Chapter 6: Things Hurt Their Own Kind

On the southern city street...

Because of the darkness, Chief Xu and Steward Song walked with lanterns in hand. Beside them, eight porters carried a statue of a bodhisattva, shrouded in a white cloth. The street was deserted save for their procession, and now and then the night wind would lift a corner of the cloth, revealing a glimpse of the six-armed deity beneath.

Deep into the night, the sight of a group bearing a bodhisattva statue through the empty streets was anything but solemn; instead, it exuded a chilling, almost ghastly air.

Unease crept over Xu, the chief constable. He knew well enough that this task he’d taken on was disrespectful, and his conscience was uneasy. Glancing around, he felt the August night was colder than it ought to be.

Steward Song fared little better. Having served the old master for over twenty years, he could not help but believe in certain things. Even as he walked, he muttered under his breath: “Bodhisattva, forgive us. This was the master’s order. I am but a servant; this is not my doing.”

His muttering only heightened Xu’s discomfort. The more Song whispered, the more Xu felt haunted, his mind playing tricks as they walked the desolate night.

In contrast, the eight porters, burdened by the thousand-pound weight on their shoulders, had little energy for superstitions. Each step was a monumental struggle, their legs heavy as lead.

Liu Shen, young and robust, still found the yoke digging into his flesh, veins bulging on his brow, sweat stinging his eyes with no chance to wipe it away.

Wei Dafu, less sturdy, had bloodshot eyes from the strain, his face twisted into a frightening, almost demonic mask.

The eight were bound together by hemp ropes, none daring to slack off. A single misstep could uneven the burden and crush a man outright.

They were uneducated, but years of hard labor had taught them that a task always began with vigor, weakened with repetition, and ended in exhaustion.

So, each of the eight held their breath, determined not to let their strength falter.

“We’re outside the city...” Steward Song, seeing the city gate behind them, breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He pointed to a pit dug by the road and said, “Set it by the pit. Push it in and smash it.”

“Hurry, hurry...” Xu waved his hand, encouraging, “Just a bit more strength and you’re done. Once it’s over, you can all go rest.”

The eight porters, Liu Shen among them, straightened with resolve at the sight of their destination.

They maneuvered the statue to the pit’s edge, and as they eased the burden from their shoulders, the pent-up air in their chests released. The world spun around them.

Liu Shen, leaning on the statue, gasped for breath—until he noticed Wei Dafu collapse nearby, his head drooping, chest heaving with ragged, wheezing breaths.

The others paused uneasily; a sense of dread rose among them.

Anyone in this line of work knew: after such exertion, one mustn’t sit down immediately; even to rest, one should stand. Wei Dafu would have known this…

Xu and Steward Song approached with their lanterns, ready to ask what had happened, but before they could speak, the lantern light revealed blood trickling from the corners of Wei Dafu’s eyes and nostrils.

Combined with his wheezing and bloodshot eyes, he looked like a demon from hell.

“Ghost!” Steward Song, ever superstitious, dropped his lantern in terror and howled, turning to flee—only to slip and fall flat on his face.

Xu, hardened by years on the street, had seen men collapse from exhaustion, but guilt gnawed at him, and the sight made his hair stand on end. He raised a foot, intending to kick and run.

Liu Shen, terrified, knew Wei Dafu was simply spent, perhaps at death’s door. If he took that kick now, not even two lives would suffice to die from it.

Though they weren’t close, they’d worked together without complaint. Liu Shen couldn’t bear to see Xu treat a man so.

He rushed forward, grabbing Xu’s leg, shouting, “He’s no ghost! Wei Dafu is just exhausted! Exhausted!”

The other porters came to their senses, hurrying to block Xu and help the shaken Steward Song to his feet.

“I... I’m a man... not a ghost,” Wei Dafu croaked, wiping his face, smearing blood and sweat together.

He tried to rise, to prove he was alive, but a metallic taste surged in his throat and he coughed up a mouthful of fresh blood.

Oddly enough, after spitting the blood, he seemed more alert, struggling to his feet, though his face was flushed with an unnatural red.

“Chief Xu, look...” Wei Dafu forced a grin, his teeth stained with blood. “It’s me, Wei Dafu. I’m a man, not a ghost.”

“Stay away from me!” Xu shuddered at the sight, hurrying to brush the dust from Steward Song’s clothes. “Steward Song, forgive our man’s collapse. I hope you’re not offended.”

“No harm... no harm...” Steward Song soothed his pounding heart, but at the sight of Wei Dafu’s bloody grin, still shivered with lingering fear.

“Chief Xu, just have the men push the statue into the pit and smash it. I’ll return first...”

“Of course, of course. I’ll see you off,” Xu replied at once, then turned sternly to the porters. “I’ll escort Steward Song. Push the statue in and smash it, then you’re free to go.”

With that, he left with Steward Song.

The remaining porters exchanged hesitant glances; none dared be first to strike the statue of a bodhisattva.

Liu Shen, sensing the unease, sighed. “Brothers, just help me push it in. Leave the smashing to me.”

“Good man, Brother Shen!” the others chorused, genuine relief in their voices.

Eager lest he change his mind, they worked together, prying and shoving the statue into the pit.

With a dull thud, the massive statue crashed down. Cracks split its surface, four of its six arms snapping off, the head breaking from the neck.

The porters, unnerved, instinctively stepped back, eyes fixed on Liu Shen.

“Brother Shen...” Hu Dahai grinned sheepishly. “Dafu’s in bad shape. We can’t delay, I need to take him to the clinic.”

“Yes, yes...” the others chimed in, making it clear they’d be off to the clinic too.

Liu Shen understood: none wished to linger. He waved them off. “Go ahead, take Dafu with you.”

“Right, right...” Relieved, they half-dragged Wei Dafu away, ignoring his protests about needing to save money for his son, not wanting to go to the clinic, or insisting he was fine.

Liu Shen watched them go, shaking his head. Then he turned his gaze to the shattered statue in the pit.

He stepped down, hefted the severed stone head, and murmured, “If there truly are gods or spirits, why not open your eyes and look upon this world?”

With that, he raised the head high and smashed it down onto the body below.

Fragments flew.

Again and again, he picked up the head, lifted it, and brought it crashing down, feeling a strange sense of exhilaration—as though years of pent-up stress found release at last.

By the time most of the statue was rubble and the stone head itself was covered in cracks, he felt his task was done.

With a long breath, he readied himself to climb out of the pit and return to rest—then froze, caught by something in the corner of his eye.

In the moonlight, from the shattered remains of the stone head, a faint red glow shone through...