Friend Recommendation: ＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝ Before I could get a good look, Old Man Xiang dissolved into a wisp of pale smoke and vanished in an instant.

With a sharp crack, the Dao Master of the Altar seemed to sense something and slammed the slick, black token heavily onto the coffin. The pressure on my shoulder eased, and Qin Ping'er finally sat upright.

I let out a breath I felt had been held for centuries.

At the sound of the token, the crowd dropped whatever they were doing and rose, heading toward the mourning hall. Man Niao Niao also discarded his playing cards, the stub of a cigarette dangling from his lips, his shirt unbuttoned, sauntering over to me with a dissolute swagger. He yawned languidly and drawled, "Hey partner, time to open the coffin!"

"What happened to your head?" I stared at him blankly. How had his skull mended itself in the blink of an eye?

"My head?" Man Niao Niao gave me a puzzled look. "My head was fine all along. How could it have closed up? Are you having a fit?"

"That saber blow right to your skull just now, didn't you feel any pain?" I stared at his bird's-nest hair, hesitantly rising to my feet. I reached out and poked and prodded his head, then gripped the crown of his skull, trying to pull his two halves apart so he could see for himself.

"Ouch, you son of a bitch, you trying to rip my scalp off?" Man Niao Niao violently seized both my hands, pushing back with momentum that sent me stumbling back into the chair. "Damn it, no wonder I lost everything down to a few pounds of sweat and grime—it was you, you bastard, cursing my head to split open! And then you had the audacity to feel around my scalp. If I didn't have bad luck, then who would? Damn it, a man's head and a woman's waist—you can look, but you can't touch, don't you know that? — I shouldn't have tried to dig it back out."

"…?" I was struck dumb, sitting frozen on the chair, looking at Man Niao Niao in disbelief.

"Those wearing white scarves, come forward to kowtow and offer respects, time to eat the Yilu Fan!" Old Chen shouted from beneath the eaves. At his cry, the dutiful sons and grandsons, who had been huddled in various rooms, emerged with bleary eyes and jaw-cracking yawns. They knelt in a line before the coffin, waiting for the Yilu Fan—which was actually a sticky rice ball for each person, symbolizing what the "deceased" left behind to bless the children with food and clothing in the future.

The Dao Masters stopped the drums and gongs; the suona fell silent, and the crowd became utterly mute. A burly man came forward cradling a large wooden steamer, followed by a sister-in-law holding a ladle. She scooped a sticky rice ball from the steamer for each person. The dutiful sons and grandsons bowed their heads, men with their left hand behind their backs, women with their right, waiting for the sister-in-law to place the Yilu Fan into the waiting palm behind their backs. Without a second glance, they stuffed the entire ball into their mouths and swallowed it whole. For about a minute, the only sound was the continuous, sibilant gulping before it finally concluded.

"Mourners, listen closely: this is the final viewing before the spirit departs." Old Chen resumed shouting after the Yilu Fan ritual ended.

As soon as the call rang out, the gongs and drums in the hands of the Dao Masters began to beat rapidly, and firecrackers exploded deafeningly outside the mourning tent. Those wrapped in white turbans bowed three times before Old Man Xiang's portrait and knocked their heads on the ground three times in succession. Because Old Man Xiang had so many relatives—sons, daughters-in-law, grandsons, granddaughters-in-law, nephews, nieces-in-law… essentially every junior member with the surname Xiang had wrapped a mourning scarf—the Dao Masters beat a "Long Road Lead" rhythm on the drums and gongs for a full half hour before it finally ceased.

Next was the opening of the coffin.

A low sound of muffled sobbing drifted from the crowd. After three full days of commotion, it seemed the descendants of Old Man Xiang were only now feeling the sting of sorrow. The cries of several women in their forties grew increasingly loud, escalating into full-blown wails. Their lamentations were melodious and artful, centering on refrains like, "Oh, my dear [Name]... why did you leave so soon? Leaving a whole house of old and young behind... what are we supposed to do now!" Anyone unfamiliar with the context would have been completely unable to discern whether they were crying or singing.

It was merely a formality. Soon, some of the non-relative female guests began gently pulling at the "crying mourners" who were still kneeling halfway, offering a few consoling words. The 'criers' gave a few choked sounds, retreated to the wall, and craned their necks to watch the main mourners "open the coffin."

"Open the coffin—young girls and children stay clear! Be careful the coffin lid doesn't trap your shadow!" Old Chen hollered. Several strong men took hold of a corner of the heavy lid, exerting their strength with both arms, and slowly lifted it, resting it on the long bench placed nearby.

At this moment, I was still gripped by extreme suspicion. Was Old Man Xiang truly dead, or not? Had he just reanimated a moment ago? And what about him turning into a wisp of smoke right in front of me? Then... was his corpse still inside the coffin?

These questions were soon answered—Old Man Xiang lay peacefully within the coffin. In just two short days, he had visibly shrunk. His brow bones jutted out, his eye sockets were deep hollows, and his skin possessed that ghastly, corpse-like pallor, which contrasted sharply with the bright red quilt, creating an image that was utterly terrifying—a definite psychological assault on the faint of heart.

My face felt cold, and I wondered if my own complexion had turned white. I realized I must have been dreaming—dreaming that Old Man Xiang climbed out of the coffin, dreaming that he swung a saber and split Man Niao Niao's head open, dreaming of the bright red character 'Luan' () on his palm... But why did that dream feel so vivid, so sharp, so utterly unbelievable?

I furtively glanced at Old Man Xiang in the coffin, trying to see if he was clutching a strange knife or if there really was a 'Luan' () character imprinted on his palm. Unfortunately, Young Brother Xiang did not lift the quilt; Old Man Xiang's hands remained hidden beneath the heavy fabric. Despite my intense curiosity, I ultimately lacked the nerve to boldly step forward and pull back the quilt to look at his hands.

Young Brother Xiang, trembling slightly, adjusted Old Man Xiang’s old clothes and trousers, then walked to the head of the coffin, bowing deeply with his eyes half-closed as he meticulously scanned from the head to the feet—I recognized this action. It was done to prevent the deceased's eyes from seeing their own toes. I had forgotten the specific reason, only vaguely recalling that if the dead person’s gaze fell upon their feet, it would hinder the fortunes of the descendants.

I shielded Qin Ping'er behind me, preventing her shadow from falling into the coffin, and stood far back myself.

Once everything was set in order, the men closed the lid. Specialized attendants immediately scraped white 'Zi Gao' (coffin sealing paste) into the cracks of the lid and bound two bamboo strips tightly around the coffin, one at the front and one at the back. The Dao Master of the Altar waved the "Guiding Talisman" wildly over the coffin, chanting incantations. Then, he raised his token and slammed it down onto the coffin with a loud 'crack'. Someone promptly handed him an axe and a live rooster. The Master slit the rooster's throat, letting a few drops of blood fall into a bowl. He then plucked a clump of feathers, dipped them into the blood, and smeared the blood onto the coffin lid, before hurling the axe and the rooster outside the main gate.

Young Brother Xiang’s face brightened with relief, and the others also let out quiet sighs—because the axe handle faced inward while the rooster’s head faced outward, signifying that the descendants of the bereaved family would face no trouble. Had it been the reverse, it would have indicated the "deceased" was dissatisfied with the filial piety of the children and might cause some troublesome 'Riguizi' (minor hauntings).

Immediately following this, the drums and gongs struck up a frantic rhythm again. The men strained, lifting the coffin onto the long bench inside the mourning tent. People outside had already prepared thick, sturdy "Dragon Poles" (Long Gang), setting them beneath the coffin and then lashing the coffin and the poles together tightly with thick ropes. Special shoulder-rests (Biandan) were fitted onto the front and back of the Dragon Poles. Everything was ready, waiting only for the first light of dawn when the men who had been "digging the well" returned with the report that the grave was ready to receive the deceased on the mountain.

In the main hall, flames roared—it was Old Man Xiang’s daughter-in-law gathering the funeral debris into a pile and igniting it with an oil lamp. This, too, was an essential ritual component of the mourning rites.

Qin Ping'er and I stood far away. Looking up, the sky was just beginning to lighten; the waning crescent moon had not yet set, half-hidden behind a few grayish-white clouds. A thin morning mist was rising, carrying a distinct chill.

"All you elders and young ones, please quiet down. I have been entrusted by the bereaved family to request your help in escorting the deceased up the mountain. In the future, for any great or small matters, the family will certainly offer their deepest thanks..." Old Chen rambled through a speech that sounded much like rallying the troops. He then assigned tasks: those setting off firecrackers, those carrying wreaths, those carrying the coffin, those steadying the coffin, those holding the "mountain-viewing money," those scattering "road-passing money" to appease spirits... everyone was told to prepare for their roles.

Hardly had he finished arranging things when the telephone began to ring—the men who had been "digging the well" reported that the "well" was ready.

So, the drums and gongs began to sound again, playing the "Long Road Lead," and the continuous roar of firecrackers resumed. The pallbearers grunted in unison, hoisting the coffin as if carrying an eight-bearer sedan chair. A large group of people immediately rushed forward to support the coffin. When they encountered steep inclines or descents that were hard to navigate, the filial sons and grandsons dropped to their knees in a line, waiting for the coffin bearers to pass before scrambling up to continue running ahead. The various other groups carried out the duties assigned by Old Chen, their individual actions noted no further.