Chapter 25: A New Mission

That afternoon, the two of them neither went to school nor bothered to call in sick. They stayed in their small room, busy with who knows what all day. When evening self-study rolled around, they decided to skip that too and went straight to the hospital to find the director. “We need some things to catch ghosts, but we don’t have money!” At this point, the director was more desperate than anyone else—what’s a little money, anyway?

“There’s sixty thousand yuan on this card. Take an extra ten as a treat from me!” The director sat in his office, face drawn with worry. It was already past nine in the evening, but the crowd outside the hospital hadn’t lessened in the slightest. Some were even starting to prepare bedding for the night. Judging by their determination, unless they got a satisfactory answer, nothing would appease them.

“Don’t forget to get us excused from school. We won’t be going for the next few days; we need to see our master about something.” Before leaving, Song Nianqiang turned back to remind the director, who waved him off impatiently. The police chief had already taken care of their leave—no need for him to trouble himself.

“It’s about time we go find our master and finish our professional assessment,” Song said as they squeezed through the wall of people outside the hospital and found a quieter side street. “Yeah, I wonder what kind of challenge the old man has in store for us this time,” replied the fat one, glancing up at the stars. In their small county town, you could still see the stars and moon clearly at night. “Who knows? I wonder what Jiang Ningzhi is doing now.”

“Get lost!” The fat one lunged at Song Nianqiang like a hungry tiger, and the two of them laughed and chased each other back to the house they rented.

At the crack of dawn the next day, a Beijing Hyundai pulled up in front of their rental. The two climbed in, greeted once again by the same two middle-aged men in tailored suits.

When they arrived at the ghost-hunting school, they found it unexpectedly crowded. Upon inquiry, they learned all these people were waiting for the annual exam. They were all alumni, most of whom had left the ghost-hunting profession, but never missed the yearly test.

Song Nianqiang and his friend were the youngest there but received the best treatment. They were led to a pavilion stocked with tea and pastries, while the others stood sweating under the blazing sun—some dressed in suits, beads of sweat rolling down their faces.

“Haha, this isn’t a bad way to live!” the fat one gloated, looking at the others. His words drew the ire of a man dressed as a Taoist. “Why do those two get to sit there while we roast out here?” His complaint found eager support among the crowd.

There were over thirty people, from all walks of life, including some who still hunted ghosts. “What right do you have to be sitting there, huh?” a furious voice demanded. They turned to see a middle-aged man with a cropped haircut and a vivid scar running from his forehead to his chin.

“Scarface!” The crowd gasped at the sight of him. Song Nianqiang didn’t know who Scarface was, but everyone else did: he was the old master’s sole bodyguard, his skills legendary.

Scarface walked over, hand resting at his waist. The crowd shrank back in fear—Scarface’s soft sword hung at his side, infamous for its lethality. Within ten paces, he could wipe out everyone if he wished.

Parting the crowd, Scarface reached Song Nianqiang and his friend. Judging from everyone’s expression, his strength was beyond doubt. The two quickly stood up.

“No need to be so formal. You two aren’t like those ingrates,” Scarface said, lifting a glass of iced tea and taking a sip. Song Nianqiang gave him a questioning look. “Ghost-hunting isn’t easy. You could lose your life at any moment. They’ve all changed professions,” Scarface said with a sigh.

“Changed professions?” Song Nianqiang asked, puzzled, but Scarface didn’t elaborate. Instead, he explained the rules for this year’s exam.

Unlike previous years, when you could forfeit and leave, this year you had to collect five soul stones—that is, you had to kill five ghosts to get out. Song Nianqiang and his friend were fine with this—they were novices, after all, and didn’t know any better. But the rest of the crowd erupted in protest, demanding a return to the old rules. One young man, tattooed and with a nose ring, was the loudest.

“Enough noise!” Scarface barked, striding over in a flash, grabbing the young man, and smashing his head into the ground. With a sickening thud, the man’s head vanished. The rest began to retch in horror. “Anyone else who makes a fuss will end up like him!” Scarface swept his gaze across the group, and silence fell instantly.

Scarface was a notorious killer, though his savagery had lessened since the old master—Song Nianqiang’s teacher—had saved his life. But that didn’t mean he was easy to cross.

Song Nianqiang and his friend were just as shocked, though more by the sheer force needed to shove someone’s head into their stomach than by the violence itself. Both young, they idolized men like Scarface.

“Amazing! Big Brother, what did you used to do?” Song Nianqiang asked. Scarface, who respected the old master’s apprentices, paused before answering, “I used to be an assassin.” “Assassin? That’s awesome! Always on the run from special forces—what a rush!” Song Nianqiang even looked for paper and pen to ask for an autograph.

Scarface was left speechless by Song Nianqiang’s enthusiasm.

“Anyway, you two come with me. You’re exempt from this year’s test—there’s a more important task waiting for you,” Scarface announced suddenly, leaving Song Nianqiang and his friend confused.

He led them into a large hall packed with people standing stock-still, like rows of bamboo. Song Nianqiang was baffled. “What’s going on here?”

“They’re all corpses—specially treated. Your next task is to follow their master to Hunan to investigate a strange incident. I don’t know the details.” With that, Scarface left, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone in a room full of corpses, Song Nianqiang and his friend couldn’t ignore the heavy aura of death, no matter how lifelike the bodies looked. Suddenly, a hand clapped down on Song’s shoulder. Instinctively, he twisted the hand aside and kicked forward.

A shriek echoed down the corridor as a grotesque-looking man went flying, but he landed agilely on a corpse’s shoulder, like a monkey. “Kid, trying to kill me? And don’t think you’ll get anything about Maoshan corpse-driving techniques from me!”

Song Nianqiang had no idea what he was talking about—he was in a hurry to fetch his bronze mirror and had no time to argue with this weirdo.

“Talk to me in five days. I don’t have time for you until then!” he said, turning to leave. But before he walked out, Song Nianqiang couldn’t resist a parting shot. Ever since that day, the odd man perched on the corpse’s shoulder had never looked at Song Nianqiang kindly.

“Maybe your dad used to be in Unit 731—trying to make viruses, but ended up making you. Quite the Korean idol face, too.” With that, he slammed the door shut.

(I’ve been without internet for ages—finally borrowed a phone to update. Sorry for the delay.)