The security guard at the gate took one look at that stiff movement, and his face instantly went pale.
He quickly sat up, pulled out his phone, and made a call to Old Zhang first.
"Uncle Zhang... there's someone in the central courtyard!"
"Hmm? Is he carrying a flashlight?" Old Zhang was pretty calm. He poured himself another drink while making the call.
"No, he just passed the condolence hall, walking really slowly, body all stiff."
"Alright, I got it. Don't worry about it, just lock the door and watch your shows."
Old Zhang downed a glass of liquor, rummaged under his bed for a crowbar, and called the director.
"What is it?" The phone had only rung twice when the director's low voice came on the line.
"Looks like a client's out for a nighttime stroll."
"Which area?"
"Came from the central courtyard."
"Let Wen Yan... never mind, just keep an eye on things for now. If there's no big issue, send him back in for tonight, we'll handle it tomorrow."
"Or maybe—" Old Zhang sounded a little eager.
"If it's a regular client, just send him back to rest. Don't complicate things; follow protocol."
"Oh..." Old Zhang sighed, sounding disappointed. Truth was, he'd have happily dragged the guy off to the luxury furnace for a one-and-done.
He grabbed the crowbar in one hand, fished a book from his drawer with the other, flipped through it and pulled out a yellow talisman, then headed out the door.
He didn't go straight up. From a distance, after spotting the figure, he took a detour—headed to the VIP rooms in the central courtyard first, made the rounds. When he spotted one of the ice coffins open, he let out a long sigh, knowing burning it right away was out of the question.
The one in this ice coffin was just some old man delivered earlier today, a regular guy. Even if he'd become a client, he was just a regular client.
Clients like that—if they climb out and get restless, it's usually because of some unfinished business in life, died unexpectedly, that sort of thing.
He wheeled over a basic gurney, hurried to catch up with the client ahead, side-stepped quickly, and slapped the yellow talisman right on the old guy's forehead.
In an instant, the shuffling old man stopped dead in his tracks.
Old Zhang lifted the old man back onto the gurney and put him back in the ice coffin, locking the clasps again.
He picked up an incense stick off to the side, lit it in front of the ice coffin, bowed a few times, then turned to leave. As he was heading out, he looped a chain lock on the glass door outside the private room.
Old Zhang went back to his tiny office, kept watching videos, didn't think too much of it.
These past few years, clients who won't lie still have been showing up more and more—especially the ones who died violently, they're always the most restless. Really, tonight's client was an easy one.
A client like this doesn't even require the Scorching Sun Department—just subdue them on the spot, standard procedure after that, same as any normal client.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully.
Early the next morning, Wen Yan had just arrived at work and bumped into the director at the entrance.
"Go take the client from VIP room seven to the Old Ice Warehouse."
"Uh..." Wen Yan could tell right away something had happened.
"That client had an accident, fell down the stairs. I heard he was all tidied up before it happened, must've had something important to do, that's probably why he was restless last night.
His eldest son and second daughter are both out of town and haven't arrived yet. They called yesterday, said they want to send him off themselves.
For now, just relocate him to the Old Ice Warehouse."
"Okay." Wen Yan didn't say much. The director hadn't spelled it out, but Wen Yan could guess—most likely another brothers' feud, more drama coming later. He'd overheard that this client had a younger son living locally, drove for a ride-hailing app. When the old man was delivered here, the youngest was still out dropping off a customer at the airport.
He wheeled the body all the way to the old office building.
As Wen Yan pushed the client across the line at the corridor's end, the stiff body suddenly seemed to go slack, collapsing into dead weight on the gurney, suddenly heavier.
Dead weight, cold and heavy...
The yellow talisman on the forehead burned instantly to ash, drifting away in the air.
Wen Yan frowned slightly. What was up with this line, anyway?
Any yellow talisman that crossed over here just disintegrated right away.
Without a word, Wen Yan loaded the body into an empty freezer in the Old Ice Warehouse's basement, following all the protocols.
Approaching noon, Mo Zhicheng—wearing his rimless glasses—arrived at the Funeral Home, looking for his father. Not seeing his father there, he became anxious. He didn't buy the funeral home's story about a faulty ice coffin requiring his father's transfer.
He wanted to see his father and pay respects, but his father had taken a stroll last night and now had been placed in the Old Ice Warehouse.
"Where's my dad? Did you already cremate him?"
"Was it Mo Zhihong who told you to do this? What gives you the right?"
"Answer me—where did my dad go?" With that, Mo Zhicheng pulled out his phone and started recording the staff.
He had barely started filming when his phone rang. The caller ID read "Mo Zhihong."
Mo Zhicheng answered, ready to say something, but a voice came through first.
"Zhicheng, I've reached Nanwu County, couldn't get a high-speed rail ticket. Come pick me up. I've told the Funeral Home, tomorrow we'll send off Dad together."
Mo Zhicheng gradually calmed down. Ah Gui from the funeral shop hurried over just then, and after getting close, dropped his voice low.
"Your father's facial restoration is tricky, and you saw the state he was in. The old man always wanted to look presentable—plus you all wanted it done fast. I pulled some strings; they're working overtime for you..."
Mo Zhicheng fell silent, didn't say another word, walked a few steps toward the mortuary, then just quietly turned and left.
After Mo Zhicheng left, Ah Gui rushed to smooth things over with the Funeral Home staff. He'd handled plenty of jobs, seen it all—even families brawling over inheritance right at the funeral. This was nothing.
Another ordinary day ended, and night fell.
In the Old Ice Warehouse, the elderly man lying in the freezer had eyelids that began to tremble slightly. Faint currents of air rasped in his throat.
As time passed, the old man's eyes shot open.
His murky eyes were completely hollow, utterly vacant. The air bubbling from his lips sounded like muddled speech.
The chill in the room slowly drew into him. As before, he began banging against the freezer door, bit by bit. Frost seeped through, thickening with every impact.
Hours later, the now-deformed freezer door slowly swung open.
A little after that, the stiff, frost-covered old man tumbled out of the freezer, still mumbling incoherently out of habit.
His eyes were empty, his body rigid, moving laboriously as he made his way to the basement exit.
With hands frozen stiff, he pounded on the lock, over and over. Skin started to split, revealing bone, but he kept pounding. As he thawed, his strength increased.
He broke the lock, then rolled down the stairs, tumbling downward.
He landed on the lower level—this was lockers 51 through 100.
The neck he'd just reattached snapped apart again, and his head lolled sideways onto his shoulder. Using bone, he smashed open the next lock and shambled inside.
He went straight to locker 51, reached out, and opened it.
He tore open a body bag inside. There lay a corpse, shrouded in corpse wax—the one odd thing was its face, which seemed to have grown a wooden mask.
Still blank-eyed and murmuring, joints stiff, he reached to drag the corpse out, then, inch by inch, peeled the face from it like prying free a wooden mask, then gripping that face, began to slowly make his way back upstairs.