The local residents, armed with wooden pincers, would venture into the mountains to search the caves and pry open stones, hunting everywhere for the arachnids to sell to the merchant.

That year, the merchant returned and lodged at the inn as usual.

Suddenly, his heart hammered in his chest, breath hitched, and the hair on his body stood on end. He urgently told the innkeeper, "I have taken too many lives in my time; the Scorpion King has come for revenge. Please save me."

The innkeeper looked around, spotted a massive jar tucked into the corner of the wall, and instructed the merchant to crouch on the floor while he covered him completely with the huge jar.

A short while later, a figure burst into the room—hair yellowed like dried grass, face contorted with malice—demanding of the innkeeper, "Where is the southern merchant?" The innkeeper replied, "He went out."

The figure searched the room, sniffing repeatedly, three times in total, before turning and exiting the door.

The innkeeper let out a sigh of relief. "That's over now," he said.

He lifted the large jar, only to find the merchant had melted into a puddle of blood.