Trouble

The storefront of Deliverance Studio was small and dimly lit.

Facing the entrance was a heavy wooden counter, its surface polished to an oily sheen, with deep and shallow grooves carved into its edges.

On the wooden shelves against the wall behind the counter, a few boy and girl effigies, paper horses, and paper sedan chairs were sparsely arranged, already coated in a layer of dust.

Chen Mo walked to the shop entrance and began removing the heavy door panels one by one, stacking them against the wall.

His front door was not the typical double-leaf wooden door found in ordinary shops, but rather a series of thick, vertical planks fitted together.

Each plank was about a foot wide, with tongue-and-groove edges that interlocked.

During business hours, these planks had to be removed one by one and stacked by the door; at closing time, they were put back in the same manner.

This was a unique feature of the old-fashioned shops on Funeral Street. It was said that because unclean things often pushed at doors during the night, a full-leaf door was easily forced open, whereas with these interlocking panels, even if a few were removed, the remaining ones would still hold firm, making it more secure.

Chen Mo reached out and gripped the edge of the leftmost panel.

The wood was heavy and ice-cold to the touch, its surface worn smooth and oily from years of handling.

He gave it a sharp upward tug and pulled it outward.

With a soft click, the panel slid free from the groove.

The morning light from outside immediately poured through the gap, casting a rectangular patch of brightness onto the floor.

Dust motes danced within the beam of light.

Chen Mo leaned the panel against the wall and moved to remove the second one.

Click, click.

He did not open the door completely. His predecessor's father had instructed that for shops on Funeral Street, the door must never be fully opened; one had to leave three parts shadow and cover seven parts sun—that was the rule.

The cold morning wind, carrying the fishy scent of the river, immediately rushed in, causing the faded cloth sign of Deliverance Studio hanging above the lintel to sway slightly.

He picked up the broom in the corner and began sweeping the stone steps and a small patch of the street in front of the shop.

At this hour, shops along the street were beginning to remove their door panels one after another, but there was little greeting between them. Everyone went about their business in silence, their faces mostly somber, revealing a numbness formed by long years of dealing with death.

He had barely swept twice when Liu Shoucai, the owner of the Fortune Longevity Coffin Shop directly across the street, strolled out with a dry tobacco pipe clamped in his teeth.

He glanced at Chen Mo and slowly exhaled a ring of smoke.

"Little Chen, you're opening early today." His voice was raspy, carrying his habitual phlegmy tone. "Your father... any word yet?"

Chen Mo didn't stop his work, nor did he look up. "No."

"Sigh," the owner of the coffin shop sighed, though it was unclear if he was sincere or merely feigning. "These times, they aren't peaceful... Your father had good craftsmanship and was an honest man. With no word for so long, I'm afraid it doesn't look good."

"You've already delayed the Black Tiger Gang's sanitation fee for three months. This shop... can you still hold onto it?"

The words sounded like concern, but they were laced with probing.

Though business on Funeral Street was considered ill-omened, it was at least a way to make a living.

Chen Dachuan's craftsmanship was renowned in Linhe County, and Deliverance Studio had once done quite well.

Now that the head of the house was gone, leaving only a half-grown boy, it was inevitable that some would have designs on the place.

Chen Mo stopped sweeping, straightened up, and looked at Liu Shoucai. His gaze was calm and rippleless, even carrying a hint of fatigue from a poor night's sleep, but somehow, under that stare, Liu Shoucai's movement of holding the pipe paused slightly.

"Whether I can hold onto it or not, I must try." Chen Mo's tone was flat. "Thank you for your concern, Boss Liu."

Liu Shoucai gave a dry laugh, said nothing more, and turned back into his own shop.

Chen Mo continued to sweep.

He knew that his peers on this street, and even those nearby who knew the state of Deliverance Studio, were likely watching and waiting, perhaps even calculating how to swallow this piece of meat.

The previous owner had been timid and unable to hold his ground. But now...

Chen Mo finished sweeping the last stone step and gathered the dust and a few withered leaves into the gutter by the street.

The morning chill seeped through his thin clothes, causing his already frail body to shiver.

Leaning on his broom, he looked up. The entire Funeral Street resembled a grey giant worm just waking up, slowly writhing, while the air was thick with the heavy scent of incense and candles.

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps, mixed with impatient coughing and phlegm, drifted over from the end of the street.

Several men wearing black short-sleeved tunics, revealing either gaunt or bloated chests, swaggered over. Leading them was not the usual scarred-faced man, but a thin fellow with two wisps of rat-like whiskers. He held a filthy ledger in his hand, and a short blade with a handle wrapped in old cloth was conspicuously tucked into his waistband.

The scarred-faced man, the one actually in charge, followed behind with his arms crossed, his sinister eyes sweeping over each shop.

"Shopkeepers, it's the start of the month! The street must be clean for business to thrive. The Black Tiger Gang works hard to maintain order, so it's time to renew the sanitation management fees!"

As soon as he finished speaking, muffled curses could be heard from various shops.

"Damn it, so early... bad luck!"

"Sanitation fee? Old Liu, who sweeps the street, hasn't been seen in three months, yet they collect money so diligently!"

"The Black Tiger Gang would scrape three layers of skin off the earth if they could..."

Complaints were complaints, but no one dared to shout them out loud.

The merchants of Funeral Street seemed to have had their courage dampened by the yin energy they encountered year-round.

Chen Mo stood on his own steps and looked up at the sky, where a pale red crescent moon still lingered.

There were no watches, but one could roughly estimate that it was between six and seven o'clock at most.

Since when did being in a gang require a 996 work schedule?

Over there, the thin man with rat-like whiskers led his men, beginning to collect money from house to house with practiced ease.

When they reached the Fortune Longevity Coffin Shop, Boss Liu had already prepared the silver dollars, handing them over with a fawning smile: "Mr. Xu, you're early. Just a small token of my appreciation, thank you for your hard work."

The thin man with rat-like whiskers took the money and weighed it in his hand, glancing at the black-lacquered coffins in the shop with a cold, insincere smile: "Business is booming, Boss Liu. Next time, send a coffin made of better wood to the gang; our Second Master has been looking to prepare one lately."

The smile on Boss Liu's face stiffened, and he nodded repeatedly: "Certainly, certainly."

The collection process was not always smooth sailing.

When they arrived at Li's Incense and Paper Money Shop, Old Man Li stiffened his neck, his face flushing red: "I paid just last month! I've only just opened for business this month, where would I have the money?"

The thin man with rat-like whiskers was not annoyed, merely tapping his palm lightly with his ledger: "Old Man Li, rules are rules. Look at this street—if it weren't for our Black Tiger Gang keeping order, how many blind petty thieves would come to stir up trouble?"

"If your business is disrupted, the losses will amount to far more than just this bit of money. The brothers in the gang need to eat too, so please try to understand."

As he spoke, the two men behind him stepped forward, their gazes malicious.

Old Man Li's lips trembled, but eventually, under the tugging of his old woman, he reluctantly fished out two silver dollars.

The men from the Black Tiger Gang were clearly well-versed in these methods, employing different strategies for different people.

For the honest, timid, or those with slightly better business, they would add a hint or a reminder; for those who showed slight resistance, they used talk of rules and mutual understanding to apply soft yet firm pressure.

Only when they truly encountered someone difficult would it be the turn of someone like the scar-faced man, who was actually there for the killing, to step forward.

Soon, they drifted to the front of Deliverance Studio.