Chapter 142

Chapter 142

In the dim living room, most of the candles had been extinguished during the scuffle.

Only a few remained, flickering in the wind and emitting an oppressive green light.

This green was almost absolute, yet the original color of the candle flame was still faintly visible.

If an ordinary Ghost appeared nearby, the flame would turn a pale green, requiring a close look to notice.

If it were a Ghost with heavier resentment like Huang Haiquan, the flame would look as it did now.

However, if it were someone like Li Xiumei or Du Yuwei, the entire flame would turn a deep green, potentially casting a green hue over the entire room.

The reason the flames flickered so violently was mainly due to the heavy yin energy in the room, which affected the magnetic field.

Under the glow of these candles, Meng Yifan’s face looked somewhat sinister and terrifying.

After the possession, although we were still looking at Meng Yifan’s face, we could clearly sense that the person behind it was someone else.

Perhaps it was because we were too familiar with Meng Yifan.

Meng Yifan stared at me now with a look of deep-seated hatred. He tilted his chin toward me and said, “I want a cigarette.”

The voice coming out of his mouth was Huang Haiquan’s.

My face was nearly swollen from his slaps. If it weren’t for the sake of selling the house-and the fact that he was using Meng Yifan’s face-I would have slapped him back tenfold.

After lighting a cigarette, I stuffed it directly into his mouth.

“Do you understand what it feels like to be wronged? You don’t understand at all.”

He looked at us with disdain, as if he had experienced something we hadn’t, making him a bit more ‘knowledgeable’ than us.

I thought to myself that Song Xiaotian and I weren’t the types to find unfaithful women.

Even in the worst-case scenario, if we encountered such a woman, we’d break up the moment she cheated for the first time.

But Huang Haiquan hadn’t divorced her; he insisted on forgiving her.

Wasn’t that just securing the cuckold’s horns on his own head? He had been tormented to death by his wife and her lover.

“Brother Quan, there’s no point in talking about this now. Your wife has been brought to justice.”

I advised him, “Besides, you’re already… you know, shouldn’t you consider reincarnation? After all, dust to dust, ashes to ashes. We have to follow the laws of nature.”

“If you have any unfulfilled wishes, tell us brothers. We’ll do what we can for you.”

He snorted and said, “First, I died a violent death, so I can’t reincarnate yet. I’ll have to stay down there for a long time. I have no heirs, so no one will come to pay respects or burn Yellow Paper for me in the future.”

“Second, I worked hard for most of my life, constantly toiling for my family, only to end up without a single child of my own blood. I died a pathetic death. I can’t accept having no descendants. I’ll be ignored down there, starving and freezing with no one to care for me.”

I understood. His first and second points were actually the same thing.

Chinese tradition has always emphasized carrying on the family line. Why? First, to have someone to rely on in old age; second, to continue the bloodline; and third, to have descendants pay respects after death.

Otherwise, as the saying goes, ‘There are three ways to be unfilial, and having no heir is the greatest.’ Our tradition focuses most on ‘inheritance.’

And Huang Haiquan had spent half his life struggling for his family, only to end up raising someone else’s children.

I heard that his two daughters hadn’t even visited his grave or paid respects after he died. He really had raised them for nothing; they were two ungrateful wolves.

“Fine, I get it.”

I said to him, “Your older brother has two sons. We’ll go talk to him later and arrange a legal document for the Adoption of one of them to you. A nephew is still a son, after all; there’s a blood relation. We’ll make sure he burns Yellow Paper and leaves offerings for you every year on your birthday, the anniversary of your death, and during the Qingming and Chongyang festivals. What do you think?”

No one knows exactly what life is like in the world below after death, but based on the experiences passed down by our ancestors, many people use Dream Projection to tell their relatives to burn clothes or money for them because they’ve run out.

From this, it seems that the Ghosts who haven’t reincarnated yet must have some sort of life down there, probably not much different from ours in the living world.

Furthermore, according to Old Zhao Seven, if someone from below uses Dream Projection to ask for money, you must burn Yellow Paper, not joss paper notes. Only Yellow Paper is recognized as currency down there and can be exchanged for their money; joss paper notes don’t circulate.

This theory was originally mentioned by the deceased when they appeared in their relatives’ dreams and was subsequently recorded by those who came before us.

After hearing my suggestion, Huang Haiquan thought for a while and nodded, signaling his agreement.

This ghost was actually open to persuasion; he wasn’t unreasonable.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll find your brother tomorrow and discuss it with him.”

“I’m going to peel off the Talisman now. Leave my brother’s body and stop fighting us. My face hurts.”

With that, I peeled the Talisman off Meng Yifan. As soon as it was removed, his head slumped down.

Huang Haiquan had left his body, but he hadn’t departed yet. We had to fulfill our promise first; only then would he leave this place for wherever he was meant to go.

Meng Yifan wouldn’t wake up immediately. While Song Xiaotian and I cleaned up the floor, we discussed whether we should charge the owner for handling this Stigmatized Property.

To be honest, if the owner hired someone specifically to handle this, it would cost a lot-anywhere from a few thousand to tens of thousands would be normal.

This job was way too risky; we couldn’t do it for free!

Besides, that money would be a significant income. I’d have to discuss it with Meng Yifan once he woke up.

But after waiting for a long time, Meng Yifan still hadn’t woken up. Song Xiaotian and I even splashed water on him, but he didn’t budge.

Finally, we pried his eyelids open and gasped in horror.

Meng Yifan’s pupils were no longer focusing. They looked just like the eyes of a dead man!

“Holy shit! Meng Yifan is dead!” Song Xiaotian screamed.