Taboo of the Underworld

Some time ago, the story of the little white rabbit and the hundred steamed buns became a sensation. It tells of a little white rabbit who, for three days in a row, went to ask the owner of a steamed bun shop if there were a hundred buns available. The first two days, the owner said no, but on the third day, after preparing a hundred buns, the rabbit asked for a single pancake instead.

Recently, I encountered a similarly maddening situation, though my family doesn't run a bun shop—we own a coffin shop.

My name is Wu Dao. From a young age, I lived with my grandfather, relying on this coffin shop in town to make a living.

That day, my grandfather had to travel to a neighboring county to oversee a funeral, which would take several days. Normally, the shop would have closed, but since I happened to be home for winter break, he asked me to watch over the shop.

That evening, as I was about to close up, a very peculiar young woman entered.

She was about twenty-five or twenty-six, strikingly beautiful, though her attire was somewhat outdated—a red turtleneck sweater and a pair of tight, flared jeans, the sort of fashion popular in the 1990s.

Her complexion was pale, and she didn't speak upon entering. Instead, she fixed her gaze on me, unblinking, in a way that made my skin crawl. I quickly asked what she wanted.

She paused for two seconds, then asked, “Do you have seven unvarnished bright red coffins?”

I was dumbfounded and instinctively replied that we didn’t. Before I could explain further, she simply let out an “oh,”