Chapter Forty-Two: Memories of the Past

At this moment, though, there was something unsettling in Second Rascal’s eyes. Song Nianqiang immediately sensed trouble—the Cat King’s spirit had grown exceptionally powerful, and the baleful energy within it was beginning to seep into Second Rascal’s body. But just as Song Nianqiang was at a loss, an old man with a face full of wrinkles hobbled forward and, without warning, gave Second Rascal a resounding slap on the head. Instantly, clarity returned to Second Rascal’s gaze, and he swiftly hurled the Cat King’s corpse into the fire.

With a loud “Bang!” a flash of green light burst forth, and the Cat King’s body was suddenly engulfed in flames. At that moment, the big fellow emerged from the hollow, though his clothes were as good as ruined—a pungent stench wafted from him. “Uncle, find me something to change into!” the big fellow pleaded, his face contorted in distress.

“Come with me,” the old man replied. Seeing the state the big fellow was in, he knew there was no other way, and so he led him toward the village. Soon, the Cat King’s corpse was reduced to nothing but ashes, and Song Nianqiang, standing within the Seven Fiends Soul-Locking Formation, muttered incantations under his breath. At last, he took a prepared talisman, set it alight, and finally let out a sigh of relief.

“Hurry up and dig, there isn’t much time left.” Although they had disposed of the Cat King’s body, no one could say for certain whether another Cat King lurked somewhere in the hollow. So Song Nianqiang turned to the villagers and urged them on. Fortunately, only a small patch of ground remained, which wouldn’t take long to clear.

“Grandfather, just now…?” Song Nianqiang was about to ask the old man about what had happened earlier, but the elder simply waved his hand, said only, “When you grow old, you see things others cannot,” and shuffled away. Yet Song Nianqiang was certain this old man was far more than he appeared to be.

But now was not the time to dwell on it. The old man wasn’t willing to speak, and Song Nianqiang had no means to force him. Before long, the big fellow returned, now dressed in a military uniform. At a glance, he looked as if a soldier from the sixties had walked straight out of time—the uniform entirely concealed his bulk, making him appear not fat, but simply thickset.

“Well? Is it done?” The big fellow seemed quite pleased with his outfit. “Almost,” Song Nianqiang replied, circling him with admiration. “You wear that uniform well!”

“Of course!” the big fellow chuckled, thick-skinned as ever. By now, the hollow had been thoroughly dug up, and although a few more cat corpses were unearthed, nothing else of value appeared. But Song Nianqiang was an expert in such matters. He circled the hollow, then jumped down himself.

The ground had already been turned over by the villagers; though the soil was damp, the stench had faded. Song Nianqiang took a shovel from a villager and began digging where water seeped from the earth. Such hollows often had water bubbling up from below.

But this time, Song Nianqiang uncovered something quite different. After a few shovelfuls, he unearthed a pitch-black skull. At first glance, it seemed nothing out of the ordinary, but on closer inspection, it sent a chill through the body. “This is the real culprit!” he declared, giving the skull a kick.

“All right, let’s go back.” Before leaving, Song Nianqiang had the big fellow affix several talismans to the skull. Naturally, he wouldn’t simply leave such a find behind; several villagers carried it back with them on their shovels.

“What a cursed fate!” The old man shook his head and sighed when he saw the skull Song Nianqiang had unearthed. Song Nianqiang was tempted to ask what he meant by “cursed fate,” but in the end, he held his tongue. If the old man wished to speak, he would.

This white-haired elder was the oldest in the village—one hundred and eight years old. Years ago, a plague had swept through, taking most of the villagers; the source of the epidemic was unknown, and no one could say whether the tale was true or not.

The black skull was placed in Song Nianqiang’s own room. After a long day’s toil, everyone was exhausted, yet tonight, sleep eluded them. Instead, they sat quietly in their homes, awaiting midnight, for Song Nianqiang had assured them there would be no more weeping of cats from this night onward.

Sure enough, when the clock struck twelve, the only sounds in the village were the chirring of insects. At last, the villagers could rest easy.

But Song Nianqiang and the big fellow found no peace. This black skull was clearly no common object. Its darkness was not an ordinary black, but glossy, almost hypnotic—its presence unsettling.

“Someone had their eye on that hollow,” Song Nianqiang mused. “They raised cat ghosts to increase the baleful energy, all to obtain this thing.” He glanced at the ground, realizing their adversary must possess considerable skill. Yet they couldn’t openly excavate the hollow—such activity would never be tolerated by the villagers. More importantly, they feared exposure.

People who dabble in such arts are always cautious, unwilling to act too brazenly even against the weak—a habit honed from childhood.

“So, what do we do with this creepy thing?” The big fellow found some cloth and covered the black skull, unable to bear its presence otherwise.

“What should we do?” Song Nianqiang was stumped. Clearly, it was not yet time to destroy the skull. Keeping it would surely draw out the one behind the scenes; if it were destroyed now, the mastermind would simply disappear and never show themselves. People like that would never risk everything over a ruined object—their tolerance was vast, and they would not seek trouble over minor setbacks.

But Song Nianqiang thought differently. If the culprits were not rooted out, they would simply find another place to commit their misdeeds. The matter had escalated—it was now a question of justice, of peace for the people. Song Nianqiang had to expose the true villain. Admittedly, he also wanted to ask what purpose such a black skull served.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared at Song Nianqiang’s door, startling both men. But when the visitor entered, their alarm faded. “Elder, please sit!” It was the white-haired old man from earlier that day. His steps were labored, and his entire being seemed shrouded in the aura of death, as if he might pass at any moment.

“I am here for that,” the old man said, his voice trembling as he looked at the black skull, now covered. Tears welled in his narrow, aged eyes. He shuffled over, hands quivering, and gently uncovered the skull, finally cradling it in his arms.

“Xiao Ning, it’s been eighty-five years. At last, we meet again.” Hearing these words, Song Nianqiang felt a story was about to unfold—perhaps a tragic love tale lost to the ages.

“When I die, please bury my bones with hers,” the old man said after weeping for a time. The aura of death around him seemed to deepen. Song Nianqiang, unable to suppress his curiosity, asked, “Do you know the origin and purpose of this skull?”

The old man nodded gently, settled onto the bench with the skull in his arms, and said, “It was the source of the plague eighty years ago.” Seeing the old man ready to tell his tale, Song Nianqiang closed the door and pressed a talisman upon it, just in case the old man’s soul should depart mid-story.

The talisman released a faint golden glow, enveloping the room and keeping any soul-collecting spirits at bay.

“Xiao Ning and I were betrothed from birth, but those were troubled times—men were conscripted everywhere. I was taken away to serve, but Xiao Ning loved me dearly. On the eve of my conscription, she gave herself to me. But that act brought about disaster…”