Ghosts at the Southern Edge - 4
The branch manager of Yuju-bu greeted us with a deathly pallor and trembling hands. He looked like someone we'd need to visit again later, but he insisted we sit down, saying it was fine. Honestly, he didn't look fine at all. I could easily imagine him collapsing mid-conversation and nodding knowingly, like, Yeah, that tracks.
"You've been quite busy lately, it seems. It's admirable to work for the good of the realm, but I'm worried you might wear yourself out, Branch Manager."
That's why, the moment we sat, I cut straight to it. No time for small talk about recent events or beating around the bush. The more direct I was, the sooner we could wrap this up before he keeled over.
"Truth be told, it's embarrassing to call it 'busy.' As I just mentioned, it's nothing more than tossing and turning at night."
His response caught me off guard—a mix of sheepishness and bitterness. Normally, when an official says, "I can't sleep," it means they're buried under work, barely getting any rest. I'd assume that, and so would everyone else. But here he was, claiming insomnia despite not being swamped. That pointed to a personal issue or something environmental.
"That's even more regrettable. If it were just exhaustion from overwork, there might be a fix, but if not... that's harder to solve."
I proceeded more cautiously now. Insomnia with a clear cause can be tackled by removing the trigger. But vague origins—like illness or mental fatigue—are trickier. Especially in this era, with no decent sleeping pills around.
"If there's anything I can do to help, please speak freely. Our meeting here is fate, isn't it?"
And if he felt better, I'd have no qualms asking my favor. Bugging a sleep-deprived wreck out of the blue went against my conscience.
"Haha. Just hearing that is thanks enough."
His cracked voice let out a laugh, making him seem all the more pitiable. Who knew a smile could convey such sorrow?
"...It's something awkward to speak of openly, but staying silent would only heighten your concerns, Left Vice Inspector."
He let out a small sigh, lips twitching for a long moment before continuing in a subdued tone.
"Lately, ghosts have been appearing in Yuju-bu."
"Pardon?"
The word hit like a bolt from nowhere, furrowing my brow. Ghosts? What the hell?
Yuju-bu was the site of a massacre just a century ago—tens of thousands of innocents slaughtered brutally. The government erected ten memorials to appease the wronged spirits and honor their sacrifice, but that wouldn't bring the dead back. It might not have even soothed their resentment.
And the Guangdong region encompassing Yuju-bu included Aishan, the tragic ground where the last Southern Song emperor, his officials, soldiers, and people stood united against the Mongols in their final stand. It's also where the Baekryeon Cult Leader holds annual rites for those spirits.
Rites.
Come to think of it, the last time I met the Cult Leader, he'd performed not just the regular annual ceremony but extra ones too. Fierce storms had raged near Aishan, making it impossible to endure without appeasement rites. At the time, I dismissed it as a natural anomaly—Aishan's whims. Storms and high waves happen. I figured the extra rites were just to calm locals, not truly for the spirits.
But if Aishan's disturbances were followed by ghosts plaguing Yuju-bu, that changed things.
Is something really going on?
Separate incidents? Coincidence. But in the same region, both tied to potential vengeful spirits? That screamed inevitability, not chance.
In a normal world, I'd scoff at such "strange powers and spirits." But this world had martial arts and spirit beasts. Hell, I was the poster child for the bizarre—a reincarnator.
"Every few days, the wailing of vengeful spirits echoes. Always at night, not midday, so the people can't sleep."
His words brought the innkeeper's weary face to mind. I'd chalked it up to the woes of self-employment, but nope—ghost woes.
"Even on clear days, the memorials are often damp, as if shedding tears. It's unsettling the populace."
Yeah, the ones I'd seen yesterday did look oddly moist.
"And officials working late... they've claimed direct encounters with the spirits."
"Good lord."
Wails, tears, and now face-to-faces. A full three-course haunting service that made my head spin and a sigh escape.
No wonder he can't sleep.
I eyed the branch manager with pity. Enduring even one would be creepy; three in this hellish setup? Anyone sleeping soundly here was probably the culprit summoning them.
"You've endured much."
"It's my failing that lets these spirits wail—I'm ashamed."
He just gave a wry smile at my consolation. I got it; we'd passed the point where sympathy helped.
What to do about this?
Confucius, the forefather and super idol, said not to discuss strange powers, but he didn't outright deny ghosts. Why hold rites otherwise? No point if death ends it all.
Even in some Eastern kingdom steeped in Confucianism, at a gathering of king and ministers, someone quipped about a haunted house: "Shall we blast it with cannons?" If Confucianism rejected ghosts outright, that joke wouldn't fly—especially since it was a former prime minister's home. Made the cannon guy seem unhinged too.
"...But sir. Forgive my tardiness in asking, what of the monk who came with you?"
Ah.
I turned to Yo Gwang-hyo, quietly standing behind me. Sorry, buddy. I'd come to ship you to Kaepyeong, but this ghost fiasco made me forget.
"One of the precious connections I've made in Yuju. He's wandered the Central Plains for the realm and people's peace, and now he'll wield that talent as an official."
"I see."
I dressed it up nicely—no "slave I picked up along the way." The branch manager's interest shifted to him. I grovel like a dog before the emperor, kings, or Left Censor-in-chief, but among Daesong officials, I'm upper echelon. Plus, Giwangga blood? My endorsement guaranteed success. From his view, it was worth noting—even if he outranked me now, this "new slave" could surpass him later.
"May your path ahead be filled with light."
But insomnia-fried, he offered rote well-wishes and disengaged. The present suffering left no room for future worries.
I never got around to asking for the Kaepyeong escort. After spilling his guts to a stranger amid sleepless ghost chaos, hitting him with "Cool story, now courier this guy?" required serious gall.
"I had no idea such things were happening in Yuju."
Back at the inn, Yo Gwang-hyo fixated on the ghost mess over his delayed trip.
"Heartbreaking. The spirits wailing here can only be the poor souls who perished a century ago. To wander the underworld for a hundred years without reincarnation—what horror."
"The Mongols' curse carved into the Central Plains."
I nodded in agreement. As a reincarnator, "a century without rebirth" hit hard. Bodiless, voiceless, drifting alone? Chilling.
But why wail now?
Odd, really. Silent for a century, then sudden uproar? Had resentment fermented, building until now they could manifest? If so, terrifying—hundreds of thousands of aged ghosts. No ordinary Night Parade of a Hundred Demons.
"Though my precepts may lack, I'm no brute to ignore souls denied the wheel of rebirth."
Power lust aside, his monkish resolve seemed genuine; his face hardened as he spoke. Made sense—if pure ambition, he wouldn't have wandered as a beggar monk. Duty and mission kept him roaming—
"Souls of yin must seek yang. Purify the memorials with fire to soothe—"
"We'll figure out spirit-soothing later."
I cut off his surprise campfire pitch. Who thinks burn the memorials? At least not cannons?
This guy's no saint either.
Founders everywhere are cut from wild cloth. That boldness shines in chaotic founding eras.
"If fire's no good, how about lightning? Struck jujubes are treasures; struck memorials might delight the spirits."
"...Lightning?"
"Guangdong must have a thunder arts practitioner or two."
Definitely not normal.