Chapter 1: The Ominous Funeral Pavilion of the Polar Region
Life, aging, sickness, and death—are these not the natural order of things?
If a child perishes young, torn from the world by an untimely end, would a parent not cling to the hope of one more meeting? Let me tell you: it is not impossible. Place the child's body in a round basin, cover it with a lid, and drill holes beneath. Bury the basin six feet six inches deep, with three cubic feet of earth above. Thereafter, the child's spirit will slip through the hole at the basin's base, visiting you in dreams each night.
If a loved one meets a violent death, their body maimed and broken, would you not wish for their soul to find peace in the afterlife? I can arrange that too. Use clay to mend their fractured limbs, lay their head westward, and bury them in a curled position. In this way, the wrongs of three lifetimes will be righted in one, and their spirit will rest easy henceforth.
In short, if you have such needs, come to me.
My name is Wei Jizhe. I run a family-owned business—though not the kind that cheats customers. We simply lack a business license, for the state has never recognized our trade. My father, long retired to the countryside, once told me our official title is funerary official—an ancient role, passed down through generations of my ancestors. My mother says my father took pride in this lineage, claiming we were "officials by blood," but ever since he was persecuted in the 1970s, leaving him unable to care for himself, he's never spoken of it again.
Our craft specializes in the funeral rites—one of the "Five Rites" of ancient tradition. Put plainly, we bury the dead. But there is far more to it than the modern funeral parlor. Death comes in countless forms, and each demands a unique burial rite. Our skills run deep: we must understand rituals, select auspicious land by feng shui, and master the structures of tombs across eras—determining which design suits which soul, even setting anti-theft mechanisms. As my father used to say: "A tomb stands between the living and the dead. It must soothe the living's grief and honor the dead's needs. Only true expertise can fulfill both."
Alas, in this era that promotes cremation, few still heeds our ancestral ways. Business has always been slow. I've considered leaving the trade, but my father refuses to let me.
"This isn't superstition," he insists. "It's accumulating merit for the afterlife. When the time comes, what's owed will come. If we abandon our craft and sever the lineage, our ancestors' coffins won't hold them—they'll rise up and tear us apart."
I don't believe his theatrics. What I do believe in is the "Dog-Beating Cudgel" he wields at the slightest provocation—"a family tradition," he calls it. I've learned to endure.
So here I am, stuck tending to this shop, biding my time.
"Another day gone…"
This is my daily lament.
At dusk, I watch enviously as carriages and pedestrians flow like a river down the street—yet my shop stands desolate, a stark contrast. I shake my head, about to lock up, when a young man enters.
He's tall and burly, wearing enormous sunglasses that hide half his face.
"Family passing?" I prompt. "Need help choosing dates or selecting a burial site? Full-service packages available—professional mourners included. They'll wail like they've lost their own mother—absolutely heart-wrenching!"
Overjoyed, I leap to greet him. He removes his sunglasses, revealing a scowl.
"Seventh Brother," he says, "still peddling your trade like this? You're lucky you haven't been beaten to death…"
"Third Brother?"
I recognize him instantly. His name is Xing Wei—we shared a dorm in high school, back when we argued over who was the "eldest" among us. I was Seventh, he Third. Academically, I was a disaster—my high school English and math scores totaled less than 20, so I never made it to college. He, however, attended Taiyuan University of Technology. We drifted apart afterward, meeting maybe three times a year, but our bond never faded. I drag him over to sit, chattering warmly.
"Third Brother, we'll catch up properly later," he says, settling in. "I'm here on serious business."
His tone sobers me. I nod. "What is it? No need to beat around the bush—we're brothers."
"It's my grandfather."
Xing Wei sighs, and begins his story.
Grandpa had uremia; his condition worsened earlier this year, landing him in the hospital. Lately, though, strange things have happened. Every night, he dreams of his own grandfather—Xing Wei's great-grandfather—a man in black burial robes, smiling and waving from the doorway. Night after night, until Grandpa began hallucinating: napping in the daytime, he'd wake screaming that Great-Grandfather was watching him from the ceiling.
"Some say Great-Grandfather's come to take Grandpa with him," Xing Wei says. "I'm worried. You know these things. Can you help?"
The story sends a chill down my spine. My father once told me similar tales; old family texts mention cases where the elderly, burdened by "yin energy," become targets. Sometimes, it's a spirit seeking help. Not harm—need.
I ask, "Does he just wave? Does he speak? Complain of cold, hunger, loneliness? Any odd details—no socks, half-dressed?"
"No, just smiling," Xing Wei replies. "Grandpa says Great-Grandfather's dressed immaculately—Qing Dynasty style, hair shaved smooth, exactly as he was buried."
"Do you still honor him during festivals?"
I pause. "And… was there any falling out between Great-Grandfather and Grandpa when he was alive?"
"Never!" Xing Wei scoffs. "Great-Grandfather raised Grandpa after his own father died early. Grandpa doted on him—adored him."
"Where is Great-Grandfather buried?"
"Back home, far from here. But Grandpa insists we visit every festival."
That puzzles me. If the dream figure were a stranger, it might spell doom. But a relative? Usually, it means the dead need something—or a wronged elder seeks to take a descendant. Never harmless.
"If none of those fit," I say, "it's likely his tomb's disturbed. Old graves… anything can happen. Come on, I'll check it out with you. Maybe adjust the tomb's layout—I can handle that."
Xing Wei agrees, sets a time, and leaves.
That night, I pore over ancestral texts, but find no answers. My experience is limited—most of my work has been mimicking rituals from old books. This is new. I call my father.
He sounds grave. "When the dead are restless, they blame the living—even harm them. Check the tomb. If you must, open it." His tone hardens. "This could escalate. Call me if things go wrong."
The next morning, Xing Wei arrives—his father's wealth bought him an SUV—and we roar off to visit Great-Grandfather's grave.
I knew it was in western Shanxi, but he drives me deep into the Lüliang Mountains, nowhere near a village, bouncing for hours until dusk, when we reach a loess knoll.
"You didn't tell me it was this remote!" I snap, wiping mud from his face. "We'll be lucky to get the coffin open before dark!"
I circle the knoll, studying its shape, then grin. "Third Brother, your Great-Grandfather was loaded. This is a noble's tomb—multiple concubines buried with him."
"Not bad, huh?" Xing Wei grins, giving a thumbs-up. "Got some skill."
I roll my eyes. Born into this family, if I couldn't spot a noble's tomb, I'd have hanged myself by now.
This tomb is unique—rare, even historically significant. Unlike most, built underground, this one was constructed aboveground like a house, then buried under tons of earth to form a massive mound. Its interior resembles a pigsty: row upon row of partitioned chambers, each holding a coffin—one for the husband in the center, concubines on either side.
The knoll stretches in a straight line; estimating its length, I guess seven chambers. This is a "Seven-Compartment Tomb," a masterpiece of ancient burial architecture.
I circle it again, finding nothing amiss. I fetch tools, ready to open a coffin.
Opening a Seven-Compartment Tomb is delicate. You must strike the correct chamber—no mistakes. If you hit the wrong one, retreat and dig anew. Never breach the partitions: they're airtight, sealed with white phosphorus. Disturb them, and the phosphorus ignites on contact with air—burning or poisoning anyone inside.
I aim for the center of the knoll, striking the shovel down. A few blows later, my face pales.
Twenty centimeters down, murky liquid gushes from the soil—gurgling, fishy, but not foul.
"Third Brother," I drop the shovel, "I can't handle this. Find a real expert—preferably from Mount Longhu. Real Taoists, understand?"
Xing Wei turns ashen. "Is it that bad?"
I nod.
This "muddy liquid" my father calls "brine"—not cooking brine, but "corpse brine." In some places, feng shui traps dense yang energy underground, mixing with groundwater to flood tombs. Corpses soak for millennia, preserved. The tomb's airtight seal ferments this stew into brine—evil stuff.
Once, in northwest Shanxi, a similar tomb collapsed in a landslide. Archaeologists excavated it; an old professor descended, then lost control—soiling himself completely, as if peeing out a lifetime. He never recovered; they had to attach a tube, a bag dangling from his waist, reeking of urine ever after.
"This is grave misfortune," I say, clapping Xing Wei's shoulder. "I'm no expert—just mimicking ancestor's methods. This tomb's too malevolent. Going in is suicide. Listen to me: find a real Taoist. Don't trust monks or charlatans—they'll do nothing. Your grandfather might be taken… and your whole family cursed."
I bow to the tomb, apologizing profusely. By nightfall, as I straighten, the mountains loom around the knoll like guardians.
The sight feels eerily familiar. I freeze—remembering a feng shui manual my father treasures, the Xuan Kong School of Burial. It mentions this very formation: The Ominous Funeral Pavilion of the Polar Region.
Xing Wei, pale as a ghost, begs to leave. We flee in his SUV.
On the drive back, exhaustion weighs on me. My muscles ache; I drift in and out of sleep, jolted awake by chills…
…