Wudi coins were capable of warding off evil spirits and safeguarding one’s home. It was said that the current state preceptor liked utilizing them and always carried a string of coins at his waist. Since then, these coins had become a staple of those in the business of dealing with the supernatural. While quite a few con artists walked among them, most who owned Wudi coins were the genuine article and knew a trick or two.
The waiter scrutinized the monk from afar. There seemed to be an indescribable aura about him, like he couldn’t be a con artist. Besides, the waiter hadn’t the luxury to worry about that. He’d hit his limit after three days. If the scholar came back tomorrow, he really might not be able to stop himself from losing control of his bladder.
Thanks to the monk’s leisurely pace, he quickly closed the distance between them. As he was about to pass the stall, the waiter hurriedly called out to him. “Master, please wait!”
The monk paused, the hem of his white robe swaying gently, picking up nary a speck of dust. He glanced at the waiter, his gaze tranquil but devoid of warmth, colder than the winter wind blowing on the latter’s face. At these close quarters, the waiter became aware of how tall the monk was. He gazed down upon the waiter, who found himself taking a half step back—where he bumped into the watchman behind him who was doing the same.
This collision brought his courage back from where it’d been cowering. Throwing caution to the wind, the waiter spoke again. “I noticed that you’re carrying Wudi coins, Master. Do you know anything about exorcising evil spirits?”
Expressionlessly, the monk swept his eyes down toward the copper coins at his waist, neither confirming nor denying that he did.
The waiter exchanged an awkward glance with the watchman. This monk’s demeanor was colder than an artic blast, freezing him until he couldn’t even think straight, let alone speak.
Fortunately, the watchman was more resilient and spoke up for him. He succinctly described their scholarly-looking customer, then said to the monk, “We can’t claim to know him exactly, but that face is unmistakable all the same. He’s the son of the Jiang family, but…the Jiang family clinic caught fire three years ago. Other than their daughter who’d been married off to Anqing, everyone perished in the flames! As the saying goes, ‘even ghosts have time on their hands right before sunrise.’ A dead man has appeared three days in a row, always right before sunrise, during the witching hour! It’s natural to be terrified!”
The monk scanned the sky and finally said something, though it was clipped and cold. “Where is he?”
At those words, the waiter thawed and sprang back to life. He pointed to where the wall curved away in the distance and sputtered, “He just left! He might not have gone inside yet! I know where the Jiang family’s ruined clinic is. M-Master, I can take you there!”
Almost as soon as the waiter had offered to the go with the monk, he’d regretted his words and had wanted to slap himself. Why didn’t he think before speaking? Who would want to accompany a walking ice statue in the dead of winter? Had he gone mad?
They’d only walked through a couple of alleys, and the waiter felt like he’d walked half his life away. From time to time, he stole glances at the young monk. He tried and failed several times to muster the courage to ask the man any questions. All the waiter had learned about the monk since meeting him was that he had a small mole at the base of his neck.
Before the waiter could freeze to death, they finally arrived at the street corner where the Jiang family clinic was located. As the waiter had suspected, that frail-looking scholar hadn’t yet gone inside. He was making his way down the alley with aching slowness, box of food in hand. Bizarrely, he was muttering to himself as he walked, his voice at times clear and pleasant, at times low and hoarse.
“Did you personally go to Lishan to catch the pheasant for me or what? With how slowly you’re walking, will you even make it back before the new year?” the clear voice asked.
“Better than not being able to walk at all,” replied the hoarse one.
“Looks to me like you have a death wish.”
“Well, my humble self has been dead for just over three years.”
The scholar was playing the role of two characters—or a vivid portrayal of a man who was seriously not right in the head. Then, like a slip of paper, he slid through the crumbling wall of the Jiang residence.
Hidden behind the alley wall, the waiter witnessed all this and was so spooked he almost turned tail and ran. In fact, he had one foot raised to go when he remembered the ice statue of a monk still standing beside him. In his panic, he pulled out a purse full of money and shoved it into the monk’s arms.
“A token of my appreciation,” the waiter muttered before fleeing. He was practically out of sight within seconds.
The monk frowned and glanced down at the purse in his hand. It’d clearly been a long time since it was last washed. He could no longer tell its original color, and the scent of rancid oil hung around it.
He raised his hand as if to toss this filthy object away, but as the string was about to slip from his hand, he hooked it back with a finger. Then, still wearing an expression of moderate disdain, he made his way to the entrance of the Jiang family clinic, purse in hand.
The waiter had rushed back to Jiuwei House and was now leaning against the wall, gasping for breath. It was a long time before he could tell the watchman what had happened—gesticulating the whole while.
When he was done, he pondered for a moment, then hissed softly, “I’ve suddenly realized the master looked a bit familiar.”
“You sit at this stall all day, watching people from all over come and go,” said the watchman, annoyed. “Everyone looks familiar to you.”
Having caught his breath, the waiter straightened up and swept his gaze over the stretch of wall he’d been leaning against. Abruptly, he went stiff.
A wanted poster had been hung on the wall half a month ago. Unfortunately, heavy snow had fallen right after its posting, drenching and freezing it. By the second day, the poster had become mottled and wet, its original image indiscernible. Even the waiter had only caught a brief glimpse of the poster despite always setting out early, so his impression of it was vague.
Now, most of the poster had peeled away, leaving only the bottom half with the subject’s neck. There, a tiny mole could be faintly seen—identical to the one on the monk’s neck.
The waiter jolted in shock. That man was a wanted criminal with a hefty bounty on his head!