Chapter Twenty-Five: Returning to the Southern City, Encountering a Minor Official, and the Tailor Doctor Receives the Blessing Manuscript

Wild geese depart at dawn’s first light, the moon fading behind them, while drifting clouds carry the last traces of its glow. Young men, adorned with flowers and calling for wine, fill the festive halls; ten miles of radiant lanterns scatter their fragrant light.

A solitary figure darted swiftly through the darkness—so swift that even the black-clad Marshal on the watchtower could not catch a glimpse. Fortunately, all the townsfolk were gathered in the market square, admiring the lanterns, or else this ghostly shadow would surely have frightened someone into illness.

August 15th, thirteenth year of Jian’an, the mortuary at the southern edge of the city.

Just after nightfall.

Song Mo drew a bundle of paper money from his robe and, together with two paper horses, burned them in a secluded corner. The scene was much the same as the last time he’d done this.

Wisps of blue smoke from the burning paper drifted upward, only to vanish abruptly in midair—spirited away by ghosts and gods, no doubt.

Remembering that he’d missed the roll call today, Song Mo felt uneasy. After all, every official at the Mortuary Bureau was a skinflint of the highest order.

Miss work once, and they’d dock five copper coins from your pay!

Just like that, a month’s hard labor could send you right back to square one.

Wait, but I have the golden cat!

Suddenly, Song Mo remembered the golden cat he’d bought from Ren’an as a shop talisman, and his mood instantly brightened.

“With such a big golden cat in hand, forget sewing up corpses—I could lie around like one every day and still be fine…” The thought made Song Mo giddy with delight.

Swaggering along in his pigeon-toed walk, he strolled toward Mortuary Room Seven, humming, “I’m in high spirits, so I just have to smile…”

But all thirty-six mortuary rooms lined up in the city’s southern quarter were completely dark, making Song Mo frown.

What was going on?

Where was everyone?

He crept forward cautiously, when suddenly two Mortuary Bureau clerks hurried toward him, lanterns in hand.

“You’re a mortuary attendant?” one asked.

Song Mo replied respectfully, “Mortuary Room Seven, Song Mo.”

The clerk exhaled in relief. “Thank heavens—we’ve finally found someone who’s still breathing.”

Song Mo’s face changed, and he whispered, “What? Are the other mortuary attendants dead?”

The clerk spat in annoyance. “Nonsense! It’s the Lantern Festival, and the Emperor has shown favor by giving you mortuary folks the night off to enjoy the festivities.”

The other clerk looked puzzled. “Didn’t you hear? The news was sent out at dawn. How could you not know?”

At last, Song Mo understood—while all the mortuary attendants were given leave to enjoy the festival, he’d missed the announcement because Tang Yi had whisked him away earlier.

That meant the roll call no longer mattered.

His five copper coins were safe.

He dared not reveal the truth, so he made an excuse: “I was out enjoying the lanterns myself, got a bit carried away, and didn’t pay attention.”

The two clerks exchanged glances, hesitating as they considered whether this fellow might be the resident simpleton. But then again, the fool in the mortuary worked in Room Six and was named Li Zheng, not Song Mo.

Still, with Song Mo the only mortuary attendant present among the thirty-six southern rooms, they had little choice.

Clearing his throat, the clerk said, “Good timing—you’re back. We’ve just received a corpse. Take care of it, will you?”

Song Mo protested quietly, “Sirs, isn’t it the Lantern Festival? Isn’t the Mortuary Bureau on holiday?”

Now it was Song Mo’s turn to invoke the holiday.

The clerk glared at him. “Don’t worry; you’ll be compensated. Make it presentable and you’ll get ten copper coins.”

“Alright then,” Song Mo agreed, trotting after the clerks to collect the body.

With the mortuary on holiday, the laborers who usually delivered corpses had vanished to who-knows-which pleasure quarters. The two clerks, lowering themselves, helped Song Mo wheel the body to Room Seven. Along the way, the sharp stench of liquor seeped from beneath the shroud.

“Who was this?” Song Mo inquired, knowing full well that no ordinary corpse would be sent to the mortuary during a holiday.

Perhaps a relative of the clerks?

The clerk scowled. “A court physician. Who knows what possessed him—got drunk on the Broken Bridge during the Lantern Festival and snapped his neck.”

One could hardly blame the clerks for their resentment—much better to spend the festival drinking wine with a courtesan under the lanterns than handling corpses here.

“Take care of the body. Do a good job and maybe you’ll get a tip tomorrow,” the clerk promised, painting a rosy picture before turning to leave—plenty of time left to seek pleasure in the night.

Song Mo laid the body out on the table, washed his hands, and lit the Soul-Calming Lamp in the corner.

The flame was steady. Song Mo gathered his tools and lifted the shroud.

Thankfully, the sight was less gruesome than he’d feared—just some torn flesh from the fall.

Unnerving to behold, perhaps, but not difficult to mend. Careful stitching would do.

The real challenge was that this time, he’d have to employ the mortuary’s most secret art—bone-setting.

To set the bones meant restoring each misaligned bone in the corpse to its natural position.

Given the physician’s fall from the Broken Bridge, it was safe to assume that almost every bone was out of place.

A formidable task.

Song Mo began methodically, using coarse thread to sew major wounds, fine thread for minor tears, and transparent thread for the features.

By the time he finished, midnight had arrived. Wiping sweat from his brow, he began to set the bones.

As expected, the physician’s skeleton was almost entirely dislocated.

But when Song Mo reached the neck, his expression darkened.

“This… This isn’t a simple fall…” he muttered.

The way the vertebrae had shattered felt less like a fall and more like a violent, deliberate twist.

Clearly, someone had snapped the physician’s neck by force.

Still, Song Mo was in no hurry; soon, he would know the truth.

Past midnight, the corpse lay peacefully on the table.

In a blur between waking and dream, the Soul-Summoning Banner appeared; the Chronicle of Spirits opened.

The corpse’s life flickered before his eyes.

This was Physician Zhang Shanshi, scion of a renowned medical family.

By age three, he accompanied his father on house calls; by seven, he’d mastered the classics; by thirteen, he was a famed prodigy.

At twenty, he inherited his father’s post as a court physician.

But from then on, his path diverged.

Though the Imperial Medical Bureau held countless revered texts and the legacies of great masters, Zhang Shanshi ignored proper medicine in favor of shamanic healing.

Traditional medicine healed the body; shamanic medicine mended the soul.

For three years in the bureau, he studied not the art of healing, but the esoteric Yellow-Red Way—the secrets of the bedchamber.

As time passed, Zhang Shanshi grew adept at concocting tonics to arouse and invigorate.

The emperor, with his harem of three thousand beauties, occasionally found himself wanting, and relied on these potions to sustain him.

Thus, Zhang Shanshi became a favorite at court, all thanks to his shamanic arts.

He took twenty-one concubines.

Clever enough to sense the winds, he destroyed every copy of the shamanic formulas, ensuring no one else in the Imperial Medical Bureau could rival him.

What followed was a life of debauchery—glimpsed in the flickering lantern of memory—until the fateful night of the Lantern Festival.

On the Broken Bridge, Zhang Shanshi drank alone. Then, someone approached.

“You’re late, Xiao Yi; you must be punished,” Zhang called, swaying toward the newcomer with his empty flask.

…

“So it was Mi Zige!” Song Mo frowned deeply, puzzled why Mi Zige would appear on the bridge and kill such an insignificant physician.

The lantern of memory faded; the Chronicle of Spirits recorded all that had passed.

Soul, return; life inscribed.

Heaven and earth, dark and bright; four ranks, nine grades.

The Chronicle assigned the corpse’s value: Eighth Rank, Mysterious Class.

On a beast-skin that was neither stone nor hide, twelve golden needles were embedded, gleaming coldly; yin and yang entwined about them, driving away the six devils, soothing the seven emotions.

Demon-Repelling Golden Needles.

Alongside them lay a tattered ancient book: The Incantation of Blessings.

The book read: “Man lives by the breath of heaven and earth. Illness arises from within—joy, anger, worry, thought, sorrow, fear, and shock—or from without—wind, cold, summer heat, damp, dryness, and fire. If one meets no evil, and harbors no dread, yet falls ill, what then? If my heart harbors no ghosts, what ghost can harm me? If my heart bears no evil, what evil can disturb me? If my heart holds no demons, what demon can assail me?”

Song Mo read The Incantation of Blessings and committed it to memory.

By dawn, he had mastered the secrets of the five viscera and six bowels, understood the shifts of the five elements, the harmony of blood, bone, flesh, and skin—shamanic arts now clear as day.

The ancient scroll dissolved into blue smoke. Song Mo had become the world’s foremost shamanic physician.

He glanced at the mortuary sewing needles in the wooden box, drew a length of gold thread, and with nimble hands, began to work.

An incense stick’s time later, a rose bloomed on the rice paper—petals dense and layered, stamens delicate and lifelike; not a seam or thread-end was visible, as if heaven itself had stitched it.

All on a sheet of fragile rice paper, no sturdier than a breath.

“Eighth Rank, Mysterious Class—truly formidable,” Song Mo exclaimed, delighted as he packed away the Demon-Repelling Golden Needles.

Skills never go to waste; with such talent, what work could be beyond him?

In that moment, Song Mo became surgeon, cosmetic master, and tailor—ready for anything the world might demand.