Chapter 78: Chuyun Mountain Villa

Ning Zhe’s hometown, Qinzhou, lies south of the Great River; apart from the coastal Yanzhou, it is the southernmost prefecture in the nation, and his destination, Yunzhou, is situated in the inland Central Plains along the Yellow River—the birthplace of the sages, home to the nation’s highest academic institution, and a place steeped in culture.

His grandparents’ greatest hopes for Ning Zhe were twofold: first, that he would marry a respectable wife and have several children; second, that he would pass the entrance exam for Yunlu Academy in Yundu, the capital of Yunzhou—effectively, a triumph on the golden list.

Now Ning Zhe was indeed heading to Yundu, though not by passing any exam.

After boarding the plane, Ning Zhe checked the two invitations he had received once more.

One invitation was white, addressed to Zhang Yangxu.

The other was black, addressed to Yu Zi.

“I’ve never received an invitation before—and now it’s a dead man’s,” Ning Zhe muttered, shaking his head, feeling as if he’d given his first kiss to a corpse.

He put both invitations away, leaned back in the first-class seat, and closed his eyes.

Domestic customs here are reserved and subtle; in his experience, only joyous occasions—moving house, weddings, births, or full-moon celebrations—warranted grand invitations and banquets. Funerals, by contrast, were usually spread by word of mouth among neighbors and close kin; only those intimately connected would attend.

Yet after Ji Bichang’s death, his children sent invitations widely to all sectors of society—even Zhang Yangxu, who had barely known the old man and merely bought a few of his calligraphies, received one. This was truly curious.

Even more intriguing was that Yu Zi had received an invitation too.

Yu Zi was no collector—he spent his money on prostitutes, gambling, and debauchery; he had no refined taste for calligraphy or paintings, nor any personal connection to the great calligrapher.

After much thought, the only possible reason Yu Zi, a stranger, received an invitation was this: he was an Elevation.

Ji Bichang was dead; his children had invited Elevations to his funeral, while simultaneously inviting a host of unrelated people to mask the Elevations’ presence.

“To obtain contact details of an Elevation suggests their family likely has one too…” Ning Zhe closed his eyes, his scattered thoughts quickly sorting themselves: “And that person was probably already dead.”

A deceased Elevation manifests macroscopically as a strange event; Yu Zi was likely invited to help resolve it.

But the problem was, the wording on both invitations—white and black—was identical, merely polite, standard invitations; the only differences were the paper color—one black, one white—and the recipient’s name.

Whether others had received black invitations remained unknown.

“I hope I can meet other Elevations at the funeral…” Ning Zhe sighed inwardly.

He wasn’t here to resolve the strange event—he sought only to interact with as many experienced Elevations as possible, gathering knowledge and information about such phenomena.

Less than two hours remained before the plane landed at Yundu International Airport; Ning Zhe put on a silk eye mask and lay down to catch some sleep.

Meanwhile, Ji Bichang’s children were preparing his funeral at the Chuyun Mountain Villa, where he had lived. Ji Bichang had three sons and two daughters; the two eldest sons and one daughter had long since married and established themselves abroad.

The youngest pair were twins born late in life—a boy and a girl, born on the same day, both under twenty this year. The brother, Ji Yunying, bore his father’s surname; the sister took her mother’s surname, Shi, and was named Shi Yurou.

The funeral was being organized by Shi Yurou, Ji Yunying, and their mother; the older siblings were nowhere to be seen.

“Sis, what if guests come and don’t see the older siblings? Won’t they find it strange?” Ji Yunying was a slender, delicate young man, tall and thin like a bamboo stalk—the typical look of a sedentary college boy.

Leaning with his sister on the second-floor railing, he gazed at the vast lake stretching before them: “Father passed away, and the older siblings were overseas and missed seeing him one last time—that’s understandable. But if children don’t even show up for the funeral, outsiders will think the family has no moral standing.”

“At this point, do you still care what outsiders think?” Shi Yurou turned to him with a smile, her graceful, supple figure like fine silk, her face—unnaturally alluring for one so young—beautiful as a seductive poppy.

“I suppose you’re right,” Ji Yunying said, unable to meet his sister’s strikingly beautiful gaze; he turned away from the balcony and entered the second-floor study.

The study was furnished in traditional Chinese style: wooden doors, wooden windows, wooden floors, carved dragons, engraved wind motifs, scholarly bamboo and martial trees.

Autumn waters brushed orchids; sleeping lotuses held spring tea. A broad redwood desk was coated in a smooth, aged patina; brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone were arranged with orderly precision.

According to Yunzhou custom, a deceased elder’s cherished and frequently used items were either buried with them or burned outright, to deny grave robbers any keepsakes. But Ji Bichang’s case was unusual—none of his belongings had been moved; everything remained untouched.

“Outsiders probably think we’re greedy and can’t bear to burn them,” Ji Yunying walked behind the long table and sat down heavily in the master’s chair, woven from slender branches.

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Shi Yurou strolled calmly to the opposite side and sat sideways on the desk.

She idly pulled out a sheet of pure white paper, examined it closely, then shook her head and returned it to its place, sighing softly: “Why worry? We’ll just tell them the truth.”

The items in this study weren’t kept because they were valuable—Ji Bichang himself had instructed them not to touch anything, to preserve every object exactly as it was.

Ji Yunying pulled a brush from its ivory rack, twirling it skillfully between his fingers: “But even if we tell them the truth, will they believe us? Who’d believe a corpse climbed out of its coffin in the middle of the night?”

He muttered under his breath: “If I hadn’t seen the surveillance footage myself, I wouldn’t believe it either…”

“Who told you to sleep while keeping vigil?” Shi Yurou smiled, snatched the brush from his hand, and tapped him lightly on the forehead: “Enough. Guests arrive tomorrow—we’ve still got work to do.”

“Oh…” Ji Yunying reluctantly returned the brush to its rack and pushed the branch-woven chair back into place; the siblings descended the stairs together.

Outside, the vast lake shimmered with ripples; a cool breeze swept over the hills, stirring the dense groves of paper mulberry trees into waves of lush green.

(End of Chapter)