Chapter Forty-Six: The Deceased Elder

The one-hundred-and-eight-year-old man, who was already deceased, was now standing upright at the doorway, holding a black skull in his arms. Although Song Nianqiang's usual work involved catching ghosts, this scene made his hair stand on end. He was moving—moving! The old man, who had died at one hundred and eight, was stepping into the room, one slow step at a time. The dim light made it impossible for Song Nianqiang to see the expression on the dead man’s face.

It felt like centuries passed before the old man finally emerged from the darkness. Yet, when his face came into the light, Song Nianqiang let out a long sigh of relief. “You... you’re not dead!” What a waste of such a scene. Given the circumstances, it should have been a ghost who entered, yet here stood a living, breathing man.

“I had a very long dream. When I woke up, you were all gone. I only found you here after asking Little Zhang,” the old man explained. Little Zhang, the village chief and the uncle they knew, had told him. Song Nianqiang merely nodded at the old man’s words.

“Is there something you need from me?” Song Nianqiang wasn’t a fool. For a one-hundred-and-eight-year-old to come looking for him in the middle of the night, there had to be an important reason. No one would believe otherwise, so he asked directly.

The old man chuckled. “It’s nothing urgent. I just hope you can stay here for one more day. I already know when I will die. When the time comes, I’d like you to perform a ritual for me, to help both myself and Xiao Ning find peace.” His tone was calm and detached. Living to such an age, he’d already come to terms with everything, including life itself.

Life is a strange thing. No one can truly explain what it is, but some can see its essence. After weathering countless storms, looking back in old age, life turns out to be nothing more than the blink of an eye.

“All right. I promise you.” Song Nianqiang nodded solemnly at the old man’s request. “Thank you, then. This is something I used in my youth. I have no use for it anymore, so I’ll give it to you.” He handed Song Nianqiang an iron box.

The old man, still clutching the black skull, shuffled away. Song Nianqiang was left puzzled as to why a dead man could suddenly come back to life, but his attention was soon drawn to the iron box. Under the faint light, he opened it for a look.

There was nothing remarkable inside, only a piece of yellowed paper, nearly falling apart. The patterns on it were indistinct, but it was clearly a talisman. Song Nianqiang couldn’t understand why the old man would give him this for no apparent reason. Did it possess some special purpose?

Unable to figure it out, he decided not to dwell on it. After this incident, Song Nianqiang had no more desire to sleep. As the sound of his fat companion’s steady snoring filled the room, he simply sat up and remained on the bed for a while, but his restlessness only grew. Finally, he had no choice but to go outside.

The courtyard at night was pleasantly cool, with a gentle breeze blowing. The sky was clear, stars scattered across the heavens. He found a large stone and sat down, quietly gazing at the night sky.

The sound of insects rose and fell around him, and now and then an unknown bug would leap from the grass to land on his foot before hopping away into the darkness.

Soon, the rooster’s crowing echoed through the dawn. Song Nianqiang stood, stretched, and made his way back inside. He hadn’t been sleepy during the night, but now that morning had come, drowsiness crept in.

He had barely lain down, eyes still open, when frantic shouts sounded outside. “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! Come quickly! Someone help!” The urgency in the voice made it clear that something serious had happened. Song Nianqiang abandoned any thought of rest, dragged the still-groggy fat man from bed, and they hurried towards the source of the commotion.

It was the very room where he had spent the previous night. He pushed open the door to find the one-hundred-and-eight-year-old man sitting peacefully on a stool—dead.

“Hurry, fetch Old Li!” The uncle had arrived, calling out to the gathered crowd. At his words, several villagers dashed off towards Old Li’s house.

The village was small. Though the house was some distance away, it took little more than ten minutes for Old Li to arrive, breathing heavily.

“Make way!” Old Li pushed aside those crowded around the body, knelt down, and examined the old man carefully. Then he shook his head and sighed, “It's half-past six now. The old uncle must have died sometime after eight o’clock last night.”

The news was a blow to the villagers, but to Song Nianqiang, it was like a bolt of lightning. “You’re saying he died after eight last night?” he asked in disbelief, eyes wide. The village chief, too, was taken aback.

“Children should go home and play! Are you doubting my medical skills?” Old Li was clearly displeased at Song Nianqiang’s question, snorted, and left. “What’s wrong?” the fat man asked, familiar enough with Song Nianqiang to recognize his unease.

“I saw him after three in the morning,” Song Nianqiang whispered, glancing at the old man’s peaceful form on the stool. The fat man just laughed. “Nothing unusual. In our line of work, seeing ghosts is par for the course!” he said, unconcerned.

“But he gave me an iron box—with a talisman inside!” Song Nianqiang blurted out, his mind whirling. Did the old man have some unfinished wish, hoping Song Nianqiang would help? None of it made sense.

“Is that so?” The fat man was equally surprised, furrowing his brow in thought. But the villagers were now busy. The death of their eldest was a major event, especially since he had raised many of the village’s elderly. He had been highly respected, his word law.

Now, with his passing, the entire village was mobilized, everyone bustling about. Song Nianqiang, however, was too distracted to join in. He kept turning over in his mind why the old man, already dead, would hand him an iron box—and why it contained a nearly ruined talisman.

The villagers carried the old man’s body away. No one paid much attention to the bone dust clasped to his chest. Closing his eyes, Song Nianqiang tried to recall their final conversation, but he still couldn’t make sense of it.

“If you can’t figure it out, just let it go,” the fat man advised. Miraculously, after last night, his injuries had nearly healed. It seemed true that you should never underestimate folks; real experts often hide among ordinary people.

“This isn’t simple. Last night, the old man asked us to stay another day. Maybe something will happen tonight,” Song Nianqiang reasoned, though he could only speculate about what might come.

In this village, there was a custom for the dead: several strong young men would keep vigil in the mourning hall overnight. That night, Er Hunzi and three young men were chosen for the task. It was nothing new for them, so they had already prepared food and drink for the night.

All day, Song Nianqiang was uneasy, his right eyelid twitching incessantly. As night fell, the feeling grew stronger, and he lost any desire to sleep. Together with the fat man, he made his way to the mourning hall, wanting to check on the old man’s body.

When they arrived, Er Hunzi and the three young men were drinking and laughing, raising their cups in turn. Seeing Song Nianqiang and the fat man, Er Hunzi called out for them to join, but Song Nianqiang had no mood for it.

He approached the coffin, which had been prepared long ago and now looked a bit worn. That was of little importance. When Song Nianqiang peered inside, his pupils contracted sharply.