Chapter 80: The Bone-Devouring Celestial Fragrance Silkworm

People—so many people! Some wore long robes, others wore official uniforms, a dazzling array of attire spanning from the Song dynasty to the Republic era. Some sported queues, others had long hair tied back, and still others were clad in Western suits. Men and women alike, none of them appeared particularly young. Some sat with folded fans in hand, others cradled cups of tea, all seemingly oblivious to our presence, engrossed in their own conversations.

I could clearly see each person's expression, every movement, and observe their exchanges—some shook their heads, others nodded—yet I could not make out what they were saying. What sort of “people” were these? I needn’t spell it out; everyone knew in their hearts—the ancestral hall was home to hundreds of coffins.

The principle is universal: I don’t offend ghosts, and ghosts don’t offend me. I suspected these old gentlemen found the thing on Fatty’s back to be an unfilial child, and not one bothered to glance our way.

Chen Wenbin’s steps were not his usual gait. Observing closely, I saw he moved in a pattern: three steps forward to the left, two more in, then one step back; four steps to the right, three in, then another step back; four left, three in, back again, then three right, two in, and so on. We followed him, weaving in and out, gradually shifting toward the northwest corner. When we reached the bronze incense burner, Chen Wenbin stopped once more.

He lit incense, bowed, made offerings, and recited the three returns to justice, declaring, “Today, I take away Zhou Jiabocai only to confirm his identity. I dare not disturb the ancestors, and now the younger generation takes its leave.”

He finished without raising his head, retreating three steps, then whispered, “Don’t look up—turn in place and walk straight out!”

“What about the door?” Fatty and I remembered there was no door here.

“Turn around and you’ll see it.”

Sure enough, as we turned, the main entrance was less than a meter away—one stride would carry us outside. Neither Fatty nor I dared move first; places like this had taught us not to trust our eyes.

Chen Wenbin saw us hesitate and chuckled, patting my shoulder. “Go on, it’s all right!”

No sooner had he spoken than a gust of wind swept past, and Fatty, as if possessed by the wind and fire wheels of Nezha, sprinted out at record speed…

At the village entrance stood an abandoned house—once perhaps lodging for miners—with a row of communal bunks and no electric lights. Chen Wenbin lit a candle; the body was laid out on one bunk. Its eyes were open, mouth agape, eerily resembling the expression my grand-uncle wore before death. Three young men in their twenties, and a corpse with a face blackened by death—if anyone had burst in, I shudder to imagine our fate…

“Brother, I know you died unjustly. We’re here to seek justice for you. But with your eyes fixed on me like that, I feel uneasy. Would you mind closing them?” Fatty said, reaching to brush the corpse’s face. To our surprise, with a gentle touch, the eyes closed.

The result caught me off guard. Fatty called out repeatedly, “You see that? You see that? There’s definitely injustice here! Chen, please hurry!”

The corpse wore only two garments—a thin inner shirt, what we called a liner, and a light shroud. On the chest was a gaping hole, the handiwork of a powder gun, likely piercing the cavity. Chen Wenbin pressed gently, and blood still oozed from within.

The joints were already stiff. Stripping away the clothes revealed a prominent bulge above the navel, so obvious even I was transfixed. Chen Wenbin pressed it twice, then asked, “Who has a knife?”

Fatty and I exchanged glances—we weren’t the sort to carry knives. Chen Wenbin, fortunately, had a Seven-Star Sword, which now served as a surgical blade. Though unimpressive in appearance, it was razor-sharp, slicing half an inch into the skin with ease, opening a finger-length incision in moments.

Chen Wenbin turned to Fatty. “Give me a cigarette.”

Fatty hurried to light one, but Chen Wenbin didn’t smoke it. Instead, he flipped the corpse onto its side, arranging it so the upper body hung suspended, and had Fatty lift the arms upward.

Chen Wenbin wafted smoke toward the incision in Zhou Bocai’s abdomen. Soon, drops of liquid began to seep out. At first, I thought it was blood, but upon closer inspection, it was dark green—resembling bile—and carried a strange, pleasant fragrance, reminiscent of jasmine.

He told me, “There’s an empty bottle in my bag. Bring it here.”

Chen Wenbin crouched intently, bottle in hand. I had no idea what he was up to. When the cigarette was nearly spent, he suddenly cried, “It’s coming—it’s out!”

He pressed the bottle cap upwards, and when he showed us, we saw inside was a finger-long worm. It resembled the fat green caterpillars found in rural vegetable patches, writhing in the bottle, its sharp pincers scraping the glass with a “ziz zi” sound.

“What a vicious creature! Where did it come from?” Fatty, seeing the pile of green liquid, seemed to realize and dashed outside, where I soon heard him retching at the door.

“So disgusting!” Fatty’s curses echoed outside…

Chen Wenbin showed me the bottle. “This is a gu worm. He was indeed poisoned. That’s why he wandered to the ancestral hall—the worm compelled him. The stench during the day was probably its doing.”

“Do you know who did this?”

Chen Wenbin put away the bottle. “No. Gu sorcery has never appeared in Jiangnan before. It’s only found in Miao regions and Southeast Asia. I’ll ask around when I return.”

“What about the corpse?”

Chen Wenbin glanced at Fatty, still retching outside, his expression slightly embarrassed. “We’ll carry it back…”

I barely remember the journey home that night, though Fatty cursed the whole way. Thankfully, we were familiar with the ancestral hall by now. The old men and women seemed unbothered by us trespassing—still sipping tea, playing chess.

One thing was certain: this man’s soul was also gone.

By noon, we were home, the three of us reeking with a most unpleasant odor. Chen Wenbin bathed and headed out, saying he wouldn’t return that night. It was the fifth day of the lunar new year before he brought a companion home.

Bell-bottoms, pointed leather shoes, a black jacket over a crew-neck sweater, a false collar, a cowboy hat, mirrored sunglasses, and a double-speaker tape recorder slung over his shoulder, blaring “Is the dried wine still for sale, is the dried wine still for sale…”

With that getup, I couldn’t imagine him standing next to Chen Wenbin. Fatty and I had roamed the Golden Triangle for years—this look screamed “trend, style!”

Fatty circled the newcomer and said to Chen Wenbin, “Hey, that’s fresh. Your friend?”

Chen Wenbin nodded. “Sort of. He’s called Gale.”

“Gale? Is that a real surname? What a name—fits the man, cool!”

The stylish youth finally spoke. “No name, no surname. That’s my code.”

“Code? What are we, a spy agency? Are you acting in a movie, brother? Wake up, it’s only the fifth day of the new year.”

Chen Wenbin paid Fatty’s antics no mind, simply said, “Let’s go inside.”

That lunch was the strangest meal I’d ever had. My father, an old revolutionary, and my mother, a plain country woman, were both home. They’d never seen such attire before—my father gave me several side glances, as if to say, “You’ll befriend anyone, and this one looks like a real crook.”

Sure enough, after lunch, my father made an excuse to play mahjong, shot me a meaningful look, and called me outside for a scolding: “I don’t care where you met him, but I can’t stand the sight of him. If he’s still here tonight, you’re not eating at home; wherever he came from, take him and get out. Why can’t you learn to be decent?”

“It’s not me. I don’t know how to explain. Wenbin brought him.”

My father raised his hand to smack me. “Wenbin? That honest boy knows that kind of person?”

“He’s really a friend…”

“Just wait till you come home—I’ll teach you a lesson!” That was my father’s final warning.

When I returned, the newcomer was at the table studying the worm, oblivious to the fact that his fashionable image had spoiled everyone’s appetite. Drinking spirits and playing with the bottle, he handled that revolting creature with relish—a true eccentric.

I hesitated, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Hey, Eccentric Bro, this is the countryside. The elders like quiet. Could you turn off the tape recorder?”

He seemed to care only for the worm, ignoring my words completely. Finally, Chen Wenbin stood up. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Wait, 1982, that thing you’ve got is the Bone-Loving Fragrant Silkworm. I remember now—when I went to the Gobi with Dragon Lord, an old man used one. But it’s said to originate from the Western Regions. That’s odd.”

Chen Wenbin was puzzled. “Western Regions? Isn’t this Miao sorcery?”

“No, it’s not Miao. It’s Western. But as you say, it’s gu sorcery, which makes sense. China’s a big place—not just the Miao know gu. In fact, gu sorcery was invented in the Central Plains and only later spread. But whoever did this is ruthless—soul-stealing mixed with gu, meant to ruin someone for eternity. How deep must their hatred be to do something so cruel?”

To be continued.