Chapter Forty-One: The Wandering Tradesmen of Western Hunan

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Comparing the Zhang family's sketch with the ancestral manual of Yin-Yang Embroidery, I immediately noticed several striking differences.

First was the level of detail. The blueprint from the Zhangs provided only the broad structure, the general framework. The pattern itself was correct, but the most evocative strokes—the very soul of Yin-Yang Ghost Embroidery—were inadequately recorded.

Second was the technique for the designs. The Zhangs’ sketch offered only a simple outline, whereas the manual described in detail how each section should be drawn—whether to wrap, to coil, or to layer—each method tailored to every area of the design. It was these subtleties that infused the tattoo with its spirit.

The third difference lay in the materials. Yin-Yang Embroidery traditionally used nothing more than dyes and ghostly spirits, but Ghost Embroidery required even more exacting standards. Take, for example, the ink-jade qilin tattooed on Brother Lin’s back—its power only revealed itself in moments of crisis, a feat made possible by using pigeon-blood ink. The spirit required for this process had to be a particularly vicious one, capable of containing the might of such an auspicious beast.

After repeated comparisons, I felt increasingly confident. In hindsight, when I declared that only I, Zhang Xu of southern Guangdong, could accomplish this, I was not exaggerating.

Before long, Old Liao returned.

“Hey, the landlady’s gone?” he chuckled slyly.

His words irked me—he had none of the gravitas expected from a master of the Daoist arts, acting more like an old rascal.

“Let’s talk seriously. I’m heading to southern Fujian to drum up some business for you,” Old Liao said, unusually earnest.

Hearing this, my heart wavered. Old Liao had been helping out at my shop for a while, yet I’d never given him any commission. Now he was offering to bring me business of his own accord, and I felt a little uneasy.

“Old Liao, why don’t you just take a trip to Fujian for fun? I’ll cover the expenses. Relax and enjoy yourself, don’t worry about the business.” I patted his shoulder.

No more needed to be said between brothers. After booking his ticket for the night coach, we decided to go out for hotpot as a send-off.

We feasted heartily, eating and drinking to our fill.

After dinner, I accompanied Old Liao to the long-distance bus station. I asked him why he wouldn’t take the train. He shot me a disdainful look: “Most ghostly happenings occur in the countryside. When have you ever heard of hauntings on high-speed trains or airplanes?” I was left speechless.

Due to city planning, our long-distance bus station was still at its old location on the outskirts, requiring us to cross a rather desolate country road to get there.

The narrow road was nearly deserted, only a few last buses lumbering along. Night was falling, and the dim glow of the occasional streetlamp barely illuminated the path ahead.

“Xu, doesn’t this place give you the creeps? Have you ever read that novel, ‘Last Bus No. 13’?” Old Liao shuddered.

“Cut it out. Don’t jinx us,” I retorted, a tinge of unease creeping into my own heart. This remote, desolate place was the last setting I wanted for something to go wrong.

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As luck would have it, just then I saw a few figures crossing the road ahead. Startled, I slammed on the brakes, the vehicle screeching to a halt a mere five meters from them.

I was about to roll down the window and give them a piece of my mind when Old Liao suddenly pulled my head down, hiding me behind the windshield.

“Shh, don’t make a sound. Let them pass.”

“Who are they...?”

The leader wore a long black robe and a straw hat, gently shaking a string of bells as he walked past, chanting, “The dead are on the move; the living must yield.”

Two others followed, dressed identically in robe and hat.

Their movements were eerily synchronized, yet there was something off about them. They made no sound, silently trailing the leader.

Old Liao gripped me tightly, preventing me from looking. Through clenched teeth, I whispered, “What’s going on?”

He checked to make sure they had passed, then exhaled in relief. “The leader is known as a Walker.”

“A Walker?”

“A corpse driver. Aren’t you from Hunan? How do you not know this?”

“Can corpses really be made to walk?”

“Of course. The Xiangxi corpse-driving art is the most intact tradition of the dark arts.”

“And the ones following behind...?”

“They’re likely corpses.”

A chill ran down my spine. How could someone spend their days in such company—didn’t corpse drivers ever recoil from their profession?

“Old Liao, are you still leaving?”

“Leave? Hell no. Let’s follow them. For a corpse driver from Xiangxi to appear all the way down here in Guangdong, there must be a reason.”

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Thus, the two of us crept along the deserted road, daring not to use the headlights, trailing the corpse driver at a measured distance.

“Heaven above is clear, earth below is murky; the living must yield when corpses are on the move!” The leader’s voice drifted back to us, the bells clanging more and more frequently. After chanting the incantation, the trio quickened their pace, soon putting hundreds of meters between us. The rhythm of the bells—three long, seven short—echoed eerily through the silent country night.

Suddenly, I saw the three of them veer off into the roadside thicket and vanish from sight.

I hurriedly got out to investigate, but the hills were alive only with the chirr of insects and the hooting of owls—no trace of human presence anywhere.

“Let’s go. We don’t know what this corpse driver’s intentions are. If we disturb his puppet corpse, we’ll be in serious trouble,” Old Liao said, dragging me back to the car.

Just then, rustling broke out in the surrounding brush, startling the birds and beasts perched in the trees. I seemed to glimpse a black shadow slowly rising from the undergrowth ahead, a nauseating stench seeping into the air.

Old Liao and I turned and ran, scrambling back into the car in panic.

On the drive back, I was still shaken.

“Old Liao, what exactly is this Xiangxi corpse driving? What kind of strange dark art is it?”

“Corpse driving has been around for a thousand years. Outsiders know little, but the Daoist community has some understanding...”

It turns out that Xiangxi corpse driving actually embodies a beautiful intention. “Returning fallen leaves to their roots”—the corpse driver’s duty is to help those who died far from home find their way back.

There are two main methods: Gu Summoning and Spirit Invocation. The art is a blend of Miao Gu magic and Daoist ritual. Gu Summoning involves the Miao people breeding poisonous insects, which are fed into the corpse; the bell stirs the Gu, and the corpse shuffles home. In this method, the dead remain dead—their movements stiff and slow.

The other method is Spirit Invocation, in which the soul of the deceased is called back to possess the body. The bell summons the spirit, turning the corpse into something like a half-living being. This requires great skill, for a misstep can cause the spirit to turn malevolent and the corpse to mutate, becoming what we call a “zongzi”—a hopping zombie.

“That corpse driver earlier—judging from his chants, he was using the High Order Spirit Invocation, a powerful technique. He must be highly skilled,” Old Liao mused.

“It’s best not to engage with him. Guangdong is not like Xiangxi—there are no winding mountain paths, no inns prepared for corpse drivers. For him to come all this way, he must have a purpose.”

I nodded. The endless variety of these dark arts was truly an eye-opener.