Chapter 75: Jade Sister’s Wontons and the Tofu Ruse; The Burlap-Shrouded Coat Brings Forth a Corpse

Morning light spread across the fields, evening silence followed the crowing of the roosters.

Song Mo stretched lazily, the autumn wind brushing past his nose carried the faint fragrance of early osmanthus. Autumn was often a season of loneliness, yet for Song Mo, it was a rare good day.

The imperial examinations of autumn drew near, and the death row inmates waited in droves to be executed, as though crops ready for the reaper's sickle; the more work to be done, the more money the executioners could earn for their drinking.

Today, the west wind had risen. Song Mo gave no thought to perch or water-shield, but instead longed for Sister Yu’s wontons at the street corner.

On the old street, the shops had opened early. Song Mo made his way toward the head of the street, where there was a wonton shop known for both its dumplings and steamed buns.

The wonton shop at the street corner had three front rooms, a yellow wooden signboard above the central door inscribed with "Sister Yu’s Wonton House."

It was still early, the shop sparsely populated. Song Mo chose a seat toward the back. The proprietress herself, Sister Yu, came over to greet him. “Little brother, what would you like to eat?”

Her real name was Su Yu. Though she called herself Sister Yu, she was at most just past twenty. Song Mo glanced at her; she wore a long blue dress, her hair elegantly coiled and slightly loosened, lending her a gentle delicacy. Her face was fresh and lovely as the rising moon behind thin clouds, beautiful as snow among blossoming trees.

The stomach might not yet be full, but beauty was still a feast in itself.

Song Mo knew well that most of the patrons at Sister Yu’s Wonton House were first drawn by her striking looks, and only became regulars when her breakfast dishes won over their appetites.

“Sister Yu, couldn’t you wear a little something less sheer?” Song Mo’s gaze lingered on her long, shapely legs beneath the gauzy dress, and he smacked his lips as he spoke.

“You’ve learned to be naughty,” Sister Yu was startled, then feigned annoyance as she looked at Song Mo, usually so reserved, now suddenly playful.

“One bowl of wontons, two vegetable buns,” Song Mo said, raising his head, his eyes clear and guileless.

Sister Yu shot him a resentful glare and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Song Mo called after her.

She turned back, and Song Mo, still not sated, looked up with a grin. “By the way, add a little extra sesame oil to the wontons.”

“Where did you pick up such bad habits, teasing your sister like this?” She glanced downward, feigning coyness as she scolded him.

With a huff, she fetched two vegetable buns and a bowl of wontons, not forgetting to add extra sesame oil in the end.

“Eat, eat, eat—let’s see if you can eat yourself to death,” she joked as she set down the dishes.

“How could this be enough to do me in?” Song Mo replied with a sly smile, then added solemnly, “At the very least, you’d need a few pieces of tofu as well.”

“And where did these tricks come from…” Sister Yu rolled her eyes at him, then turned to tend to other customers.

...

Duck broth wontons, lightly salted; after the snow, the wine at the hearth is cheap.

Sister Yu’s wontons were thin-skinned and generously filled, the broth made from duck simmered the night before, light and refreshing. The vegetable buns were stuffed with mustard greens, which, paired with the broth, brought out a flavor all their own.

The sesame oil’s spiciness prompted Song Mo to pause and listen to the idle chatter of the patrons around him.

Gossip was always strange and wonderful, perfect for passing the time.

He was not disappointed. At the next table, a coachman from the Lin family began recounting a rumor he’d heard while driving in Laiwu.

The coachman first glanced about warily. Seeing no city watchmen or officials from the capital’s yamen nearby, he lowered his voice and said, “Gentlemen, have you heard that they’ve struck a silver mine in Laiwu?”

Song Mo’s heart leapt. This was not the resource-depleted Earth of his previous life; if a silver mine were truly discovered, it would bring untold fortune.

His interest piqued, Song Mo listened closely.

“A silver mine? Good heavens, how much silver would that be?” someone chimed in.

The coachman merely snorted, and as the others looked on in confusion, he continued in a low voice, “Gentlemen, what I’m about to tell you will open your eyes.”

Everyone put down their bowls and chopsticks, waiting for his next words.

The coachman didn’t dally. After another glance around, he said, “Actually, it’s not a silver mine in Laiwu—it’s a gold mine.”

Another man replied, “A gold mine? That’s too much. Wouldn’t the court officials fight over it tooth and claw?”

The coachman grinned. “Fight? Who would dare? Do you know who owns that so-called silver mine?”

No one did, so the coachman revealed, “Above all but the emperor, commanding storms and thunder: the Lord of Nine Thousand.”

“Who? Wei Xian, the Lord of Nine Thousand?” everyone gasped, their voices dropping.

“Who else would dare report a gold mine as a silver mine?” the coachman said gravely.

Song Mo quietly considered this. He knew well from his past life the notorious reputation of Wei Xian, the Lord of Nine Thousand, and the darkness and corruption of the current Great Zhou dynasty was inseparable from him.

As for whether the gold mine was merely being reported as a silver mine, Song Mo remained skeptical. Reporting it as silver would certainly reduce the mining taxes, but Wei Xian hardly needed to bother with such deception.

Why? With his power in court and country, he could simply refuse to pay at all.

A name carries weight, as does a tree its blossoms.

With the mention of the infamous Wei Xian, the Lord of Nine Thousand, the chatter in the shop died away.

Just then, a frail, elderly voice sounded from the doorway.

“You’re mistaken. It’s neither a gold mine nor a silver mine—it’s a mountain of black iron ore.”

Everyone looked up to see an old man and a young girl, both in tattered clothes and speaking with an accent from out of town.

The patrons merely listened out of curiosity. Hearing that it was merely black iron, they paid the old man no mind.

After all, while gold and silver mines were rare, they could be exploited with connections at court. Iron mines, especially black iron, were forbidden to private hands.

Why? Iron could be forged into weapons, threatening the stability of the realm.

Song Mo looked at the pair. The old man was at least seventy, dressed in rags and covered in dust from travel. Beside him stood a girl of seven or eight, equally shabby.

They seemed not to have eaten in days, the old man staring hungrily at the buns on the table, the girl’s wide eyes fixed on the steaming wontons.

Yet they maintained their dignity and did not beg.

Song Mo quietly stepped outside, knelt down, and slipped a piece of silver into the girl’s hand before turning to leave.

“Thank you, big brother,” the little girl whispered after him.

...

Back at Morgue Number Seven, Song Mo unlocked the door and entered.

The sun had just cleared the eaves. Song Mo yawned as he dusted off the chilly couch.

Ever since consuming the ginseng fruit, the lingering yin energy in the morgue seemed to have been refined away, not only making his body more robust, but also rendering his morgue far warmer and brighter than the others.

He needed no sunlight to drive away the cold, and was happy to enjoy his leisure, soon falling into a deep sleep.

He didn’t wake until dusk, when the slanting light painted mottled patterns on the stone walls, as if wind or cloud had aged them.

At the hour of the dog, having checked in, Song Mo waited in the morgue for business to arrive.

Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock.

Before he’d burned through a single stick of incense, there came a rap at the door. Opening it, he saw the Wei family uncle and nephew.

Song Mo’s heart skipped a beat, for both Wei Xi and Wei Chen were wearing hempen shrouds once more.

There was something wrong with the corpse.