Chapter Seven: Keeping Watch at Night

As Aji spoke, his eyes remained fixed on Madam Zhao’s face. Slowly, his pupils contracted sharply, the whites of his eyes turning black as if soaked in ink. The pupils narrowed and gradually transformed into a thin streak of orange-red.

“So this is what a true household guardian spirit looks like!” I couldn’t help but marvel. I hadn’t expected such a striking young man among the fox spirits—thank goodness I’d brought him along; otherwise, I truly wouldn’t have managed.

“Aji, you just said Madam Zhao was haunted. What do you mean by that?”

“I only caught a glimpse—nothing clear. Everything will be revealed at midnight. Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

I hurried to follow Aji’s lead, trailing behind Madam Zhao’s swaying figure as we entered the residential complex.

Zhao’s home was a standalone villa—the only one of its kind in the entire area. A large portion of land around it was cleared for private parking; a row of luxury cars stood parked beside the house. Given Old Zhao’s corpulent figure, all the vehicles were SUVs and off-roaders, with even a family camper among them. Thinking of my own situation—unable to afford even a motorcycle, still riding a battered electric scooter—I couldn’t help but feel a pang of inferiority.

“What’s there to envy?” Aji said, adopting a grave tone once again, his pupils back to normal. “The suffering he’s endured isn’t something you could bear.”

We crossed the threshold and the courtyard, and were led upstairs to the second-floor living room.

There, Zhao sat on the sofa in his bathrobe, muttering Buddhist scriptures. Even Aji, seasoned as he was, couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the sight—a two-hundred-pound man adorned with gold chains around his neck and wrists, Buddhist prayer beads, consecrated jade talismans, and even clutching a Daoist charm in his hand—a true clash of the divine.

“Relax, Mr. Zhao. I’ve brought a professional with me. We’ll definitely sort everything out for you today.” I patted my backpack, which contained my tattoo needles, colored inks, and a jar of “unclean things” old Jin had brought me before he left.

Though old Jin had assured me it wasn’t some malevolent ghost—at most, an energy form with no will of its own—I still felt uneasy carrying it around.

We sat chatting idly on the sofa. Old Zhao began recounting his rise to fortune. He truly was a man marked by hardship; when he first arrived in Guangdong, he toiled on construction sites, then learned to lend money informally, made a tidy sum, bought a truck, acquired land, built factories, and founded companies.

At the height of his success, tragedy struck—his first wife, to whom he’d been devoted, died in a traffic accident. Having worked in transportation for decades, his wife’s death under a truck’s wheels hit him hard. As he spoke of this sorrow, he couldn’t help but quietly wipe away tears.

Later, through a business marriage, he wed the heiress of a logistics company. The two companies merged, expanded, and thrived, leading to his current success.

Though Old Zhao often skirted the law, he conducted himself with integrity and respected the rules, especially after his wife’s accident. He instructed all his drivers to set off firecrackers before every journey to ward off bad luck and pray for safety. Who would have thought that an absent-minded old Ma would still meet with misfortune?

Hearing him speak of his late wife, I glanced at his current spouse, signaling for Old Zhao to stop—after all, it’s hardly appropriate to bring up old loves in front of new ones.

But that glance startled me. Madam Zhao seemed utterly unmoved by his heartfelt confession—neither jealous nor agitated. Instead, she bit her lip, her eyes fixed on me, seductively lifting her sheer skirt to reveal smooth white thighs, her fingers beckoning in a flirtatious gesture.

The act shocked me. What young man could withstand such provocation? A sudden rush of heat flared within me.

At that moment, Aji pinched my arm, shook his head, and nodded discreetly, signaling me to look again at Madam Zhao. Her eyes, I now saw, had no pupils at all. Her entire face was deathly pale, disturbingly unnatural.

I sprang to my feet, accidentally knocking the teapot off the coffee table. As the teapot spilled onto the carpet, Madam Zhao hurried over to clean up. As she drew close, I scrutinized her but saw nothing else amiss.

There was still half an hour until midnight. Sensing the time had come, I had Old Zhao lie on the sofa, preparing to tattoo the Yang embroidery—specifically, the Crimson Colt design. The full image included two horses, one large and one small, but today I would only ink the smaller colt. With a fiery red mane, the crimson colt was spirited but loyal, said to safeguard travelers and ensure safe journeys.

Over two days of studying the pattern, I’d gradually mastered the key techniques of Yin-Yang embroidery—skills my grandfather had taught me in my youth, blending drawing with needlework, where each stroke was a stitch.

I began with the horse’s proud head and broad, muscular back, finishing with its powerful legs and hooves. In twenty minutes, the outline was done, but the most crucial part was coloring the mane and tail—a vivid red to ward off evil, and the soul of the design.

I opened old Jin’s dye, pricked Old Zhao’s finger, and let several drops of blood fall into the jar. The dye instantly bloomed red, black mist spiraling up before settling down. Suddenly, a violent wind swept through the room, though the doors and windows were tightly shut.

My first attempt at Yin-Yang embroidery left me anxious, but gritting my teeth, I used the splash-ink technique, pouring the red dye onto Old Zhao’s back. Immediately, the image of a spirited crimson-maned colt leapt forth, as if galloping into the sudden gale, whinnying fiercely.

Just then, the clock struck midnight—“Dong, dong”—and all the lights in the room went out!

From the entryway, a figure in red approached—it was Madam Zhao! Her hair hung loose, her face obscured, but beneath the features, red fur began to grow, and sharp fangs slowly jutted from her mouth.

Clutching my backpack, I cowered in the corner behind Aji, watching as the red-clad woman advanced step by step, chanting, “Your time is up! Your time is up! Return my life! Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee.”

Her shrill laughter pierced the midnight silence. My heart pounded so hard it felt as if it might burst, my vision blurred, and just before I lost consciousness, I seemed to glimpse Aji’s contracted pupils and the red-maned colt on Old Zhao’s back flaring its mane with a defiant whinny…