Don't Let the Mortal Realm Accumulate Sinful Money

Professions in the Yin-Gate trade carry heavy Sha Qi, so they're typically only taken on by those afflicted with the Five Calamities and Three Deficiencies. That's why the Bureau of Corpse Management, when selecting corpse stitchers, picks disabled people with no family ties.

But even among the disabled, there are differences.

Corpse stitching requires handiwork, so having hands is best. They mainly pick the lame, the mute, the deaf. If you're missing an arm, you'd better be able to work with your feet to earn this meal.

As for someone like Lin Shou's predecessor—physically sound but mentally impaired—the coffin-carrying shops and the executioner's block wanted more of those. All you needed was brute strength.

Lin Shou becoming a corpse stitcher was pure luck. They saw he was too skinny to be an executioner, and though his mind was slow, he could learn to stitch things, so they sent him to do corpse stitching.

As for the blind.

Can't see with your eyes—by all rights, you shouldn't be able to work. But somehow, among the corpse stitchers, there was one such blind man.

Lin Shou only knew he was from the No. 1 Corpse-Stitching Shop and had been around a long time. But how he managed to work blind, that he didn't know.

Though they'd greet and chat when they met during the day, at night, when the stitching began, the doors were shut.

No one knew how they worked, or even if they'd be alive or dead when the doors opened again. Naturally, no one cared much about the details.

In the jianghu, don't ask about others' affairs.

Those who scraped by in the lesser Yin-Gate trades lived with their heads strapped to their belts—drink today, live one more day at a time.

Of course, Lin Shou was the exception.

With the Record of Selling Corpses on him, he lived with a mind for the long haul.

Lately, he'd even gotten tired of the yangchun noodle stall at Caishikou. He'd found a brick kiln and was thinking of getting some bricks to build a stove in his stitching shop, cook his own meals. He'd already submitted the request to the Bureau of Corpse Management's clerk.

So it goes—people's joys and sorrows don't connect.

Lin Shou walked over to greet a few of the corpse-stitching men squatting by the wall, handing out some sunflower seeds to them.

As he got close, he heard the voice of a storyteller from the tea house through the wall, and realized what they were up to.

They weren't sheltering from the rain—they were listening to the story.

These men from the stitching shops were all broke, with no spare cash to go into the tea house and pay to listen.

But they all loved it, so they'd learned from the two little beggars nearby, squatting against the wall, freeloading off the story through the wall.

Lin Shou figured the tea house would send someone out to chase them off soon enough.

Those two little beggars could sit there easy because they'd sing a few rounds of shulaibao at the tea house door during the day—begging was their job.

But these men? Pure freeloaders.

Sure enough, before even the time it took to drink a cup of tea, a waiter came out of the tea house.

"What do you think you're doing! What do you think you're doing! If you want to hear the story, pay for tea and take a seat inside! If you've got no money, don't loiter here! Go! Go! Get out of here!"

The waiter waved a broom, chasing them off. Clearly not the first time—he knew these old cripples from the stitching shops had no money.

Ah, ah, the old rascals wrestled and flopped on the ground, putting on a show, making even the two little beggars laugh. They had no shame at all.

In this era, they were all rats at the bottom of society—who cared about face? You were born into your lot, and you accepted it.

But just as the ruckus was going on, a soft reprimand came from inside the tea house: "Wang Er, don't bully the elderly."

"Shopkeeper." Waiter Wang Er, hearing his boss speak, couldn't keep up his fierceness, but he tattled: "These people are freeloading off our story."

A female shopkeeper stepped out of the tea house. She wore an eight-panel pleated skirt, a moon-white sleeveless jacket, with hairpins and ornaments—classically dignified, clearly a lady from a good family.

This was the tea house's owner and manager, Xia Ruzhen.

The tea house was opened by Qingcheng Tea House, a major tea merchant from Shu. Their specialty, Qingcheng Snow Bud, was an imperial tea personally bestowed by His Majesty, offered as tribute every year.

Lin Shou often marveled that the capital was a place where dragons and tigers lay hidden.

Right next to his own stitching shop, an unremarkable tea house had such a grand background.

"The rain's coming down hard outside. Why make things difficult for people just trying to take shelter? Besides, there are empty seats inside. Let the elders in to rest their feet."

Shopkeeper Xia said this as she personally went to help the frail and disabled corpse stitchers, making those old cripples feel a bit embarrassed instead.

"Ah, you're just too soft-hearted."

Wang Er grumbled reluctantly as he helped the shopkeeper usher the men inside.

Finally, Wang Er came back out and saw Lin Shou standing there. He said sarcastically, "You want to come in and take a seat too?"

Lin Shou chuckled and shook his head:

"I'll pass on the story. Just take good care of those men inside, and I'll give you a tip."

As he spoke, Lin Shou pulled out a two-tael silver ingot and tossed it to Wang Er.

Wang Er caught the silver ingot, stunned. Two taels of silver was enough for him to live frugally for a year.

He had some idea how much money a skin stitcher from the corpse shops could have. This sudden generosity meant Lin Shou had come into some wealth—though where he'd gotten so much silver, Wang Er didn't know.

But Wang Er wouldn't ask. Again, that saying held.

In the jianghu, don't ask about others' affairs.

Mixing in the jianghu, you're not the authorities—what good would asking do?

If he told you his mother died and left him a few hundred taels, what's it to you? If he told you he just killed someone and robbed a few hundred taels, would you go report it to the authorities?

So, taking the money and being done with it was the only thing that mattered.

Wang Er's eyes gleamed with greed as he quickly stuffed the silver into his bosom, afraid Lin Shou might change his mind and ask for it back. He rattled off auspicious words: "Thank you, master. May you be blessed with good fortune and live a long life."

Lin Shou smiled and waved a hand. "The reward isn't for hearing that. It's to give you a piece of advice."

Wang Er didn't really listen to what Lin Shou said; since the man was handing out money, whatever he said went. "Master, please speak."

Lin Shou patted Wang Er on the chest—whether to tap the silver hidden there or his conscience, who could say—and said:

"My advice: don't spend money earned through ill deeds in this world."

"Huh?..."

Lin Shou finished speaking, turned, and walked away, leaving Wang Er standing there dumbfounded. He didn't understand and wanted to ask again, but Lin Shou had already gone back into the Corpse-Stitching Shop.

"No wonder they say that Skin Stitcher in the Corpse-Stitching Shop is a brainless fool—gives me money, then spouts weird nonsense."

Wang Er didn't bother with it any further. Clutching the two taels of silver to his chest, he was overjoyed, never once considering how hot that silver might be.

So where did Lin Shou's two taels of silver come from?

Paper folded into silver—Greed-Abstinence Silver.

Lin Shou had taken the greed in Wang Er's heart, folded it into silver money, and bestowed it upon him.

Why did he give Wang Er the Greed-Abstinence Silver?

Greed-born silver brings calamity, and great misfortune is sure to follow.

That thing was nothing but a curse; whoever took it would end up in trouble. Did Lin Shou hold a grudge against Wang Er?

Not exactly. Rather, there was a story behind it—Wang Er had done something shameful.

A few days ago, Lin Shou had stitched up several corpses from the Canal Gang's porters.

Among them was a porter who had been a sworn brother to Wang Er. The man had always hauled heavy loads at the dock, saving up some silver for his wife and daughter outside the city.

That day, the local boss suddenly called the brothers together, saying someone was trying to take their turf and they needed to grab weapons and fight.

The porter knew how dangerous Canal Gang turf wars could be. Afraid he might lose his life, he wanted to leave the silver for his wife and daughter.

But leaving the city was out of the question, so he entrusted it to his brother Wang Er, asking that if something happened to him, Wang Er would pass the money to his family.

And sure enough, the porter died in the fight.

But when his wife and daughter came to the Corpse-Stitching Shop in tears to claim the body, Lin Shou noticed they were strapped for cash.

He probed carefully and uncovered the truth.

Clearly, money moved people's hearts. The porter had trusted the wrong man—Wang Er hadn't kept his promise and had pocketed the silver.

Lin Shou hadn't intended to get involved. A man's death snuffs out his lamp like a flame; whatever secrets or regrets he had in life, Lin Shou might glimpse them through the Lantern of Life, but that didn't mean he was obligated to meddle.

The Capital City was huge—how would he know who Wang Er was? There were at least eight hundred men by that name in the city.

But as luck would have it, today was that coincidental.

Shopkeeper Xia's casual mention of "Wang Er" made Lin Shou look more closely. Good heavens—the face matched.

It was the very Wang Er who had stolen the porter's silver meant for his wife and daughter.