wouldn’t even take ten minutes by bicycle. What had happened to professional standards these days? Perhaps the hospital was simply busy.

Four people in white coats hurried out, lifting the fat man onto the ambulance. Song Nianqiang retrieved a talisman from the fat man’s pocket, used it to capture the five-odd ghost, and, supported by two medics, left the scene. The police had cordoned off the area, forbidding entry or photography.

Moments later, the military arrived, rounding up all the reporters without hesitation, forcing them to surrender their film. Anyone who refused was met with threats—the military, unlike the police, would not hesitate to employ torture. The reporters, generally frail and bookish, could not contend with soldiers.

Swallowing their grievances, the reporters realized this was no ordinary unit—their designation had never appeared in any major paper. Clearly, these were not people to cross. Even if they wanted to publish their humiliation, they knew they’d lose their jobs—perhaps even their lives. Reporters are a clever breed; they all chose to keep silent.

Arriving at the hospital entrance, Song Nianqiang finally understood why the ambulance had been delayed. The hospital resembled a bustling marketplace, alive with noise and excitement.

Upon hearing about Song Nianqiang’s attack, his teacher’s bodyguard Scarface personally arrived with another man—a sallow-faced individual with little flesh on his cheeks and a thick, unshaven beard. Yet his eyes gleamed brightly—two beacons piercing the night.

“This gentleman’s identity is confidential. Just tell him everything about last night in detail,” Scarface said. Normally, he would disdain ordinary people, but now he was deeply respectful—this was no ordinary man.

“Alright,” said Song Nianqiang, whose injuries were light. The fat man was also not badly hurt, just shaken up, his internal organs mildly jarred; a little rest would suffice.

Song Nianqiang recounted the events of the previous night in detail, including how he had acquired the bronze mirror. Throughout, the sallow-faced man showed no emotion, only sighing softly when Song Nianqiang finished.

“Consider yourself lucky. The ghost parasite fears camera flashes—the reporters saved your life.” He paused, then continued, “As for the five-odd ghost, give it to me—I’ll find out where the corpses are hidden.”

Delighted at such good fortune, Song Nianqiang quickly handed over the talisman. This was a rare chance to see what kind of power could command Scarface’s respect.

The man took the talisman, doing nothing dramatic—simply pressing it between his palms. Perhaps the five-odd ghost resisted him; his brow furrowed, then relaxed. “They’re in a mass grave on the western outskirts, supposedly containing an ancient tomb. The corpses are kept in the tomb.”

Seeing his hesitation, Song Nianqiang frowned and asked, “Is there something wrong?” For a matter to trouble this man, it must be no small thing.

“Yes. There’s a real zombie in there. Not just me—even your master would be no match for it. If it gets out, only your father could subdue it.”

That certainly sounded troublesome.

But Song Nianqiang, hearing mention of his father again, asked as if casually, “You know my father? What great deeds has he done?” His heart pounded as he listened for every word.

But the answer was disappointing. “Heh, don’t overthink it. If you want to know about your father, ask your mother. Only two people in the world have the right to tell you who your father is or what feats he’s accomplished—your uncle and your mother. Of course, if you meet your father, you can ask him yourself.”

Seeing Song Nianqiang’s look of disappointment, the sallow-faced man managed a rare smile. “But I can tell you this—your father is a remarkable man, truly formidable. Don’t look at me—I’m an ant compared to him.”

After this, the man stepped out to take a call. “The colonel will be here soon, along with the county chief and the party secretary.” For the three highest officials in this small county to appear together, it could only be about the zombie. The news of a zombie in an ancient tomb was no trivial matter.