Chapter Twenty: The Book Is Gone

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"Spotter" means a thief.

My scalp tingled instantly. I hurriedly clarified that I wasn’t a thief—I was her neighbor, just coming over to see if there was anything I could help with.

After saying that, I pretended to help them move a color TV, ready to load it onto the moving truck. One of the movers stopped me, saying the television was valuable and shouldn’t go in the truck; it should be placed in the small car out front. Sure enough, I saw a sedan parked ahead, its exterior painted with a huge ant and the words "Ant Moving Company." I quickly put the TV in the back seat and, not wanting to linger, hurried away.

Out on the street, there was no crowd watching. All I saw was Old Wang from the noodle shop, straddling his motorcycle with a bag of flour strapped to the back. I asked him, "Old Wang, has Widow Shen died?"

"She’s dead. Little Pi, where have you been these past days?"

"I went out to buy some medicinal herbs. Did you hear the commotion at the door just now?"

"Nope, didn’t hear a thing. Can’t chat now, I have to return this flour."

The motorcycle engine roared as Old Wang sped towards me on his battered Lifan, aiming right at me.

Terrified, I leapt aside, cursing loudly, "Old Wang, are you nuts? You’ll kill someone!"

Just then, someone behind me gave a hard shove—I toppled to the ground, and a furious shout rang in my ear, "Little Pi, are you crazy? You’ll get yourself killed!"

The scene before me shifted violently.

I was at the roadside, Old Wang clutching my jacket, my whole body slumped to the ground. Ahead was a bus, its driver lowering the window and swearing at me.

Old Wang exhaled deeply, "Little Pi, what were you doing charging onto the road like that? Good thing I grabbed you!"

I asked, "Weren’t you just on your motorcycle?"

Old Wang brushed flour off his hands, "I’m kneading dough, what motorcycle?"

I thanked him, then rushed back to the pharmacy, slammed the door shut, and pulled out the talisman Fatty Zuo had given me. The whole charm was pitch black, like ink; when I squeezed it, it crumbled instantly to dust. In a panic, I grabbed my phone and dialed Fatty Zuo, urging him to come to the pharmacy immediately.

On his end, children’s laughter echoed, as if they were playing games.

He told me he was at an orphanage donating money and would talk later.

The children’s voices sounded genuine, and I found myself looking at Fatty Zuo in a new light.

I said this was urgent—the charm was gone, and I was haunted by a ghost.

He paused, then told me not to leave, and he’d be there soon.

After hanging up, anxiety gnawed at me. The thought that I’d nearly been done in by a female ghost left me frustrated. I stared blankly for a few minutes, then went down to the basement, only to find the box opened by someone, the jar uncapped and lying on its side, yellow liquid dripping from its mouth.

I frantically searched for the "Lingnan Treasure Suppression Handbook," made of tofu skin.

After rummaging for ages, my head felt like it exploded—the entire book was gone except for a corner, as if eaten by an animal. Clutching the tiny remnant, I trembled with rage.

The book was soft, fragrant—was it eaten by rats?

I went berserk, overturning everything in the basement, determined to find the gluttonous culprit and tear it to shreds.

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After searching for ages, I found nothing.

Suddenly, the jar on the ground rolled slightly, and a head poked out from its mouth.

The head was pointed, about the size of a large date, with two tiny black bean-like eyes, no nose, and a mouth the size of a fingernail, its corners smeared with fragments of the tofu skin book, still chewing as if savoring it. Its body wriggled out next, yellow-white, plump and round, with no limbs.

What on earth was this thing?!

Whatever it was—it ate the book, meaning I had no way to deal with the Golden Leopard Frog. I had to kill it!

Blood rushed to my head. I grabbed a shovel and swung it at the creature.

It seemed intelligent, agile—leaping more than a meter away.

The shovel struck the ground, numbing my hand, making me even angrier. I swung wildly at it, but it darted left and right, escaping up the stairs.

I chased after it, only to find it gone!

Its body was about the size of an unripe apple—easy to hide, impossible to spot.

Cursing, I shouted for it to come out if it dared. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how foolish I sounded. The thing had a mouth, but it was probably some unknown animal, unlikely to understand human speech.

Suddenly, something dropped from atop the medicine cabinet.

Looking up, I saw the creature perched on the cabinet, staring fiercely at me.

The cabinet was too tall, and I couldn’t reach it even with the shovel. No ladder in sight. I shouted angrily, "Get down here!"

To my surprise, it seemed to understand, jumping off the cabinet and landing on the medicine table, hopping twice as if to show goodwill. Honestly, it looked rather cute.

But I’m not someone who lets grudges go.

My right hand snatched a sharp ginseng knife nearby, and I brought it down hard.

The creature’s eyes widened in terror; its mouth opened, spitting a blob of sticky liquid at me.

The liquid was viscous and icy, hitting me square between the brows. Instantly, my mind went blank, my whole body jolted as if electrocuted, from toes to hair tips tingling. The knife clattered to the floor, and I collapsed, unable to move.

The creature’s tiny mouth curved upward in a smug expression. Its fat little bottom wiggled as it bounced across the table, disappearing from sight.

It took me a while to regain feeling and thought. Wiping my brow, the sticky liquid was gone.

What was this thing?

How could its saliva act like a stun gun?

A loud knocking sounded at the door. I had to leave it be for now, limping over to answer.

Fatty Zuo had arrived.

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He entered, saw my disheveled state, and asked about the talisman.

I told him it had burned black, and briefly recounted my encounter with Widow Shen and the near-miss with the car.

The fat bastard laughed heartily, teasing, "I never realized you were so handsome, even female ghosts crave your body! Why didn’t you agree? Doing it with a ghost beats doing it with a human any day!"

I shot back, "Have you messed around with ghosts?"

Fatty Zuo suddenly looked embarrassed and quickly changed the subject, "Anyway... I’ve got the diving gear ready. Did you figure out how to deal with the Golden Leopard Frog?"

I said I’d only found a heap of tools; there was supposed to be a book with clues, but it was eaten by some unknown animal. That thing spat saliva that worked like a stun gun and was still somewhere in the house.

Fatty Zuo was incredulous, urging me to search again together.

After that battle of wits and strength, I’d lost all confidence in handling it. It was small, incredibly agile, and its saliva stunned like an electric baton. Catching it felt like punching at fleas—miss the flea and get bitten instead. But if I left it alone, it didn’t seem to attack on its own.

We turned the house upside down, but it seemed to have evaporated.

Helpless, I brought the basement box upstairs.

Inside were many strange tools, but the only treasure suppression tools I recognized—the insertion pipe and treasure ladle—were missing. After rummaging, I settled on a curved blade as long as my arm. It felt just right in my hand. I pulled a few hairs, blew them across the blade; they snapped instantly.

The sharpness startled us both.

Fatty Zuo’s eyes gleamed, egging me to give him the knife.

I knew such tools were rare and valuable, and more importantly, they were keepsakes from my grandfather and parents. No way would I agree, so he had to drop it.

Fatty Zuo glanced over the box, then around the pharmacy, "The whole place is full of treasures—such a waste in your hands." He sighed, "Why didn’t I have an awesome grandpa who left me a box of good stuff?"

I sheathed the curved blade and said, "If you’re willing to kneel and call me Grandpa, I’ll leave these to you when I die."

"Get lost!" Fatty Zuo snapped.

After locking up the pharmacy, I climbed into his van.

With Fatty Zuo there, the ghosts kept their distance, and I felt much safer.

Once inside, I saw the river-diving gear was complete, even a simple oxygen tank. Glancing at my lone curved blade, bitterness welled up—this felt like stepping into the underworld, with little hope of return. As I brooded, something cold and dark pressed against my forehead.

"Don’t move!"

I turned. A gun!