Chapter 4: The Demon Comes Calling

“Boy, do you think I won’t dare beat you to death?”

“Believe it or not, I could drag you out right now and have you tortured until you die!”

Dong Dali’s face twisted with malice as he glared fiercely at Lu Sha. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Lu Sha’s chilly gaze made him uneasy—there was even a trace of fear flickering within him.

Absurd!

How could a jailer like him possibly fear a condemned prisoner? When has a cat ever been afraid of a mouse?

Shamed by the thought, Dong Dali’s anger only intensified, and his manner grew even more menacing.

Zhao Erhu, too, felt a sliver of unease. He stared hard at Lu Sha, trying to fathom where the young man drew his confidence from. Could it be that the Lu family still had powerful connections who could come to his rescue?

…

Lu Sha ignored the two men. He casually scooped up a handful of dried grass from the ground. Then, pointing first at Zhao Erhu, then at Dong Dali, he said,

“You're the pair, he’s alone.”

With that, Lu Sha began to count the blades of grass in his hand.

“One, two, three… eleven.”

“Eleven. An odd number. That means it’s you.”

He turned to Dong Dali with a chilling, enigmatic smile.

The sight made Dong Dali’s skin crawl, a cold shiver running down his spine. The more unsettled he felt, the angrier he became.

“Damn brat, I’ll show you what’s what today! You dare to be insolent with me?”

He rolled up his sleeves and charged at the cell, but Zhao Erhu grabbed him quickly.

“Dali, calm down—calm down! The Lu family’s brat is so composed, he must have an ace up his sleeve.”

“Think about it, the Lu family was once quite powerful. They may still have strong ties; we’d be wise not to get ourselves involved.”

“Besides, why should we dirty our own hands to finish him off?”

“So long as he remains in this prison, there are countless ways we can quietly see him dead.”

Zhao Erhu’s whispered words by his ear made Dong Dali take several deep breaths, finally suppressing his rage.

“Hmph! You’ll be the one crying later!”

“Even if you get down on your knees and beg, it won’t help you then!”

Dong Dali shot Lu Sha a cold snort, then turned on his heel and strode away without another word. Zhao Erhu followed close behind, likely to discuss how to dispose of Lu Sha.

…

After the two jailers left, the other guards went about their usual routine, distributing meals to the prisoners. The fare was a bowl of unappetizing yellowish gruel, looking as vile as ever.

Yet the disheveled old man in the cell beside Lu Sha ate with relish, finishing it in no time and licking the battered bowl spotless.

But then, he could eat dead rats with gusto—so it was only natural he enjoyed even prison food.

After licking the bowl three times, the old man smacked his lips, turned to Lu Sha, and eyed the gruel spilled on his cell floor.

“Young man, don’t waste what’s on the ground. A pity not to eat it—this might be your last meal, you know.”

Lu Sha, eyes closed as he regulated his breath, replied unmoved,

“It’s not fit for a dog, let alone me.”

Never mind that the gruel had spilled on the floor—even if it were in the bowl, he would not touch it.

The old man, with the air of someone who had seen it all, shook his head and said,

“As the saying goes, ‘People need food as iron needs steel—a missed meal leaves you weak.’”

“You may scorn it now, but go hungry two or three days and you’ll eat with more relish than I do.”

“But first, you have to live that long. Those two jailers are sure to try something.”

Lu Sha’s voice turned frosty.

“No need to rush. Tomorrow, someone will come on their knees to serve me a hearty meal.”

With that, he fell silent, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes as if asleep.

“Kneeling to serve food and dishes? Heh, that’s interesting.”

The old man seemed amused. He measured Lu Sha with a few glances, but said nothing more, just smiling oddly.

…

That night, Dong Dali and Zhao Erhu staggered out of a tavern, reeking of wine.

“Damn it, tomorrow I’ll make sure that Lu brat is dead!” Dong Dali cursed, gesticulating wildly.

“Sure, sure, tomorrow we’ll get rid of him. But remember, don’t do it yourself—no need to leave evidence.”

“The sooner he’s dead, the sooner we can report to the County Magistrate.”

Zhao Erhu, a bit more sober, steadied Dong Dali as they wandered the streets, their conversation soon drifting away from Lu Sha entirely.

After all, what could a condemned man possibly do to turn the world upside down?

Soon they reached a fork in the road and parted ways, each heading for home.

By then, it was already late at night. There was no curfew in the Zhou Dynasty, but Wuling County was hardly bustling—at this hour, the streets were all but deserted.

The lane Dong Dali took home was even more desolate and silent. Not a soul was in sight along the pitch-dark road, and the cold moonlight only deepened the chill.

Half-drunk, Dong Dali didn’t care in the least, swaying homeward and humming a little tune. As he neared his house, he saw a figure crouched in the middle of the lane, busy with something.

The path was narrow, but a single person couldn’t block the whole way. Dong Dali could have simply skirted around.

But seeing the figure dressed in drab, commoner’s clothes, a thuggish look came over his face.

“Hey you, skulking around at this hour, blocking the road—are you up to no good?”

He strode up, slapped the figure hard on the shoulder, and raised his fist to strike.

But at that moment, the crouched figure turned his head.

By the light of the moon, Dong Dali saw a face with no features except for eyes—eyes everywhere, staring and blinking at him in a horrifying display.

“Aaah!”

With a terrified scream, Dong Dali staggered back. Still drunk, he lost his balance after a few steps and fell flat on his back.

“A ghost—ghost!”

Despite the pain of the fall, he paid it no mind, scrambling to his feet in panic, cold sweat breaking out all over him, his drunkenness nearly vanished.

He meant to run, but when he looked again, the lane was empty. There was no monstrous spirit with a face full of eyes.

Dong Dali rubbed his eyes, peered around, but there was nothing.

Had he drunk too much and imagined it all?

A little reassured, he mustered his courage and shouted into the deserted street,

“Damn it, I know how to handle myself! Any wandering ghosts better keep clear, or I’ll tear you apart!”

After a couple more shouts, his courage restored, he strode home with renewed bravado.

Once inside, he slammed the door shut and slumped against it, letting out a long sigh of relief.

Finally, home!

…

Dong Dali was in his thirties and had long since taken a wife. But his violent temper and drunken rages led to frequent beatings; within half a year, he’d driven his new bride to “run away.”

Since then, no one dared marry him, and he lived alone.

That night, he didn’t bother to wash or even undress, simply collapsing onto his bed and falling instantly asleep.

Who knows how long passed. He was sleeping soundly when a sudden chill made him shudder.

Half-awake, he opened his eyes to see a shadowy figure beside him—someone eerily familiar: his wife, whom he hadn’t seen in over a decade.

But there was no joy in Dong Dali’s heart—only terror.

For his wife hadn’t run back to her family all those years ago; in a drunken rage, he’d beaten her to death.

He’d buried her hastily in the backyard, telling others she had run away.

Now, seeing her shadow by his bed, a bone-deep chill seized his heart, his scalp prickling.

Was this a person, or a ghost?