Chapter Twenty-Seven: Laid Low by Illness

Han Shizhong hurried forward to catch it. Seeing the amount written on the slip of paper, he was taken aback, feigning humility as he said, “Sir, this old man is truly uneasy, this sum is too much, I really feel embarrassed to take it.”

“Enough, Boss Han, this is what you deserve. You’ve suffered losses this time, you’ll need this money to buy connections and recruit people to rebuild your forces. Things have come to this, so don’t refuse.”

“Yes, yes, then I gratefully accept.”

Han Shizhong and the scar-faced man had just left the alley when the scar-faced man couldn’t hold back his curiosity and asked, “Master, how did it go?”

“See for yourself.”

The scar-faced man took the talisman papers and the slip from Han Shizhong, immediately exclaiming, “Master, this is so much money! It’s several times more than last time, and there are these talismans—they’re all top-grade…”

“Shh, keep quiet, don’t risk exposing our identities. Hurry.”

Han Shizhong quickly reminded him. Then Han Shizhong revealed a sly, cold smile and said calmly, “Of course, this money far exceeds the value of those items, but I’ve given him a piece of news, and that news is truly worth this sum. Come, let’s go, with this money, we can go back and rebuild our world.”

“Alright!”

The scar-faced man was grinning from ear to ear; seeing the money was like gazing at the young wife from the neighboring village, a surge of excitement coursing through his heart.

At the fertilizer factory, in the old-style apartment building,

Cui Yuanjun was pacing like an ant on a hot pan, unable to sit still. The stub of his cigarette burned his lips and he didn’t even notice. Aunt Li sat by Cui Yue’s bed, endlessly shedding tears, crying as she stroked Cui Yue’s forehead.

Zhang Hu carried Cui Yue to the infirmary; the doctor checked his eyes and found everything normal, saying it was just shock, and that rest at home would suffice. Zhang Hu and the others were still uneasy, so they carried him to the county hospital. The doctor there repeated the same advice—if nothing else, administer some IV fluids, let him rest at home, and he’d be fine once the shock passed.

Only then did Zhang Hu carry him back to the Cui family, exhausted, and after giving instructions, went home to rest.

Cui Yue lay in bed as if asleep, his breathing steady, but no matter how he was called, he wouldn’t wake, sleeping deeper than a dead pig.

By evening, Cui Yue suddenly developed a fever. Another doctor was summoned to administer a shot to reduce it, but it did nothing—his condition worsened. He began muttering nonsense, his hands flailing, shouting loudly.

“Don’t grab me, go away, go away!”

“Help, help, stay away from me!”

Cui Yuanjun was frantic, with no solution. Aunt Li was helpless, able only to pray silently for peace, but despite her tears running dry, her son showed no signs of improvement.

At that moment, Zhang Ma from next door suddenly broke the silence, “Could it be this child has been possessed by something, bumped into something unclean? You should find someone to settle it, maybe it’ll help.”

Cui Yuanjun nodded repeatedly—how had he not thought of that?

Aunt Li, hearing this, hurried to ask someone to invite Cui Yue’s uncle to come and rid him of illness and evil.

Cui Yue’s uncle, Li Jianguo, was a great believer in feng shui and superstition. He often studied forbidden books of mystical arts, and was meticulous about arranging things at home. If the almanac forbade sweeping or travel on a certain day, he would neither touch a broom nor leave the house, even if a grand sedan chair waited for him.

Upon hearing his nephew was in trouble, Li Jianguo didn’t even grab his coat, rushing through the night, stumbling hurriedly to the Cui home.

Pushing open the door, Li Jianguo, breathless, asked, “What’s happened to Cui Yue?”

Aunt Li quickly led him to the inner room. Seeing Cui Yue’s feverish forehead and hearing his groans, Li Jianguo examined him while cursing, “Damn it, that little scoundrel, they told me Cui Yue had stopped breathing. Made me run all the way here, almost out of breath myself.”

It turned out the messenger, in his panic, had misspoken, saying Cui Yue had stopped breathing instead of simply not waking, which had sent Li Jianguo running.

Cui Yuanjun cared little for such chatter; he only wanted to know when his son would recover.

Li Jianguo thoroughly examined Cui Yue, and taking into account the murder at the factory that day—Cui Yue’s illness struck after witnessing the corpse—Li Jianguo deduced that Cui Yue had been struck by the resentment lingering in the corpse, frightened and startled, and had lost his soul!

Though Cui Yuanjun couldn’t fully grasp Li Jianguo’s explanation, hearing his authoritative tone convinced him, so he urged, “Uncle, then quickly help Cui Yue get rid of this resentment you mentioned, so he’ll be alright.”

“Good, there’s no time to waste. I’ll tell you what I need, you prepare it, and once we’re ready, we’ll begin the ritual.”

Li Jianguo nodded.

A bamboo chopstick, half a bowl of glutinous rice, a bowl of clear water, a piece of cotton fabric, two pieces of spirit money, and a little cinnabar—that would suffice.

“Alright, wait here. I’ll go gather them.”

Everything was easy to find except cinnabar, which ordinary families didn’t keep. Aunt Li hurried out, visiting several neighbors until she finally gathered everything.

Li Jianguo ushered all unrelated people out, forbidding anyone to watch; even Cui Yue’s little sister was taken to another home. Only Cui Yuanjun and Aunt Li remained in the outer room, with the window and door left slightly ajar.

Once all was ready, Li Jianguo turned off the lights in the inner room, leaving only a sliver of light from the outer room. He looked solemn, muttering under his breath. Cui Yuanjun and Aunt Li were anxious, hardly daring to breathe.

Li Jianguo first burned two pieces of spirit money, then placed a bowl of clear water on the table. Holding a chopstick upright in the center of the bowl with one hand, he pressed his index and middle fingers together with the other, eyes half-closed, chanting softly, “Heaven and earth, each has its place. The young man Cui Yue is here, unwittingly offended you all, please don’t blame or resent him. I humbly ask you to show mercy. In the future, incense and spirit money will be offered in gratitude…”

He went on to recite a long list of names—elders of the Cui family who had passed, as well as neighbors who had died in recent years. When he spoke the name Huang Juan, a chilling wind swept through the room, and the light in the outer room flickered, frightening all.

Li Jianguo suddenly opened his eyes. The hand holding the chopstick slowly loosened, and a strange scene unfolded—the chopstick stood upright in the center of the bowl, perfectly straight, while the water rippled without cause.

Seeing this, Aunt Li, peeking from the side, nearly cried out in shock.

Previously, when reciting the list of names, the chopstick would not stand in the bowl, but when Huang Juan’s name was spoken, it stood upright—this revealed the root of the matter. Li Jianguo felt reassured; it matched his earlier judgment: Cui Yue had indeed been struck by the intense resentment and deathly aura of the corpse that day.