Chapter Twenty: Avoidance of the Living

After saying this, the bus uncle grabbed me and led me downstairs, while Wang Feiyang followed behind us with an icy, contemplative expression. We descended the building and returned to the small truck. I kept rubbing my forehead—those three kowtows had been hard enough that I could almost feel a swelling lump rising there.

“What do you mean by this?” I turned to the bus uncle in the driver’s seat, my voice tinged with anger.

Before he could answer, Wang Feiyang, who had been silent all along, suddenly made a startling move. The bamboo knife he’d been carrying was drawn out in a flash and pressed against the bus uncle’s throat without a word.

Wang Feiyang’s voice was cold, and the atmosphere in the cab dropped to match. “Tell me, was that woman just now Ziwei Fate Yang Li?”

The moment he spoke, my heart skipped a beat. Was Wang Feiyang out of his mind? That old woman couldn’t possibly be Yang Li. Twenty years ago, Yang Li was twenty-three; now she’d be just over forty. The ages didn’t add up at all.

“You’ve really wasted these last twenty years,” Wang Feiyang snapped at me. “You and Ziwei Fate survived—do you think there was no price to pay? Why do you think this guy made you kowtow to that woman?”

My face changed. I looked at the bus uncle, who hadn’t spoken, and asked, “Was she really Yang Li? Did she exchange twenty years of her own life for twenty years of mine?”

Though the bamboo knife was at his throat, the bus uncle seemed utterly unbothered, as if he didn’t consider Wang Feiyang’s threat worth his attention. He turned to me, his gaze strange. “Now do you understand why Left Eight Characters and I tried to stop you two fools from digging up that coffin?”

“Because the person buried in that coffin wasn’t Yang Li at all. Yang Li never died. The female ghost wasn’t her either. Wait…”

Suddenly my mind felt muddled. I hurried to organize my thoughts. If Yang Li wasn’t dead, then the ghost wasn’t her seeking revenge. Who was she, then?

And what of Luo Xiu? All the ‘truths’ she told us were lies. Her real aim was to have Wang Feiyang and me dig up that coffin and open it. But why? What was the purpose?

A chilling thought struck me: we had been used by Luo Xiu.

What was Luo Xiu’s goal? Why draw us in only to have Wang Feiyang kill her afterward? And before that, why were Left Dao Yin and the bus uncle so afraid of us opening the coffin? What were they so afraid of?

I voiced my doubts, asking why Luo Xiu had used us, and after luring us into her trap, why she wanted Wang Feiyang to kill her.

“Sometimes, death is not truly the end; death itself can be a move on the chessboard.”

The bus uncle’s answer left me bewildered. Then he looked at me with a kind of disappointed exasperation. “Do you still really believe the woman imprisoned in Left Eight Characters’ attic is his wife, Luo Xiu?”

Reflexively, I retorted, who else could it be if not Luo Xiu?

“It’s…” The bus uncle started to speak but stopped himself. In a flash, he seized Wang Feiyang’s bamboo knife and tossed it aside, muttering under his breath about how ruthless Wang Feiyang had become.

He started the truck and drove us back to White Street.

On the way, Wang Feiyang and I repeatedly pressed the bus uncle about his identity. He hadn’t been involved in these events twenty years ago, so why did he seem to know everything inside and out?

But he simply focused on driving, answering none of our questions. Finally, we gave up; we both realized that, with our pitiful skills, we were in no position to do anything about the bus uncle.

Eventually, he parked the truck in front of my family’s coffin shop. His converted double-decker bus was already there, quietly waiting at the entrance.

Only now did I notice the bus’s route sign: “104.”

Suddenly, I remembered a county legend—a story about a bus that left the terminal every night at midnight, stopped at eighteen stations, and ended at the county crematorium. Two trips, five hours in total, with the last run at five in the morning. Every driver of this bus was said to have genuine abilities, and the bus itself was rumored to carry no living passengers. The route number, 104, was a homophone for “want you dead.”

Startled, I blurted out, “Are you… are you the driver of the legendary 104 ghost bus?”

Seeing my surprise, the bus uncle smacked me on the back of the head. “What nonsense are you spouting? Ghost bus? You believe every bit of gossip that floats around town? This is a regular bus. I drive living people, twelve hours a day, one week per shift!”

I mumbled an apology. Of course, the story of bus 104 was just a legend—there was no real evidence for any of it. I’d let my imagination run wild.

At that moment, the bus uncle glanced at my family’s coffin shop with a peculiar look. “Since we’re here, aren’t you going to invite me in for a glass of water before I go?”

I hurried to unlock the door and welcomed him inside. He took in the surroundings with an odd gaze, then sat at the Eight Immortals table in the center.

By now night had fallen, and the rain still poured outside. I quickly lit the stove and brewed a pot of tea. Wang Feiyang retrieved his bamboo knife from the truck and stood expressionlessly at the door, staring into the downpour.

After finishing his tea, the bus uncle announced he needed to use the restroom and made his way toward the backyard.

Wang Feiyang returned inside, his voice uneasy. “How did he know your toilet was in the backyard?”

I hesitated, then replied, “That’s just how houses are built around here—the toilets are always out back. It’s not that strange he knew.”

Wang Feiyang fell silent, sinking back into his thoughts.

Just then, lightning flashed outside, followed by a thunderclap. In its glare, I saw two figures braving the rain, heading straight for our coffin shop.

A chill ran through me. Who would come to buy a coffin at this hour?

Soon, the two men reached our door. They were both in their thirties, dressed in black Zhongshan suits, each holding a black umbrella. They looked unwell—their faces pale, one with dark circles under his eyes.

Their appearance made me uneasy, perhaps due to their somber attire. I quickly asked what they wanted and apologized, explaining that we couldn’t take new business at the moment but could refer them to another shop in town.

But the two men ignored me, walking straight into the main hall, their gazes sweeping the shop as if hunting for prey.

Sensing something was wrong, I started to approach them. One of the men raised his hand, signaling me to stop, and asked in a sharp, mocking tone, “Is this the coffin shop of Wu Zhenlong?”

My heart leapt. Why were they speaking my grandfather’s name? I quickly demanded to know their intentions.

They didn’t answer, acting as if the place belonged to them. Sharing a look, one whispered, “Search.” With that, they split up—one heading for the attic, the other toward the backyard, black umbrella in hand.

“Stop them.”

Rage surged within me—never in my life had I seen such brazen arrogance. Wang Feiyang, equally infuriated, drew his bamboo knife and charged up the stairs after the man heading for the attic.

The man abruptly turned, giving Wang Feiyang a cold look. But Wang Feiyang showed no fear, swinging the knife at him.

To our shock, the blade passed through the man’s shoulder as if slicing through thin air—he was utterly unharmed.

As Wang Feiyang stared in disbelief, the man jabbed the tip of his umbrella into Wang Feiyang’s chest. Instantly, Wang Feiyang was sent flying down the stairs, crashing hard onto the floor.

“Spirit work in progress—living people keep away!”