Chapter Fifty-Two: Wealth and Silver (Please Add to Favorites)

An emaciated, decrepit figure trudged along the mountain path, each breath drawn from his lips heavy and labored. Suddenly, a fit of coughing overtook him, flecks of spittle flying in all directions, as though a hole had been torn in his lungs and the air he breathed could not reach his body at all.

To any passerby, the old man was a pitiful sight: clad in rags, reeking of an indescribable stench, his exposed arms and face riddled with festering sores. Raising his head, he caught a glimpse of the gate to Panshan Monastery emerging in the distance, where throngs of worshippers came and went. In recent days, Hangdu had become unsettled, and even more people came to light incense and pray.

Perhaps it was the faint scent of burning incense that set off another bout of coughing; the old man’s palms were now smeared with blood. The passing worshippers pinched their noses and looked on with revulsion.

Wu Lao’er was past his fiftieth year, having followed the wave of refugees from Xuzhou to Yangzhou for nearly a month. Among the handful of elders who survived the journey to Hangdu, he was one of the luckier ones. Most who lagged behind were torn apart by beasts that trailed the column, while others were dragged into darkness by lurking spirits.

Since reaching Hangdu, Wu Lao’er’s health had steadily deteriorated, and death seemed imminent. Yet, as his end drew near, a sudden impulse surfaced in his heart: he wished to burn a stick of incense at Panshan Monastery.

By the time he reached the temple, more than an hour had passed; the sun hung high, its rays scorching his face. Upon seeing Wu Lao’er, an elderly monk hurried out, unafraid of filth, and gently supported him by the arm.

“Good sir, if your legs are unsteady, you may entrust your incense to another. Sincerity is what matters most.”

Wu Lao’er shook his head again and again, his right hand instinctively pressing against his chest, feeling a hard object beneath his tattered clothing.

“I… I’ve come… to make a donation.”

“No rush,” the monk said, easing him under the shade of a tree and then fetching a bowl of water from the temple’s kitchen.

“Have some water first, but take care not to choke.”

Wu Lao’er cast a grateful glance at the monk, lifted the bowl, and drained it in a single gulp. The water restored a little of his strength. He then reached into his coat and drew out an object wrapped in black cloth, his hands trembling as he presented it to the monk.

“There’s some silver inside. Consider it an offering.”

The monk received the parcel, feeling its surprising heft, and tried to return it. “Our monastery cannot accept so much—it is more than enough.”

“Take it, please, just take it. I haven’t slept soundly for nearly a month because of this silver. Perhaps if you accept it, I might feel some relief.”

With a sigh, the monk finally relented and took the silver, hoping the abbot would not rebuke him for accepting so generous a donation.

Wu Lao’er’s expression turned vacant, his dull eyes welling up with tears. As the silver left his hands, his mind grew lucid, and long-buried memories surged forth.

The moment he had stumbled upon the silver a month ago, he had seemed to lose his wits, seeing everyone around him as a potential thief. The villagers had all thought him mad. When calamity struck Xuzhou—monsters running rampant—he had abandoned his wife and child without hesitation, convinced they too coveted the silver.

Now, Wu Lao’er realized with horror that his health had declined ever since the money came into his possession, as though the silver itself were a devouring maw, consuming his life at every moment.

Eyes wide with terror, he pointed a trembling finger at the parcel in the monk’s hands, a ghastly sound issuing from his throat.

“Don’t… don’t… open it…”

With those words, Wu Lao’er’s strength failed him. He collapsed lifeless beneath the tree, never expecting his end to come so swiftly.

The monk had not clearly heard his final words, but the man had died before his very eyes, and a wave of sorrow washed over him. Out of compassion for one so near his own age, he knelt at Wu Lao’er’s side, chanting prayers to guide his soul.

A few weary pilgrims napped in the shade nearby, but Wu Lao’er’s passing caused little stir. When the monk finished his prayers, he quietly summoned several young novices to carry the body to the monastery’s rear grounds.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You who toiled your whole life, may you now find rest in this place.”

Wu Lao’er was buried in a patch of bare earth behind the monastery, an unmarked stone marking his grave. Many others lay there as well—monks who had died at Panshan over the decades, and the occasional traveler who had perished on the mountainside.

When all was done, the monk remembered the black-wrapped silver. For reasons he could not explain, an urgent curiosity came over him; he longed to unwrap the bundle.

He went to the donation box within the temple, finding the hall empty, and withdrew the black cloth from his robes. He unfolded it.

Inside, a piece of silver, about half the size of a finger, lay before him, stained with what seemed to be blood and exuding a metallic scent of gore.

At the sight of the silver, the monk’s expression shifted; the compassion and sorrow in his face gave way to greed and selfishness. His mind was instantly consumed by thoughts of the silver, as if a voice whispered incessantly, urging him to claim it for himself.

He quickly tucked the silver back into his robe, glanced furtively about, and, seeing no one, clutched the bundle tightly and set off down the mountain path, leaving Panshan Monastery behind.

A novice monk noticed him hurrying away and called out, but the old monk silenced him with a chilling, haunted glare.

His departure caused no commotion; he was accustomed to leaving the monastery from time to time to beg or meditate, though today his manner was unusually hasty. Yet the novice was deeply unsettled by the look in the old monk’s eyes, the memory lingering, impossible to shake. Being a local, the novice took his leave from the monks and decided to return home for a time.

That night, after all the worshippers had left and the busy monastery had finally quieted, a novice sweeping the rear courtyard passed by Wu Lao’er’s grave and noticed it seemed larger than it had that afternoon.

Past midnight, the monastery was utterly still, broken only by the soft sounds of monks sleeping.

Suddenly, the earth atop the grave began to stir, and a pale, skeletal hand thrust itself from the soil.

In no time, Wu Lao’er crawled out of the mound, looking much as he had in life, though more sores covered his body, his skin had turned a ghastly white, and the stench around him had grown even more overpowering.

“My… my silver… Who took… my silver…”

His whisper echoed through the silent night, sending chills through the darkness.

Then, screams rang out from Panshan Monastery—sharp and dreadful—though soon enough, all was silent again.