Volume One: The Eight Coffin Corpse Field Chapter 74: Events of the Republic Era

A chill ran down my scalp—this was anything but a good omen. And Third Uncle’s breathing was so faint; could he be on the verge of death?

Lost in anxious speculation, I was jolted as Third Uncle’s eyes shot open. The flames at the head and foot of the bed suddenly leapt higher, startling me so much that I stumbled back two steps.

But just as quickly, Third Uncle’s eyes snapped shut again. I noticed that the blood smeared at the center of his forehead had grown even more vivid—a bright, almost sinister red. The candlelight diminished again.

Just then, I sensed a disturbance behind me. Whirling around, I saw that at some point, a layer of white frost had crept over the dressing mirror, sending out wisps of pale mist.

“Oola oola, gulu jigu…” As I stared at the mirror, Fei Yao, lying on the bed, suddenly began to mutter a string of incomprehensible words. Her speech was muffled and emotional, but I couldn’t make out a single thing.

My scalp prickled with dread. Third Uncle hadn’t told me what to expect—only to stand watch here. Now that things were turning strange, I had no idea what to do.

But to just stand here and let whatever was happening unfold—that was too damn unnerving. I backed toward the doorway, eyes fixed on every shift in the room, especially the dressing mirror. I half expected something to crawl out of it. The candle flames at the head and foot of the bed flickered with each draft, never fully dying out.

I remembered Third Uncle’s warning: if the flames went out or anything truly dangerous happened, I was to run as far as I could. Standing by the door would make escape easier.

Fei Yao would occasionally mutter her nonsense, while Third Uncle opened his eyes every so often, and that mirror continued to breathe out its thin, spectral vapor.

Other than that, nothing else of note occurred. Gradually, my nerves settled. When the three sticks of calming incense burned down, I lit three more.

The scene remained unchanged.

Maybe the incense fumes were getting to me; crouched in the doorway, leaning against the frame, I began to feel drowsy myself.

I don’t know how much time passed before Third Uncle suddenly shouted, jolting me awake.

I sprang to my feet and checked the incense first—thank heaven, there was still a third left; it hadn’t burned out.

I turned to Third Uncle. He was lying on the bed, his body shuddering uncontrollably—tremors not of his own will, jerking fast and erratically. The candles at the head and foot of the bed quivered violently, their flames stretching long and short in quick succession.

I rushed to his side and saw that his face was drenched with sweat, as though he’d been fished from a river.

Ignoring his instructions, I gently shook his shoulder and called his name softly.

Suddenly, his whole body went limp, like a balloon deflating.

I was stunned to see the candle flames at both ends of the bed sputter out with a soft hiss.

“Damn!” I cried, instinctively turning to bolt.

But as soon as I reached the door, I stopped dead.

Though Third Uncle had told me to run as far as possible if the candles went out, in that moment, my first thought was for his safety.

Perhaps it was a bond formed through so many trials together.

“Third Uncle! Third Uncle!” Seeing his face turn ghostly pale again, I forgot myself and shouted his name over and over.

After what felt like a dozen hoarse cries, Third Uncle coughed weakly and muttered, “Stop your damn shouting, I’m not dead yet…”

With that, he slowly opened his eyes.

“Third Uncle, are you alright?” I asked, overwhelmed with relief as I helped him sit up.

“The candles went out. Didn’t I tell you to run?” he scolded, still feeble, yet not forgetting to lecture me.

“Next time, don’t involve me in this. I wouldn’t be at ease running off alone anyway,” I grumbled.

He chuckled, then pulled down the heavy quilt from the window. Sunlight poured in, warm and comforting. Without realizing it, night had turned to day.

Sensing my worry, Third Uncle reassured me that although there had been some twists and turns, all had gone well enough.

Relieved, I noticed that Fei Yao had remained calm throughout. Though still sleeping, her breathing was even, and she no longer spoke nonsense.

Third Uncle, on the other hand, looked as if he’d just finished a marathon—his body limp, sweat still pouring off him.

I was burning with curiosity about what he’d experienced through the night.

I fished a bottle of mineral water from my bag and handed it to him. He gulped it down in one go, then gasped before saying, “I saw it. At last, I saw it…”

“What did you see, Third Uncle? The soul hiding in Fei Yao’s dreams?”

He shook his head. “I saw it all… What a harrowing tale. If possible, it could fill a book…”

Once he’d steadied himself, he began to recount the story.

I knew the tale must be linked to this attic, and to Fei Yao. For clarity’s sake, I’ll recount it in the third person.

…

The third year of the Republic—1914.

Warlord strife had left the land in ruins, countless people still mired in suffering. Each faction schemed, waged war, and vied for power, plunging the common folk into misery.

Yet Linjiang, at that time, remained relatively untouched—a haven of peace where people lived simply, self-sufficient, a sanctuary amidst chaos.

Yang Huanzhi was a renowned carver of wooden effigies, known to all as Wooden Man Yang. His craft, handed down through generations, had reached its pinnacle in his hands. In their heyday, Yang’s ancestors had been summoned to the imperial palace by the Hongwu Emperor Zhu Yuanzhang and later Empress Dowager Cixi as royal artisans.

It was said Yang Huanzhi’s skills had transcended the ordinary, attaining a near-supernatural mastery. But in those times, most struggled merely to fill their bellies, and few could afford the luxury of a carved effigy. So Yang plied his trade as an ordinary carpenter.

One day, a stranger arrived at his door, offering twenty silver dollars for a set of wooden effigies.

Upon learning his visitor’s background, Yang was reluctant to accept. He was, after all, just a common craftsman—business had been slow, and the sum was hard to refuse. With those twenty silver dollars, he could find a quiet place to live out his days.

The commission came from a place called Spring Fragrance House, famed in the region as a first-class brothel.

Yang Huanzhi was an upright man, always keeping his distance from such establishments. But the need for money compelled him to set foot in Spring Fragrance House.

It was only after meeting the madam that Yang learned her true intent.

She’d heard of his exquisite carving skills, of his ability to create lifelike wooden figures. She wished to commission a finely carved effigy for each of the girls working in her house.

(End of chapter)