It wasn't convenient to ask for details over the phone.
Old Song simply instructed me to open the shop and let the man pick whatever he wanted. Once he had chosen, Song would pay for it—I just had to collect the money on his behalf.
Huang Jiu and I passed by a small diner we could actually afford, but didn't get the chance to eat. We grabbed some fried dough sticks and steamed buns from a street vendor and rushed back to the shop by cab.
As soon as we turned onto the street, still inside the car, I spotted someone squatting at the entrance of Song the Lame's shop.
He looked to be in his forties, wearing a green cap with a red star on it. His camo jacket had been washed so many times it had faded, with patches of dirt that wouldn't come out. On his feet were those green rubber shoes rural folk wear for farm work.
A cigarette dangled between his fingers, and he was puffing on it impatiently—it was clear he'd been waiting for quite a while.
Seeing him, I felt even more puzzled.
These days, cremation isn't strictly enforced in the countryside, and traditional beliefs still run strong. Most people still insist on burial.
And don't let the size fool you—urns can be pricey, often more expensive than coffins.
With that in mind, I got out of the car and called out from a few steps away, "Sir, are you here to see Grandpa Song?"
The man quickly tossed his cigarette, stomped it out, and rubbed his hands nervously. "I'm here to buy a spirit bone box."
"Spirit bone box" is just a nicer way to say urn—it's what sellers call them. For him to use that term right away meant he was definitely a returning customer.
Seeing how uneasy he was, I didn't press him. I just opened the door and let him in.
He seemed a little anxious, immediately walking around to browse. But after circling once, he still hadn't found anything he liked. He turned to me and asked, "Young man, could you take me to the warehouse to look?"
Without saying much, I led him to the back yard.
I'd never actually been inside the warehouse where Song stored the urns. As I opened the door, the man slipped inside like he knew the place.
The padlock was rusty, and the key got stuck. By the time I managed to pull it out, he was already walking out with a plain, unfinished wooden urn in his hands.
I was surprised and reminded him, "Sir, that box isn't painted yet!"
"I know," he replied casually. "That's exactly the one I want."
Clearly, he'd already made up his mind before coming.
I figured he was trying to save money, so I didn't say anything.
But then the man pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and stuffed it into my hand before turning to leave.
I thought it was small bills or coins. But when I opened it—it was all 100-yuan notes.
Two bundles.
Just by eyeballing it, I guessed it was around 20,000 yuan.
For that price, he could've bought one of the white marble urns on display—never mind an unpainted wooden box.
I hurried after him.
He hadn't gone far, just stopped near a bun shop to make a phone call.
It didn't seem appropriate to interrupt, so I waited where I was.
After he hung up, he came back and said, "Young master, Old Song said you're a feng shui practitioner. I've run into a bit of trouble—could I ask you for help?"
Holding the urn in one hand, he offered me a cigarette with the other and said, "Name's Xu Dafa. What's your surname, young master?"
"No need for titles," I replied politely. "I'm Li. Just Li Yang."
I waved off the cigarette and asked, "You say you need help—but you haven't told me what the problem is."
Xu Dafa lit the cigarette himself, took a deep drag, and said, "We're sort of in the same trade, I guess. You walk the path of yin and yang, while our work is more specialized—we deal with 'driving out bone stakes' in the villages."
My heart skipped a beat.
Driving out bone stakes doesn't mean hammering bones into the ground.
A "bone stake" is a folk term for a drought ghoul—a type of zombie believed to bring drought.
The legend goes that if a corpse doesn't decay within a hundred days of death, the grave becomes damp, and the surrounding region suffers severe drought, then that's a sign of a drought ghoul.
Only by burning the corpse can the rains return.
In rural Shandong and Henan, this practice of burning drought ghouls is called "driving out the bone stake."
But customs vary by region. In our area, that practice isn't common.
From Xu Dafa's accent, he seemed to be local.
He finished the cigarette in a few quick drags, then tossed the butt on the ground and said, "I've been driving bone stakes all my life. This is the first time I've run into a tough one. There's a drought ghoul buried on a spot called Qianlongkou. It's already given birth to a malevolent spirit. Eight of us went in, and we lost three right away. I had no choice but to come to the city to find Old Song. I'm hoping the spirit bone box he made will help suppress that ghost."
Xu Dafa didn't hide anything—he told me the full story.
Normally, dealing with a drought ghoul isn't hard or especially dangerous.
Back in the day, if one appeared, the village chief would gather everyone to drag the body out during daylight, break its limbs, and burn it. That was it.
For a professional like Xu Dafa, it should've been even easier.
But the ghoul appeared at a place called Qianlongkou, and that didn't sit right with me.
Because "Qianlong"—meaning "Hidden Dragon"—refers to a dragon waiting to rise. Even if it's not fully awakened, it's still considered a feng shui treasure site. The odds of a corpse mutating there are almost zero. So how could it give birth to a malevolent spirit?
And if a zombie develops such a spirit, doesn't that make it a "spirit corpse"?
The only difference is that a spirit corpse is possessed by its own soul, while a malevolent spirit is an unknown, unidentifiable entity.
If this were happening somewhere else, I'd take the job.
But in a Hidden Dragon spot… I was hesitant.
Just as I was about to refuse, my phone rang. It was Song the Lame.
I answered, and he asked if I had anything going on.
I said no.
Song paused and then said, "Xu Dafa and his team are good people. It's not easy making a living doing what they do. They've already lost three men. If you've got time, give them a hand."
Now I had no excuse.
After all, I'd taken the Blood Thorn from him, studied under him—I owed him a huge debt.
I hung up and said to Xu Dafa, "Sir, you'll have to wait a bit. By the way, do you have a car?"
Xu Dafa beamed. "Yes, yes! The village chief's van is parked just down the street—he's waiting for me!"
I nodded and called my second uncle to explain the situation. He only told me to be careful.
Then I rang Huang Xian'er, told her we were heading out of town and wouldn't be back tonight. I asked her to let Xiaocui know.
I didn't call Hu Wenhui—figured I probably couldn't reach him anyway.
I locked up the shop, slung Huang Jiu on my back, took the cash Shen Weiguo gave me, and followed Xu Dafa to the parking lot.
The van really did look like a loaf of bread.
Its body was caked in yellow mud, blending into its surroundings. Honestly, it looked more like a mud brick than a vehicle.
Inside, the air was funky too.
But in a rural village, having a single van is a big deal.
The driver, about the same age as Xu Dafa, looked to be in his early forties.
As soon as we got in, Xu Dafa said, "Chief, I've brought someone who knows his stuff. You've gotta get us back to the village before dark. If Li Erwa and the others can't burn that ghoul in time, maybe Mr. Li here can salvage things. If not, once night falls—we're all in for it."
Xu Dafa seemed to have some real skills—after all, he recognized a Hidden Dragon site.
Hearing his words made me start to get nervous, too.