Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Murderer

Just as Zhang Qinglin pressed for the identity of the man in the photograph, the door to the room was kicked open from within, splintering into pieces. Mr. Hu emerged, gripping the murderer who had killed Meihua with one hand, and hurled him outside.

The man landed heavily, sustaining internal injuries from the violent throw—blood spurted from his mouth. Mr. Hu stood over him, looking down at him from above. The people behind Old Xu immediately surrounded them, and others in the vicinity hurried over as well.

From afar, Cheng Che could be seen sitting on a chair inside the room, his head bowed. Ayong had already gone in with some men. After checking, he declared that there was no serious harm. Old Xu glanced at Mr. Hu, then instructed Ayong to carry Cheng Che to the main house at the back.

The man on the ground slowly sat up, his eyes darting to either side. He struggled a bit, then scrambled to his feet and dashed toward an opening to Zhang Qinglin’s right, hoping to escape.

Mr. Hu’s expression turned stern, and he shouted, “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”

Upon hearing this, Zhang Qinglin reached out and caught the man by the shoulder. But the man reacted with lightning speed, twisting his arm and breaking free from Zhang Qinglin’s grip.

Old Xu’s men quickly closed in, surrounding him. Unexpectedly, as the man tossed aside his bloodstained clothes, his movements became astonishingly agile—he began fighting Old Xu’s men.

Seeing this, Mr. Hu strode forward, striking out with his palm, but the man dodged instantly, his face contorting into a savage expression.

At that moment, Mr. Hu snatched up the discarded shirt, bit his own finger, and drew a blood talisman on it. He then lunged at the man, wrapping the shirt around him, and called out, “Tie him up with rope—” But before he could finish, the man tore the shirt to shreds and, in a frenzy, rained wild blows upon Mr. Hu. Mr. Hu was battered until blood poured from his mouth, and finally, the man kicked him to the ground.

Witnessing this, everyone was momentarily paralyzed with fear. Old Xu, leaning on his cane, shouted at the madman, “What are you all standing around for? Hurry and grab him!”

They thought that, with so many people, the man would be subdued. Unexpectedly, four or five of them were quickly knocked to the ground in a blur, all falling unconscious.

At this, Zhang Qinglin helped the fallen Mr. Hu to his feet, and both Uncle Jiang and Old Xu came over as well.

Coughing, Mr. Hu said, “He’s a formidable opponent—this wandering avenging spirit is no ordinary one. We must bind him, or the consequences will be dire.”

“Mr. Hu, is there no other way? If we splash chicken blood on him again, will that subdue him?” Zhang Qinglin asked, glancing toward the raging struggle.

Mr. Hu shook his head as he sat up. “It’s too late now—unless…”

“Unless what?” Zhang Qinglin pressed.

“Unless the avenging spirit realizes that the body it now inhabits is the very murderer who killed it years ago, and kills him itself. Otherwise, no one can stop it.” Mr. Hu took a deep breath, his gaze fixed ahead.

How could it possibly realize that on its own? No—if this truly was Meihua’s spirit, there must be a way, Zhang Qinglin thought in a flash.

He got up and asked Old Xu, “Old Xu, are there any women’s red cloth shoes in this courtyard?”

Old Xu looked at Zhang Qinglin in surprise. “What do you want red cloth shoes for?”

“According to Mr. Hu, if the avenging spirit still has awareness, seeing something familiar from its past may provoke a change. I’ve seen the red cloth shoes Meihua’s mother held—the very pair Meihua wore before her death,” Zhang Qinglin replied.

“Old Li, go find a pair at once—quickly!” Old Xu’s eyes flashed, and without hesitation, he ordered his steward to search for them.

Ayong, along with two brothers armed with long knives, rushed to stand in front of Old Xu and the others, shielding them from harm.

Before long, Old Li came running with a pair of embroidered cloth shoes, which he handed to Zhang Qinglin.

Zhang Qinglin took the shoes without a word, glanced at the wild, violent man, and started forward.

Uncle Jiang grabbed him, unwilling to let him risk himself, hoping Old Xu would send someone else. But Zhang Qinglin had already made up his mind.

Mr. Hu, standing to one side, said, “It’s worth a try. Just be careful—don’t let his hands strike you.”

With the embroidered shoes in hand, Zhang Qinglin stepped forward. By now, Old Xu’s men had withdrawn to either side, leaving only the frenzied man standing in the center.

Zhang Qinglin called out loudly to him. The man jerked his head and turned around. His eyes were ringed with deep, inky blackness, staring fixedly ahead. Suddenly, he opened his mouth and let out two strange, guttural roars, then charged at Zhang Qinglin.

Before the man could reach him, Zhang Qinglin held the embroidered shoes in front of himself and called out, “Meihua, Meihua, I know you’re Meihua now. Do you remember these shoes? These are your favorite ones—the pair you always wore. I found them for you—look.”

As he spoke, Zhang Qinglin slowly placed the shoes on the ground and took two steps back.

Everyone watched with bated breath as the man halted before the embroidered shoes, the chilling glint in his eyes sweeping over them.

At that moment, the sky suddenly darkened with thick clouds, and a violent wind arose, making everyone shiver. Zhang Qinglin raised his arm to shield his face, trying to glimpse the figure before him, but the wind stung his eyes shut. Everything around him seemed plunged into darkness.

Such uncanny weather was a rarity; chaos broke out at once. Five or six men clustered around Old Xu in protection, and Uncle Jiang helped Mr. Hu retreat.

“Get out—dangerous!” In the gloom, a voice sounded in Zhang Qinglin’s ear. Suddenly, someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him aside.

He saw the madman wielding a long knife, slashing at the very spot where Zhang Qinglin had just stood.

The knife had been snatched from someone who had chased him from behind.

Steadying himself, Zhang Qinglin glanced at his rescuer—it was Wu Cheng’an. Zhang Qinglin shot him a questioning look. He hadn’t seen Wu in the courtyard earlier; Jiang Xinyue had gone to rest in the front house, and Wu Daoyi had been detained by Old Xu’s men. No one knew where Wu Cheng’an had gone.

“Don’t move—he’s no longer in control of his body at all. It seems the shoes you brought had an effect,” Wu Cheng’an said, extending an arm to block Zhang Qinglin.

“How do you know? Where were you just now? Why didn’t I see you?” Zhang Qinglin asked, turning his head.

“No time for that—Mr. Hu is not what he seems,” Wu Cheng’an replied, nodding toward Mr. Hu.

Mr. Hu stood stiffly before the embroidered shoes, utterly unfazed by the wind. The madman in front of him raised his long knife, eyes blazing with murderous intent, the blade already arcing through the air.

Everyone else, battered by the sudden evil wind, struggled to stay upright. Some, seeing Mr. Hu about to be struck down, were shocked that he stood motionless, awaiting the blow.

But in the next instant, Mr. Hu gave a wicked smile. The long knife suddenly reversed direction—the frenzied man slashed the blade into his own body.

Once, twice, three times… again and again, until he had hacked himself dozens of times.

Blood spattered everywhere, a horrifying sight. The wild wind gradually abated. After a final, thunderous roar, the wind ceased. The madman stood there, his body covered in gaping wounds, a spectacle that froze the blood of all who looked upon him.