Chapter Three: The Spinning Lantern Runs Faster Than the Unruly Marshal, Who Once Lost His Life at the Southern Gate

Song Mo pried open the wooden planks as several attendants from the Mortuary Office brought in a body covered with a white cloth.

Before beginning the embalming, Song Mo lit a bronze lantern. This was a rule of the Underworld Gate, and there was particular significance to this bronze lamp: it was a soul-calming lantern, not an ordinary oil lamp. The soul-calming lantern soothed restless spirits, suppressed evil entities. As long as the lantern burned, all would remain peaceful. Should it go out, there would be only death, no hope of life.

Song Mo gazed at the soul-calming lantern for a long while, and when he saw its flame steady and unwavering like a bean, he washed his hands and readied his needle to begin the ritual preparation.

He lifted the white cloth from the corpse, and his expression darkened at once. The body upon the table was none other than the ill-fated marshal he had seen earlier that day in Morgue Room Eighteen.

He had not expected the Mortuary Office to deliver the corpse here. Though apprehensive, Song Mo nevertheless began his work.

The deceased had only a single stab wound to the chest. First, he carefully stitched the internal organs with fine thread, then closed the gash, and, with paintbrush in hand, tidied the features, restoring the visage through the night.

At last, as he finished, a wave of dizziness overtook him—the soul-calling banner appeared, and the Record of Spirits emerged.

The corpse’s lantern of memories began to turn.

The deceased’s name was Zhang Wei, courtesy name Kanghe. The first half of the vision revealed the martial life of Zhang Wei. Born into a family of military officers, he was strong and skilled in his youth, mastering the martial arts passed down through his lineage.

He joined the army, and thanks to the appreciation of Ma Sihu, the Commander of the Northern Frontier, he fought against the Turks in the northern deserts for ten years. After losing two fingers on his right hand, he returned to the capital city of Jian’an, where, under Ma Sihu’s patronage, he received the post of Deputy Constable of Changning County.

This was no idle office. As the county constable's right hand, he was responsible for overseeing matters of security and law enforcement. Outside Jian’an, three special counties had been established, each fifty li east, south, and west of the city. Fifty li east lay Sizhui County, with a garrison of fifty thousand; fifty li west, Tianshui County, also with fifty thousand troops; and fifty li south, Changning County, boasting over a hundred thousand soldiers.

The three counties formed a protective arc, supporting each other and the northernmost Yong’an Gate. Of them, Changning County, farthest south and most distant from the northern frontier, had become a favored retreat for nobles and the wealthy, who bought estates and lived in seclusion—entangling relationships that ran deep. Thus, for Zhang Wei to serve eight years as Deputy Constable here proved he was no ordinary soldier.

Yet such a man—a ten-year veteran of the northern army, an eight-year Deputy Constable—had drowned in the moat in the dead of night. Song Mo felt a growing unease, and finally understood why the Six Doors had involved themselves. Clearly, there was more to this than met the eye.

At that moment, the vision from the soul-calling lantern neared its end. Song Mo widened his eyes, awaiting the truth.

The scene shifted to the night before last. Zhang Wei, in the Changning County office, was repeatedly flipping through a passbook—a kind of travel permit. His brow was deeply furrowed, as if pondering or weighing something in his mind. Soon, he secured the passbook close to his body, mounted his horse, and hastily rode out of the county office.

Without incident, Zhang Wei rode directly toward Jian’an.

At the hour of the Boar, Zhang Wei arrived at Xuanle Gate, south of Jian’an. By then, the gate was already closed. Without a special pass from the Censorate, entry was impossible, so he planned to find shelter outside the city for the night and enter at dawn.

But as soon as he left Xuanle Gate, four assassins sprang from the shadows and stabbed him in the heart. The killers tried to search his body for the passbook, but just then, a patrol from the Northern Garrison approached. In haste, they threw the corpse into the moat.

Song Mo tried to discern the murderers’ faces, but found them blurred and indistinct. Reflecting on this, he understood the reason: the soul-calling lantern did not offer an omniscient perspective, but replayed Zhang Wei’s final memories as if from his own eyes.

Even so, Song Mo did not come away empty-handed. In the final instant before the vision faded, he clearly saw a black wolf-head tattoo on the neck of one assassin.

The killers were Turks.

Only Turks, upon reaching adulthood, would tattoo a wolf’s head on their neck.