Inside the box lay a short knife of creamy white bone. It gave off no ominous aura, yet merely gazing upon it stirred the soul with unease.
Huang Jiu bristled all over, its pupils shrinking wildly as it trembled, "I smell the breath of death."
Indeed, it was the scent of death—but not because the blade would kill us. Rather, the knife itself was a symbol of death.
Tin‑Ting, playing in my room, heard the disturbance and ran out. She was only a few steps from the bone blade when she spotted it and let out a terrified wail, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Though she understood nothing of death, she knew fear. At her cry, the three women in the kitchen came running.
Huang Xian'er frowned at the open box. "That's a sacrificial knife. You can't bring that into the house."
A sacrificial knife—by name, used to slaughter animals in ritual offerings, but these blades carry a special significance, handed down for centuries, even millennia. They reek of killing; they are ominous relics. Yet if used on livestock, the scent of death would never be so overwhelming. This blade must have been used in human sacrifice—stained with so much blood that it confronts one with mortality itself.
Yet as Xiaocui approached, the knife's oppressive aura faded. Sensing this, I snapped the lid shut. On the way back, I'd felt none of that dread—this box must be specially sealed to contain the blade's death‐scent.
If Curator Qian hadn't explicitly given it to me, I'd never have believed such a knife existed. The bone carving matched the peeling knives used for butchering cattle and sheep—and I immediately thought of the black human‐skin totem. If I was right, this knife had been used to slaughter and skin humans during the totem's creation. It might even be the totem's nemesis.
Worried Xiaocui might unknowingly purify the blade's aura, I hid the box in the shoe cabinet by the door before she could get near.
While Su Yimei coaxed Tingting away, I cooked our meal. At dinner, everyone sat at the table, save for Huang Jiu, who scuttled about on the tabletop. Huang Xian'er looked exasperated and set out a dish on the floor, feeding Huang Jiu like a pet—a humiliation for a妖 who had lived two centuries.
Under her glare, Huang Jiu didn't dare so much as a burp. When the meal ended, it scurried over and demanded three more days to secure the bronze mirror. Failing that, it vowed to solve the matter by its own means.
I tried to comfort it, but it cut me off mid‑sentence: "I'm simply informing you, not asking permission. And don't worry—Grandmaster Jiu operates alone and takes full responsibility; you won't be involved."
Seeing it was resolute, I stayed silent. Three days wasn't much; Curator Qian might still refuse.
That night, I tried to tease Xiaocui again, but after a day of play she'd lost interest in Tomcat. She guarded herself warily all evening, so I contented myself with checking her pulse and pressing a kiss to her lips.
At dawn, Huang Jiu and I took the sacrificial knife and headed out, curious how Hu Wenhui was faring at the shop. Rather than go straight to the inquiry store, I set off for Old Cripple Song's place to practice with the wooden dummy, leaving Huang Jiu to watch our storefront from a distance.
Around ten o'clock, Huang Jiu suddenly bounded over: the effeminate man had arrived again. I dashed back to the shop. Through the display‑window glass I saw him stride in, flanked by two bodyguards—each carrying a money case.
Huang Jiu hissed, "Yesterday there was one guard with a money chest; now there are two. Master Li, shall we go out there and let him 'win people over with virtue' again?"
I hesitated. As shop owner, perhaps I should. But the righteous air around Hu Wenhui made me uneasy—living with someone who frets over right and wrong, who spurns all moral compromise, is exhausting.
Before I could decide, Uncle called. "There's a customer at the shop—go check!" he said.
I ended the call and, with Huang Jiu, quietly locked Old Cripple Song's door. We bought a few steamed buns from a street vendor, pretending to have just come from home. Stepping inside, I greeted Hu Wenhui and offered him buns.
He accepted them gratefully and said, "I've agreed on the price. For two million yuan, I 'win people over with virtue'—my fee is 1.8 million, and you get 200,000 as the middleman."
I would have demurred—nothing to do and a 200,000‐yuan reward was an enormous sum in any era. But before I could speak, Huang Jiu yanked open the money chest and began pawing yen into a pile.
I held my tongue—otherwise we'd both be mortified. I managed a few polite words as I formulated my reply. But as I glanced at Hu Wenhui's brow, my face went pale. He was somehow borrowing my fortune—drawing on my luck and destiny.
My grandfather had told me I was destined for great wealth. Indeed, since entering the city, my uncle and I had never lacked for money. Yet however prosperous one's fate, few would willingly surrender their own fortune—least of all to someone else. And Xiaocui's future hinged on my luck; I couldn't risk a transfer of fortune.
Hu Wenhui's eyes flicked up in surprise. Without answering my unspoken question, he asked, "You have a spiritual eye? What level?"
"Just scraping by at the third level," I replied. I concealed my full ability—the man was no friend of mine and might betray my uncle if given half the chance.
He chuckled, shaking his head at my modesty. Yet I felt undaunted; boasting wasn't a crime.
Then Hu Wenhui turned to the effeminate man. "Hold on a moment. I need to discuss something with my boss."
He beckoned me into the VIP room. As we entered, I pulled out my phone—ready to call my uncle and lay everything out before us.