Chapter 4: Dream or Reality?
On the third night after the funeral, the village had long since quieted.
In this rural land, funeral rites were elaborate affairs, and the entire village would come together to help. The mourning hall had been erected by the hands of the villagers, the funeral troupe and caterers summoned by the Village Chief himself—for what would a mere twenty-two-year-old youth like Chen Yan know of such matters?
Over these past three days, Chen Yan had shed few tears.
Grief, when it reached its peak, often numbed the heart, leaving no room for weeping. It was as if sorrow had dammed his emotions, allowing no release until the ceremonies had passed. Besides, he had spent most of his time kneeling, offering his reverence. Each guest who came to pay respects demanded another round of bows.
The Chen Family had dwindled to just one: Chen Yan.
The Old Madam had no surviving relatives.
Thus, in the vast mourning hall, only he remained, clad in white mourning robes, bowing endlessly.
By now, he had lost count of how many times his forehead had touched the cold ground. His head spun, his body weakened by exhaustion.
Tonight, he knelt before the spirit tablet, the silence of the mourning hall pressing against his mind, a sense of unreality creeping over him. Was this all but a dream?
The Old Madam lay within the coffin before him. The hall was heavy with the scent of funeral incense. Wreaths filled the room, their solemn white ribbons fluttering faintly in the cold draft.
The largest wreath, positioned by the entrance, bore an inscription: Eternal Glory.
The sender: Little Ma of West Lake.
When Boss Ma had come to pay his respects, he had been reserved, speaking at length before his departure. Before leaving, he had even handed Chen Yan a business card, claiming it was his private number.
However, upon learning that Chen Yan had not inherited the Old Madam’s abilities, that he was merely a naive university graduate, Boss Ma’s attitude had subtly cooled.
The past few days felt like an endless, surreal procession. Scenes flickered through Chen Yan’s mind like an old reel of film, his thoughts growing sluggish.
He had not slept for two nights.
Midnight had passed, yet he still knelt upon the woven mat, his body weak, his vision flickering.
He had barely eaten these past days—only the last meal the Old Madam had prepared before her passing: a plate of stir-fried green soybeans with shredded pork.
Not a single soybean had gone to waste.
Since then, he had eaten nothing.
He simply couldn’t.
His stomach felt hollow, but hunger did not register.
His body swayed slightly as he knelt.
Then, without warning, a gust of chilling wind swept through the mourning hall.
A sharp shiver jolted through Chen Yan’s spine.
He turned toward the entrance.
The doors were shut.
Where had the wind come from?
Just as the thought flickered across his mind, the doors creaked open—
Without sound, without cause.
A chilling, misty breath swept into the hall, whispering through the air like a phantom’s sigh.
Midnight. A mourning hall. Doors opening of their own accord. A wind that should not exist.
Even the bravest would feel the cold grip of fear.
Chen Yan swallowed, forcing himself to remain calm. He thought of rising, to peer outside and shut the doors.
Yet before he could move, his composure shattered.
For in the courtyard beyond the threshold—
Two figures had appeared from nowhere, standing motionless in the empty yard.
Then, like mist drifting through the air, they glided forward, stopping at the doorway.
No footsteps.
No shadows.
The left figure was clad in a black crown, black robes, and bore a black face.
The right figure wore a white crown, white robes, and a pale, deathly complexion.
Chen Yan froze, breath catching in his throat.
Black and White…
If he hadn’t refrained from drinking water that night, he might well have lost control of his bladder.
His legs turned to jelly. He collapsed backward, pressing against the cold wall for support.
His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
Laugh at him if you will.
But place yourself in his shoes—
Alone. A mourning hall. Midnight.
And suddenly, these two appear before you.
Would you not fear?
The figures drifted silently into the hall, bringing with them a deeper chill.
They raised their heads, gazes locking onto the spirit tablet placed before the coffin.
Chen Yan’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Then, in unison, the two figures bowed low—
Their foreheads nearly touching the ground.
Chen Yan’s breath hitched.
Such deep reverence…
Somehow, the sight calmed him, the tension in his limbs ebbing away.
Gathering his courage, he forced a whisper from his throat.
“Two honored ones… are you here to… to take my grandmother’s soul away?”
At his words, the two figures turned to face him.
The black-robed one spoke first. “What did you say, filial grandson?”
Chen Yan swallowed, steeling himself. “I asked… are you here to take my grandmother’s soul?”
This time, they heard him clearly.
And yet—
Both figures shuddered, as if he had uttered something utterly unthinkable.
The white-robed figure waved his hands frantically. “Ah! We wouldn’t dare! We wouldn’t dare utter such a word as ‘take’!”
Beside him, the black-robed figure—his face dark as ink—forced a stiff, uneasy smile.
The two exchanged a glance before turning back to Chen Yan, their voices oddly courteous.
“We are here to escort the honored one back to assume her post.”
Chen Yan blinked.
Escort?
Back?
Assume her post?
His mind ground to a halt.
Then, the coffin before him shuddered.
A translucent form passed through the wooden lid, rising in a slow, dignified motion.
There, in the air before him—
His grandmother sat upright.
Her expression composed, her bearing regal.
A sight that defied reason—
And yet, Chen Yan could only mutter dumbly to himself:
[Wait… how was that saying supposed to go?]
[Not ‘righteous and awe-inspiring’…]
[Was it ‘familiar and lifelike’?]
[No, that wasn’t it either…]
The spectral figure before them was lifelike in every way, save for one uncanny detail—it was half-transparent, as though woven from moonlight and mist.
The Old Madam drifted weightlessly above the ground, an ethereal presence between realms. Then, without warning—
The two spectral wardens, clad in robes of opposing hues, the infamous Black and White Lords, bent at the waist in perfect unison. With a crisp crack, their knees struck the ground.
A solemn kneel.
Chen Yan’s mind reeled.
[What am I looking at?!]
Even if they had the Lord of the Underworld himself standing here, these two wouldn’t have shown such reverence. Was his grandmother truly dead? Why did it feel as though she held more power in death than she ever did in life?
“…Returning to take up her post.”
The words carried an eerie weight, an invisible pressure that pressed against his chest.
[Wait, what?!]
This was supposed to be a tragic parting, a mournful farewell. But suddenly, it felt more like the prelude to an ascension.
The Old Madam observed the kneeling wardens with a measured gaze. Only after a few long moments did she nod lightly and wave her hand, dismissing them. Then, as if carried by an unseen wind, she floated toward the courtyard gate.
Chen Yan’s lips parted, his hand instinctively reaching forward as though to grasp at something intangible. Yet, his throat was dry, and the words he sought failed him.
Just as she crossed the threshold, the Old Madam turned back. Her gaze softened, a gentle smile playing upon her lips.
Then, he heard it—
A voice, neither near nor far, brushing against his ears like a whisper carried on the night breeze. It bore the unmistakable cadence of the departed speaking from beyond the veil.
“Good grandson, I told you not to grieve.
I left something for you. Go to the well in our courtyard, take ten paces due south, and dig.”
With that, silence fell.
The last vestiges of the Old Madam’s presence faded as she, accompanied by the spectral wardens, vanished into the night.
Gone. Not a trace remained.
Chen Yan jolted awake, his body stiffening as if snapped back into reality.
He found himself slumped against the cold wooden wall of the mourning hall. The room was empty. The doors were shut tight. No spectral figures. No eerie voices.
Had it been a dream?
He rose unsteadily to his feet and pushed open the door. The night air was crisp and still. Outside, the courtyard lay shrouded in silence, devoid of any lingering phantoms.
A shiver ran down his spine.
His back was drenched in sweat.
A chill breeze caressed his damp skin, making him shudder.
Chen Yan took a deep breath, steadying himself.
[A dream?]
But it had been too real. Every detail was vivid, as if imprinted upon his soul. Most dreams faded upon waking, slipping through the fingers like grains of sand. But this—this clung to him, sharp and precise.
For the most part, he was a skeptic, a man of logic and reason. Like many others of his generation, he prided himself on rationality.
However…
[Just because I don’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of them.]
After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed a shovel from the corner of the courtyard.
With a peculiar mixture of trepidation and curiosity, he strode toward the well.
[Ten paces due south.]
Spitting into his palm for luck, he dug.
One hour later, breathless and covered in dirt, Chen Yan slumped onto the ground. The pit before him was deep—far deeper than he had anticipated.
Empty.
Nothing but soil and wriggling earthworms.
His heart sank.
“…It really was just a dream?”
A self-deprecating chuckle escaped his lips.
[What the hell was I expecting, anyway?]
And yet, somewhere deep within, a whisper of doubt lingered. The memory of the dream refused to fade.
Could it be… that Old Madam had misremembered? Perhaps it wasn’t south but north?
Gritting his teeth, he picked up the shovel once more.
Half an hour later—nothing.
Chen Yan wiped his brow, exhaling sharply.
[What if it’s west? Or east?]
The thought burrowed into his mind like an insistent insect.
Before he knew it, the first glimmers of dawn kissed the horizon. The rooster at the village gate crowed its morning salute.
The courtyard now bore a ring of gaping trenches around the well, as though he had been digging out an ancient ruin.
And still—nothing.
“…So it really was just a dream?”
He cast a glance toward the mourning hall, his eyes falling upon the grand portrait of the Old Madam.
She smiled serenely, watching him from within the frame.
Something clicked.
[Wait a minute…]
He smacked his forehead, realization dawning.
[Of course! The distance was wrong!]
The Old Madam was barely five feet tall. He, on the other hand, stood at a solid six feet. The ten paces she had spoken of—her ten paces—would not be the same as his!
Recalculating the steps, he adjusted his position and began to dig anew.
Half an hour later—
Clang!
The shovel struck something hard.
Chen Yan’s breath caught in his throat.
Heart pounding, he knelt down, pushing aside the dirt with trembling hands. Slowly, carefully, he unearthed a small wooden box, its surface worn with age.
He cradled it reverently, carrying it back into the mourning hall. Setting it down, he turned, locking the doors behind him.
His fingers hovered over the latch, his throat dry.
Then, with a deep breath, he opened the box.
Inside, nestled atop yellowing parchment, lay a letter.
The past had left him a message.
And he was ready to read it.
This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation