Chapter Four: I Have Become a Demon Corpse

It was nothing more than a scare and some blood loss; after a few days of rest, I was discharged from the hospital. Before leaving, Ah Shuang and I exchanged phone numbers.

It was still my twelve good brothers from the dormitory who showed their thoughtfulness by coming to pick me up. You know, the twelve of us have shared life and death together—we’ve slept in the same beds, fought side by side, acted like wolves, and even climbed over the walls together. Speaking of wall-climbing, I could almost cough blood from the memory; my luck before the age of twenty must have been at its peak of misfortune.

It was during my college entrance exam at eighteen. The twelve of us, plus me, thirteen in all, snuck out to use the internet by climbing over the wall. It was pitch-black outside, nothing could be seen. It was our first time climbing this wall, so we knew nothing about the environment outside. One by one, they jumped down, and each time someone landed, he called up, “It’s fine, safe, come on down!” Twelve voices, twelve reassurances.

At last, my turn came. Since everyone was fine, I thought I would be too. I leapt down, only to find myself instantly bewildered. There was a well right outside, and by some cruel twist of fate, I landed squarely in it. Fortunately, there was some water at the bottom. All I heard was a splash and my own yell, “Damn it, I’m in trouble!”

Those are memories now. If I were to recount all the embarrassing incidents of the past, I could fill a rickshaw.

The thirteen of us walked back to the dormitory together. Some of my friends’ fathers were wealthy and insisted we all go out for a proper dinner that night. I didn’t object, letting them have their way. After returning to the dorm and tidying up, I attended a few classes and prepared myself for the dinner.

Strange as it may be, that meal tasted like chewing wood. The dishes were utterly flavorless. We’d been to this restaurant countless times, yet my friends were all eating heartily. Had I lost my sense of taste? I drank a few sips of beer, but even that was bland, so I ate little, making only a token effort until the meal was over.

Back in the dorm, the guys suddenly decided to play “Spirit of the Plate,” the infamous ghost-invoking game. It’s rumored that a girl from the university once died of fright while playing it.

Since I had not fully recovered, I didn’t join in. They, half-drunk, began chanting the incantation to invite the spirit. Having witnessed a zombie corpse before, I believed in such things. If the spirit really did appear, and with Old Ma and Ah Shuang absent, I’d be as good as dead.

On second thought, “Spirit of the Plate” is a modern horror game—surely, it couldn’t really summon evil spirits. Once I convinced myself of this, I stopped worrying.

But danger tends to strike when you least expect it. I once met a fortune-teller who claimed to be a descendant of the Southern Mao school. He told me I had an unusual fate, destined for a long life, and swindled twenty yuan from me. With my luck, is this what an “unusual fate” means? I’ve encountered things others never see. I’m neither clairvoyant nor a Southern Mao or Northern Ma, and at this rate, I’d be lucky to live past twenty-five, let alone have a long life.

As the saying goes, “When it rains, it pours.” Ghosts are opportunists, they prey on the weak. Those with depleted life force are prone to attracting unclean things. The Southern Mao once said, “A person has three lanterns—one on each shoulder, and one on the forehead. When you’re weak, the lantern on your forehead dims, and can no longer frighten off ghosts, who then seize the opportunity to cause trouble.”

My drunken friends continued to sway the plate, and unexpectedly, a chill wind really did blow through.

Lately, I’d been unable to sleep. I felt a white shadow drift in through the window. To say it was a person is a stretch—it was more like a ghost. Our dorm was on the third floor; outside the window, there was nothing for anyone to stand on. Unless it was a god, only a ghost could get up here.

My twelve friends were engrossed in their game, oblivious to the extra presence in the room—a woman, judging by her figure. She turned her head and gave me a smile before turning back to the plate. That smile nearly scared my soul out of me—a pallid face radiating cold energy, dressed in white like Sadako herself.

Though I was afraid, after my encounter with the zombie corpse, I found my courage had grown. I pretended not to see her, silently observing her actions. My plan was simple: if she tried to harm my friends, I’d scream “Ghost!” and make a run for it. With hundreds of men in this dormitory, surely our collective life force would suppress a single ghost.

The room had eight beds, a mid-sized collective dorm. Computers lined the walls, with only a large round table in the center. The female ghost watched the game for a while, then, finding it dull, started drifting around the room. She floated through the air, sometimes passing through my classmates, sometimes glancing my way.

When she looked at me, she realized I was watching her too. Our eyes met, and I nearly burst into tears. I’d been reading a magazine, but couldn’t help but steal a glance at this “living deity”—and look where it got me.

All I wanted was for this lady ghost to stay far away. I closed my eyes and prayed, but she didn’t frighten me. Instead, she approached my bed and whispered in my ear, “You can see me?” Her voice was gentle and warm. I nodded, thinking, “How could someone so beautiful end up a ghost?”

Perhaps she was a young woman wronged by the world.

What is love in this world, that it would drive people to stake their lives upon it?

My subconscious told me she wanted to talk. Fortunately, she was a ghost who understood human affairs. She led me out of the dorm and insisted on telling me something, saying the time had come for the truth to surface, as if it was some suspenseful case.

The rules of the underworld forbid wandering souls among the living, so the Black-and-White Impermanence and the Ox-Headed and Horse-Faced Guards lead an army of tens of thousands to hunt down such spirits worldwide, maintaining peace among the living. But there are always loopholes, and this female ghost had slipped through one of them.

I wasn’t afraid, since I wore a Guanyin pendant; she wouldn’t dare harm me.

I still wondered why I’d suddenly gained the ability to see ghosts, but since it happened, I didn’t dwell on it. The incident passed.

All ghosts go to the underworld, whether good or evil. On the fifth day after death, they must report to the underworld. Yet, those with deep grudges are barred from reincarnation by the underworld’s guards, left standing outside the gates. Imagine how maddening it must be—just one step from reincarnation, only to be told, “You can’t pass, go back.” Enraged, their resentment blinds them, and upon returning to the world, they easily become vengeful spirits.

But this female ghost was not a bad spirit. She told me she, too, had been a student at this school, harmed by a wealthy young man and buried behind the teaching building. She wanted me to report the crime, to help her let go of her grudge.

To release a ghost’s grudge is to fulfill their greatest wish from life. Sure enough, after I called the police, they dug up a badly decomposed body behind the teaching building, a fruit knife still lodged in the chest. The police quickly identified the murderer and brought him to justice.

After her grudge was resolved, she appeared to me in a dream to thank me, saying her spirit was free and she was ready for reincarnation. I never saw her again.

They were but small episodes in my life. Many days later, Ah Shuang called, asking me to visit the hospital—Old Ma wanted to see me. I hurried over, fearing I might arrive too late and never see him again. If Old Ma became a wandering spirit, I’d feel deeply guilty.

Old Ma was still in the isolation ward. After surgery, his face was terribly pale. Ah Shuang’s eyes were swollen from crying. She explained Old Ma’s condition before letting me in.

As I approached his bed, I expected him to be lying down, but he was half-sitting against the wall, staring at me so intensely I felt awkward.

Three wounds on his chest had soaked his bandages through. Clearly, they were inflicted by the zombie corpse. I didn’t know if his heart was injured, but Old Ma still gave off a sense of vitality, despite his pallor and the blood-soaked bandages. If not for those, he’d seem perfectly normal.

Old Ma beckoned me closer. I didn’t know what he wanted, but felt no need for caution—what could a bedridden man do to me?

I sat by his bed. Old Ma, somehow, produced a talisman and slapped it onto my forehead. Despite his injuries, he forced his hands into a seal, activating the charm.

I wanted to curse Old Ma for his madness, but found I couldn’t move at all. In my eyes, the talisman burned like fire. I didn’t know what it was, only that talismans could save or harm. I feared Old Ma meant me ill and asked him, “Why?” He ignored me, risking his wounds splitting open as he poured all his strength into the charm on my forehead. The strange power bound me tightly. But I wasn’t going to die so easily—I grew angry and, with a surge of willpower, shattered Old Ma’s charm to dust. I hadn’t known I possessed such strength.

Grabbing Old Ma by the collar, I demanded an explanation. He only shook his head and sighed, refusing to answer.

After much pleading, he finally revealed a truth I could scarcely believe.

It turned out Old Ma hadn’t gone to Shennongjia for research, but to subdue the common enemy of Southern Mao and Northern Ma—the zombie king Jiang Chen. Jiang Chen’s legend dates back to the Shang Dynasty, when he was called the “Supreme Drought Demon.” Wherever he appeared, drought followed for three years, leaving tens of thousands to starve. By the Han Dynasty, he was known as the Invincible Zombie, living on blood and wreaking havoc. His atrocities enraged the world; Southern Mao and Northern Ma hunted him for millennia. But as a high-level drought demon, he could only be forcibly sealed, never destroyed.

During the Qing Dynasty, government corruption and endless war awakened all the ancient zombies, breaking their seals and bringing further suffering. After a joint campaign by Southern Mao and Northern Ma, all but Jiang Chen were forced into eternal slumber, turning to dust.

When the disciples of Southern Mao and Northern Ma fought the zombies in the Qing era, they discovered Jiang Chen had evolved into the Zombie King. Those bitten by him but not killed—if good, grew better; if evil, became worse. According to the Northern Ma’s records, in a thousand years, only ten survived being bitten by the zombie, most having been eliminated by the sects. Only a few powerful ones remain, opposing the Western blood clans. For the sake of the nation, Southern Mao and Northern Ma refrained from wiping them out, on the condition that they not disturb ordinary people’s lives. Now, they live across the country.

Old Ma told me I was a zombie. I opened my mouth to show him—no fangs, and I wasn’t afraid of sunlight. “You say I’m a zombie? That’s absurd,” I protested.

Old Ma, though gravely wounded, still had strong legs; he kicked me off the bed and said, “There are ranks among people, and Jiang Chen’s descendants are no different.” Hearing this, I felt as if I’d stepped into a television drama—something like “My Date with a Vampire!”

If Old Ma was right, I was a first-generation zombie, directly beneath Jiang Chen. His descendants after the fifteenth generation were no better than mindless ghouls, devoid of thought or will.

Old Ma looked at me and shook his head. “I no longer have the strength to subdue a first-generation zombie. Which path you choose in the future, I hope you’ll think of everyone. For when one gains power, it’s all too easy to turn evil. Go on now, send Ah Shuang in—I have something to tell her.” He turned away, clearly disappointed in his inability to control me. I’d always been a good person, just wanting an ordinary, peaceful life. I never imagined the Southern Mao fortune-teller’s prediction would be so accurate—I truly had the fate of longevity. But all this had changed the course of my life, leaving me torn between good and evil.

I went out, told Ah Shuang that Old Ma was calling for her, and left the hospital without looking back.

Alone, I walked the city streets, observing the indifference of the world. Even on a bustling street, a few beggars could be found. I thought, “Am I really destined to live this way? Why is it so hard to be ordinary?”

I left the academy and the city behind, heading to the beach outside town. The sea breeze whipped at my face, but it felt as if I were made of wood—I already felt like a dead man. Walking the busy streets, I was no more than a thinking, moving corpse, my soul imprisoned in this body by Jiang Chen’s zombie blood.

As I sat on the beach, sulking, smoking though I never really learned how—the harshness of it had lost its sting—I gazed at the moon’s reflection on the sea, thinking I’d seen through everything. Suddenly, a girl’s cry for help snapped me out of my daze.

Turning my head, I saw, a hundred meters away in the darkness, a group of rowdy youths in baggy shorts surrounding a pretty girl in a short skirt. One brandished a small knife in front of her chest—she was clearly in grave danger.

What should I do now?

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(End of this chapter, over 4,000 words. Please look forward to tomorrow’s update… Your brother here is asking for all your support…)