Chapter Thirteen: Dragged Away Like a Corpse

In that moment, I had no time to think. In a panic, I fumbled in my pocket for the dogstone. I had no idea how to use it; it was slick with sweat in my palm. The old village chief moved stiffly toward me, a sinister smile curling at his lips. I kept retreating on my knees, scraping them raw, until I reached the threshold of the ancestral hall—there was nowhere left to go.

The old chief’s pace was quick, and in no time he was before me. Suddenly, a pungent, earthy scent of the Yellow River’s mud hit my nose. I’d smelled that before, years ago, on Mrs. Ping and Sister Jiu.

He bent down, chuckled darkly, and blew a gust of foul breath across my face. “Trying to escape the curse of the poison spirit? Impossible!” The stench assaulted me, chilling me to the bone as if I’d been plunged into an ice cellar. When I blinked again, the old chief was lying in his coffin as if nothing had happened. Whether it was real or an illusion, I didn’t care. Spotting a butcher’s knife in the corner, I snatched it and stabbed at the seam of the camphor wood door.

The lock outside was sturdy, but the screws were already loose from my frantic attempts. With my life at stake, I let out a furious roar and slashed upward with the knife. The screw snapped with a crack, and the door swung open. I bolted out like a madman.

Outside, I saw the others standing nervously. Only Zuo Panlong stood apart, leisurely cracking sunflower seeds with one hand and holding a teapot in the other, watching me flee with a gleeful look as if enjoying a spectacle.

Anger eclipsed my fear. I raised the butcher’s knife and struck at that fat bastard’s head.

Zuo Panlong realized I meant business and, panicked, tossed aside his stool and ran. I chased him across the courtyard, and he shouted as he fled, “Xie Xiaopi… stop! Damn it, you’re trying to kill someone!”

That’s right—I was out for his life!

Uncle Duan and Third Uncle rushed to restrain me, and with several men dragging me back, I couldn’t move. I yelled at them to let go, or I’d take them down with him.

Zuo Panlong stood at a distance, gasping and clutching his chest. Suddenly, Granny Liang, over eighty years old, wailed and threw herself before me, kneeling and pleading, “Pi, if you must kill, kill me. Don’t blame Master Zuo… he had no choice. It’s that damned Mrs. Ping—she ruined everything, made my old man restless even in death…”

Granny Liang was the old village chief’s wife, a simple, kind soul. An elderly woman trembling on her knees before me left me at a loss. Had she said Mrs. Ping was harming people? The voice I’d heard inside sounded sharp and feminine—could it have been Mrs. Ping?

I replied, “Granny Liang, every debt has its debtor. If Mrs. Ping wants to harm the old chief, I’ll find her and settle the score for you. Release me, let me deal with that scoundrel first!”

She sobbed, “If you don’t promise me, I’ll die right here on my knees.”

As the saying goes, the elder’s kneeling shortens one’s lifespan—how could I bear such a thing? After all this turmoil, my anger ebbed. With no other recourse, I agreed, asking her to explain what was going on.

Granny Liang, trembling, recounted everything, with Uncle Changgen and others adding details. I finally pieced together the story.

Recently, the old village chief had fallen ill, bedridden for half a month. Just when everyone thought he was about to die, he suddenly sat up, eyes blazing with hatred and rage, smashing things and pacing wildly.

Where did he go? To my old family house.

He lingered around the door, muttering in a shrill voice, “Xie family boy, come out for your old mother!”

His relatives were baffled and tried to pull him home. But the chief would bite anyone who approached, and, in a frenzy, snatched up village children and dragged them toward the wax road. Thankfully, the villagers watched closely and prevented disaster. Uncle Changgen, frightened, ordered him tied to the bed.

He struggled for a week and then died.

Thinking it over, everyone prepared the corpse for burial in the ancestral hall, paid their respects, and burned incense. But every time someone went in, the chief’s corpse would leap from the coffin and bite them.

Terrified, the villagers declared him a revenant and refused to set foot in the hall. But the dead must be buried on the mountain—this could not go on.

Uncle Changgen invited a Taoist priest from town. The priest entered, burned incense, performed rituals, and danced the ceremonial steps for hours. But instead of subduing the chief, he enraged him, and the chief beat the priest so badly he barely recognized himself, fleeing town that very night.

Then Zuo Panlong arrived.

He proved his skill, reciting incantations, performing hand gestures, and affixing talismans, subduing the chief’s corpse with ease. They tried to carry the coffin out for burial, but at the wax road, the dragon pole snapped. They replaced it—again it broke. Zuo Panlong burned incense and made offerings, but nothing worked; they had to bring the chief back.

Zuo Panlong spent the night in the hall, emerging exhausted. He asked Uncle Changgen if there had ever been a woman called Mrs. Ping in the village. Uncle Changgen was puzzled and asked how he knew.

Zuo Panlong replied, “The chief’s corpse is being manipulated.”

Uncle Changgen asked what that meant.

Zuo Panlong explained it was a term from his sect, meaning a powerful entity was controlling the chief’s body—it could be a ghost, spirit, sorcerer, or someone from an obscure school. And the one behind it was Mrs. Ping. She was formidable, and he couldn’t figure her out after a whole night. He asked what she wanted.

Mrs. Ping’s demand was simple: bring Xie Xiaopi back to the village and have him kneel before her.

Zuo Panlong said, “The way of heaven requires resolution. If Xie Xiaopi doesn’t return, the matter can’t be settled. And it can’t be delayed—the manipulator’s resentment will destroy the whole village.”

Uncle Changgen explained helplessly that Xiaopi had left the village over a decade ago, and no one knew where he was.

Zuo Panlong frowned, calculated for a while, and asked if the old house where the boy had lived was still standing.

Uncle Changgen said it was, though abandoned for years.

Without another word, Zuo Panlong went straight to my old house and stayed there a whole day. The next day, he came out, gave instructions to Uncle Changgen, and drove his battered van to town to find me.

And that led to the events just now.

Hearing the whole story, I suddenly felt intimidated. That fat bastard was truly capable; if it came to a fight, I’d lose for sure. I glanced over—Zuo Panlong was cracking more sunflower seeds, watching me slyly.

But something bothered me. How did Zuo Panlong, just by visiting my old house, figure out where I was? And his excuse for buying the dogstone was obviously a lie—how did he know the herbal shop had one?

“Fat bastard, I’ve just paid my respects. Can I leave now?” I asked.

Zuo Panlong grinned, “You could, but since you left the ancestral hall, a cloud of black calamity hangs over your brow. It portends great disaster. I can’t tell the cause yet, but my advice is to wait until I’ve buried the chief and resolved it for you. Then you can go safely.”

The villagers urged me as well, saying Master Zuo was skilled—better stay in the village tonight and not wander off.

“I don’t trust you one bit!”

I tossed the butcher’s knife to the ground and strode away. Uncle Changgen and the others, realizing I was angry, didn’t try to stop me and stood aside in silence.

Zuo Panlong shook his head in resignation.

Whether it was the old chief or Mrs. Ping in the hall, it was too damn strange—I wanted nothing more than to leave. I hurried toward the town, planning to walk there and catch a motorbike to the county.

After several miles, the night grew darker.

Ahead, a man in a hat was driving a donkey cart uphill, loaded with wooden barrels. The rich scent of wine wafted through the air. The donkey struggled up the slope, and the man pushed from behind. I went over to help.

After reaching the top, he thanked me, saying he was heading to town to sell morning wine. He offered me a drink.

I declined, saying I was tired and asked to ride on his cart.

He told me to get on and “don’t get off.”

I didn’t think much of it and hopped aboard.

The man shouted, and the donkey raced ahead at astonishing speed—almost as fast as a motorbike.

Were we about to take flight?

I told him to slow down, lest the donkey die of exhaustion.

He replied, “Donkeys die, people die—everyone dies sooner or later.”

I mused his words were oddly philosophical, but then something seemed off. The donkey had struggled up the slope like a ghost, but now it sped like a thoroughbred. In the dim light, I peered beneath the man’s hat.

I saw his neck was unusually long, his collar turned up to conceal it, giving him the look of a giraffe. Curiosity got the better of me—I glanced at his neck and collar.

What I saw nearly scared the soul out of me.

His neck was severed from his body, his whole head suspended in the air.

He turned and gave me a chilling smile.

Suddenly, I recognized that face.

He was Uncle Mingda—the one who had been bitten by the golden leopard frog and decapitated more than ten years ago!