Chapter Six: The Banquet at the Head of the Coffin

I knew that drinking chilled beer in the cold wind would inevitably lead to frequent trips to the restroom, especially for Wang Hou. That guy could certainly hold his liquor, but it went straight to his kidneys. Every time he drank cold beer, it was as if he switched on the “washing machine” mode—his urine would flow incessantly.

That’s why, back in the army, we gave him the nickname “Washing Machine.”

And what I was waiting for was precisely the moment when Wang Hou would get up to go to the restroom.

Sure enough, after five or six glasses, Wang Hou couldn’t hold it anymore. He shot to his feet, apologized to his three friends, and hurried off to the restroom.

As soon as I saw him leave the table, I knew my chance had come.

I took two sips of baijiu, braced myself, picked up the marinated duck I’d prepared in advance, and headed toward those three “hackers.”

Arriving at their table, I quickly set down the dish, not daring to even look them in the eye. I kept my head down and began backing toward the restroom.

Just as I turned, I glanced at their pant legs. Underneath, there was nothing but empty space… none of them had feet!

Even so, I forced myself to act calm and said, “Enjoy your meal, gentlemen! I’m the only one working tonight, so please don’t mind the wait. The dishes are all simmering on the stove. I’ll just use the restroom and then serve you properly.”

Without waiting for their response, I darted into the restroom and locked the door behind me.

Inside, I found Wang Hou singing “High Mountains and Flowing Waters” as he relieved himself. He was in high spirits, humming away, completely unaware that he was one foot in the grave.

“Stop singing!” I hissed at him in a low voice. “Those three friends of yours almost got you killed! Do you understand?”

“Old Tian, what nonsense are you spouting?” Wang Hou didn’t seem to sense the danger in my words. He retorted, “Those friends of mine, we played together as kids and now we’re business partners. Why would they hurt me? Just last week, we were out on jobs together.”

I gestured for him to keep his voice down and said, “Brother, listen to me… Let me tell you something, and when you hear it, you’ll realize just how close you are to death. All right?”

Wang Hou noticed my serious tone and became solemn himself, nodding in agreement.

I held up my finger and asked, “Do you know the significance of those eight dishes they ordered?”

“Aren’t they just eight meat dishes? What could be special about that…” Wang Hou replied casually.

I leaned in close and whispered each word in his ear: “Those eight dishes together are called the ‘Coffin Feast.’ In the old days, it was reserved for those about to die.”

“What? For people about to die?” Wang Hou’s eyes widened in shock at my words.

I then briefly explained the meaning behind these “eight dishes.”

The whole matter of the Coffin Feast had been taught to me by our old squad leader. In my second year of training as a chef, he told me that while things might be simple in the army, once you entered society, you had to understand the unwritten rules of the kitchen—red and white banquets, weddings and funerals. Otherwise, if you served the wrong dish, you’d risk a beating.

The rules he taught weren’t complicated—folk taboos like “no dog meat at big banquets” or “pregnant women shouldn’t eat rabbit.” After hearing them a few times, you’d memorize them.

But the “Coffin Feast” was the darkest, most fatal taboo of all.

The squad leader emphasized: unless you wanted to curse someone to death, never let these eight dishes appear together.

He told me that in ancient times, “roast goose, marinated duck, roast chicken, rice wine pork, braised pig’s trotters, ox tongue, steamed carp, and baby bok choy” made up the Coffin Feast. It was a menu prepared exclusively for condemned prisoners, those about to be beheaded.

It was tradition in ancient China to let the condemned have a full meal before their execution. Even with limited resources, they’d ensure the prisoner’s last meal was satisfying, so they would not die hungry.

Superstition held that this would give them the strength to move on, find their next life faster, and carry less resentment so they wouldn’t come back to haunt the executioner.

This last meal was called “Coffin Rice” or “Last Supper.”

At first, there were many types of last meals, but by the end of the Song Dynasty, the famous forensic scientist Song Ci standardized both the dishes and their order. This custom lasted until the Republic era.

According to the rules, unless the prisoner made a special request, the menu would always choose one from the seven meat dishes of the Coffin Feast, add the final vegetarian dish—baby bok choy—and serve them with three bowls of rice or noodles.

Because these eight dishes were so infamous, the squad leader warned me that over a thousand years, countless souls had been sent off with them. They became a symbol, a terrifying rule that every chef must never break.

Any chef with even a little sense knew: you never served all eight together, or the Coffin Feast would be complete. Anyone who ate it would be haunted by evil spirits.

Back then, after hearing the squad leader’s recounting, I asked, “But what if these eight dishes happened to be served together by accident?”

He hesitated, then replied, “If it wasn’t intentional, it would never happen. Every chef knows this taboo. But if it ever did, superstition says there’s only one explanation—the one who ordered them is a ghost who died unjustly, returning to claim a soul.”

At the time, I didn’t take this seriously. But I never expected that just over two years later, I’d encounter this Coffin Feast myself.

My warning seemed to finally alert Wang Hou to the oddity of the situation.

But I didn’t have time for him to figure things out on his own. I said bluntly, “Wang Hou, think about it. It’s late at night, they’re not attending a wedding or a banquet, yet they’re dressed so formally. And I just saw your three friends—they didn’t have any feet! We’re locals, you know what the old superstitions say… what looks like a person but has no feet? You know the answer!”

“Ghosts! Spirits!” Wang Hou stammered, fear and confusion creeping into his eyes.

I nodded. To be honest, I wished this was just a prank by his friends, but unfortunately, it was all too real.

Then I told Wang Hou not to panic and urged him to recall his partners’ recent whereabouts.

I wanted to figure out these ghosts’ intentions and identities.

Wang Hou thought for a moment and told me the last time he saw his friends was seven days ago.

Back then, the four of them had just started a transport business and got a big job—hauling chemical materials from our county to Tianjin. It was a major deal, so all four planned to travel with the shipment. But then Wang Hou’s father had a sudden heart attack, and Wang Hou had to stay home, sending the remaining three ahead.

He never expected that after they set out, all contact would be lost. For seven days, their phones were unreachable. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air.

Wang Hou was both worried and frustrated—uncertain if they’d run off with the money or if something had happened to them. He even called the police.

Then, just tonight, his three friends suddenly phoned. They said the truck had an accident and was delayed a few days, but everything was fine now. They’d just finished the job and were bringing back the payment. They asked Wang Hou to join them for dinner to discuss business and catch up.

And so, by a twist of fate, Wang Hou arrived at my restaurant and sat down to a “Coffin Feast.”

After hearing all this, I was dumbfounded.

Then I grabbed Wang Hou by the shoulders and shouted, “Wang Hou! Have you lost your mind? Think! It’s only a day’s journey from here to Tianjin and back. How could it take them seven days? There’s only one explanation—they died on the way! Tonight is the seventh day—the day their souls return. The ones drinking with you now are their ghosts!”

My words struck Wang Hou like a bolt of lightning, snapping him out of his daze.

“I remember now! They’re dead! They really are ghosts… but why are they looking for me? I didn’t owe them anything!” Wang Hou was so startled he didn’t know what to do. He gripped my shoulder with his large hand, muttering anxiously.

Just as he was about to shout again, the bathroom lights flickered.

Then, I saw it—behind Wang Hou, a ghastly, blood-stained hand, its bones exposed, silently draped over his shoulder.

I was frozen with terror.