After leaving the Steward’s Office.
Zhang Rong and I went back to the dormitory to pack, then headed down the mountain with our bags on our backs.
Zhang Rong had no car, so we had to ride the motorcycle from the Daoist temple.
Luckily, it was summer. If it had been winter, we would have frozen solid on the ride over.
After riding for almost an hour, we arrived at the deceased's home.
The elderly man who had died was named Shen Gongquan. He was seventy-four and had five sons. His wife had passed away ten years earlier.
When he was younger, he had collected scrap and opened a Scrap Station.
Collecting scrap might not sound like much, but there was good money in it. Having done it for most of his life, the old man had saved up quite a sum. Not only had he renovated the family home, rebuilding the old two-story house into a four-story one, but he had also built another house for his eldest son and bought his second son a car.
He had also paid all the expenses when his sons got married.
Now that the old man had passed away, his sons had shown their filial devotion by setting aside their work to stay with their father through his final few days before burial. They had never expected something this strange to happen.
The Spirit Hall was set up in the four-story building where the old man had lived. There was a large hall on the ground floor, with another fairly spacious area beside it that was normally used for parking. Now it held the old man's remains and served as the Spirit Hall.
When we were away from the temple, the junior disciple had to listen to the senior, so Zhang Rong