— Thirty-Six Nails for a Restless Soul —
Victor sat rigid in the backseat, worry carved deep into his features as the car wound its way home.
"Mr. Arcturus... do you have a plan?"
I let the question linger. An old story my grandfather once told surfaced in my mind, uninvited.
"Halloween is in three days," I said at last. "I need you to find thirty-six coffin nails. Old ones. The older, the better. Try the antique markets. If you can find a full set from the same coffin, even better."
Jasper leaned forward, curiosity getting the better of him. "But coffins usually only need eight to twelve nails. Why thirty-six?"
"For the dead, security is a form of respect," I replied. "The more nails, the higher the status. In ancient times, thirty-six was reserved for those of the highest standing."
Understanding flickered across Victor's face. "You intend to use them to bind the Nightmare General."
"Bind is too strong a word." I shook my head slightly. "Think of it as an offering. A tribute. His body was desecrated, his soul denied rest, then sealed away. If we provide him with a proper, dignified resting place, it may temper his fury."
I paused before adding, "A direct confrontation is not a battle we can win. Everything depends on whether he accepts the gesture."
"But why wait for Halloween?" Jasper pressed. "The veil is thinnest then. Doesn't that make it more dangerous?"
"Precisely why it's the right time," I said. "For spirits, Halloween is a night of return—of presence. It allows for conversation, without the need for elaborate summoning rites."
Neither of them raised another objection.
The next morning found us on Donghai's largest antique row. We combed through every stall and cluttered shop until dusk, and came away empty-handed.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jasper exhaled sharply. "These nails are impossible to find. Can't we just have new ones made?"
I glanced at the darkening sky. "We still have time. If we haven't found them by tomorrow night, we'll consider it."
Even as I said it, I clung to a stubborn hope. Old nails carried a weight—a resonance—that fresh metal could never replicate.
---
— The Netherworld Emporium —
As we turned to leave, the proprietor of the last shop called out to us—an elderly man in a traditional Tangzhuang, peering over wire-rimmed glasses.
"I've watched you search all day," he said. "Those things... they don't appear on this street. No value. No collectors." His eyes flicked between us, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "But there is one place that might have what you're looking for."
"Where?" Victor asked at once.
The old man glanced around before murmuring, "The West District night market. A shop called The Netherworld Emporium. The owner's name is Caleb Lin. A tomb raider in his youth—did time back in his homeland. Runs his business here now."
The Netherworld Emporium.
The name sent a faint chill down my spine. I thanked him and turned to go.
"One more thing," he added. "That shop never opens during the day. Only after ten at night."
Back on the curb, Victor hesitated. "Mr. Arcturus... do we really go?"
"We do," I said. "It's our only lead."
While Victor went to fetch the car, Jasper leaned in close. "You believe that old man? This Caleb Lin sounds like nothing more than a dealer in stolen goods."
"We'll see for ourselves," I replied. The most obscure shops often hid the most extraordinary things.
The West District night market lay in the old city. Victor explained it had once been Donghai's bustling heart, long abandoned after the rise of the new district. The streets were patchworks of old repairs. The air carried a faded, tangible scent of past decades.
We parked on a wide, empty road. Most storefronts were shuttered, the stillness broken only by a dry, unnatural chill. At the far end, a narrow lane branched left. A few doors in, a wooden sign glowed softly:
The Netherworld Emporium.
The shop was small—no more than fifty square meters. Beneath the impeccably clean nameplate, smaller characters listed its wares: Curios. Jewelry. Jade.
It looked deceptively ordinary.
"Tucked away in a place like this..." Jasper muttered. "Strange owner."
The location alone told me enough about Caleb Lin. "We'll come back when it opens. Let's eat first."
We found a modest diner on a parallel street. Over simple meals, Jasper couldn't hold his tongue.
"Does that place really do business with... ghosts?"
The patrons at the next table stiffened. A sharp glance from me cut him off.
The server—a man in his fifties, his face worn but kind—set our dishes down. "You folks here to see Caleb Lin?"
"We are."
"If it's not urgent," he said quietly, "best to stay away. That place isn't right." He nodded, barely perceptible, toward the shop's direction. "I've seen them carrying sacks into his store at two, three in the morning. Like it's routine."
"How do you know they're ghosts?" Jasper challenged. "Could just be people handling... sensitive merchandise."
The server shook his head slowly. "Not like that. The feeling's wrong. If you must see him, catch him when he closes at dawn."
I thanked him. The conversation ended there.
We returned at half past eleven. I'd delayed on purpose, hoping to glimpse the kind of clients Caleb Lin received.
As we walked, Victor asked in a low voice, "Mr. Arcturus... do people really trade with spirits?"
"Some do. Certain establishments, tied to burial rites and the dead, serve both worlds." I paused. "Their owners have a name—Netherworld Merchants."
Both men fell silent.
"So the stories... the paranormal tales...?" Jasper ventured.
"The stories," I said, "are only the tip of the iceberg."
The shop door stood ajar now, the wooden sign illuminated by two soft spotlights.
Just as we approached, a woman stepped out.
She wore her curled hair loose and an elegant white gown, old-fashioned enough to belong to another century. When she noticed us, she froze for a heartbeat. Then she lowered her head and hurried past without a word.
As she passed, the air around us cooled—just slightly.
"Rhan... was that—" Jasper whispered. Victor looked no less shaken.
"Not human," I said, and stepped inside.
The interior resembled a compact museum of antiquity. Chinese-style shelves lined the front and right walls, packed with jars and vessels from various eras, larger artifacts crowding the floor. The left wall held only a few aged scrolls and paintings, spaced far apart.
Behind the counter, a man in his forties was bent over a sheet of paper, brush poised in his hand. He looked up at our entrance—and froze. The surprise on his face was unmistakable. He hadn't been expecting living customers at this hour.
After a moment, he set the brush aside.
"Gentlemen," he said evenly. "What can I do for you?"
Caleb Lin wore a dark Tangzhuang, a string of polished wooden beads looped around his wrist. His features were sharp, almost elegant, yet carried an ageless quality. He looked both younger and older than he should have been. I found myself wondering what path had led him here, to a life spent conversing with the departed.
"Mr. Lin," I said, offering a traditional fist-and-palm salute. "I've heard much about you."
He returned the gesture with practiced ease, his expression courteous but guarded. "And you are?"
"Rhan Arcturus. I'm looking for thirty-six coffin nails. I've searched every market in Donghai without success. A mutual... acquaintance suggested you might be able to help."
"Thirty-six coffin nails," Caleb repeated, slowly. "They're uncommon in the trade. Little monetary value. Few bother to salvage them." His tone remained neutral, but his gaze sharpened. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Arcturus—what are they for?"
"To build a coffin," I replied. "For a guest."
"I see." His eyes lingered on me, thoughtful. "That is no small offering. One must be of considerable standing to warrant such a rite."
He had been a tomb raider. He understood the symbolism. There was no point in evasion.
"The guest is the Nightmare General."
Caleb Lin's pupils contracted. Even if he hadn't known the name before, a man in his profession would have heard it whispered in the dark by now.
Several seconds passed in heavy silence.
"Those nails..." he said at last, his voice low. "I don't have them here at present. However—"
He broke off, stepping out from behind the counter. From a corner, he retrieved several stools and set them down before us.
"Please. Sit," he said. His gaze shifted briefly to the still-open door, his posture sharpening, as though listening for something only he could hear.
"Another guest is arriving."