Chapter One

By the banks of the Yuang River, dewdrops clung to the withered grass along the shore. The autumn wind swayed the thin blades, making each droplet tremble as if about to fall.

The dew condensed white and heavy—it was the season of White Dew.

It was early morning, and the sky was just beginning to lighten.

“Hurry up, hurry up, move faster! Watch your step, don’t slip—”

A large covered boat had moored at the bank. With wooden poles, the coffin was lifted ashore, sending ripples across the water. Soon, hurried footsteps echoed along the path leading from the dock to Rouge Town, and through the morning mist emerged a small funeral procession.

To call it a procession was generous; save for the four pallbearers, there was only a single middle-aged man leading the way.

He was somewhat short and stout, dressed in a steward’s attire. His indigo tunic, frequently washed, was frayed at the edges. At this moment, his brows were tightly knit as he glanced back, barking orders at the others.

“We all know, no need to repeat it.” The journey had been arduous, and the four carrying the coffin were so exhausted their faces looked ashen. They replied softly, not wishing to say more.

The coffin was not large, unvarnished, its wood pale and raw. At a glance, one might mistake it for an oversized chest, save for the eight-sided mirror hanging at its head, a sight that drew sighs or prompted superstitious avoidance.

The mirror at the head served to ward off evil—keeping spirits away from both the deceased within and from the wrongful ghost inside.

It was the coffin of a girl who had died before coming of age.

In the mist-shrouded, not yet dawn autumn morning, the path by the dock seemed all the more somber for this procession.

“Keep alert! If anything goes wrong, the master and young lady may be lenient, but as for me, Master Fu, I won’t be so forgiving.” The middle-aged man, still uneasy, muttered again as he looked ahead, habitually letting harsh words slip.

This time, the pallbearers said nothing; the tall one at the back even rolled his eyes.

Hmph, always likes to throw his weight around!

…

Quickening and slowing their steps as needed, they soon reached a fork in the road.

Rouge Town was so named not only for its beauty and generations of renowned women, but also for the forested Rouge Mountain just outside the town.

The soils and stones of the mountain were rose-colored, and even the leaves of its trees bore various shades of red, so that from a distance the mountain resembled a lady’s fine rouge.

On clear days, at sunrise and sunset, mist and clouds wreathed the peaks, cloaking the mountain in celestial robes. Looking up from the foot of the mountain, it was as if an immortal in flowing raiment gazed down, bestowing blessings and protection upon the people.

Such was the legend, and so it was that no matter how far they wandered, when the people of Rouge Town returned to rest in the earth, they all wished to be buried in Rouge Mountain.

To be sheltered by immortals, to grant blessings to their descendants.

One path led toward the town, the other to the woods of Rouge Mountain.

Master Wu Fugui looked about nervously.

The master had instructed that this burial was to be conducted quietly, without drawing attention. Thankfully, they had encountered no one along the way.

“If you ask me, the teacher’s daughter’s passing was timely.”

Now that the mountain was near, Wu Fugui relaxed a little, his brow arching as he stroked his mustache with some satisfaction, feeling the task nearly accomplished.

The autumn harvest had just ended, and after half a month of toil, even the most industrious had taken to lingering in bed. Rouge Town’s folk were no exception. Not a soul was about so early, and so their journey from dock to mountain had been smooth and uninterrupted.

“Master Fu, he’s no longer a mere teacher,” remarked one of the pallbearers, a young man, who, being at the age of longing, had envied this affair for some days. The fatigue in his voice could not suppress his bitter envy as he spoke, as if he’d just tasted old Mrs. Mei’s sour plums at the end of the street.

“That’s right!” another agreed. “He’s to marry our young lady. We all saw it—the house is already being decorated with red silk. When we return, we’ll have to call him ‘young master’!”

He couldn’t help but sigh, “Ah, people truly are different. For a twice-widowed man like him to marry our Miss—so accomplished, so wealthy, and an only daughter—who’d believe it?”

The others all nodded emphatically, unable to hide their envy.

“I say our Miss is lucky too,” another chimed in, too busy holding the coffin to gesture, so he simply nodded toward it. “She was to be a stepmother, but right before the wedding, the child he’d brought with him passed away. With the burden gone, there’s no difference between marrying a widower and a bachelor.”

At this, the group exchanged glances.

Well, it was hardly charitable, but the logic was sound.

“Seems the poor girl we’re carrying was truly unlucky—about to enjoy a better life with her father, and gone before she could taste any fortune.”

“Nonsense!” Wu Fugui snapped, his face darkening as he recalled certain details. “Don’t speak ill of the dead! Watch your step and carry her up the mountain properly. Do this good deed and there’ll be a reward from the master when we return!”

“Alright—”

But disaster strikes in an instant. Perhaps too much chatter had distracted them.

Suddenly, there was a slipping sound; the pallbearer at the right rear lost his footing and did the splits.

At once, the procession lost balance, and the coffin lurched, crashing heavily to the ground.

With a loud thud, its corner sank a full finger’s depth into the earth.

The other three moved quickly, jumping aside just in time to avoid injury.

The unlucky one was not so fortunate; his shin struck the coffin’s corner, his face turning pale with pain as he gasped for breath, unable to speak for a long moment.

The impact knocked the eight-sided mirror askew.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the middle-aged man was stunned.

He looked at the coffin, then at the sheepish pallbearers, his eyes round as saucers, his mustache quivering with rage.

“Idiots, a bunch of idiots!”

“Look at this mess—just look at it!”

The short, stout man circled the coffin, eyes falling on the crooked mirror, face contorted in dismay.

“What did I just say? Be careful! Be careful! I just told you to be careful! My words were hardly out of my mouth and you pull this? Are those big ears just for show? I should twist them all off!”

Wu Fugui nearly hopped with rage.

The longer he thought about it, the angrier he became. He snatched off the white mourning cap he’d long wanted to discard and, breathing heavily, smacked each pallbearer on the head, cursing non-stop.

He didn’t just mention their parents—he had to throw in their ancestors for good measure.

“Master Fu, how is this our fault?” protested the cleverest of the group, a youth called Qianjin. As Fu jumped up, Qianjin bent his knees slightly to make it easier for him.

Hearing that Fu’s scolding would never end, he pulled a mournful face and cried injustice.

He turned on the rear pallbearer, “See, it’s all Yinuo’s fault! We were all walking fine until he slipped!”

At this, the other two pallbearers looked at Yinuo as well, nodding in silent agreement.

Better someone else take the blame than all of them suffer.

Besides, it truly was Yinuo’s fault!

Wu Fugui squinted at him.

Yinuo, pale and sweating, braced himself against the coffin, glancing at Steward Wu with fear and pain. Yet he was not without courage, and tried to defend himself.

“Brother Fugui, it wasn’t my fault. The autumn dew made the path too slippery—”

And—he had the distinct feeling that just as they spoke of the teacher, there had been a muffled sound from inside the coffin.

He’d been distracted, listening for it, and failed to notice the patch of soft mud underfoot.

“Oh? Still talking back?” Wu Fugui cut him off before he could finish.

“Don’t you think I know it's slippery? That’s why I kept saying, ‘Watch your step!’ I’m not tall enough to keep jumping, so—” Seeing nothing handy, he grabbed his mourning staff and smacked Yinuo’s backside.

The stick hit cloth with a swish, and Yinuo’s pitiful cries broke the peace of Rouge Mountain.

The commotion startled a flock of crows from the trees, their wings flapping as they cawed and filled the morning air with noise.

“I think you should stop calling yourself Yinuo,” said Wu Fugui, pausing to catch his breath, his anger rising again as he glanced at the fallen coffin.

A coffin must never touch the ground before burial—it was an omen of ill fortune.

What a mess, just as they were about to reach the mountain.

The more he thought about it, the more his temper flared.

He glared fiercely at the tall, strapping Yinuo.

“Wasting the master’s rice, growing so big yet unable to carry a simple coffin. I’ll tell the master to change your name.”

He spat, “From now on, you’re not Yinuo—you’re Yitwo, Shi Yitwo!”

What nonsense—a man who can’t carry a coffin doesn’t deserve a name like Yinuo. Bah! You’re just a pile of dung!

The others couldn’t help but snicker, exchanging winks.

Especially Qianjin, who grinned from ear to ear, his eyes squeezed into little black beans.

When one sold oneself into servitude, the master gave a new name; after all, servants were as much property as family, and their names reflected upon the household—no riff-raff names allowed. The names Yinuo and Qianjin were cultured and strong.

The Wu family of Jianxing was well-known for its local respectability and sense of propriety. The old master once said, “If it weren’t for hardship, who would sell their own children?” A surname was one’s root, the only tie to parents for the unfortunate. If one wished to keep it, so be it.

Of course, he was reasonable. If you’d been sold off like livestock, who cared for old ties? Not wishing to keep the family name was understandable. In that case, you took on the master’s surname—Wu.

Steward Wu Fugui had been a schemer since childhood, giving up his own surname early on. Even if the Emperor himself came, he would be Wu.

Born a slave of the Wu family, died a ghostly servant of the Wu family.

Loyal to the end.

Yinuo and Qianjin were from the same village, same surname, and entered the Wu household together. Both clung to their surnames, thinking of their disaster-stricken home; neither would let go.

They ought to have been brothers in hardship, but life wore away such bonds. Good jobs in the Wu household were few, so they competed fiercely, until neither could stand the other.

Each rejoiced more than anyone when the other suffered misfortune.

“Master Fu—” Hearing “a pile of dung,” Shi Yinuo’s face flushed scarlet. His old rival Qianjin’s laughter made it worse—he’d brought shame to his ancestors!

“Laugh, laugh, laugh! You still have the nerve!” Wu Fugui barked, showing no favoritism.

“You’re all to blame! On the boat, what did I tell you? Coffins must never touch the ground before burial—such ill luck! We’re nearly at Rouge Town, a short way from the mountain, and you mess up now?”

“And you—Shi Qianjin, Qianjin Shi, you think you’re any better? Yitwo against Qianjin—by weight, you win, yet you won’t need a name change! No wonder you’re so pleased with yourself!”

Wu Fugui’s sharp tongue suited his role as steward. He could flatter those above and scold those below with equal skill. His sarcasm was cutting; one could barely stand it.

Now, with Qianjin’s laughter drawing his ire, the steward turned on him.

“Look at you, the second brother mocking the elder for being fat? Bah, you’re two of a kind!”

Shi Qianjin: …

It’s Shi, not dung—Shi! Shi!

He held it in, the words clamoring to his lips but lacking the courage to speak. Instead, he forced a smile, the color of pickled vegetables, and squeezed out a reply.

“Yes, yes, you’re right in every respect. Please, Master, don’t tire yourself with anger—it’s all our fault.”

He glanced at the coffin, circled it, and straightened the crooked mirror, muttering, “Ill fortune, a fallen coffin is ill fortune—Don’t worry, we’ll lift it again and restore its luck.”

From within the coffin, Wang Chan, still dazed, suddenly understood the play on names—“a pile” versus “a thousand”—and couldn’t help but laugh.

So that’s the thousand Jin!

…