The days settled back into their former tranquility for the couple. The old man spent his days working in the vegetable patch, while the woman busied herself with needlework to trade for household necessities at the market. One day, while embroidering, the woman pricked her finger, and black blood welled up from the tiny wound. Seeing her own blood turn pitch black, she was struck dumb with astonishment, fearing her final hour was near. Secretly, without telling her husband, she rushed through the night to see Huang Banxian. By the time she reached his doorstep, dawn was just breaking; Huang Banxian was seeing off the guest from the night before and was preparing to close up and sleep. With eyes swollen and red from weeping, the woman implored him to make an exception and divine for her once more, to learn why the blood flowing from her hand was black.

Huang Banxian, seeing how arduously she had traveled, felt a stirring of compassion. He ushered her inside, relit the incense, reset the altar, chanted an incantation, and drew a talisman. Then, he handed the woman a small bronze dagger and instructed her to let a drop of blood fall onto the paper talisman from her fingertip. She did as she was told. A bead of black blood emerged from her finger, and the moment it touched the paper talisman, a small flame leaped up, consuming the paper entirely. Witnessing this, Huang Banxian sighed deeply. He sat down at the altar and spoke to the woman, “Go home and prepare a coffin. Have it brought here. This will ensure your husband remains safe.”

The woman returned home, anxiety gripping her heart, and recounted the entire incident to the old man in detail. He too became deeply worried. Following Huang Banxian’s instructions, they purchased a fine, superior coffin.

As the coffin was being hauled to the doorstep of Huang Banxian’s house, the moon had just climbed to rest upon the tips of the Shu trees. Huang Banxian opened the door, his robes fluttering softly around him. Seeing the couple arrive with the coffin, he addressed the woman, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You have not possessed a living body for a long time now; it is time you returned to the earth.” As the words left his lips, the woman collapsed instantly.

Seeing this, the old man quickly bent down and gathered her into his arms. He checked beneath her nostrils with two fingers; she was utterly devoid of breath. Filled with shock and rage, the old man lunged at Huang Banxian, demanding vengeance for her death. Huang Banxian sidestepped nimbly, restrained the old man, and said, “You are utterly unreasonable, old man! I saved your life, and yet you repay kindness with enmity.”

The old man cried out, “You have murdered my wife! What kindness is there in that for me?”

Huang Banxian released his hold on the old man and turned to enter the house, saying, “Follow me.”

The old man followed him inside and saw the altar set up, upon which hung a mirror. Huang Banxian waved his hand in front of the glass, and the mirror immediately flashed with a light, revealing a scene of a woman giving birth upon its surface. The old man found the woman familiar and stepped closer for a better look, realizing it was his own wife.

Huang Banxian stood beside him and explained, “When your wife gave birth, her vital essence was already completely depleted. It was only because she could not bear to leave her newborn son, and because she drank the ashes from a censer blessed by the Bodhisattva, that her soul remained tethered to her physical shell, becoming a spirit active in the Yang world day and night, living among you as if she were alive. Now that her son has perished, the Bodhisattva no longer offers protection. If she were to remain in the mortal realm, she would inevitably have to sustain herself on the blood and essence of the living—and you would have been the first to be sacrificed. Now that I have recognized the truth, I have guided her into the coffin. You have been spared the calamity of murder; all you need do is return and properly guide her spirit to rest, and you will live out the rest of your years in peace.”

Hearing this, the old man broke out in a cold sweat. He thanked Huang Banxian profusely, laid his wife into the coffin, and transported her home for a proper burial.

When the story concluded, Wenshu closed the book and asked me what I thought. I rubbed the back of my head, unable to formulate a response to such a profound question. Suddenly, I recalled the day I had struck Li Xiaoshu’s foot with my stamp album; black blood had flowed from his foot too. I asked Wenshu if there might be some connection between the black blood in the story and the black blood that flowed from Li Xiaoshu. Wenshu said it was an excellent question and that she would continue searching for other stories involving black blood.