Chapter 4: The Worthless Father and the Bastard

Though I had read countless tales of corpse transformations in grandfather's ancient texts, I had never encountered one in the flesh. Each account had been safely confined to yellowed pages - until now.

Third Uncle was about to lead me to retrieve a transformed female corpse, and I couldn't deny the cold finger of fear that traced my spine.

Yet beneath that fear, an electric current of excitement surged through me. Were the legends true? Did the walking dead really exist? Would they match the descriptions from the old tales - green-skinned monsters with protruding fangs and faces twisted by supernatural rage?

The journey was a bumpy one, our vehicle lurching along rural roads as shadows lengthened and the sun began its descent toward the western hills, painting the sky in ominous shades of dusk.

At the base of the Mountain of Lost Women, a cluster of villagers had been waiting, their weather-worn faces etched with anxiety. As our vehicle approached, they swarmed around it like moths to a flame, their desperation palpable in the dying light.

Third Uncle sprung into action with the efficiency of a seasoned professional. He quickly selected several of the stronger villagers, then gestured for me to grab the briefcase from the car. "We climb. Now," he commanded, already starting up the mountain path.

I understood his urgency all too well. Once the sun set, the dark energies of the mountain would surge like a rising tide. After that, even Third Uncle's expertise might not be enough to handle what the female corpse could become.

After twenty minutes of climbing, we spotted it - a dark silhouette suspended from a twisted old tree, swaying with an unnatural rhythm that no wind could explain.

As we drew closer, the horror revealed itself. The corpse, as if sensing our presence, slowly turned its head toward us. Its face, a grotesque purple-black mask of death, split into a wide, impossible grin.

A chill ran through me. Even with the sun shrouded by clouds, this was still daylight - a time when the dead should lie still. For a corpse to show such boldness, to deliberately turn and face the living... this was no ordinary haunting.

Then a terrifying thought struck me: could this be what grandfather had warned about in his texts - the dreaded "smiling corpse," one of the most dangerous forms the dead could take?

"Enough gawking," Third Uncle's stern voice cut through my terror. "Little Nine, my tools. Now."

From the briefcase I handed him, he withdrew three objects with practiced precision: a peculiar length of rope, a pair of needle-sharp stakes, and a bottle filled with what appeared to be some kind of potent spirit.

Each tool had its purpose in the ancient arts: the rope was a sacred binding cord for restraining the dead, the needles were ritual pins for subduing risen corpses, and the spirit was a powerful concoction - precious herbs and medicines that had been steeped in wine, then steamed and sun-dried three times under the summer sun.

With the methodical precision of a master at his craft, Third Uncle secured the binding cord at his waist and fixed the ritual pins to his collar. Then he shook the bottle of spirit vigorously before passing it to me. "This wards off wandering ghosts and keeps vengeful spirits at bay," he explained. "Do you understand?"

I nodded in understanding. In this place where countless women had met their end, dark energies hung thick in the air. Third Uncle knew well that such places attracted wandering spirits, and the sacred wine would serve as our first line of defense against whatever might lurk in the shadows.

With the preliminaries complete, Third Uncle withdrew the binding cord and addressed the gathered villagers: "We'll secure the corpse to the willow tree," he instructed, his voice grave. "But keep your distance from the trunk. This tree has claimed enough minds already."

Two of the braver villagers stepped forward, taking the binding cord with trembling hands. Moving as if in a ritual dance, they began to circle the willow tree, one at each end of the sacred rope.

The binding cord itself was no ordinary rope - its power came from ancient craft. Once a length of pure white silk, it had been transformed through the application of cinnabar, a sacred red mineral, creating a powerful tool for containing the dead.

Third Uncle's presence seemed to steel their nerves, and the villagers worked with purpose. As they circled the ancient willow, the binding cord pulled tight, securing both Xiao Yan'er and her outstretched arms firmly against the twisted trunk.

But the moment the sacred rope made contact, something horrifying happened. The corpse, which had been gently swaying like a puppet in the wind, suddenly transformed - its nails and teeth erupting into savage growth, lengthening before our eyes. The villagers scrambled backward with cries of terror.

It was Third Uncle who averted disaster. In one fluid motion, he drew the six-inch ritual pin from his collar. His movements were precise: one hand aimed at the hollow of Xiao Yan'er's heart, while the other caught the hammer I thrust toward him. Without hesitation, he drove the pin straight into the corpse's chest.

The ritual pin was designed to sever the supernatural connections that allowed the dead to move. Even after death, a corpse could still animate if its sinews and bones remained intact - but as the pin pierced Xiao Yan'er's heart, her body convulsed violently, releasing inhuman shrieks that sounded more beast than human.

The spectators recoiled in terror, some nearly fleeing on the spot. "Heaven protect us," one villager stammered, his voice quaking, "she's really becoming one of them - a walking corpse!"

The binding cord and ritual pin had secured the body - even nightfall shouldn't release its dark power now. I thought our task was complete, but Third Uncle wasn't finished. To my surprise, he snapped a branch from the willow tree and produced a glass vial from his waist, holding it carefully to the corpse's lips.

With practiced precision, Third Uncle struck the corpse with the willow branch. The moment it made contact, Xiao Yan'er's lips parted, releasing a stream of black vapor that coiled like liquid shadow into the waiting vial.

This wasn't ordinary breath - the dark essence was heavier than air, pooling at the bottom of the glass like black mercury. Again and again Third Uncle struck, and with each blow, another stream of darkness poured forth from the corpse's mouth, until he had collected more than ten such breaths.

Only when no more darkness remained did Third Uncle relax his stance. "It's finished," he announced, satisfaction evident in his voice.

The corpse before us now bore little resemblance to the terrifying entity of moments before. It hung limply against the tree, lifeless once more, its supernatural features - the savage nails and fearsome fangs - having retreated back into death's normalcy.

"Is it... is it safe to move her now?" a villager ventured, still keeping his distance.

"Get a coffin," Third Uncle commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Take her down and transport her directly to the crematorium." He paused, then added with grim finality, "And bring gasoline - this tree must burn."

"The body, yes," one villager protested, "but this tree - it's stood here for a century! Surely destroying something so ancient would bring bad fortune?"

Third Uncle's laugh was cold and bitter. "A hundred years," he spat the words out. "A hundred years of spreading its roots through these cursed grounds, feeding on the flesh and blood of dead women. This is no ordinary tree - it's grown fat on tragedy."

"Worse still," Third Uncle continued darkly, "it's been nourished by the dark energies of vengeful spirits for generations. This is no longer just a tree - it's becoming something else entirely. Look at the bark. Tell me what you see."

I stepped closer, squinting at the gnarled surface, and felt my blood freeze. There, etched into the ancient bark, were faces - dozens of them - each bearing the unmistakable features of women, their eyes closed as if in eternal sleep.

A chilling realization struck me - Xiao Yan'er's husband hadn't simply died from crashing into this tree. His madness, his compulsion to smash his skull against its trunk... it had been the tree's dark influence reaching into his mind, drawing him to his death like a moth to flame.

The villagers must have reached the same conclusion. The grey-bearded elder's hesitation vanished, replaced by urgent purpose. "Move!" he barked. "Fetch the gasoline! And I need two strong men to help get her down - quickly!"

As the villagers scattered to their tasks, Third Uncle stepped away from the tree, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. He beckoned me over with a lazy wave. "Well?" he asked, studying my face through a curl of smoke. "Did it frighten you?"

I shook my head firmly, trying to match his casual demeanor.

Third Uncle's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Well, well... at least you've got more spine than that coward you call father."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied me. "Tell me - how much of your grandfather's knowledge has he passed on to you?"

His dismissal of my father stung, and I felt a flash of defiance. "Grandfather didn't teach me directly," I replied with an edge in my voice, "but I've studied his books thoroughly."

Third Uncle's perpetually drooping eyelids suddenly lifted - the first real sign of interest I'd seen from him. His eyes gleamed with sudden intensity. "How many of them?" he demanded. "How many books?"

"All of them," I stated simply.

Six years of study had left their mark. Every book in grandfather's collection had passed through my hands. The chronicles of supernatural encounters and extraordinary feats remained crystal clear in my mind, though I had to admit the more scholarly texts - those dealing with the ancient arts of Five Elements and Eight Trigrams - remained somewhat blurry.

Third Uncle's hand landed heavily on my shoulder, accompanied by a burst of genuine laughter. "Well, well!" he exclaimed. "Now that's more like it! Perhaps there's hope for you yet - unlike that worthless father of yours!"