Chapter Four: Tang Yi from the Six Doors Pays a Visit, and the Art of Re-Embalming the Corpse Receives Tribute

The Turks dwelled far in the northern deserts, constantly harassing the Great Zhou’s borders. There was naturally not the slightest bit of trade between the two nations. Besides, the northern deserts of the Turks were a thousand miles from Jian’an’s capital—how could one suddenly appear here and assassinate an Imperial Inspector? The matter was strange beyond all reason, defying explanation by any ordinary logic.

A murder in Jian’an should have fallen under the jurisdiction of the city’s yamen, with the Ministry of Justice assisting and the Court of Judicial Review overseeing the process. If it threatened the safety of the city, the Office of the Garrison would be in charge, with the Northern Garrison Army sealing Yong’an Gate and enforcing a citywide curfew.

And yet, the one who appeared at the door of Morgue Number Eighteen was none other than the Six Doors. If even the Six Doors had intervened, this business was certainly no small affair—if handled badly, it could plunge the entire capital into a bloodbath.

Still, all that was for the meat-and-wine officials to worry about. At the moment, Song Mo only wanted to hole up in the morgue, quietly perform his duties, and collect his reward.

...

When the life of the corpse Song Mo had prepared was finished playing in the lantern of memories, it was recorded in the Register of Guiding Souls.

Return, wandering soul, and enter the record.

Heaven and earth, in their mysterious order—four ranks, nine grades.

The Register of Guiding Souls appraised the corpse: Third Grade, Yellow Rank.

A bronze mirror, green and red patina on its twin faces, a coiling dragon carved in filigree, with a hint of a gluttonous phoenix hidden among the lines, half in sunlight, half in shadow, its reflection gathering light and dust.

The Mirror of the Steward.

The Book of the Two Chengs records: “As a clear mirror stands here, all things are reflected within. Such is the mirror’s nature: it cannot help but show what is true.”

This Mirror of the Steward could distinguish between the yin and yang of antiquities—yin for the real, yang for the false; real for the genuine, false for the counterfeit. It was the line between true and false.

Song Mo lifted the Mirror of the Steward and looked into its surface. The ancient mirror shimmered with golden light, which poured into his eyes, flooding his mind with intricate knowledge of antiques.

A heart as bright as the sun and moon, illuminating all things without deliberation; when the heart is clear and selfless, all truths are revealed, yin and yang divided, truth and falsehood discerned, spirits and demons recognized.

The heavens brushed with clouds, the moon gathering rosy hues—dawn had already broken.

The Mirror of the Steward dissolved into wisps of green smoke and drifted away. Song Mo’s gaze was as deep as an ancient well, his heart as tranquil as still water.

He had fully comprehended the Way of the Steward: from now on, any antique in the world, he needed only a glance to tell true from false.

“Goodness…” Song Mo was both surprised and a little regretful. Surprised that the Register of Guiding Souls never deceived—every body prepared yielded a reward. Pleased that the corpse was only rated Third Grade, Yellow Rank, yet the ability to distinguish genuine from fake antiques was already so wondrous. He couldn’t help but look forward to the Heaven, Earth, and Mysterious Ranks. The regret was that, though he now possessed this dragon-slaying skill, living in another world, there might never be a place to use it.

He murmured, “If I were in the twenty-first century with this Steward’s Art, in Beijing’s Panjiayuan or Tianjin’s Shenyang Dao, I’d pick up ten treasures for every one I searched.”

In fact, Jian’an also had antique shops. The most impressive of them all was Changle Lane in the East Market and Ren’an Pawnshop.

Song Mo made up his mind in secret—if he got the chance, he’d definitely try his luck at Ren’an Pawnshop.

As the saying goes: take a gamble, and a bicycle might turn into a motorcycle.

Song Mo was confident that with the Steward’s Art, he would soon be able to upgrade from a bird gun to a cannon.

But when he felt around in his pocket, he discovered he had only thirteen copper coins left. It wasn’t that he was a spendthrift in his previous life, stretching a copper as far as it would go, but rather that the pay for corpse preparation was truly meager.

Preparing a single corpse earned him four and a half copper coins.

Yes—four and a half.

Whoever devised such a petty way to shortchange corpse preparers must have been a real scoundrel. If, by misfortune, the number of corpses prepared in a month was odd, the extra half-coin went to the Office of Corpse Preparation—enough for them to buy a drink, but utterly disgraceful.

With his purse so light, a visit to Ren’an Pawnshop would have to wait.

...

At cockcrow, as the bells and drums announced the dawn, Song Mo lifted the wooden board and stepped out of the morgue, heading straight for Old Street.

The southern city was always lively, and the morgue stood close to the Vegetable Market. For one, the bustling yang energy kept evil spirits at bay; for another, being near the Execution Grounds made it convenient to deliver beheaded corpses to the morgue for preparation, preventing blood from soaking the streets and souls from scattering.

In truth, Old Street had only existed for three to five years; some shop banners were still new. But because it was too close to the morgue, diners found it unlucky, and business dwindled until it became known as Old Street.

Over time, the shopkeepers grew unfriendly toward corpse preparers like Song Mo.

Song Mo walked to an unremarkable breakfast stall on Old Street, where he and the other corpse workers always gathered to eat.

Looking around, it was hard to find a single able-bodied person among the corpse preparers. All were lame, one-eyed, or stammering...

No one was missing a hand, but all bore the scars of fate.

Corpse preparation was a profession at the edge of darkness, the most feared among the trades of the underworld. Those who did it suffered from five miseries and three lacks, their bodies heavy with baleful energy—one could hardly hold onto this profession for long.

Behind the breakfast stall, an elderly couple busied themselves. With so many disabled corpse preparers, serving them was no easy task.

“What would you like, sir?” A girl of about sixteen, pretty and with a red ribbon in her hair, greeted him with a smile.

She was the old couple’s granddaughter, Swallow.

After a brief thought, Song Mo replied, “A bowl of soy milk and two buns.”

“With filling or without?” Swallow asked.

Song Mo knew why his fellow corpse preparers all came here. The owners were kind and did not mind their troublesome ways, and the food was truly cheap.

For example, the buns were nearly two taels each and came stuffed or plain. Filled buns were one copper coin each; plain ones, two for a copper coin. The soy milk was also a copper coin—a bargain compared to other shops.

“Plain,” Song Mo answered, his purse too light for anything else.

Swallow smiled and quickly brought him a small dish and a bowl of steaming soy milk.

“This is for you,” she said with a smile, setting down a rough porcelain jar filled with appetizing pickled radish.

Song Mo thanked her, eating his bun while quietly watching Swallow.

She wore a plain blue dress, her black hair swept up in a flowing cloud bun with a blackwood hairpin. Her baby face needed no powder, radiating a raw innocence—already grown into her beauty.

Song Mo let his gaze drift down for a moment before pulling it back, sipping his soy milk with a self-deprecating smile.

A bite of coarse bun, a bite of pickled radish—it made for a surprisingly pleasant meal.

Song Mo thought to himself: there were no fertilizers or pesticides here. Everything was organic—what a steal!

But as he bit into his second bun, he suddenly froze.

He glanced down at the fragrant bun in his hand.

It was a lamb-filled meat bun!

Song Mo looked over at Swallow in confusion, only to see her gazing back at him with a smile that was half teasing, half warm.

No words were needed.

Song Mo understood—this wasn’t because he was so charming, but because Swallow pitied his bloodless face and frail body and had “accidentally” given him a meat bun.

Corpse preparers spent their lives among the dead, their blood and vitality draining away until they became as gaunt as opium addicts.

Song Mo silently finished his meal, wiped his mouth, left his payment, and departed.

When the morning crowd had thinned, Granny Wang gently tapped Swallow on the head. “You! What am I to do with you?”

Old Lin only smiled and said nothing. Running a business required sharp eyes and broad ears—always seeking wealth from all corners.

He too had noticed what had just happened.

All three of them were kind souls.

Sunlight shimmered across the land.

As the breakfast crowd dispersed, Swallow cleared the dishes, while Old Lin and Granny Wang packed up the tables.

When they reached Song Mo’s seat, Swallow gasped.

Old Lin and Granny Wang, thinking she’d cut her hand, turned to look—and stopped in surprise.

Lined up beside Song Mo’s rough porcelain bowl were three copper coins.

After a moment, Old Lin murmured, “That rascal—he’s got principles.”

Song Mo was already strolling leisurely down the long street. Hawkers called out candied haw, sandals, hammers, and cloth-eyed fish, filling the air with lively bustle.

He wasn’t wandering idly, but taking advantage of the morning sunlight to dispel the chill of the morgue, lest he end up old and infirm, like Second Wu the night watchman at the corner.

As he wandered, he saw street performers, medicine peddlers, and even a few fair-haired, blue-eyed foreigners—a rare sight, though not unheard of.

Before long, stagehands were setting up platforms at every theater, decorating them with all manner of fantastical lanterns.

On inquiry, he learned that the fifteenth day of the month was approaching—Mid-Autumn Festival.

Jian’an’s annual Lantern Festival was coming. It was said that Marshal Ma Sihu from the northern deserts would be coming to the capital to attend, and the Emperor had decreed that all theaters could set up their own stages and performances. It would surely be a grand occasion.

Song Mo resolved that he would not miss it.

Decision made, he headed back.

He had not yet reached Morgue Number Seven when he saw, from a distance, a man standing at the entrance.

The man was dressed in a purple official’s robe and wore a willow-leaf saber at his waist—clearly a man of the Six Doors.

Song Mo was about to turn and avoid him when the man strode straight toward him.

“You’re the skin-preparer at Morgue Number Seven?” the official asked.

He was like a handsome young hero from the opera, lips red, teeth white, cold and dignified. At his waist hung a badge, the reverse engraved with a grinning ghost, the front with his name:

Tang Yi.

Seeing no way to avoid him, Song Mo braced himself, bowed, and replied, “I am, sir. May I ask what business brings you here?”

Tang Yi frowned slightly. “Were you the one who prepared the corpse of the Imperial Inspector from Changning County?”