32. The Sinister Land of Ancestral Soil

At midday, beneath the shade of a tea stall on the bustling streets of Jiaozhou Prefecture, a woman in a pale green dress sipped her tea at a leisurely pace, a black cat resting on her lap.

It was none other than Qingyin and Mo Tu.

At the neighboring table, two tea drinkers chatted idly about matters from all corners of the land.

Suddenly, one of them remarked, “The fifteenth of the seventh month is nearly upon us again. I wonder if the curse will come true this year as well.”

The other replied, “It happens every year. This year will be no exception.”

With a sigh, the first lamented, “Who knows which family’s child will be the unlucky one this year.”

The second answered, “Can’t you figure it out yourself? Any child born at midnight on the fifteenth of the seventh month is doomed.”

“Is it really that sinister?” asked the first.

“Every year, a one-year-old child born at that date and hour goes missing in Jiaozhou. It’s been so for many years, yet none know what demon causes such misfortune,” the second replied.

“But what if, one year, no child is born at that precise time?” the first wondered.

“That’s the eerie part—there is always one. Each year, without fail, a child is born at that very moment, as if fate itself marks them for death the following year. If a family happens to have a child on that day, they know early on they will not be able to keep the child,” the second said with a sigh.

“So, who has such a child this year?” the first pressed.

“If a family did, would they broadcast it? They’d do everything to keep it hidden, hoping to escape their fate. But how could mere mortals outwit such an evil curse?” the second replied.

Qingyin listened with growing astonishment—Jiaozhou was indeed a troubled place. She bowed politely toward their table and asked with a smile, “Gentlemen, your conversation was quite lively just now. What’s the origin of this terrible curse?”

Seeing that the one who addressed them was a charming young woman, the tea drinkers were happy to oblige.

The first began, “The tale goes back a long way. A hundred years ago, when Jiaozhou was founded, workers accidentally unearthed a massive ancient tomb. Without performing any rites, they cast aside the coffins and bones. The city’s residents were then struck by the vengeance of wandering souls: a plague swept through, countless died. A sorcerer finally mediated with the dead, and a compromise was reached—each year, a one-year-old child born at midnight on the fifteenth of the seventh month would be sacrificed, ensuring peace for Jiaozhou’s people.”

Qingyin found this story oddly familiar, recalling childhood tales she had once dismissed as mere horror stories. She never imagined such a ritual truly existed. “Can something so ominous really happen every year?” she asked, puzzled.

The second tea drinker confirmed, “Indeed, every year on the fifteenth of the seventh month, a child of that fated birth disappears without fail. The curse has never missed its mark.”

A shadow passed over Qingyin’s heart—her homeland was anything but peaceful.

The tea drinkers finished their tea and left.

Qingyin took another sip, gazing toward the nearby prefectural yamen. Two imposing stone lions guarded the entrance, and two sentries with long spears stood watch, looking every bit the picture of righteous authority. Qingyin absently stroked the black cat’s neck, her hand shielded by her teacup, and whispered, “Are you certain this yamen is the source of evil?”

“Without a doubt,” the black cat replied. “Hidden on the gates and walls are charms that lock the evil within. Unless one enters, not even a deity passing outside would sense anything.”

The roots of the southern-facing magnolia tree had been severed, and Jiaozhou lay southward. If Dong Zhanchu was from Jiaozhou, then the only place Mo Tu could think of as an evil ground was the prefectural yamen—a suspicion he’d had since his last break-in to steal case records, though he hadn’t had time to investigate then.

This time, upon arriving in Jiaozhou, a few inquiries revealed that the prefect was surnamed Dong, full name Dong Sihe, who had served for twenty years. When they asked about Dong Zhanchu, people only knew he was the prefect’s son, but as he rarely interacted with anyone, no one was acquainted with him.

According to imperial law, a prefect’s term was five years at most. For Dong to hold the post for twenty years was highly unusual.

Qingyin said, “With such strict security, sneaking in won’t be easy.”

Mo Tu replied, “I’ll go in first and see if the magnolia is there.”

Qingyin whispered, “Go on.”

The black cat leapt to the ground, strolling lazily across the road as if searching for a spot to nap in the afternoon sun. With a light jump, it scaled the yamen wall and disappeared within.

Its feline form provided both concealment and a perfect disguise for its extraordinary aura. Having previously scoped out the place, it now slipped past the various traps and wards with ease.

The prefect’s yamen was more like a noble’s estate, sprawling over two hundred acres with hundreds of halls and pavilions, nine courtyards, and lush gardens everywhere. The front was the administrative complex; behind lay the private residence with towers, terraces, and colorful pavilions—a grand sight indeed.

At this hour, the sun blazed and cicadas droned. Most of the household seemed to be napping, and even the sentries nodded off—a scene of tranquil peace.

Yet, with his keen senses, Mo Tu perceived a faint black miasma shrouding the entire compound—thickest in the private quarters. He could not, however, discern its source.

Padding along the shadows, the black cat made its way toward the rear courtyard.

As it neared a certain room, its sharp ears caught the faint sound of conversation. Twitching an ear, it followed the voices.

An aged voice spoke: “Zhanchu, the wards were triggered last night. Something must have entered. Did you catch anything unusual?”

A man’s voice, Dong Zhanchu’s, replied, “Nothing was found.”

The old man continued, “Strange events abound lately. Someone broke in the other day and set fire to the archive, but to what end? You must remain vigilant and prevent any further incidents.”

“I understand, Father,” Dong Zhanchu replied, though his tone was weary.

The black cat now lay beneath the window, sunning itself, and peered through a gap. The speaker with Dong Zhanchu was a gaunt elder—presumably his father, the prefect Dong Sihe.

Dong was clearly displeased. “I know you’re unhappy, but you must understand—some things must be sacrificed for us to gain more.”

“Father… do you not feel this is divine retribution? What meaning is there to life? What good is immortality?”

The prefect’s tone sharpened. “Zhanchu! This is not for us to choose.”

Dong Zhanchu’s voice grew mournful. “Father, why don’t we stop? Spare Yin’er…”

“Enough! I am Yin’er’s grandfather—do you think I feel nothing? But all things require sacrifice.”

“I’ve sacrificed enough,” Dong Zhanchu said bitterly. “Time and again, I am forced—” he choked on the words, unable to finish. “And what have I gained? Only immortality. Immortality—an endless life that cannot end. I’m truly sick of it.”

Dong Sihe retorted angrily, “As long as we live on, there will always be opportunities. Sacrifice Yin’er, and there will be more grandchildren…” Abruptly, he strode to a curtained bed and drew the curtain aside with a swoosh, revealing a white-robed woman sleeping soundly.

The black cat’s eyes gleamed—it was the tree spirit Yulan!

Dong Zhanchu sprang up in alarm. “Father…”

With his hands clasped behind his back, Dong Sihe gazed down at the sleeping woman and chuckled coldly. “You see? There will always be women, always be children. What are you afraid of? Judging by the triggered wards, this woman is no ordinary mortal, is she?”

Suppressing his unease, Dong Zhanchu replied, “She seems to be a demon. But though I’ve never met her, she felt strangely familiar, so I hid her away. She appears weak, without malice—likely she entered by mistake. Please, Father, spare her. When she wakes, I’ll question her, and if there’s no issue, I’ll send her away.”

Dong Sihe shot him a look. “No demon who enters this yamen can be let go. Watch her closely. Don’t let her wander. I’ll interrogate her myself.”

Zhanchu bowed his head, his face pale.

Having seen enough, the black cat slipped away, leapt over the wall, and returned to Qingyin’s lap beneath the tea stall awning. She quickly held her teacup to the cat’s mouth so it could drink.

After quenching its thirst, the black cat reported, “Yulan is indeed inside. She was injured by the wards and is unconscious.”

Qingyin’s heart clenched. “Is she badly hurt?”

“It doesn’t look serious,” Mo Tu replied, recounting the conversation between the Dong father and son.

When he finished, Qingyin frowned. “Wards, immortality—this prefect’s background is unfathomable. I wonder what part he plays in my family’s murder…”

Mo Tu was equally perplexed.

Qingyin continued, “When Dong Zhanchu came to the capital seeking me, he mentioned wanting me to save his bloodline. That must refer to this ‘Yin’er.’ In that case, let’s use this as our entry point and walk in openly.”

Mo Tu was taken aback. “Just walk in…?”

Qingyin, holding the black cat, strode straight toward the yamen’s main gate.

Meanwhile, Dong Zhanchu stood by the bedside, gazing at the sleeping woman, troubled by a sense of familiarity he could not place. No matter how he pondered, he could not recall where he had seen her. Seeing she would not wake soon, he let the curtain fall.

Suddenly, a strange voice echoed behind him, “The immortal waits outside. Why don’t you go and welcome them?”

Startled, he spun around—no one was there.

The eerie voice giggled, still at his back.

He whirled again and again, but the voice remained always behind him, unseen and untouchable, like a ghost eternally at his back.