Chapter Nine: The Zombie Ship

When Old Man Lei Ren suddenly stood up, we were stunned to realize he wasn’t crippled after all! Not only was he not lame, but he walked briskly on his own, hands clasped behind his back. After circling his wheelchair a few times, Old Lei grinned at me and said, “Don’t misunderstand why I sit in the wheelchair… I just don’t feel like moving… Today, seeing a disciple of the Zhao family here, truly makes me happy!”

Lazy enough to use a wheelchair? I doubted that was the whole story. But since he was unwilling to move, I was just as unwilling to ask. I wanted to see what game he was playing.

After stretching his limbs, Old Lei sat back down, chuckling to himself, leaving us all exchanging bewildered glances. To be honest, he looked rather odd—why use a wheelchair if you’re not sick? Did he think he was some sort of sage? Moreover, his gaze never left me, making me feel increasingly uneasy.

It struck me he might be plotting something regarding me…

Faced with this peculiar scene, I didn’t know how to handle it, so I could only force a smile and respond as best I could. I told him my master’s surname was indeed Zhao, but not Zhao Qingshan; as for the culinary duels or the tales of “Ox Soul,” I’d never heard of them, nor knew anything about those feats of national glory he mentioned.

After I finished, a trace of disappointment flickered across Old Lei’s face. His expression grew gloomy again, and beside him, Comrade Wangcai grew even more agitated, actually interrupting to ask, “That’s nonsense! How could a descendant of the Zhao family not know Zhao Qingshan?”

That question left me utterly dumbfounded.

My master’s name was Zhao Haipeng, not Zhao Qingshan. And the old squad leader in the army only ever mentioned to me that he had a brother named Zhao Haikun, and once said his own father was called… Zhao Deguang.

This senior from Confucius Temple named Zhao Qingshan was someone I’d never heard of.

“Could he have mistaken the family?” I wondered to myself.

Still, I couldn’t let the situation grow any colder, lest this fox-like old man take offense and have his dozen disciples put on a show for me—hardly appropriate.

So, I braced myself and replied, “…But my master is remarkable too; his ancestors were imperial chefs, and he even has a knife bestowed by the emperor…”

Before I could finish, Old Lei’s suspicious look turned to joy. He slapped the table and suddenly shouted, “That’s it! That’s him!” As if he’d seized a wriggling snake from my words, he was visibly excited.

…Who is “him”? I hadn’t mentioned anyone!

For some reason, Lei Ren completely ceased to doubt my identity. He swayed back and forth, putting on airs and said,

“It’s normal you don’t know! After all, those are grudges and affections from generations ago in our Five Viscera Temple. Young folks like you wouldn’t understand the blades and passions of those times!”

Lei Ren’s words held a clear undertone of condescension, implying I was short-sighted. But at this point, all I could do was keep smiling and listen. After all, he was older than me, and likely to die before I do…

Seeing my “respectful” attitude, Lei Ren immediately began flaunting his seniority, calling me “junior” at every turn. Once the dishes were served, he even had me pour his wine and add to his plate, treating me entirely as one of his own.

Still, I endured it—after all, we were eating his “free food” and drinking his “courtesy wine.” And though Lei Ren said to just whip up a few simple dishes, what he served us was the real deal, sparing no expense.

Just for that, I had to tolerate him.

As for the “simple” two dishes he served, I was genuinely impressed. With just a glance, my eyes nearly popped out in astonishment.

Why? Because what was served were two signature Cantonese dishes: “Eel (substitute for snake) Tiger-Dragon Duel” and “Qilin Phoenix Claw Perch”!

Just these two dishes, the ingredients and craftsmanship need no detailed explanation; their symbolism and choice alone outclass those “private school” cooks by miles. Though only two dishes, they contained both birds and beasts—dragon, tiger, phoenix, and qilin—all present, shimmering with golden brilliance, radiating the majesty of a grand feast, making one’s mouth water and dazzling my eyes.

Honestly, seeing such grand dishes in this humble service station restaurant felt like a waste. In my opinion, they belonged in a top-class hotel, where their quality would be truly appreciated.

I genuinely sighed in admiration—the culinary skill of the Five Ridge Temple was truly extraordinary!

With these two dishes anchoring the table, even though we could only sample them due to the “Free Food Gu” curse, we were thoroughly satisfied. Naturally, I gave Lei Ren face, and pleasing him cost me nothing.

And so, Lei Ren sang, I drank, the two of us played our roles—one courteous, one respectful—and our cooperation was surprisingly smooth. After three rounds of drinks, the old man loosened up and began to recount the connections between his family and the Zhao clan.

Lei Ren said his father’s name was Lei Aniu, a Cantonese whose main life trajectory spanned the late Qing and Republican eras.

Lei Aniu was not an educated man, but he was resourceful. At thirteen, he began wandering, venturing to Southeast Asia, traveling to Taiwan, but never managed to make a name for himself. Once, crossing the strait, he encountered a typhoon—the entire boat was smashed, and he survived by clinging to a floating plank, drifting with the waves.

He drifted for three days and nights before being rescued near Zhoushan. By then, he was swollen from soaking in the water, but managed to keep his life.

After surviving, Lei Aniu landed in Zhejiang penniless and worried for his livelihood. Just as he was about to beg for food, he spotted a notice for “recruiting laborers” by the river.

Lei Aniu couldn’t read, but after years of wandering, he’d seen many such “employment notices,” so he understood what “recruiting laborers” meant—it was a chance to earn money by manual work.

With a little guidance from others, he went to the hiring company.

Upon arrival, Lei Aniu discovered it was a dock company running inland canal transports. After inquiry, he learned the dock had received a batch of work transporting aged glutinous rice by five boats up the Grand Canal to Beiping. Labor was short, hence the recruitment notice.

At the time, Lei Aniu was truly desperate, so he accepted the contract without a second thought. After receiving a silver coin and the agreement, he hurriedly ate a full meal and set off with the boat.

However, once Lei Aniu was actually aboard the canal boat, he gradually regretted accepting the “laborer” job.

It was no wonder, for as time went on, he increasingly felt these canal boats were strange. They didn’t seem to be carrying rice, but rather… something hidden and unspeakable.

Lei Aniu developed these suspicions gradually. First, he noticed the rice containers were unusual—not cloth bags or rice bins, but sealed in sea jars with clay.

That was odd. When Lei Aniu worked on the strait in Taiwan, he’d seen ships use rice as ballast. In his experience, rice was always packed in burlap sacks; sometimes foreign rice was packaged more finely, perhaps in waxed leather bags, but nothing more.

Transporting rice in sea jars—he’d never seen that before.

But that wasn’t all. On the second day, Lei Aniu noticed all the canal boatmen, from the foreman to the bowman, wore folded “Mandarin Duck Corner” vermilion talismans pinned to their chests.

This puzzled him even more. He knew boatmen were superstitious—always seeking protective charms and altars, whether canal or sea—but never vermilion talismans.

Talismans dissolved in water; wearing one was pointless for men living among waves. That was basic common sense. Lei Aniu couldn’t understand why every leader carried one.

With these questions mounting, Lei Aniu grew increasingly uneasy. When the boat crossed the Yangtze, his anxiety peaked.

For he discovered several key figures carried “box pistols” and copper coin swords at their waists.

This discovery frightened him deeply.

He could understand the pistols—canal transport was less secure than sea transport, with no international conventions or foreign ships for protection, frequent theft and robbery, so guns were basic self-defense. But copper coin swords…

To Lei Aniu, only Daoists carried such items.

So naturally, he concluded these rice transporters were really Daoists, or at the very least, people versed in occult arts.

That realization made him nervous and uneasy.

Lei Aniu had been on his own since childhood; over the years, he’d picked up a lot. He’d long heard from knowledgeable friends… that glutinous rice, sea jars, vermilion talismans, and copper coin swords were all tools for suppressing zombies and vengeful spirits.

In other words, what was stored in those sea jars might not be rice at all, but “wrapped” corpses!

That thought exploded in his mind, and he could only think of one thing—escape!

He’d rather forgo the money than haul such things; risking his life wasn’t worth it.

Unfortunately, when he actually tried to flee, he found himself constantly watched by the canal foremen and bosses, making escape impossible.

He realized the canal men took turns standing guard, as if expecting someone to run!

With their box pistols at the ready, no one dared attempt escape.

So Lei Aniu, terrified, performed his laborer duties like a frightened bird, praying for the goddess to protect him, hoping either to escape or survive unscathed.

But fate is cruel—what you fear most often comes to pass. When the boat reached the Jining area of Shandong, something really happened.