Chapter 1

Clear Canal was a small county town in the south, one that developers hadn’t yet ravaged too badly. Its buildings carried a distinctive charm, with plenty of gray-brick homes topped by green tiles rising along the rivers and narrow alleys. Most were self-built, nothing too tall—just two or three stories—with a courtyard enclosed inside. Some folks turned theirs into parking spots, while others planted green onions, ginger, garlic, or rosebushes and crabapple trees, all depending on personal whim.

The sky had just begun to lighten when Xun Ruosu stood in her family’s courtyard. In her left hand, she held an old-fashioned pocket watch, its bronze face tinged faintly green with age despite careful tending. The hands didn’t keep perfect time anymore; it felt more like a memento than anything. In her right palm rested a paper treasure ingot, folded light as air yet utterly unmoved by the breeze that stirred around her.

That wasn’t all. Right in the center of the courtyard sat a pinewood coffin, strung all over with ink lines. A palm-sized soul-shaking bell dangled from the lid’s precise northern point, and the coffin’s legs hovered off the ground, supported by bowls of water. An ever-burning lamp glowed white at its head. The whole setup screamed fear of the corpse inside rising up as a zombie.

A sudden knock rattled the door. The courtyard’s aged gate was rickety redwood, repainted with vermilion lacquer, and the pounding from outside came urgently. Xun Ruosu crossed the space in two strides and swung it open.

A full funeral procession waited beyond, from the chanting monks to the suona players, even the fake mourners dressed as dutiful sons and grandsons, all kitted out. The knocker was the manager, around thirty, impeccably suited. Clear Canal and its neighboring counties ran deep on superstition, and the funeral business thrived because of it—lucrative enough to afford a suit like his.

He craned his neck for a peek into the courtyard before finally settling his gaze on Xun Ruosu.

“My condolences, miss,” he said. “May I ask who in the family has passed?” He stepped aside with a flourish, gesturing to the thirty or forty souls behind him. “This is the full package you ordered. We’ll send your loved one off in style—no lonely road for them. And when it comes time to bury the ashes, we throw in hell money, treasure ingots, and a paper house…”

The manager trailed off abruptly. He’d only glanced at the courtyard setup upon entering, but now, mid-pitch, he took a proper look at both Xun Ruosu and the coffin. The words caught in his throat like a fishbone, his face freezing in place. He looked genuinely spooked.

“Uh… miss, just who exactly passed away in your family?” With the coffin elevated off the ground, ink lines and ever-burning lamp—it was more than even ghost-proofing called for.

“The person’s not dead yet,” Xun Ruosu said through a yawn. She beamed at the manager. “This coffin’s for me.”

Her voice dipped low at the end, cold as a draft whispering through the group. The manager’s legs trembled, and gasps rippled from the back.

It was all this manager’s fault. He had a habit of price-gouging the bereaved, splitting the death payout two ways. With no written contract—just verbal promises—he’d called three times before dawn, dragging Xun Ruosu from bed to insist on an extra three thousand, claiming it was too late for alternatives and he’d sort a prime plot.

Xun Ruosu rarely slept soundly anyway, and her morning grumpiness could linger till midnight. Still, this was a big payout, and the manager only handled arrangements, not the coffin itself. Under the broad daylight, he steadied himself and forced a grin. “Come on, you can’t joke about that. No one lies in a coffin alive—terribly unlucky.”

“Oh?” Xun Ruosu twirled the paper ingot in her fingers. “You didn’t notice I’m wearing a shroud?”

“…”

Though he thought, I’m about to piss myself—please shut up, the remark hooked him. His eyes dropped uncontrollably to Xun Ruosu…

She didn’t get out much, so her skin held a pallid cast, but her features weren’t washed out for it. Quite the opposite—she was a thorny rose of a beauty. Especially those eyes: lazy and profound. Most people’s pupils turned hazel or grayish in the sun, but hers were endless abysses, black without a hint of ripple.

On top of that, she wore an indigo cheongsam, solemn in cut and embroidered faintly with peonies in national colors. No everyday garment.

Xun Ruosu flipped the pocket watch over, and only then did the manager spot the compass etched on its back. Nothing odd about the compass itself, but every line was traced in vermilion brush, blood-red and jarring against her pale fingertips.

He stumbled back a step. “M-Miss… forget the three thousand, okay? It’s broad daylight—don’t scare me like this.”

Xun Ruosu smiled and reached out, clasping the manager’s wrist. She tugged him gently inward—not hard, yet it rooted him in place, stiff and straight less than half a meter from her. “No need to tense up, Manager Hu. I’m just a fortune teller.” Her fingers curled in, smoothing his palm flat. “Here’s a reading for you: ‘Merit Book Past Life Names, Do Not Deceive the Dead.'”

The manager clearly didn’t follow, but as Xun Ruosu withdrew her hand, a chill wind gusted across the back of his neck. Gooseflesh erupted; he just wanted to wrap this up and bolt.

Xun Ruosu didn’t press. She wasn’t one to meddle in others’ fates anyway. With a casual release, she let him go. “Fine, I’ll handle the rest. Can’t keep you for tea with the house like this.”

“You’re too kind,” Manager Hu said. His legs churned like pistons as he crammed himself into the van and fired it up. Only then did he muster the nerve to bellow back through the door, “I’ll pick up tomorrow at noon! And miss, you gotta feed us in the meantime!”

The van peeled out before the words fully landed, churning the narrow alley ahead into a racetrack.

The crew he’d abandoned stared at one another. No one could say they weren’t spooked—matters of life and death inspired awe even in hardcore skeptics. And these fake monks and mourners made their living off the gullible bereaved. With Manager Hu gone, just two leaders remained: the head chanting master and the old suona player.

Their trade had strict rules—hierarchy and respect. Without the host’s call, no one crossed the threshold. So while Manager Hu chatted with Xun Ruosu, they’d waited outside in formation. Now, with him fled and no “come in” from her, Xun Ruosu just leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, stifling another sleep-deprived yawn.

“Excuse me, miss—are you of the Xun family?” The one who spoke was the chanting master, Yuan Jue by his dharma name. Not a real monk, but committed to the role. He’d memorized chunks from Buddhist texts he could borrow and truly believed in gods, Buddhas, and ghosts. Off-duty, he devoured tales of oddities and marvels.

Yuan Jue had heard Clear Canal County had a Xun family living off fortunes—nine out of ten spot-on, one unspeakable. But their lives ran short, cursed by heaven, the rumors went.

This job wasn’t his by right, but curiosity drove him. He’d tagged along to the Xun place for free, zero pay.

Xun Ruosu’s thin eyelids flicked up. In life, she dreaded two things above all: overly enthusiastic people and unsolvable headaches.

Yuan Jue wasn’t young, but excitement lit his face, his voice quivering faintly. Textbook “overly enthusiastic.” Out of politeness, though, she gave a shallow nod… perfunctory as could be.

The Xun family had a name throughout Clear Canal County. Even if you’d never met them, you’d heard. A decade back, they’d moved from town to the city and vanished. Only in the last couple years had they returned to the old place, and the master of the house had shifted from a couple in their thirties to a single young woman.

Xun Ruosu had inherited the family trade, setting up a little stall for fortunes—one that handled three readings a day, happy occasions only.

Weddings and celebrations were vague work anyway, hard to call accurate or not. Few locals hyped her up, so some days she didn’t hit three, resorting to comps like today’s.

Yuan Jue’s interest stemmed from respect for the Xun ancestors, fueling his fascination with the old house and its current dweller.

He’d arrived buzzing with mystery-hunter thrill, but meeting Xun Ruosu deflated it. She was too real—no mystic airs or weird vibes.

Rumor had it the Xun bloodline went blind, yet Xun Ruosu showed no such flaw. Utterly ordinary… if strikingly pretty, like a seductive sprite. She kept folks at arm’s length, unapproachable, but chatting with her felt oddly refreshing just the same.

Yuan Jue dropped his gaze and murmured, “Amitabha.” “From what I overheard between you and our manager, it sounds like the one being sent off today… is you, miss?”

Xun Ruosu didn’t look a hair away from keeling over right then. Yuan Jue had worked funerals long enough; even for extinct lines, some aunt or cousin pitched in. Never had he seen a client arrange their own send-off. Sounded downright heartbreaking.

Xun Ruosu passed the paper treasure ingot to Yuan Jue. He took it without thinking. The thing was coated in cheap gold dust that rubbed off anywhere it touched. She sighed right in front of him. “Manager Hu must be sorely lacking in merits to assemble a crew like you all.”

“…”

Xun Ruosu was desperate to climb into that coffin and sleep eternally.

Last night, she’d snatched maybe three or four hours in bits. And Manager Hu was a shameless grave-robber for profit, promising everything squared away—yet half this thirty-strong lot lurked shadow-like by day, grinning eerily at her, thrusting beggar-palms under her nose like kids cadging holiday cash.

Why should the living get gold ingots and not us?

The Xun line could divine their own end dates yet never human greed’s depravity. Xun Ruosu eyed the ready-to-go coffin in her courtyard and suddenly pictured her road to the Yellow Springs as nothing but potholes, eyes wide open in death.