Chapter Thirty-Three: The Infinite Wonders of the Ginseng Fruit, and the Subtle Ways of the Mortuary Attendant

Reflected in the daylight, faint and ethereal as rosy clouds.

Song Mo awoke leisurely, only to feel an overwhelming greasiness all over his body. Lowering his head, he discovered a layer of black-brown impurities clinging to his skin, emitting a foul stench that was most unpleasant.

He opened the plank door, finding outside a woman waiting to collect the corpse, with a thin coffin drawn by an ox cart stationed nearby.

The woman possessed a certain beauty, dressed in a yellow robe embroidered with butterflies, a trailing pink gauze skirt, and a green silk sash draped over her arm. Her hair was styled in a wind-swept bun, adorned with a peony hairpin.

Despite her rural air that could not be concealed, she radiated a mature allure distinct from young maidens.

Had Song Mo not seen Wang Biao’s corpse yesterday during the lantern viewing, he might have lingered his gaze on this voluptuous woman. But now, one glance left him feeling filthy.

Filthier, in fact, than the grime covering his own body.

For this woman was none other than Chang Qing, Wang Biao’s adulterous wife.

Her husband had died, and yet she wore no mourning garb, no somber face, but instead appeared in bright attire, fully made-up, with a coquettish and wanton demeanor.

Such behavior was most repellent, and Song Mo naturally showed her no kindness.

“Your husband’s body has been prepared. Take him away at once,” Song Mo said coldly, turning aside without so much as a glance at Chang Qing.

The woman’s face instantly darkened, casting a venomous look at Song Mo and muttering, “Strange, how does he know Wang Biao is my husband?”

“Are you leaving or not? I still have to return and fetch herbs for Master Huang,” the ox cart driver urged impatiently, evidently holding no affection for this flirtatious woman who had managed to beguile Master Huang.

“Leaving, right away,” Chang Qing replied, smiling as she lightly placed her hand on the driver’s shoulder and gave him a deliberate squeeze.

The driver turned, startled, and Chang Qing covered her mouth, laughing as she threw him a seductive glance.

“You shameless woman, just wait...” The driver panted, swallowing hard.

“Hey, hey!” Cracking his whip on the ox’s rump, the driver was eager to leave the city and find a secluded spot.

The poor old ox, oblivious to all this, suffered misfortune without cause.

…

Song Mo fetched two buckets of water from the clear well on the southern old street, closed up his shop, and began to wash himself in Mortuary Room Seven.

An hour later, he finally scrubbed the filth from his body.

The reward of the Soul Guide—a ginseng fruit—proved to be a true treasure. In this line of work, the mortician’s trade saps vitality, but the ginseng fruit replenished it admirably; his meridians cleansed, impurities expelled, his body became sturdier, and his muscles gained a more defined hardness.

Most importantly, Song Mo sensed a strange new connection to everything around him—though what kind of connection it was, he could not say. It was an indefinable feeling.

Just as he finished dressing, a sudden knock sounded at the door.

“Coming,” Song Mo called and went to open it.

Outside stood Swallow, holding a food box. She glanced up, blushing instantly.

“You rogue…” Swallow thrust the food box into Song Mo’s hands and scurried away.

Her action left Song Mo baffled; looking down, he realized he hadn’t fastened his shirt, exposing his solid chest and abs.

He rubbed his head, thinking, “Luckily I ate that ginseng fruit yesterday—otherwise, if I revealed nothing but ribs, it would be unsightly indeed.”

After eating the breakfast Swallow had brought, Song Mo felt a bit embarrassed. As a grown man, he always had this young girl deliver his meals; it seemed, somehow…

Somehow like sponging off someone.

With that thought, he took two silver coins and the wooden box containing the jade hairpin, placing them in the food box and sending them to the old street. Swallow wasn’t there, so he left them with Old Lin, giving him a couple of instructions before departing.

Song Mo wandered out as usual. Though the ginseng fruit had replenished his vitality, the persistent cold of the mortuary still needed sunlight to dispel.

After half an hour, Song Mo hummed a tune as he headed back.

From afar, he glimpsed the southern mortuary and sensed something amiss.

A crowd had formed, apparently watching some spectacle.

Song Mo understood the saying, “It’s none of my business, so I'll stay out of it,” but believing that missing lively events was wasteful, he edged closer. Yet, after a couple of glances, he couldn’t contain himself.

For the crowd wasn’t gathered elsewhere—they surrounded his own Mortuary Room Seven.

He had intended to be a spectator, but the clown turned out to be himself.

Seeing Song Mo return, the onlookers grew even more enthusiastic. Several morticians, missing a leg, supported each other to catch the fun—it was almost touching, worthy of the top ten figures of Jian’an’s capital.

Song Mo squeezed into the circle and was stunned: an ox cart stood before Mortuary Room Seven, a black, thin wooden coffin laid out on the ground, its lid open, empty inside—where was Wang Biao’s corpse, which had been prepared just yesterday?

“Another one has vanished,” Song Mo thought, his heart sinking further.

He felt concern for Tang Yi—when had Tang Yi become his friend in this world?

“It’s him, it must be him! The disappearance of the corpse is all his doing!” a woman’s shrill voice rang out.

Song Mo now noticed Chang Qing, the shrew, cursing at the side. Her clothing was disheveled, the peony hairpin on her head drooping, hair askew, pretending to wipe tears but shedding none.

Beside her, the ox cart driver was also untidy, chiming in intermittently.

Song Mo could easily guess what had transpired between them, deepening his disgust for Chang Qing’s depravity.

The coffin on the cart had contained her freshly dead husband Wang Biao; with his bones barely cold, she could already engage in illicit acts with a stranger. It was truly revolting.

Lost in thought, Song Mo’s gaze grew colder. “What are you doing here?”

The ox cart driver, already fearful, shrank back under Song Mo’s sharp look, not daring to speak.

Chang Qing, however, had the brazen attitude of a pig unafraid of boiling water, shouting at Song Mo, “The corpse went missing after leaving your hands; you must have tampered with it when preparing it! You’re responsible! If you don’t pay a few silver coins, I’ll—”

Chang Qing continued her tirade, but Song Mo’s eyes were full of impatience.

He saw through her scheme—Chang Qing was extorting him.

“And what will you do?” As she searched for words of threat, a commanding voice rang out from outside the crowd.

The crowd immediately parted, and the mortuary staff escorted the minor officials He Yiming and Wu Wanlin forward.

“And what will you do?” He Yiming repeated, his face darkening.

The ox cart driver, seeing the uniformed officials, panicked, abandoning Chang Qing as he tried to drive the cart away.

But the staff blocked his escape, surrounding him.

Chang Qing, putting on a fierce front, declared, “The corpse went missing after he handled it; he must pay!”

He Yiming’s glare made Chang Qing blanch with fright.

He Yiming asked in a stern voice, “When the corpse was handed to you, was there anything unusual?”

Chang Qing shook her head. “No, nothing unusual.”

He Yiming continued, “After the ox cart took the corpse away, did you encounter any morticians again?”

By mortician, he meant Song Mo.

Chang Qing shook her head once more. “No, I did not.”

He Yiming looked at her coldly. “Since there was nothing unusual and you never saw the mortician again, this is extortion. Do you believe I won’t throw you both in jail?”

Chang Qing and the ox cart driver turned ashen, immediately kneeling and kowtowing repeatedly.

After a while, He Yiming waved his hand, indicating the matter was settled.

He Yiming glanced meaningfully at Song Mo, and Song Mo understood—it was He Yiming repaying a favor, for Song Mo had taken the risk yesterday to prepare Wang Biao’s corpse for Changning County.

Song Mo harbored no resentment toward He Yiming. He was, after all, the mortician of Room Seven, making a living from this trade. Wang Biao’s corpse was bound to be problematic, but with the Soul Guide in hand, Song Mo was far safer than others.

Moreover, Song Mo knew that even if the issue hadn’t arisen in his mortuary, He Yiming would have intervened. If compensation for lost bodies became precedent, trouble would never end, and neither He Yiming nor Wu Wanlin could bear the consequences.

Still, this favor needed to be acknowledged.

What was this?

This was the way of the world.