Chapter Sixty-Five: Return to Wuzhou

In the quiet and pitch-dark courtyard, Wu Cheng'an supported Zhang Qinglin, stumbling toward the main gate. As they reached the entrance, Zhang Qinglin lifted his heavy eyelids and saw a woman standing directly in the center of the gate. She wore white, her long black hair trailing down to her ankles, and her face was deathly pale, her eyes void of life, staring straight ahead. Zhang Qinglin knew at once—she was not among the living.

He paused, but Wu Cheng'an seemed oblivious, gripping his shoulder and forging ahead, intent on leading him away from this place. As they drew dangerously near the woman in white, Zhang Qinglin tried to restrain Wu Cheng'an, but he was too weak, feeling as if he were being dragged along.

Suddenly, the woman in white widened her eyes. From her sleeves, slender fingers stretched forth, lifting into the air. Her long hair followed the sweep of her arm, surging forward. A lock of hair spun through the air, wrapping tightly around Zhang Qinglin’s calf. His expression contorted as he was yanked down by hair as strong as wire. Dizzy and disoriented, he was flung to the side by the ghostly woman.

The moment Zhang Qinglin slipped from his grasp, Wu Cheng'an sensed something amiss. He bent to help him, but felt his own arm seized by an unseen force, rendering him immobile. Although he couldn’t see what held him, the thick, putrid stench forced him to acknowledge the truth: he was facing a ghost.

Zhang Qinglin shouted, “Wu Cheng'an, be careful! Right in front of you—” But before he could finish, another lash of long hair struck him, sending him tumbling, his face swelling red and raw at once.

“I know. Save your strength, I’ll deal with her,” Wu Cheng'an replied, spinning around and catching a chill in his hand—yes, it was her, the long-haired ghost. He remembered, as a child, following his second uncle into tombs by the river and encountering such a creature. Her hair could kill a man. The best way to defeat her was to set her hair ablaze.

Wu Cheng'an searched frantically through his pockets but found no lighter. Meanwhile, he felt himself dragged forward by a supernatural strength. Zhang Qinglin, watching, shouted out the direction and position of the ghostly hair’s next attack. Wu Cheng'an, seizing the moment, lifted his right leg and spun, narrowly dodging the oncoming assault.

“How are you holding up? This thing needs fire or we’ll never be rid of it. I’ll look for matches…” Wu Cheng'an called as he dodged to Zhang Qinglin’s side.

“Still alive. I have a lighter,” Zhang Qinglin muttered, fishing one from his pocket and tossing it to Wu Cheng'an.

Catching the lighter, Wu Cheng'an grabbed a strand of the attacking hair, struck a flame, and brought it close. In an instant, fire raced along the hair, catching the woman in white in the doorway. Two shrill screams pierced the night as the flames blazed higher and higher.

Without hesitation, Wu Cheng'an hoisted Zhang Qinglin onto his back and dashed past the inferno, fleeing the courtyard.

They ran several meters before slowing, gazing out across an endless field of wild grass. Behind them stood Qingqing’s house—the only building for miles. There were no trees in any direction. Wu Cheng'an raised his head, searching for the Big Dipper, but the sky was thick with clouds. Disoriented, he turned in place, unable to find his bearings.

Zhang Qinglin, head drooping with exhaustion, found his wrist bleeding again despite the blood beginning to clot. His mind remained sharp, aware that Wu Cheng'an was now at an impasse. Scanning the surroundings, he saw mist creeping in, deepening the gloom and making it impossible to distinguish direction. In the distance, the vague outline of mountains could be discerned.

“Turn around. See if the courtyard is still there,” Zhang Qinglin whispered. He wanted to know—if the courtyard was still visible despite the fog—then he would understand the true nature of this desolate place. Old Wang’s dying words had been for Qingqing to help them escape; this wasteland must be something extraordinary.

Wu Cheng'an immediately turned. As he did, Zhang Qinglin glanced back—the lonely courtyard remained. “The fog’s getting thicker. We can’t leave yet. Let’s find a place to wait until dawn,” Zhang Qinglin said quietly.

At night, in places thick with yin energy, one could easily fall prey to phantoms; worse, they might wander in circles and end up back in the courtyard. With no tools to aid them, even though the land was barren, they needed to wait for daylight, when the fog would lift and their strength would return, making escape possible.

Wu Cheng'an agreed. He strode ahead toward a cluster of withered trees, set Zhang Qinglin down, and gathered dry branches to kindle a fire. The flames cast a small circle of light.

Seating himself, Wu Cheng'an examined Zhang Qinglin’s arm in the firelight. The white cloth wrapped around his wrist was soaked through with fresh blood. As he unwound it, Wu Cheng'an asked, “What illness do you have? Why does such a small cut bleed so much? Is it leukemia? If Secretary Zhao hadn’t saved you last time, you’d be dead by now.”

Zhang Qinglin could barely keep his eyes open. He closed them and replied, “I’ve had countless tests. It’s not leukemia. The hospital can’t find a cause. Only my father might know the reason.”

Wu Cheng'an sprinkled the last of the medicinal powder onto Zhang Qinglin’s still-bleeding wrist. Once the bleeding stopped, he tore a strip from his own shirt to bind the wound. “Your father? I know you’ve been searching for him for years. Any news?”

With the powder easing his pain, Zhang Qinglin shifted his head and said, “Just found a lead, but…it’s gone.” Wu Cheng'an looked over and saw that he had already drifted into sleep. Wu Cheng'an kept watch by the fire all night, eyes vigilant—not for Qingqing, but for bloodthirsty creatures drawn by the scent of blood.

A blinding light suddenly shone on Zhang Qinglin’s face, waking him. He opened his eyes to find it was broad daylight, the sun high in the sky, Wu Cheng'an standing a few steps from the fire.

The landscape was completely changed from the foggy night before: to the left, endless mountains; to the right, the distant, tiny speck of the courtyard.

Zhang Qinglin stood and surveyed the scene, then looked up at the sun. According to the principles of yin and yang and the elements, facing the sun was yang, away from it was yin; south of the mountain, north of the river was yang, the road faced south, and the house faced north. Thus, to leave, they should walk in the direction opposite the courtyard, away from the sun.

He pointed to a narrow, quiet dirt path ahead—at its end was the provincial road, where cars passed by. Overjoyed, he threw his arm around Wu Cheng'an’s shoulders and said, “See? All those years of study weren’t for nothing.”

Wu Cheng'an’s eyes shone with excitement and relief.

Yet, in their tattered clothes and battered state, they looked for all the world like escaped convicts, and no driver dared pick them up, no matter how much money they offered.

Supporting one another, they walked on until a gray minivan appeared. Wu Cheng'an, undeterred, flagged it down.

Behind the wheel was a frank, honest-looking, chubby young man with glasses. He rolled down the window and stared nervously at the injured Wu Cheng'an. “Uh…hey, guys. What’s up?”

Wu Cheng'an leaned in, resting his hand on the window, and glanced into the back of the van. His tone was hard. “Don’t be afraid. We just need a ride. We’ll pay, don’t worry.”

The chubby driver adjusted his glasses and eyed the slumped Zhang Qinglin. “Where are you headed? Depends if I’m going that way…”

“We’re headed the same way, absolutely. Come on, let us in,” Wu Cheng'an interrupted, patting the window, then helped Zhang Qinglin into the van and climbed in after.

“Hey…I didn’t say you could get in…” the driver protested, twisting around to look at them.

Wu Cheng'an, face dark and unsmiling, let a dagger slip from his sleeve and pointed the blade at the driver. “No more talk. Drive.”

Terrified, the young man shrank back, eyes flicking nervously to the rearview mirror.

Zhang Qinglin gently grasped Wu Cheng'an’s hand and said in a softer voice, “You’ll scare everyone off behaving like that. Try a little kindness.”

Then, turning weakly to the driver, he murmured, “Don’t mind him, my friend. We’re truly grateful for your help—just take us where we need to go.”

Relaxing a bit, the chubby man said, “Now that’s more like it. I like the way you talk. So, you’re heading to Wu Prefecture too?”

Zhang Qinglin, dizzy, rested his head against the seat. “Yeah, that’s right,” he replied quietly.

“How are you feeling?” Wu Cheng'an asked as he settled into the back, watching Zhang Qinglin lean against the window, eyes shut tight.

“Fine,” Zhang Qinglin muttered, moving his head slightly.

“Where’s Uncle?” Wu Cheng'an pressed.

Zhang Qinglin barely opened his eyes, the movement barely a slit. The speed of the van made him carsick; he didn’t want to open his eyes. “No need to look for them. Let’s go to the tube-shaped apartment building—Uncle Xu’s place. Cheng Che will be waiting there.”

“I know that place! There’s a guy there who sells fish. He runs a stall at the Donghua Market—his business is booming, mostly because the fish are so fresh. Whenever he runs out, people go straight to his house. His wife, too—good-looking, capable!” the chubby driver chimed in, animated by the mention of the apartment.

“Thank you, my friend,” Zhang Qinglin said.

Once inside Wu Prefecture, the driver made a quick stop at the Yunlong wholesale market to pick up some goods, then headed toward the tube-shaped apartments.

Halfway there, Wu Cheng'an suggested taking Zhang Qinglin to the hospital, but Zhang Qinglin refused, insisting they go straight to their destination. An hour later, they arrived at the apartment complex.

Before they could get out, they saw two men standing downstairs—police officers who had previously questioned Zhang Qinglin. He motioned to Wu Cheng'an to stay put until the officers left. It had been days since the murder in apartment 203 on the second floor; who knew why the police were back? If they were spotted, it would only arouse suspicion, so they waited until the officers departed.

As the policemen shook their heads and walked away, the chubby driver suddenly fixed his gaze on the rooftop. “Isn’t that the fish seller’s wife? What’s she doing up there?”

Zhang Qinglin was startled, leaning forward to see for himself. Wu Cheng'an rolled down the window and looked too, wondering if she was about to jump in broad daylight.

The woman in the red coat stood out vividly, her features clear, her black wavy hair unmistakable. Zhang Qinglin’s heart skipped—she couldn’t possibly have come back to life. She had frozen to death; how could she be standing there now? A chill swept over him. Why did he keep encountering ghosts?

The chubby driver got out and shouted up to the woman in red, but she didn’t respond. He took two steps forward just as she placed one foot on the edge of the roof and leapt off.

As he ran toward her, he shouted to the two departing policemen.

Zhang Qinglin staggered out, leaning on the van, and called after the driver, “Come back!”

Wu Cheng'an, sensing something wrong and seeing Zhang Qinglin’s expression, rushed ahead, shouting, “Watch out!”

He lunged and shoved the young man aside—

With a loud crash, a heavy flowerpot filled with stones shattered on the pavement in front of the driver, bursting open like a watermelon.

All three stood frozen. The chubby man scrambled up, wide-eyed, and glanced up at the rooftop. If not for Wu Cheng'an’s quick reflexes, he would have been crushed.

“Are you all right?” Zhang Qinglin called out.

The chubby man retrieved his glasses, trembling with excitement. “That was close—thank you, thank you for saving my life! Now that I’ve brought you here, forget about the fare—I’m just glad to be alive. I’ll be off, thanks again!”

With that, he drove off in haste.

“That guy—after I saved him, he still had the nerve to ask for money…” Wu Cheng'an muttered with disdain.