Chapter 71: As the Autumn Examinations Draw Near, Affairs Grow Leisurely; Entertaining Guests, the Minor Clerk Begins His Nightly Labors

When the wind had settled, not a single leaf fell in the small pavilion; two green caterpillars faced each other, spinning autumn silk.

Since Song Mo returned to Jian’an’s capital, he’d enjoyed a few days of peace. First, because autumn exams were approaching and the Ministry of Justice and the Supreme Court were busy preparing for the influx of cases—at such times, corpse attendants like him were expected to rest and gather their energy for the coming workload. Second, Tang Yi had deliberately reported Song Mo’s meritorious service and honorable wounds in dealing with the demon case in Changning County, and recommended that he not be assigned any work for a few days.

In truth, Song Mo’s injuries had healed the night he left the Zhang residence. What a pity about the whole garden of rare blooms and exotic grasses; it seemed all their vitality had been spent nursing his wounds. Ever since he ate the ginseng fruit, Song Mo felt a strange new connection to the world around him, though its nature remained elusive. Even this time, when he drew upon the life force of the plants for healing, he’d felt bewildered.

Rather than a power he could wield, it felt more like a passive gift.

That was it—until Song Mo could figure out how to control these abilities, they were more like involuntary responses, triggered only under certain circumstances.

Take his recent injury, for instance: it had activated this passive absorption of plant vitality, allowing his body to heal so quickly.

With no corpses to tend, Song Mo found his sleep restless and oddly unsatisfying over the past couple of days, as if something was missing.

Perhaps it was the lack of work—and thus, the lack of pay?

And without money, how could he afford to eat?

He patted the pouch holding a few taels of silver, proceeds from pawning the golden cat.

To think he still had money—well, that was a relief.

Deliberately rising early, Song Mo went to the door of Morgue Number Seven and began a round of morning exercises.

It was still the same routine—the eagle takes flight…

…

Morning light crept closer; he combed his hair by the evening’s glow.

The autumn dawn lacked the grace of spring or the vigor of summer, but it had its own lazy charm.

The door of the Mortuary Department’s office opened, and the clerks, He Yiming and Wu Wanlin, appeared as meticulously dressed as always.

The autumn mist was still thin as the two of them noticed a figure moving in front of the morgue, stretching and bending. From a distance, they couldn’t tell who it was.

When they drew near and saw Song Mo energetically practicing his odd routine, Wu Wanlin grinned. “Weren’t you badly injured? You’re looking sturdier than the two of us.”

Song Mo, recognizing He Yiming and Wu Wanlin, quickly stopped and replied, “Oh, it’s nothing—just an internal injury, nothing serious.”

The two clerks, not ordinary men by any means, saw through his excuse at once, but neither said anything, sharing a tacit understanding.

“Since we’ve run into each other, let me treat you both to breakfast,” Song Mo offered—no mere formality, for he genuinely wished to befriend these two.

“The same place on Old Street?” He Yiming asked.

Song Mo nodded. “That little shop does have good pickles—very appetizing.”

Song Mo’s brows relaxed into a smile. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s be the first to the morning pancakes.”

Laughing and chatting, the three of them made their way to Old Man Lin’s breakfast stall.

…

It was still early, and most of those about were travelers on the road, few stopping to eat.

From afar, Swallow spotted Song Mo approaching with the two clerks. She was just delivering a plate of pickles to a customer and was so distracted she spilled most of it, forcing her to return and prepare another.

“Our Swallow’s grown into quite a young lady,” Old Lady Wang whispered to Old Man Lin, her eyes twinkling. A mother might hide her thoughts, but not from the seasoned gaze of age.

Old Man Lin only chuckled quietly, not answering. His eyes and ears were sharp; he saw and heard well enough as Song Mo approached with the two clerks from the Mortuary Department.

Though their ranks were not high, to a humble breakfast vendor like Old Man Lin, they were important guests. For Song Mo to mingle so freely with them, he must be a capable young man.

“What a pity,” Old Lady Wang sighed, a trace of regret in her gaze, “he’s a corpse attendant.”

Old Man Lin’s expression darkened as well, for such an occupation was considered unlucky by common folk.

“Don’t mutter nonsense,” he chided his wife, “it’s still an honest trade.” For now, he pushed aside the superstitions surrounding corpse attendants.

“What’ll you three have today?” Old Lady Wang greeted Song Mo, He Yiming, and Wu Wanlin with a smile as they approached.

“Three bowls of mung bean porridge, six fried pancakes—and we’ll order more if we’re still hungry,” Song Mo deftly recited their order, already decided on the way.

They chose an outside table. Soon, Swallow arrived carrying a tray, setting everything down with steady hands.

She turned to fetch some pickles for them. Today, she dressed more playfully than usual—a plain dress, nothing fancy, but fresh and elegant; her hair was coiled into a cloud bun and pinned with a few delicate wooden hairpins, making her look every bit a gentle beauty.

Song Mo searched her hair for the jade hairpin he’d given her, but didn’t see it. His gaze slipped lower…

“She’s grown even lovelier…” Song Mo mused, about to turn away when Swallow, returning with the pickles, caught his roguish look.

Embarrassed, Song Mo quickly lowered his eyes and took a big bite of pancake, while Swallow blushed and hurried back inside.

“You lucky devil,” Wu Wanlin teased, “I tell you, this girl will bear many children.” Even He Yiming struggled to suppress a laugh.

“You jest, sirs—I’m just a poor corpse attendant. Why would she take any notice of me?” Song Mo replied, flustered.

Hidden inside, Swallow’s cheeks burned an even deeper red—part shame, part anger, but mostly delight.

She was mortified by Song Mo’s bold stare, annoyed by his reckless words—yet, he had guessed her feelings. Most of all, she was glad his gaze was open and honest, and she need no longer worry about that Tang Yi…

…

The three finished breakfast in good spirits, agreeing to meet at a tavern one day for a proper drink.

According to custom, Song Mo wandered the streets for half a day before returning leisurely to Morgue Number Seven, where he took a long nap until dusk.

As the hour of the dog was called, Song Mo found himself bored for lack of work.

Knock, knock, knock.

Someone was banging at the door.

“Work at last!” Song Mo’s face lit up. He opened the door to see the young Wei Chen.

Beside Wei Chen was a cart, and on it, a body covered in a white sheet.

So, his dear clerks had arranged to send him some “performance credit.”

“Bring it in,” Song Mo said, helping Wei Chen carry the body to the table in the morgue.

Once Wei Chen had left, Song Mo lifted the sheet.

The corpse’s face was twisted in a grimace, eyes wide with fury—a sight that sent a chill through the air.

He lit the soul-calming lamp and set it in the corner. The flame burned steady, so he began his work.

Terrifying as the body looked, there were no other wounds—just a neck that had been violently twisted.

With the skill of a mortuary craftsman, Song Mo cleansed and reset the bones. In no time, the breaks were mended.

With a sweep of his brush and a dusting of powder, the features relaxed into peace.

Then, as if in a trance, the lantern show of the dead began to unfold.