Chapter 97: Copper Painting

Lanterns.

The entire city was now adorned with lanterns.

Once lit, they resembled plump, ripe red persimmons.

But after the old man's death, the city's lanterns seemed to lose their warmth and glow; all their light appeared eerie and cold.

On the long bridge, the performing girl watched him with a half-smile, seemingly overjoyed, dancing barefoot with graceful turns. Behind her, a geisha strummed with her hands, as if plucking invisible strings.

No one among the passersby could see them.

Ning Changjiu moved suddenly, ignoring their provocations and sprinting towards where the dark figure had vanished.

The girl stopped her graceful dance, looked in the direction he had disappeared, and asked uneasily, "That young man seems to have some tricks up his sleeve. Could he become an unpredictable factor for Lord Hades?"

The geisha continued to pluck her silent strings, her expression rapt in fascination. When the girl asked, she simply replied indifferently, "He's already dead. Why bother with so many concerns?"

The young girl found some truth in that and resumed her swirling dance.

As night fell, across the street from Ning Qinshui's old house, the old woman closed her door, put away the bamboo strips for lantern weaving, and gave her house one last sweep.

The house was utterly silent, save for an occasional rustling sound.

The old woman rummaged through a pile of clutter and pulled out a slender candle. After lighting it, she placed it on the table, where its faint glow illuminated a memorial tablet. On it, only seven characters were inscribed: "Tablet of Grandson Dongyun."

Dongyun was the name of her grandson. Years ago, he had suffered a severe illness. A renowned doctor had almost cured him, but she had insisted on complicating matters by asking Ning Qinshui for a bowl of talisman water.

Clutching the candle, she gazed at the memorial tablet, her body swaying with the flickering flame, filled with guilt and hatred. She picked up a cloth, wiped the tablet, and then placed it face down on the table.

Then, she recalled certain events that made her mind reel.

She thought of two days prior, when she saw smoke rising from Ning Qinshui's house. With a dagger hidden in her sleeve, she had gone to knock on his door. At that moment, her heart had been desolate, and a voice deep within seemed to tell her that she truly deserved to die.

Yet that day, she hadn't found Ning Qinshui, but rather his two disciples. She had intended to draw the dagger from her sleeve, but an inexplicable thought had stopped her, making her hand reach into her waist pouch instead. From it, she pulled out a pendant, whose origin she couldn't recall, and handed it to them.

Everything felt surreal. She even wondered if she was getting old and her vision was failing her.

But none of it mattered anymore. She sat in a chair for a moment, then rummaged through a basket, pulled out a pair of iron scissors, and after a long silence, aimed them at her own neck.

Just as the scissors were about to pierce her skin, the main door burst open. A young man in white seized the scissors and then, using spiritual power, conjured a protective barrier to prevent any other ambushes.

The old woman felt an immense force transmit through the scissors.

She opened her eyes, saw Ning Changjiu, and recognized him instantly, exclaiming angrily, "It's you? That old man killed my grandson! Why are his disciples pretending to be good people?"

Ning Changjiu moved the scissors away. He didn't look at the old woman but instead gazed at the memorial tablet. Only then did he realize that the affairs of this city were far more complex than he had imagined.

He had initially thought it was a powerful demon at work, stirring up trouble in the city, and the strange layout and atmosphere within the city seemed to confirm this.

He had therefore prepared in advance, even envisioning the old woman as that demon.

However, the chain of events tonight had changed his mind. He vaguely glimpsed a grand conspiracy, entangled with blood and bone, though he couldn't yet discern its full scope.

Ning Changjiu walked to the table, uprighted the memorial tablet, and read the characters on it, making a final confirmation.

The old woman stared at him, sharply asking, "What do you want?"

Ning Changjiu asked, "Is your grandson dead?"

Her wound reopened, the old woman's face twisted with rage. "Yes... he's dead! Ning Qinshui killed him!"

Ning Changjiu pressed on, "Then why did you visit twice, bringing these things?"

The old woman seemed to become sluggish. She stared at Ning Changjiu, her eyes filled with venomous resentment, but remained silent. Many of her current actions were inherently contradictory, partly driven by rational thought and partly by instinct.

Ning Changjiu continued, "Besides you, who else sells lanterns in this city?"

The old woman still didn't answer. She would look at the memorial tablet, then glare at Ning Changjiu, as if she might transform into a vengeful spirit and devour him at any moment.

Ning Changjiu sighed, looked at her, and said, "It seems you don't even know yourself?"

The old woman angrily retorted, "What nonsense are you spouting now?"

Suddenly, Ning Changjiu snapped the memorial tablet in half and threw the pieces at the old woman's feet. The old woman stared at this sudden sight, her initial shock quickly turning into monstrous, man-eating fury. She gazed at the broken tablet on the ground, ceaselessly calling her grandson's name, her frail body trembling as if her very bones might collapse at any moment.

"You... you... you truly are Ning Qinshui's disciple. That old man's apprentice turns out to be... no good either!"

Leaning on her walking stick, she knelt before the broken tablet, tears streaming down her aged face.

Ning Changjiu looked at her and said, "But you never had a grandson in the first place."

Her weeping abruptly ceased. The old woman suddenly looked up, her wrinkled face dominated by pupils that glowed deathly pale in the night.

"I don't have a grandson? How could I not have a grandson! My grandson is named Dongyun. His mother gave birth to him in winter; he was a boy, and his father was overjoyed, going to East Third Street to buy a fish and three handfuls of green onions... How could I not have a grandson? My grandson was killed by that wicked Daoist!" The old woman's voice was shrill and biting, making one's ears ache.

The old woman clutched her head, trying as usual to recall the days when her grandson was alive, but for some reason, she couldn't remember anything. It was as if that period of her life had been forcibly erased.

What was more terrifying was that she gradually realized she couldn't even recall her own past. She couldn't remember what she looked like when she was young, as if she had been born a gray-haired old woman, as ancient as could be.

The only memory left in her mind was the monotonous, repetitive task of sitting on a bench in her house, weaving lanterns from bamboo strips and applying paper paste to their frames.

She looked up, her gaze blank yet fierce, like an old wolf baring its claws before death.

"You little demon Daoist, what kind of sorcery have you cast... Why can't I remember anything? You demon Daoist, give me back my grandson!"

As she spoke, the old woman scrambled to her feet. She violently flung her walking stick away and lunged at Ning Changjiu, her fingers like hooks.

In another old house, Shu Bai had finished tidying the bronze vessel blanks in his room and swept the not-so-spacious courtyard. He then stood before a half-smoked, dark blue curtain, pondering whether to replace it this year.

Finally, he secretly took out the bag of copper coins. The pouch was still bulging, with only the cost of a few steamed buns missing.

For some reason, he suddenly felt that something related to greed and malice had disappeared from his heart.

He looked at the bag of copper coins, furrowing his brow. He hated Ning Qinshui and knew these coins were likely ill-gotten gains. But no matter what, they weren't his. "I, Shu Bai, have always avenged grudges and settled scores. How could I engage in such sneaky, thieving acts?"

No, such kindness doesn't seem like me either...

He gradually recalled the events of two days ago and suddenly had an absurd thought: the deep-seated, almost unresolvable hatred that had resided within him seemed to have largely dissipated after meeting that young man in white, being forced to kneel by him, and hearing his words. He even had the idea of becoming a good person.

But when the old woman knocked on his door and they inadvertently exchanged glances, he suddenly felt as if that veil in his heart had been lifted again, and his previous good intentions instantly became absurd and laughable.

He didn't know if this emotional fluctuation was an illusion or reality. Yet, just now, that hint of darkness in his heart seemed to have been erased again. He found himself thinking once more that he should return the bag of money to the young man.

Shu Bai sat on the cold ground, silently contemplating these thoughts, his chaotic mind drifting like a ghost.

Suddenly, the light in his vision dimmed.

He looked up and saw his master standing withered like a tree at the boundary between the courtyard and the main hall, his snow-white hair swaying in the night wind.

"Master..." Shu Bai called out.

The old man was silent for a moment before slowly saying, "Boy, come here."

Shu Bai rose, puzzled, and walked up to them. Looking at his master's increasingly aged face, he asked, "Master, what's wrong?"

The old man took out an antique bronze key from his waist. He handed the key to Shu Bai and instructed, "There are a few white bronze paintings in the storeroom. Go fetch them, and then carry them to the side of the Shashi River. There are many stone piers along the riverbank. Arrange these bronze paintings one by one, from west to east, following their stacked order."

Shu Bai was a little surprised and asked, "Master, your bronze paintings are worth a lot of silver. What if they're left casually in a frequented place and someone just takes them?"

The old man simply said, "Just do as I tell you."

Shu Bai looked at the simple key in his palm. He wanted to ask more questions but closed his mouth, gripping the key and nodding.

After giving his instructions, the old man turned and walked back into his room.

Shu Bai suddenly remembered something and asked, "Master, what happened in the story you told last time, about the White Bone Corpse Demon?"

The old man paused slightly. He didn't answer, his tone somewhat dry. "What White Bone Corpse Demon? Did I tell such a story? It must have been something I made up on the spot; I don't remember..."

With that, he walked into the pitch-black night.

Shu Bai picked up the key and opened the storeroom door. The room was full of dust and cobwebs. As the door opened, rats and insects on the ground scurried away, squeaking. He covered his mouth and nose, enduring his nausea, and stepped inside.

He looked around and saw only a wooden box in the center of the storeroom. That must have been what his master had instructed him to get.

He opened the wooden box, glanced inside, and after confirming its contents, hoisted it onto his back and walked towards the Shashi River.

To his surprise, the box was not as heavy as he had expected.

He arrived at the upper reaches of the Shashi River and found the first stone pier.

These stone piers were ancient, seemingly existing since the city's founding. Their edges were chipped and worn from exposure to wind, frost, and rain, yet they appeared unremarkable.

He took out a bronze painting and placed it on the stone pier. In the dim light, he could vaguely make out what appeared to be a scene of a divine battle. Beyond the clouds, a great deity stood with a sword, half-buried in mud, its lower body reduced to bone.

He walked along the river, and at the second stone pier, he took out the second painting. This entire bronze painting depicted a vast and deep abyss. Clinging to the edge of the abyss were two skeletal hands, their owner seemingly struggling to pull its body out of the chasm.

The third bronze painting portrayed a colossal skeleton, its stature comparable to a mountain, draped with nascent flesh. Wrapped around its arm was something resembling a jade belt, but it was horrifyingly fashioned from countless human skulls. From its waist, what appeared to be dangling tassels were, in fact, the bound, deathly pale bodies of women. At the lower end of this gruesome figure, innumerable ant-like humans, all with pointed mouths and monkey-like faces, wielded swords and hacked at its massive thighs, sending flesh flying and bones shattering.

That bronze painting was incredibly oppressive, sending shivers down Shu Bai's spine. He quickly put it down and hurried towards the next stone pier.

The next painting was much calmer. The skeletal figure was no longer fully visible, for it stood in a great river, its body mostly submerged by the swirling waters, with only its head, shoulders, and arms exposed. The river's waves churned violently, yet it, like an ordinary person, cupped a handful of water high and drank it.

The scene in the final bronze painting was simpler still: an empty throne. Beneath it, numerous spirits floated, kneeling in unison towards the throne, devout and silent.

Shu Bai examined it closely for a moment before realizing it wasn't truly an empty throne, but rather that it was turned away. On the armrests, dimly visible, were the backs of hands with not a shred of flesh adhering to them.

Following the old man's instructions, Shu Bai placed the last bronze painting. He vaguely felt that this signaled something, perhaps the sequence of a certain story, and it bore a striking resemblance to what the old man had recounted.

If these bronze paintings truly depicted the story of the White Bone Corpse Demon, what then did the last two paintings signify?

Shu Bai pondered intently. Suddenly, a chill crept up his spine.

For he realized that, without him noticing, the entire world had grown dark.

He slowly looked up, astonished to find that the vibrant red lanterns along both banks of the river had now all turned white, and the candles behind their white paper cast a faint, ghastly pale light.