Chapter 30: Carrying a Corpse

“Alright, alright, Grandma’s waiting for Fubao. Let’s go take a stroll ahead. Thank you, young lady—the handkerchief is indeed beautiful, but this old woman can’t afford it. When my granddaughter grows up, we’ll come buy from you again.”

She smiled and thanked the stall owner.

She seemed to take Jiang Fubao’s earlier words seriously.

“No need for thanks. If my handkerchiefs are admired, that alone makes me happy. Little girl, I set up stall here every day. Once you start earning money, you must come buy from me.”

The stall owner teased Fubao.

“Okay!”

Jiang Fubao nodded heavily.

Grandmother and granddaughter left together.

They walked to the street corner and turned onto another road.

The moment they stepped in—

a familiar herbal fragrance rushed into Fubao’s nose.

A wooden sign above read: No Illness Street.

Clearly, this was the ancient version of a hospital district.

Sure enough, the very first shop at the entrance was a pharmacy.

To the right stood a medical clinic.

Next to it, a medicinal wine shop.

And then a massage hall, and so on.

Everything was tied to medicine.

There weren’t many shops here—barely over twenty in total.

The street branched into five alleys, each named after a type of medicinal herb.

Fubao knew better than anyone else what this meant. Back in college, she had clutched those thick tomes of materia medica day and night, memorizing them until she wanted to die.

Naturally, every herb was carved into her memory.

The alleys were mostly lined with residences.

The houses were large and imposing.

Clearly, the families living here were all wealthy.

Convenient access to doctors came at a price—the property here must be sky-high.

“Doctor, I beg you! Please save my mother! As long as you cure her, when my father returns, I’ll have him give you two hundred taels of silver.”

Suddenly, a wail rang out.

Fubao turned her head.

Outside the very clinic they had just passed, a small boy was kneeling.

He looked about six or seven.

Beside him lay a pale-faced woman, lips dark with cyanosis.

Her features were delicate.

Her hair was half pinned up, half scattered on the ground. The jeweled hairpin was exquisitely made—clearly worth a fortune.

Even with her eyes closed, the woman radiated grace.

She was like the noble daughters in costume dramas—raised in a household of scholars and refinement.

“The old man has already said, your mother’s body is like a candle burning its last oil. She cannot be saved. Most likely, she spent all her life force during childbirth. To have lived until now was already Heaven’s mercy. This old man does not have the ability to wrestle souls from Yama. While she still has a breath left, you should quickly prepare her funeral.”

The old physician spoke coldly.

With a flick of his sleeve—

he shut the clinic door.

“Mother—!”

“Mother, don’t go! Don’t leave Chier behind! Mother, wake up—!”

The boy pressed his little hand to the woman’s nose—then burst into sobs.

“How pitiful… only this small, and already without a mother.”

Zhang Jinlan sighed, shaking her head in sympathy.

“Somebody, please help me! Help me carry my mother home—I’ll give one tael of silver!”

Grandmother and granddaughter had just watched quietly, about to leave, when the boy cried out.

But the households here were all wealthy.

Who would carry a corpse for just a tael of silver?

It was unlucky.

And those seeing doctors here were hardly poor either. The destitute could never afford it—at best, they’d call in a barefoot doctor to write a prescription.

So the passersby only watched as if it were a play.

No one stepped forward.

“I’ll do it—I’ll do it—!”

The instant Zhang Jinlan heard a fresh corpse carried home for a whole tael, her eyes lit up.

Freshly dead, still warm.

What was there to fear?

She rushed forward, as if afraid someone else might snatch the job.

Even forgetting her granddaughter for the moment.

Fubao stood rooted in embarrassment.

Her grandmother really would do anything for money.

“Young master, is it true—you’ll give one tael?”

Though the boy’s clothes clearly marked him as a wealthy son, he was far too young. Zhang Jinlan worried he might not keep his word.

“It’s true. As long as you carry my mother home, I’ll give you one tael.”

The boy’s tears still flowed, his words muffled by sobs.

“Fine, I’ll carry her. But what about my basket?” Zhang Jinlan was stingy as ever. She couldn’t just abandon it here—it would surely be stolen.

But her granddaughter was only three, barely as tall as the basket. She couldn’t carry it.

“Give it to me,” the boy offered, seeing her dilemma. He took the basket himself.

Zhang Jinlan exhaled in relief.

She bent down and carefully lifted the woman onto her back.

“Fubao, stay close, don’t get lost. Young master, lead the way,” she called out.

And so—one old woman carrying a corpse, plus two children—made their way toward Qulian Alley.

They finally stopped before a large gate with a plaque: The Shen Residence.

Bang bang bang—

“Open the door—!”

The boy knocked for ages, but there was no response.

He grew anxious.

Only after a full quarter hour came a voice from within.

“Has your mother been saved?”

Fubao crouched by the wall, listening intently.

It seemed to be a woman speaking.

The voice was mature, likely a concubine.

“No, Auntie, my mother has passed. Please open the door. I must write to Father, bid him return quickly. And I ask Auntie to help arrange my mother’s funeral.”

The boy’s words carried both hatred and grief.

“Dead bodies must not enter the house—it is bad luck! Carry her to the coffin shop, buy a coffin, and bury her in the paupers’ graveyard. Don’t leave her at the gate. I won’t let the porter open up, so give up now. If you don’t want to see her rot and stink, move her quickly.”

With that,

the door cracked open, and three broken pieces of silver were tossed out.

Judging by size—about three and a half taels.

“Auntie! My mother was the legitimate wife! She should be buried in the ancestral tomb! How dare you tell me to throw her into a paupers’ pit? What will you say when Father returns?!”

The boy kicked away the silver in rage, pounding on the door.

But inside, silence.

“Young master, what now? Your aunt is too much—she won’t even send out two servants to help.”

Even Zhang Jinlan couldn’t help grumbling.

Yet her eyes clung greedily to the silver on the ground, drool nearly spilling.

After all, one piece was her promised wage.

“Please, help me carry my mother to the coffin shop. I’ll add another tael.”

The boy wiped his tears with his sleeve.

Hatred filled his eyes.

One by one, he picked the silver pieces off the ground.

“Done!”

At the promise of more pay, Zhang Jinlan seemed energized, like a rooster injected with tonic.

She hoisted the corpse and marched on.

This street, of course, had no coffin shops.

The wealthy would never tolerate such ill-omened things nearby.

So the group headed to Wanlu Street.

This was like the slums of the ancient city.

Compared to the affluent avenues just now, it was like stepping straight from a modern downtown into a run-down urban village.

The gap was shocking.

Wanlu Street bustled with inns, livestock dealers, slave markets, and cart rentals.

There were also porters for hire, day laborers, and all manner of rough trade.