Chapter 126: The Great Temple (I)

What did He Jinfeng tell Cha Wenbin? She told him that he could not afford to provoke that thing.

Who was the spirit medium consulting? Naturally, it was the Earth God. There are some things that even so-called "gods" cannot afford to provoke—entities that exist within the Five Elements yet reside outside the Three Realms. They are lawless and unrestrained; the heavens above do not govern them, and the earth below does not acknowledge them. Why could even a titan like Zhang Sanfeng do nothing against it? Because all talismans and Taoist arts are derived from the natural power of the Five Elements, which rely on the principle of mutual generation and restraint. All things are born from Yin and Yang, and the Yin, Yang, and Five Elements are inseparable—but this "undead" existed entirely outside the Three Realms.

What does it mean to be outside the Three Realms? I am afraid even the gods do not know, for a god is merely an existence within one of the Three Realms.

The "undead" belonged to this realm outside the Three Realms. This was the first time I had ever heard such a claim, and it was the first time Cha Wenbin truly faced a problem he could not solve.

A coffin remained at the site, amidst the mess we had left behind while digging the pit yesterday. I wondered just how much luck I must have had to survive this long.

Cha Wenbin pondered for a long time before saying, "Find some men to carry it down. Isn't there an old village morgue? Let's keep it there for now."

"That place? It's been abandoned for ages. It hasn't been opened since my great-grandfather's generation."

There is an old house in Hong Village. To call it a house is perhaps not quite right, as no one knows how old it truly is. Its white walls have faded to nearly black, tucked away in a small gully at the furthest end of the village. Outside the house stands a dawn redwood tree so thick that it would take four men to encircle it. Some say that to know the age of the house, one only need look at the tree at its entrance. By that logic, it must be at least a thousand years old.

When my great-grandfather first arrived, some people had designs on the house. Back then, in an era of lawlessness, whoever occupied a place claimed it. Aside from being a bit damp and lacking sunlight, it was a prime location. A three-meter-wide road separated it from the river, and the house was built against the slope of a mountain, featuring six large bays across the front with two more on each side, enclosing a central courtyard. The land it occupied could be measured in acres.

By the time they arrived, the house had long been abandoned. The entrance was overgrown with weeds. It was said that there used to be two pairs of stone beasts at the gate, but their whereabouts were unknown. Now, one could only see the tightly sealed doors and the bare stone steps. The house had undergone major renovations in the early 20th century, but even then, my great-grandfather had insisted that no living person should reside there, fearing it had once been a village morgue.

Morgues were not common. In the past, those who died away from home wished to return to their ancestral lands, as the Chinese emphasize the importance of "falling leaves returning to their roots." Before a family could transport a coffin back home, it would generally be stored in a morgue. Others were placed there because they could not be buried in the ancestral graveyard for various reasons—perhaps they were not suited for burial or had suffered an injustice that had not yet been cleared. They were kept in the morgue until these matters were resolved, ensuring the dead would not be buried with regrets.

Hong Village lies at the intersection of three counties between Zhejiang and Anhui provinces. Records of the village date back to the Qin Dynasty, when a post station was established there. In an era when transportation was underdeveloped, Hong Village served as a vital thoroughfare. It was a mandatory stop for merchants traveling from northwestern Zhejiang and the Yangtze River Delta into southern Anhui, and the ancient paths they used are still traversed today.

The history of Hong Village has a gap dating from the late Ming to the mid-Qing Dynasty. No one knows what happened during that time. When my great-grandfather’s generation arrived, they found empty houses and fallow fields everywhere.

In those early days, the population was unstable, with many migrants arriving from all corners of the country just to earn a living. With the region plagued by war, death was a daily occurrence. Those who were careless simply buried their dead in pits by the roadside, while those who were more conscientious hoped to notify relatives back home to come and collect them. Thus, that morgue was opened and renovated that year.

It is said that when it was opened, there were only about a dozen coffins left inside. Since they were unclaimed, they were dragged out and buried. My great-grandfather oversaw the process. After the renovation—mostly replacing tiles and wooden trim—it was put back into use. Over the years, about twenty more people were laid to rest there. Some were refugees, others died of illness; none were willing to be buried on the spot, and their descendants never came to claim them. In truth, no one knew who they were anymore; they had long been forgotten.

After the Liberation, my father's generation planned to convert the morgue into a collective warehouse for the commune, as it was a new era meant to sweep away feudal, backward ideas. The coffins inside were not destroyed, but after someone went in, they found the place so unnervingly cold and damp that they feared the grain would mold, so they abandoned the plan.

During the Cultural Revolution, the house was naturally a target for destruction. The Red Guards set it on fire, but it seemed as if Heaven itself did not want the house to vanish. A torrential rain soaked the fire completely. The Red Guards, unwilling to give up, set it ablaze a second time, but the rain arrived right on cue again. Many rumored that the place was protected by spirits and could not be touched. Our local Red Guards were not like those in Shanghai or Beijing—they were just a bunch of rowdy village kids, descendants of genuine farmers, and they harbored enough fear to let the matter drop.

The house had endured several trials, and it long ago lost its former glory. Only half of the structure remains, yet the front doors remain tightly shut. We were all warned as children that the place was forbidden. The adults would use whatever threats were most frightening; if a child was disobedient, they would say, "I'll dump you in the Big Temple," and that would keep them in line.

This "Big Temple" is the morgue, one of the forbidden zones of Hong Village. Our village has more than one strange place, but this is the one I least liked to visit, for even before reaching it, I would feel a sense of unease, as if a few more steps would plunge me into an icy abyss.

Cha Wenbin decided to move the coffin there, but what about Gao Cheng? He was already a day late for his burial. What was Cha Wenbin actually planning?

Back at the Gao household, Cha Wenbin’s words caused an uproar. He suggested postponing Gao Cheng’s burial and moving him to the morgue instead!

Although the Gao family had lost Gao Cheng, it did not mean they were without men or a voice. The Gao family had four brothers; though they were farmers, they were united. They would not agree to let their brother be left in such a place!

Who was Cha Wenbin? At that time, he was the same age as me, just a young man. Even though his master had been regarded as an extraordinary figure by the older generation, in the end, he was just a young Taoist dabbling in the occult. Who would be happy with him constantly meddling in their affairs?

They turned hostile on the spot. If I hadn't been quick on my feet and dragged Cha Wenbin away, we might have been beaten to the ground by the Gao family.

Back home, I panted as I tried to persuade Cha Wenbin: "It’s hopeless. No matter how you put it, your plan won't work. It’s already the fourth day, and they won't let him be buried. They’ve tolerated us for long enough. Let them be, stop getting involved."

Cha Wenbin said anxiously, "Something will go wrong! He cannot be buried there!"

"He can't be buried! You go tell that group of people about your 'undead' nonsense, tell them that if Gao Cheng is buried, he’ll turn into a ghost. I’m telling you, Wenbin, if you dare say that, they’ll break your legs. Do you think they’re like me, hanging around you all day? How many people do you think would believe you?"

"But he still cannot be buried!" Cha Wenbin was stubborn. His response was always what he believed in his heart, but that could not stop reality. When it came to Gao Cheng’s burial, I was powerless.

I suggested, "Let's get that coffin back first. Leaving it there isn't a solution."

We needed to find people to help, but we were stuck. The friends I usually hung out with were all lying in the hospital. If only Stone were here—he could carry it back all by himself.

"Who would want to carry a coffin for no reason? I doubt anyone would do it even for money. I heard He Jinfeng is still delirious at home; the news has already spread."

As I was speaking, my old man happened to return. I rolled my eyes, walked up to him, and tried to butter him up: "Dad, not playing mahjong?"

"No, I was at a village meeting." As he walked into the house, I grabbed his sleeve. "Can you do me a favor?"

The old man looked at me irritably. "What favor?"

"Find two people, strong and brave ones, to help us carry something." Seeing his dark expression, I quickly added, "It won't be for free. How about a hundred yuan each?"

In those days, a hundred yuan was worth quite a lot. A farmer working from dawn to dusk would only make twenty yuan, so I was offering a week's worth of wages.

"People are easy to find. What are you moving?"

"Heh heh." I smiled and handed him a cigarette. "Moving a coffin to the Big Temple. We'll carry it down from the back mountain of Maochawan. A flatbed cart will do."

If I hadn't ducked quickly, the lit cigarette butt in my father's hand would have been pressed into my face. Seeing me dodge, he grabbed a hoe and swung it at me. With nowhere to hide, I could only dive behind Cha Wenbin.

"Get out here, you little rascal! You dare meddle with that kind of thing? See if I don't beat you to death!" My father cursed fiercely. Fortunately, Cha Wenbin stepped in to mediate, and after much persuasion, he finally got the old man to cool off. He replied bluntly: "No!"

As it turned out, the incident at Maochawan had spread throughout the neighboring villages, and my father had heard about it too. He just hadn't expected his own son to be involved. In the rural areas of that era, playing with a coffin—and nearly causing so many people to lose their lives—was considered highly ominous and a magnet for bad luck. My father was no exception.

"Let’s talk about this calmly..." I said with a grievance-filled face. "It’s for the sake of our neighbors! If that thing stays there, something terrible will happen!"

"What could happen?" My father glared. "What could possibly happen? In broad daylight, under the open sky, if you don't mess with them, why would they come looking for you? I’ve never believed in such nonsense my whole life, and I’ve never seen any ghosts or gods bother me. You don't learn anything good; you're just like your grandfather!"

"Exactly, Dad, you've never believed in that stuff, right?" My brain sparked. I had an idea. "That's great! Since you don't believe in it, just treat it like hauling a bundle of firewood when you bring it back."

"Haul your head! Get out of here!"

I muttered, "I think Dad is just afraid because he heard the rumors outside."

"Bullshit! You little brat, what has your father ever been afraid of?"

I goaded him intentionally: "Alright then! Then go pull it back for me!"

"You little bastard, you dare challenge your old man." My father understood I was provoking him, but he had been backed into a corner and found it hard to back down. He grabbed his tea mug and took a deep gulp. "I’ll pull it back for you, but this is bad luck. Three hundred each. I don't want my share, but you have to promise me one thing."

"What thing?" I asked.

"Your aunt has set you up with someone—Wang Ximei, the daughter of the Wang family in Longmen Village. You'll go meet her with me. Your aunt has already looked into it; she’s two years younger than you." Before I could react, he glared at me again. "I’m telling you, if you don't go, don't blame me for losing my temper!"

I gritted my teeth and said, "Fine, you win. I'll go. But let's settle this first: you find the people and get my business done!"

"Let's go. Remember to take a carton of cigarettes. I'll take you to find your Uncle Donghai."