Chapter 11 - The Drunken Antics of a Corpse
Qiao’er hurriedly pulled the green-eyed zombie back from the inn’s threshold, dragging him into the relative privacy of their room. He followed with a palpable sense of dissatisfaction. For a creature of his kind, the act of inhaling the essence of the moon and the nocturnal dew was not merely a pastime; it was a vital necessity, akin to a cultivator’s meditation or a warrior’s training. In the brutal hierarchy of the undead, failing to refine one’s Yin energy meant risking becoming prey for more ambitious monsters. However, despite his annoyance, he allowed himself to be led. To him, playing with his "toy"—Qiao’er—was far more entertaining than the monotonous grind of spiritual cultivation.
No sooner had they stepped inside than the waiter arrived, balancing a tray laden with various dishes. The establishment was modest, and its culinary offerings were humble, yet the spread was enough to make Qiao’er’s eyes widen in surprise. Once the waiter had retreated, she turned to the zombie with a sigh of exasperation. "How am I supposed to finish all of this by myself?" she muttered, gesturing to the steaming bowls.
The green-eyed zombie tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. He reached out a cold, pale finger and dipped it into the silver ear soup, swirling the liquid as if testing its consistency. Seeing his interest, Qiao’er picked up a piece of braised tenderloin with her chopsticks and held it to his lips. "Do you want to try?"
She had been with him for a long time and had never once seen him consume human food. Her gesture was more of a playful offering, much like placing incense before a shrine. To her shock, the zombie mimicked her own eating habits, opening his mouth to accept the meat. He chewed the morsel with a mechanical, rhythmic motion of his jaw, but without a sense of taste, the act looked utterly absurd—a hollow pantomime of life.
Qiao’er reached out with a towel to wipe his chin. Disgusted by the texture, the zombie spat the mangled remains of the meat into the cloth. He looked at her with profound confusion. How could humans sustain themselves on such flavorless, solid matter? To him, the idea of filling one's stomach with this several times a day seemed like a form of torture. He made a silent, internal vow: one day, he would take Qiao’er with him to feast on the pure, cold radiance of the moon. Surely that was better than this!
Qiao’er, however, found the meal heavenly. Her life on the mountain with the old Daoist, Chong Ling, had been a cycle of thin congee and plain steamed buns. It had been an eternity since she had tasted anything with a hint of oil or seasoning.
As she ate, the zombie’s gaze shifted to a jar of aged *Huadiao* wine sitting on the table. Qiao’er noticed the predatory focus in his green orbs and knew he was intrigued by the vessel’s contents. She pulled the jar toward her and pried off the seal. The waiter had not lied; the fragrance of the vintage brew immediately filled the room, rich and heady.
She wondered if he could truly "smell" it. Legends claimed that spirits and gods were satiated simply by inhaling the aroma of offerings. The zombie seemed to confirm this, pulling the jar toward his face and sniffing deeply, his nostrils flaring as he drew in the alcoholic vapors.
Once Qiao’er finished her meal, the zombie suddenly stood up. With a sharp *clatter*, he knocked the wine jar to the floor, shattering it and releasing a concentrated wave of fragrance. As Qiao’er knelt to clean up the mess, the zombie stood frozen in the center of the room. Suddenly, he reached down and hauled her up, staring into her eyes with intense, vibrating focus. The green light in his pupils swirled like a turbulent sea. Qiao’er felt a chill of apprehension, but just as quickly as he had grabbed her, he let go.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking around the room with a dazed, bewildered expression. He looked back at Qiao’er, his head tilting at an impossible angle.
"What’s wrong?" she asked, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't understand her. She quickly grabbed his hand to write on his palm, but before she could finish, he "replied" with a confused gesture and a look that seemed to ask: *Why are there suddenly three of you?*
Qiao’er was baffled until she realized the truth. He was drunk.
The zombie began to pace, but his usual predatory grace was gone. He stumbled sideways, crashing into the washbasin stand and sending it toppling. Before Qiao’er could react, he burst through the door and into the hallway.
Terrified he would cause a scene, she rushed after him. But after only two steps, the zombie’s feet left the floor. He began to fly—not in a straight line, but in erratic, jagged patterns. He zipped through the inn’s common areas like a stray firework, his body tracing "Z" and "S" shapes in the air.
The few guests still awake stared in awe, treating the spectacle like a free circus performance. The waiter ran up to Qiao’er, his face pale. "What... what is he doing?"
Qiao’er could only offer a miserable, sheepish smile. "I think... he might be drunk."
The zombie continued his aerial dance, but he seemed unable to aim for the door. Frustrated, he decided it was time for bed. He wobbled through the air toward Qiao’er, but his vision was so blurred that he missed her entirely. Instead, he scooped up the terrified waiter, slung the man over his shoulder despite his pig-like squealing, and flew back into the room.
Qiao’er stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the absurdity.
Inside the room, the zombie finally realized something was amiss. He didn't like the "Yang energy" radiating from the person he was holding. He set the waiter down and glared at him, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, predatory intensity. The waiter’s knees turned to jelly. It was a primal, soul-deep terror, like the sudden realization of drowning. He tried to crawl toward the door, but his legs felt like wet cotton. Fortunately, Qiao’er burst in, apologizing profusely. The waiter stammered a few incoherent words and bolted down the hall as fast as his trembling limbs would carry him.
Still buzzing with excitement, the zombie picked Qiao’er up and began spinning her around the room. Dizzy and frightened, she frantically traced characters on his arm, begging him to put her down. He complied, but then remained standing in the center of the room, frozen in the exact posture he had assumed when he let her go. Qiao’er crept closer to inspect him. His eyes were shut. He had fallen fast asleep while standing up.
She tried to move him to a corner away from the window, fearing the morning sun would harm him. But his body was as heavy as lead. When she pulled with all her might, he didn't budge—until he suddenly tipped over, hitting the floor with a resounding *thud*.
Qiao’er’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest. She leaned over to check on him, only to find that his head had smashed a literal crater into the wooden floorboards. Splinters were scattered everywhere, but his skull was perfectly intact.
Ignoring the damage to the inn, she managed to drag him under the bed to hide him. A guest from the room below knocked on the door, cursing about the noise, but Qiao’er apologized through the wood until he grumbled his way back downstairs.
The zombie slept until the first rays of dawn peeked through the shutters. He snapped his eyes open, realized it was light out, and immediately tried to go back to sleep. But then he noticed something was missing. Where was his toy?
Sensing Qiao’er on the bed above him, he reached up, grabbed her, and hauled her down into his arms. He tucked her against his chest like a prized doll and closed his eyes, finally content.
Qiao’er, however, lacked the adaptability of a corpse. She struggled in his iron grip, but he merely grunted in annoyance and pressed her head down, refusing to let her move. Realizing that arguing with a zombie was futile, she waited until he was more alert before writing on his chest. She explained that they needed "work" (*huoji*). They couldn't survive on stolen money forever, and even a small inn like this was expensive for two people with no income.
The zombie was perplexed. He had spent a long time observing humans from the shadows, but the concept of "employment" escaped him. Qiao’er patiently explained that money was earned through labor, not simply "taken" from wherever it was found. She told him that an employer gives orders, you follow them, and then you are paid based on the difficulty of the task.
The exchange was exhausting, but both possessed a strange kind of patience. He asked questions through gestures and signs, and she answered them all. Eventually, the zombie reached a conclusion. He didn't like the idea of Qiao’er working. How could a high-level zombie fail to provide for his own toy?
He thought for a moment, then traced a reply: *I go!*
During the day, he refused to leave the room or let Qiao’er go, keeping her pinned in his arms. It wasn't until nightfall, the Xu Hour, that he finally released her. After a quick meal, he prepared to carry her out on his back, but Qiao’er refused—the embarrassment of being carried through the streets by a flying man was too much to bear. They reached a compromise: she would lead him by the hand.
As they passed through the lobby, several people recognized the "martial arts expert" from the night before, and a small crowd gathered to watch them leave. Instead of heading to the mountains to absorb the moon’s essence, the zombie led her toward the busiest part of town. He was looking for work.
But what could a zombie actually do?
Qiao’er was stumped. She first tried to get him a job as a waiter at a larger tavern. The manager liked his sturdy build and handsome—if somewhat eerie—features. However, the moment he realized the "man" couldn't speak the local dialect, he immediately rescinded the offer. A waiter who couldn't understand orders was useless.
The zombie followed Qiao’er back onto the street, confused as to why they were leaving. Qiao’er felt a pang of worry. His language barrier and his volatile temper were significant hurdles. She tried to suggest that she find work instead, as she was strong enough for manual labor, but he grew visibly angry and refused to respond.
They walked until the sound of rushing water reached their ears. They had reached the docks. Laborers were swarming over several large vessels, unloading heavy crates and sacks under the flicker of torches.
Qiao’er’s eyes lit up. This was it!
She spoke with the foreman, a shrewd man who took one look at the zombie’s height and broad shoulders and grinned. Sensing they were desperate and noting the zombie’s silence, the foreman lowballed them, offering a measly ten wen for the entire night. Qiao’er accepted. She didn't expect him to earn much; she just wanted him to understand how difficult it was to survive in the human world.
To her surprise, the zombie seemed delighted. He stepped onto the gangplank, watching the other men. Manual labor required no language—only imitation. They were unloading salt, each bag weighing nearly two hundred pounds.
The zombie stood at the loading station. A worker heaved a bag onto his shoulders. The zombie tested the weight, then looked at the man expectantly.
"Move it!" the worker barked.
The zombie waited. Then, with a flick of his foot, he hooked a second bag and flipped it onto his other shoulder. Before the workers could gasp, he hooked a third bag. With six hundred pounds of salt balanced on his frame, he turned and followed the line of men toward the warehouse a mile away.
The foreman’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He had found a treasure—a man who could do the work of three! He had no intention of raising the pay, of course.
After one trip, the zombie had memorized the route. He quickly grew impatient with the "human" pace of walking, which felt like crawling to him. On his second trip, he shouldered three bags and vanished into the darkness. The other workers only saw a blur of motion. A moment later, he was back, empty-handed and ready for more.
A shipment of thirty thousand *dan* of salt, scheduled to take all night, was finished in less than an hour. The foreman looked like he was about to have a stroke. He walked up to the zombie, poking at his muscles, then turned to Qiao’er. "He... he... he..."
Qiao’er, unused to lying, blushed furiously. "He... he’s been strong since he was a child. And, uh, he runs very, very fast."
The foreman exhaled, feeling faint. "Come back every night. I won't mistreat you." He pointed at Qiao’er. "Every night, starting at the Xu Hour."
Qiao’er nodded weakly and dragged the zombie away. She was already worrying. This work was grueling, and it took away the time he needed to absorb the moon’s essence. Furthermore, the pay was so low they couldn't afford the inn much longer.
She wrote her thoughts out for him, explaining they needed a permanent place to stay. The zombie understood perfectly. They needed to build a "nest," just as every zombie eventually needed a proper grave.
***
