Upon reflection, it truly seemed so; whatever Jiyé wanted Old Man Xiang to do, he would do it—reach out his hand, lift his leg, straighten his arm, even close his eyes. Was this not exactly like an intricately wired wooden puppet?

After much effort, Jiyé finally managed to position Old Man Xiang’s body straight upon the two strips of mourning cloth laid across the floorboards.

Xiang Yigē knelt before Jiyé once more, looking up to say, "One master is enough for one service; please, would you allow your household to wash my father’s body?" After speaking, he bowed deeply three times. Jiyé helped Xiang Yigē up. "Very well. I will see this favor through to the end." With that, he called several sturdy young men to carry the stiffly upright body of Old Man Xiang downstairs.

Tan Ping'ér also wanted to follow to witness the proceedings, but I quickly pulled her back, saying, “...Perhaps we shouldn't go watch this? They need to clean his body and change him into his burial clothes... It wouldn't be convenient for you to be there.” Tan Ping'ér nodded thoughtfully, pulling my arm as she prepared to descend. A casual glance brought back a memory: Old Man Xiang’s eyes seemed fixed on those two towering Cohabitation Firs just moments ago. From this vantage point, the tall, straight Firs were strikingly prominent beneath the cloud-shrouded heavens.

Tan Ping'ér and I remained upstairs for a long while before going down. The large, lacquered black coffin was already positioned squarely in the center of the main hall. Seven or eight men were carefully lowering Old Man Xiang, now clad in his old burial robes and trousers, into the casket. Once they had straightened and leveled his posture, Xiang Yigē covered his father with the traditional burial quilt. At the instant the lid was about to close, I caught a glimpse of Old Man Xiang’s deathly pale lips seeming to twitch ever so slightly. My mind buzzed, and I grabbed Jiyé, urgently whispering, "Are you absolutely certain... Old Man Xiang is dead?" Jiyé gave me a strange look, asking perplexedly, "His body is stone cold; what do you think?" Filled with doubt, I wondered if my eyes had deceived me.

With the lid sealed, the crowd began setting up the mourning hall. Beneath the coffin, which rested on two tall benches, was a basin of clear water covered by a bamboo basket; floating in the center was the 'Earth-Covering Lamp,' meant to illuminate the deceased’s path in the underworld—its wick was tiny, the flame flickering precariously. In front of the coffin, someone had positioned several short sections cut from a banana tree, intended to hold incense sticks and candles; wisps of smoke curled upwards, and the candlelight swayed, making the expression in Old Man Xiang’s portrait appear illusory and shifting. In front of the incense and candles sat a small tea table, upon which a porcelain bowl held offerings like 'Knife-Head' meat, ciba cakes, and white liquor. Beneath the table, a large pile of ashy black residue filled an enamel basin—the remnants of burned paper offerings. Those tasked with burning incense and paper had gathered rags and tattered clothing, stuffing them into three large woven sacks to create kneelers for the filial descendants and mourners. In the back left corner of the hall, a spotlessly clean Eight Immortals table was set aside for the Daoist Master. The Master had not yet arrived, and without the clamor of gongs, drums, and cymbals, the atmosphere in the hall was heavy, subdued, and chilling. (Knife-Head: pork offered in sacrifice)

Stepping outside, the funeral shed was already erected through the combined efforts of many hands, covered with bamboo mats and oilcloth to deflect the drizzling rain. The elderly scholar responsible for calligraphy had already inscribed a couplet on white paper: To see your image now brings only tears; to hear your guidance, the voice is lost. The horizontal scroll read the customary phrase: “Attending to the Great Matter.” On the left side of the main gate, the 'Duty Roster' was posted: Chief Steward, Greeter, Purchaser, Incense and Tea Server, Kitchen Staff… every role specifically assigned. More helpers arrived, each finding their name on the roster and beginning to shout orders in an organized flurry of activity. Half an hour later, five or six Daoist Masters, adorned in long robes and ceremonial caps, arrived. They entered the main hall, arranged their paraphernalia, and after a flurry of activity, the gongs, drums, small cymbals (dangdang'er), cymbals (bo'er), and suona horns erupted in a cacophony of clangor and wail. Xiang Yigē, in his late seventies, dragging his aged arms and legs, solemnly held a paper spirit banner, following the High Altar Master, occasionally kowtowing toward the coffin in time with the Master’s movements.

Once the instruments began their clamor, the mood unexpectedly lightened, becoming almost festive. Aside from the immediate filial descendants who showed slight traces of grief, those beating paper money, writing blessing envelopes, constructing the Nine Lotus Dais, or building the spirit house began chatting and joking with the guests, entirely devoid of the solemnity one expects at a death.

Seeing Tan Ping'ér watching with wide, questioning eyes, I explained to her, “These people are not being disrespectful to the deceased or the grieving family. As you heard earlier, the Tujia people view life and death very naturally; death leads to reincarnation, a simple cycle. That's why they call funerals a 'White Joy.' The more lively the atmosphere, the better the deceased family's social standing within the community. Generally, every village in the Xidu region has a set team for managing funerals: who is best as Chief Steward, who as Greeter, and who for calligraphy. Everyone in the village knows these roles intimately, making assignments smooth and universally accepted. Even if two families have had disputes over trivial matters, when an elder passes, they will set aside their grudges and actively come to bid the deceased farewell…” Tan Ping'ér nodded as if a great understanding had dawned.

More and more people came to pay respects, and the number of 'White Heads'—those wearing mourning shrouds—grew. Xiang Yigē and his wife, Old Madam Xiang, knelt side-by-side on the prayer cushions before the coffin, receiving friends, relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances who came to worship. Their aged forms were painful to watch, yet they meticulously followed every step of the required filial rites. In such situations, the family need worry about nothing else; helpers had everything perfectly arranged. All the family needed to do was follow the Daoist Master's direction in welcoming guests and performing the necessary bows and prostrations. (White Heads: filial sons and grandsons wearing mourning shrouds)

The clang of gongs, the calls of the suona, the crackle of firecrackers, and the hubbub of voices marked the official commencement of the "Three-Day Auspicious Burial" ceremony for Old Man Xiang, the last Tima of Tangya.

Everyone was busy with their respective duties. Assuming that I, Tan Ping'ér, and Man Niǎoniǎo were relatives of Old Man Xiang, people exchanged brief pleasantries but otherwise kept their distance—save for the occasional fleeting, appraising glance cast toward Tan Ping'ér’s face.

Jiyé emerged from the mourning hall, looking somewhat distant and pensive. "Xiang Yigē is Old Man Xiang's only surviving son; the middle-aged man we saw earlier was Xiang Mī'er, Xiang Yigē’s sole heir…" Jiyé briefly outlined the Xiang family situation, then fell silent, lowering his head to smoke. Seeing Jiyé's expression, I secretly guessed he might be lamenting that Old Man Xiang's arcane shamanistic skills (Tixu) would die with him, leaving no successor. Jiyé was one of us, a fellow practitioner. By my analysis, the Tixu he knew was unsystematic and lacked solid grounding. To see such a superb opportunity to learn an art vanish forever—not brought into this world by Tima Old Man Xiang, nor taken with him into death—the frustration he felt must have been immense.

But Jiyé wasn't the only one feeling regret. I was also troubled. If we hadn't stopped for lunch at Elder Chen's house and had visited this last Tima earlier, perhaps the secret of the Blood Soul Stele could have been uncovered sooner. Yet, the coincidence was bizarre: just as we planned to seek out Old Man Xiang, this Tima, who usually ate three full bowls of rice, passed away without apparent illness. We were so agonizingly close to the true origin of the Blood Soul Stele—less than two li away—yet now separated by the veil of death. It seemed the mandate, "To unravel the Blood Soul, one must seek Qin Cheng of the Qin Clan," was predetermined; to decipher the Blood Soul's mystery, seeking anyone other than the former Tusi King Qin Cheng would be a fruitless endeavor.

But Tusi King Qin Cheng has been dead for over four hundred years, and even his true burial site remains unfound. How could we possibly inquire about the Blood Soul Stele's secrets from him now?

"Uncle An, after that old gentleman passed... why was it only you who could move him?" Tan Ping'ér’s question was exactly what I wanted to ask. Jiyé, however, seemed not to hear, offering no reply. He appeared lost in thought, the blade of grass in his mouth long since extinguished, his eyes narrowed, staring unblinkingly at Old Man Xiang’s portrait in the mourning hall.

I jumped, wondering if Jiyé intended to take Old Man Xiang as a master and pursue his studies in the underworld—a thought understandable given the strange circumstances. I shook Jiyé’s shoulder urgently. Jiyé jolted as if waking from a deep dream, glared fiercely at me without a word, and walked into the hall to perform his rites of kowtowing and bowing.

I could not fathom Jiyé’s behavior. I thought, You have no kinship or connection to Old Man Xiang. Now that you’ve arranged his funeral, we should focus on other methods to find Tusi King Qin Cheng. Why have you, old fellow, seemingly forgotten that task, only to show such pious reverence to Old Man Xiang, with whom you never even exchanged words? You're one short of earning a mourning scarf!

"Yingying," Man Niǎoniǎo sidled up to me, saying with alarm, "Old Man Xiang... Old Man Xiang's eyes... they keep... keep looking at me?"