Chapter Sixty-Two: The Yin-Yang Soul Envoy

Zhang Qinglin pulled Wu Cheng'an up and staggered toward the center of the road, speaking to him constantly. Looking at Wu Cheng'an's sallow face, he truly feared the man might not make it. Here at the Yellow River dam, apart from the narrow stream of the river itself, barren wasteland stretched on both sides of the road; not a single passing car, let alone a soul, could be seen.

Gazing at the pitch-black end of the road, a sudden chill crept over Zhang Qinglin, making his scalp prickle. Reflexively, he touched his neck, as if feeling for a wound—a long gash—only then did he sense the throbbing pain. Unable to hold on any longer, his legs buckled, the world went black, and he fainted.

“Lone bird flies, flees the wild land, opens the grave grass, severs the soul’s head, little ghosts come, great ghosts go, losing one soul after another, this household leaves, that household departs, heads carried away, never to return and keep watch…”

Strange, unintelligible phrases echoed in Zhang Qinglin’s ears. He wondered where the clear, childish voice was coming from. Wasn’t he on the road? Why did it feel as though he were lying somewhere comfortable, not upon cold ground? Slowly opening his eyes, he moved his head slightly, feeling the pain in his neck pull at him. Thankfully, his neck was bandaged, which eased the pain a little. Glancing to his right, he was startled by what he saw.

A little girl, about six or seven years old, lay beside the bed. Her hair was cut in a neat bob, her large eyes were bright and black, her lips rosy—a very adorable child.

“Slaughter combs hair, scares the little ghost, slays the chicken, feeds the pup…” The little girl paused, her big eyes blinking, then continued her chant.

Zhang Qinglin glanced around. The room was small, sparsely furnished with only two wooden cabinets and the little stool upon which the girl sat. He himself was on a modest wooden bed with plain bedding—it seemed to be the girl's own bed.

“Little one… the man who was with me, have you seen him?” Not seeing Wu Cheng'an made Zhang Qinglin uneasy, so he asked the girl, who was still chanting with gusto.

Upon hearing his question, the girl stopped. She tilted her head slightly, her cold, bright eyes fixed on Zhang Qinglin, her mouth curled into a half-smile. “Uncle? Haha… well then, Uncle, your friend’s in the other room. He wasn’t as lucky as you—his injuries are quite severe. My father is treating him.”

Sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room, but the girl’s tone was oddly unsettling.

Just as Zhang Qinglin was about to get off the bed, an elderly man entered. He looked seasoned and somewhat weary, but when he saw Zhang Qinglin awake, a smile instantly lit his face.

The old man approached and said, “You’re awake. How do you feel? You don’t have many injuries, just that cut on your neck, which wouldn’t stop bleeding. Luckily, my daughter found some hemostatic herbs and managed to stanch it.”

Zhang Qinglin was amazed—the girl was his daughter? Looking at the old man, he could easily have been her grandfather. “Thank you, sir, and thank you, little one, for saving my life!” Zhang Qinglin quickly expressed his gratitude, then asked, “Sir, how is my friend?”

“He’s out of danger, but very weak and needs rest. I don’t know what happened to you two, but you didn’t break any laws, did you…” The old man’s face clouded with worry.

Sensing the man’s concern, Zhang Qinglin got out of bed and said, “Rest assured, sir, we’ve done nothing wrong. It was just a car accident on the road. The car leaked fuel and exploded; the two of us barely escaped with our lives.”

The old man, seeing that Zhang Qinglin didn’t look like a bad person—otherwise, he wouldn’t have helped them—relaxed. “That’s good, that’s good.”

“Sir, may I ask, where are we?”

“This is nowhere, really. Our family is the only one here. You can call me Uncle Wang.” Uncle Wang gestured towards the door.

The only family in the area—Zhang Qinglin was stunned. Where exactly were they?

He asked which jurisdiction this area belonged to. Uncle Wang replied that it was still under Wuzhou City. This place used to be called Archaic Village, but after a great disaster wiped out the population, only he and his daughter survived because they were living elsewhere at the time.

Uncle Wang’s daughter was named Qingqing, already a twenty-eight-year-old woman, though from birth she’d been blind and a dwarf. She also had a special ability: at night, she could sense strange things.

Because of her condition, Qingqing was shunned in other villages, and no one wanted to marry her. So, when she was very young, Uncle Wang brought her back here.

That afternoon, Zhang Qinglin asked Qingqing to take him to see Wu Cheng'an. Discovering that his friend’s breathing was even and color had returned to his face, he finally relaxed and wandered outside to sit in the courtyard, lost in thought.

The area around the house was truly desolate—just this one solitary home on the vast land, like a lone nail refusing to be pulled. There was no telling how things were going with Cheng Che; for now, all he could do was wait for Wu Cheng'an to awaken.

As he pondered, Qingqing appeared before him in a bright red, flower-patterned dress. “Uncle… hmm… I’ll call you Brother instead. What are you sitting here thinking about?”

Zhang Qinglin was startled, gazing into Qingqing’s eyes. Though they appeared dull, it was as if they could see through everything. Was she really blind? How else could she know whether he was sitting or standing?

“Oh, nothing—just wondering how hard it must be for you and your father to travel so far for supplies, hours each way…”

Qingqing turned slightly, pointing to the land outside the courtyard. “We don’t always go out. We grow our own food too. By the way, what’s your name, Brother? Where are you from?”

Zhang Qinglin smiled, recalling the chant she’d been reciting when he woke up. “By the way, Qingqing, those things you were reciting about birds and souls—are they folk songs?”

As soon as he said this, Qingqing's expression changed abruptly. She pouted and said, “That’s not a folk song. You mustn’t ask about it anymore, or you’ll regret it.”

Baffled, Zhang Qinglin watched as Qingqing walked angrily to the far end of the courtyard, chatting and laughing with her father as they tended to a rack of herbs.

Living in such a quiet place, far from the city’s clamor, was a kind of peace. In the distance, a few crows cawed from the fence and then flew off.

Zhang Qinglin took out the photograph Xu Bin had given him before he died. It was so scorched that only the two faces in the center were visible. One was his father, Zhang Chuyang; the other, a face he remembered only vaguely, but it looked much like the old man in the photo Wanqing had given him. Could they be connected? Could this person have something to do with his father’s disappearance?

He stared at the sky for a long while until a crimson sunset filled his eyes. Standing at the door, Qingqing put her hands on her hips and called, “Brother, dinner’s ready!”

After dinner, Zhang Qinglin carried a bowl of hot porridge into the inner room. Seeing that Wu Cheng'an was still asleep, he sat on a chair to rest.

Not long after, he heard voices outside and went to the doorway.

“Dad, let me help you…” Qingqing said cheerfully.

Uncle Wang, his back to the house, held a medicine bottle in one hand. Looking fondly at his lively daughter, he nodded. “Alright, bring that over.”

Qingqing fetched a piece of red paper from the table and trotted over to hand it to him. Uncle Wang smiled, took the paper, and began working deftly. Qingqing crouched beside him, watching intently as if she could see what he was doing. She blinked and asked, “Dad, will Afu’s wound get better now?”

“Yes, it will heal soon. Come on, let’s call him over.” Uncle Wang stood, taking Qingqing’s small hand and heading outside.

At that moment, Zhang Qinglin saw what Uncle Wang had been working on and was stunned. In the old man’s hand was a paper effigy—the kind burned for the dead—bearing the name ‘Afu.’

Qingqing glanced cautiously toward their house before stepping outside, so Zhang Qinglin, curious, followed them.

Uncle Wang and Qingqing walked about two meters from the courtyard and stopped. Uncle Wang set the paper man on the ground. Qingqing stepped forward and chanted toward the air, and a vague black shadow appeared on the barren land, slowly approaching her.

Watching Qingqing touch and talk to the empty air left Zhang Qinglin utterly bewildered. She babbled, “Afu, don’t wander off anymore. If you get hurt again, I won’t let Dad take care of you. Look, I made you new clothes—do you like them?”

Once again Zhang Qinglin was dumbstruck. Rubbing his eyes, he could just make out a figure squatting before Qingqing—not a person, but a soul missing an arm.

The soul nodded to Qingqing, then to Uncle Wang, before moving to stand in front of the paper effigy.

Uncle Wang chuckled and lit the paper man with a match. When it was reduced to ashes, he sprinkled medicine from the bottle onto the ashes where the effigy’s arm had been. The color changed instantly, and Uncle Wang scattered the colored ash over the soul.

Within seconds, the soul miraculously grew a new arm.

Zhang Qinglin was shocked. He had seen ghosts before and wasn’t afraid, but this was no ordinary sight. What were this father and daughter?

A shiver ran through him. He recalled reading in Uncle Jiang’s collection about a kind of folk doctor in ancient times—one who did not treat the living, but rather healed ghosts. People called them “ghost doctors.” Their methods were unique, and often they took no payment, instead accepting rare treasures in exchange for their services.

The greatest taboo for a ghost doctor was to be seen by outsiders during treatment, for those who did would become corpses under the ghost doctor’s hand.

At this thought, goosebumps prickled Zhang Qinglin’s skin. He turned to return to the house, but his foot slipped and he fell with a thud, knocking the wooden door.

The previously harmonious scene instantly grew tense. Qingqing turned toward him, said something to the soul, and it vanished.

Uncle Wang also looked over, and both hurried back.

“Brother Zhang? You…” Qingqing stared at him with a blank, unreadable gaze.

Zhang Qinglin forced a laugh. “Me? I… I didn’t see anything. Nothing… I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Uncle Wang’s stern face softened into a slight smile. “It doesn’t matter if you saw or not—we’re used to it. Just remember, stay inside tonight, no matter what. The wasteland is haunted at night, but if you don’t go out, you’ll be fine.”

Hearing this, Zhang Qinglin felt even more uneasy. It sounded as if something else might happen that night, but since Uncle Wang told him not to go out, he obediently returned to his room.

He looked at Qingqing, who patted her chest reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Brother Zhang—Qingqing will protect you!”

That night was indeed nerve-wracking. When Zhang Qinglin returned, Wu Cheng'an was awake, sitting on the bed clutching his abdomen. Relieved to see Zhang Qinglin, he listened as Zhang explained the situation, though he omitted what he’d seen Uncle Wang and Qingqing doing. Seeing Wu Cheng'an still pale, he advised him to rest a couple of days.

After drinking the porridge, Wu Cheng'an soon fell asleep again, but Zhang Qinglin felt no drowsiness. Lying back, he stared at the wooden beams overhead, unable to sleep.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps sounded outside. They didn’t match Uncle Wang’s or Qingqing’s—each step landed with a weight like a thousand catties. Glancing at the window, Zhang Qinglin saw a tall, burly figure carrying an ax pass by.

Soon after, the door to the main room opened, and Uncle Wang’s voice could be heard: “Messenger of the Dead, what brings you here?”

“Ghost doctor, have you forgotten already? Last time you said you still owed me a few souls. I’ve come tonight to collect them.”