Chapter Eighteen: Turmoil Rises Again

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Master Jun sat in the shop, exchanging a few pleasantries with me before abruptly changing the subject, flashing a forced smile. “Actually, I came here today for another reason.”

His words unsettled me, a wave of confusion and unease rising in my heart. He wanted something from me? That old fox never brought good news. A nameless dread gripped me, making me shudder.

A strange, sinister air crept into Master Jun’s usually cold face. He gave a chilling laugh. “Qiu Tong, are you familiar with the old mansion in Manxing Alley, next to Faming Temple in Beijing?”

Hearing him mention that place, I shivered again, stammering, “Master Jun, why are you bringing that up? That’s a haunted house, isn’t it?”

He scoffed, taking a property deed from his pocket and laying it on the table. “I’ve already bought it.”

My eyes widened in astonishment. “No one’s lived there for over a decade, and you still dared to buy it? Aren’t you afraid of running into the vicious spirits there and dying in that cursed house?”

Mengya teased, “Maybe Master Jun is hoping the ghost in the house is a female spirit to keep him company.”

He forced out a laugh at her joke, then produced a white envelope and handed it to me. I opened it and found several color photographs. The photos showed several oddly shaped, white stone carvings buried in the earth. The carvings were meticulously crafted from fine Fangshan white marble, with fish scale patterns etched into the exposed surfaces. Most strikingly, the fourth photo clearly depicted a white stone stele buried in the ground, but it was not of the usual epitaph design.

I frowned at the stack of photos, then looked at Mengya and Master Jun. Mengya’s expression was as grave as my own; Master Jun sat stone-faced across from us. The three of us looked as blank and pale as the white tiles in a game of mahjong.

After a long silence, Master Jun smiled. “Qiu Tong, do you see anything unusual here?”

“It’s not a dragon…”

Mengya was about to speak when I stepped on her foot. She caught on and quickly changed her words. “It’s not a dragon… it’s a dragon fish pattern, isn’t it?”

Master Jun smiled, glancing at me. “You really don’t know what this is? Can you spot anything odd about it?”

I grinned, teasing, “If you want me to spot something, I can’t. But you just bought this house and already dared to start digging?”

Ignoring my jest, he pressed, “You really can’t tell what this is?”

“No idea.”

Seeing I wouldn’t even look at him, Master Jun sneered. “Qiu, since that time when Ren Tai’an was murdered, you haven’t brought it up again. Could it be that you—”

Before he could finish, I slammed my palm on the table, the force enough to knock over his teacup and spill tea on him.

“What are you trying to say?”

Mengya, sensing my agitation, hurried to steady me by the shoulder.

Master Jun wiped the spilled tea from his clothes, that strange smile returning to his lips. “Qiu, I’m just wondering—don’t you care about the fate of your old friends? Why so agitated?”

I snorted coldly, saying nothing.

“Qiu, I’ve actually already captured the ‘killer’—Ren Bo.”

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His words startled me. I looked up at him. “Where is he now?”

“He’s in that house. I’ve imprisoned him there.”

“What did he tell you?”

Master Jun only smiled and shook his head.

“Why don’t you turn him over to the authorities?”

He gave a cold laugh, rubbing the jade ring on his finger. “Aren’t you curious about the meaning of the words on the mask?”

Before I could respond, Mengya cut in, “No, we’re not curious, and we don’t need to know.”

An eerie look twisted Master Jun’s face, his laugh colder than ever. “Qiu Tong, four people are dead.”

I shivered but forced myself to remain calm. Facing his strange expression, I let out a few mocking laughs, speaking slowly. “So, Master Jun, when do you plan to make a move against the two of us?”

He snorted, then produced a black-and-white photograph, pushing it toward me.

One glance and I nearly fainted. It was identical to the two photographs of the Gandhara Buddha head that I had burned to ashes in the safe, except this one lacked the Sanskrit “prajnaparamita”—“to the other shore”—written in red ink.

I steadied myself, pretending to be calm, but I knew he could see right through my reaction.

“Well, Qiu, do you recognize anyone in this photo?”

I glanced at it, then snorted, “I only recognize you and Ren Tai’an. The rest I don’t know.”

Master Jun sneered again. “Do you know someone in the business named Wang Jinguo?”

I cut him off immediately. “No. If there’s nothing else, you can leave. I have nothing to do with Ren Bo and none of this concerns me.”

He laughed coldly and waved his hand. “Fine. If you ever want to know anything, come find me.” With that, he stuffed the photo under my teacup and walked out of my antique shop without looking back.

Crash.

I swept the crystal teacup off the table. The lotus-shaped cup shattered on the floor, scattering tea everywhere.

Mengya ran to me, throwing her arms around me. “Don’t do this, please don’t,” she sobbed.

I picked up the photograph and tore it to pieces.

In the early hours, at home.

Clatter, clatter.

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A faint, strange tapping roused me from sleep. I jolted awake. The sky was still dark. Looking to my side, I realized Mengya was gone.

I sat up, thinking she must have gone to deal with another “old friend.” With that in mind, I lay back down.

Clatter, clatter.

The sound came again from outside the room.

“Mengya, Mengya.” I called out her name loudly.

No reply came from beyond the bedroom.

A chill crept over me, cold sweat beading on my skin. I tried to reassure myself—it was probably just a rat knocking something over in the kitchen. Comforted by the thought, I closed my eyes.

Clatter, clatter.

The sound was like a hammer, pounding on my heart, again and again.

I forced myself to sit up, mustering my courage, put on my slippers, and walked out of the bedroom.

Clatter, clatter.

The sound nearly made my legs give out; my sweat-soaked pajamas clung to me. I caught my breath, steadied myself, and inched toward the kitchen.

At the doorway, I saw a beam of cold moonlight shining onto the floor and stove. The white kitchen tiles were smeared with viscous, red liquid, and the air was thick with the metallic stench of blood.

I stared at the stove—there stood a white-clad figure wearing a cooking apron, wielding a cleaver caked with blood and bits of flesh, carefully hacking away at something. Blood splattered the cabinets and walls, turning the place into an abattoir.

I held my breath, witnessing this horrific, nightmarish scene, trembling uncontrollably.

Clang.

My leg spasmed in fright, knocking over the mop beside the kitchen door. I let out a strangled gasp.

The figure at the stove turned. Blood dripped from his face, soaking the white mask over his mouth and staining his apron red. Two chilling beams shot from his wide, startled eyes—an expression of shock and bewilderment that vanished in an instant, replaced by a twisted, menacing smile. He chuckled darkly.

With a final gasp, I fainted dead away on the floor.