183: Chapter 182 Coffin Shop

Yun Ming emerged from the alley,

turned onto the main street, and slowly headed towards the East Market.

The streets of Qingyao City were as bustling as ever,

teeming with traffic and crowds.

He walked slowly, observing as he went, as if watching a play that had nothing to do with him.

Two people were arguing on a street corner.

One was a Cultivator, at the Foundation Establishment Early Stage, wearing a cyan Daoist robe with a token hanging from his waist; the other was a Mortal, a man in his forties, dressed in a short jacket and cloth shoes, holding a fish in his hand.

The Cultivator said the Mortal was blocking his way; the Mortal said the road belonged to everyone, so why should he let the Cultivator go first.

The two argued fiercely, their faces red, neither giving way.

A circle of onlookers had gathered around them—some Cultivators, some Mortals—some trying to mediate, some laughing, some just standing and watching.

Finally, a soldier from the Patrol Camp arrived, a man at the Foundation Establishment Middle Stage. With a stern face, he scolded them both and told them to disperse.

The Cultivator left; the Mortal, still carrying his fish, also left; the onlookers scattered, and the street returned to its previous order.

Watching this scene, Yun Ming felt a pang of emotion.

In other places, how would a Mortal dare to argue with a Cultivator? A single glance from a Cultivator could make a Mortal kneel; a single thought could reduce a Mortal to ashes.

Here, Mortals dared to argue, and Cultivators dared to yield.

It wasn't that Cultivators feared Mortals; it was that the law protected Mortals.

The laws of the Zifu Immortal Dynasty protected everyone.

He continued walking.

Passing by a stone bridge, he saw women washing clothes beneath it, the sound of their pounding sticks echoing as water splashed onto the bank.

On the bridge, someone had set up a stall selling calligraphy and paintings. The stall owner was an old scholar at the Qi Refining Stage, wearing a skullcap and a long gown, currently writing a couplet for a young Mortal woman.

The young woman held a child, and beside her stood her husband, a burly blacksmith still holding his hammer, likely having come during a break from work.

The old scholar finished writing, read it aloud to them. The blacksmith didn't understand, scratching his head and smiling; the young woman said it was good, paid with a Spirit Stone, rolled up the couplet, and the family of three left.

Yun Ming stood on the bridge watching for a while, then moved on.

The streets were very clean.

The bluestone pavement had been washed with water, wet and glistening.

There was no garbage, no stains; even fallen leaves had been swept to the corners of walls, piled up, waiting to be collected.

In all his days living in Qingyao City, he had never seen a single beggar or a single wandering child.

Later, he heard people say that the Zifu Immortal Dynasty had a special institution for taking in the orphaned, widowed, and abandoned children, called the "Yangjiyuan."

The imperial court provided the funds, the local authorities provided the land, and Cultivators contributed their efforts. Anyone with no one to rely on could go there.

They provided food, shelter, medical care, taught the children to read and write. Those with Spiritual Roots were sent to Cultivate; those without were assigned jobs when they grew up.

Yun Ming had never been to the Yangjiyuan, but he thought it must be a good place.

The East Market was even livelier than the southern part of the city.

This was the most prosperous commercial district in Qingyao City, shops lined up one after another, selling everything imaginable.

Medicinal Pills, Magical Artifacts, Talismans, Formations, Spirit Beasts, Materials, ancient texts, calligraphy and paintings, antiques, jewelry, fabrics, tea, pastries, wine—if you could think of it, you could buy it here.

Yun Ming walked and looked, not stopping.

He was searching for the address. The address written in the gazette was No. 17, Willow Lane, East Market.

He asked two people, turned three corners, and finally found Willow Lane.

Willow Lane wasn't long, and the shops on both sides were smaller than those on the main street, seeming quieter.

He counted the doorplates one by one: fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

He looked up.

The shopfront was not large. The door panels were made of old elm, painted black, with some of the paint peeling off, revealing the pale wood beneath.

A plaque hung above the lintel, black background with gold characters, reading "Gui Qu Lai."

The characters were in running script, the strokes powerful and vigorous, as if written by a master.

A couplet hung on either side of the plaque.

The first line read, "Heaven and Earth as the coffin, the sun and moon as the outer coffin."

The second line read, "Life is but a sojourn, death a return; coming and going, unimpeded."

The characters were in clerical script, neat and solemn, different in style from the running script on the plaque, as if written by two different people.

Yun Ming looked at it a moment longer, thinking the couplet was well-written.

This was a coffin shop.

The coffin shop's door was open, but there was no one inside.

Yun Ming stood at the doorway and peered in. It was dark, with only the faint outlines of several coffins visible.

He knocked on the door panel, three times—*dong, dong, dong*—the sound echoing in the empty shop.

After a long while, footsteps sounded from within.

They were slow, light, as if someone were shuffling their feet along the ground.

An old man emerged from the dimly lit inner room.

He walked very slowly, each step seeming to require great effort.

His waist was bent low, his back severely hunched, his whole body like a bow pressed into a curve.

His face was covered in wrinkles, dense, layered,

like a piece of paper crumpled and then smoothed out.

His eyelids drooped, covering most of his eyes; the small portion of eyeball that showed was murky and yellow, like amber left untouched for too long.

He wore a gray robe, hanging loosely on his frame as if there was little inside.

An aura of decay emanated from him, like autumn leaves, winter branches, an old house long uninhabited.

That aura made one think of the word "death."

He wasn't about to die; he should have died long ago.

But he was still breathing, still walking, still speaking.

"Buying a coffin?" he spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grinding on stone, or wind rustling through dry reeds—*scrape, scrape*.

Yun Ming shook his head. "No. I'm here for the transaction regarding that fourth-grade Spiritual Vein."

The old man's eyes opened a little wider.

He looked Yun Ming up and down, his gaze lingering on his face, then on his moon-white robe. He nodded, stepped aside, and said, "Come in."

Yun Ming followed him into the shop.

The shop was filled with coffins, large and small, of all shapes and kinds, made of various Materials and colors.

Some were painted black, some red, some plain wood without paint; some were cedar, some cypress, some nanmu, and a few made of Materials Yun Ming couldn't recognize.

The largest were over ten feet long, the smallest only three feet.

They were arranged in rows, stacked in layers, almost filling the entire room.

The aisles were so narrow one could only pass sideways. Yun Ming followed behind the old man, walking carefully, afraid of touching the coffins on either side.

The old man led him through the coffins to a small room at the very back of the shop.

The room was small, windowless, with only an oil lamp whose wick held a flickering, bean-sized flame, casting a dim yellow light.

In the very center of the room sat a coffin, different from the ones outside.

This coffin was not large, as if made for a child.

The wood of the coffin was white—not painted white, but the wood's natural color, white as jade, glowing with a gentle luster.

The coffin had no decorations, no carvings, no painted designs; it was utterly plain.

The old man walked to the coffin and pushed open the lid.

Yun Ming looked inside.

A young girl lay there, about fifteen or sixteen years old, with fair skin and delicate features, her eyes closed, her expression serene, as if asleep.

Her hair was black, spread out on the pillow, making her face appear even paler.

Her breathing was steady, not like someone about to die, even steadier than many living people.

But she was indeed lying inside a coffin.