I Accidentally Resurrected My Dead Husband - Chapter 47

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 47
“Then let’s wait a few days.”
“Why?”
“Listen carefully. Right now our despicable landlord is charging us low rent because of that stench. But what do you think will happen once the stench is gone?”
“He’ll raise the rent?”
Udiet nodded vigorously at Tan’s answer.
“See? I’ve been unable to work for days and I’ve eliminated the source of the stench. But if the only result I get is a rent increase, is that acceptable?”
“…No, it wouldn’t be.”
“Exactly. So first I need to settle that matter for certain.”
Ern, who had been listening to the conversation between Udiet and Tan, murmured with evident relief.
“That makes sense. Our Herrington wouldn’t concern herself with other people’s resentments.”
“And what exactly do you take my lady for?”
“Do you know Smith, the loan shark?”
“I do.”
“She’s cut from the same cloth.”
From what I saw last time, the two of them are the same breed—obsessed with money.
* * *
“That’s quite a large family you have. Why are you buying so much fruit?”
“Ah, I’m the one opening a candle shop over there. Since this is my first time running a business, I wanted to introduce myself to the people in this neighborhood.”
Udiet handed the fruit vendor a bag of bread she had purchased beforehand.
“I can’t give you fruit when you sell it yourself, so I brought bread instead. Thank you for your kindness.”
“My goodness, how thoughtful of you. What a bright young lady.”
“Since this is my first time, please teach me many things.”
As Udiet added her words with charm, the fruit vendor, delighted with the new neighbor, clapped his hands.
“But do you happen to know who used to run a business at that location?”
“Oh, I do. There was a young man named Jorge who sold pickled vegetables, but his business failed once it became known he was of the Shartin Race.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
The fruit vendor, who had been muttering that he didn’t know, suddenly clapped his hands.
“Ah, that’s right! Try asking Max, the chimney sweep. I think I heard he’s learning chimney cleaning under him now.”
“Where can I find that person?”
After such diligent searching, Udiet finally uncovered who had cast the curse and what had transpired.
Ern watched Udiet and pondered seriously.
‘Should I entrust the pursuit of the followers to Udiet instead of the Marquess Mosley?’
She’d probably find them faster.
* * *
Capital Outskirts Public Cemetery.
In this place where the poor were mostly buried, a small centipede scurried past a gravestone that had been neglected for years. Udiet and Ern exchanged glances simultaneously.
“Centipedes everywhere.”
“Seems like we’ve found the right place.”
As they gently brushed away the moss and dirt caked on the gravestone, the name of its owner appeared.
Jorge. Only his name was inscribed—no birth date, no death date. Likely the money hadn’t stretched far enough to carve all that.
“That used to be a pickled vegetables shop. There was a young man named Jorge who had remarkable skill. He had many customers.”
“He was kind and hardworking. But he met the wrong landlord. You’ve seen the landlord yourself, haven’t you? A truly vile human. He worked Jorge like a servant.”
According to word of mouth from the merchants around the Square, about five years ago a man named Jorge had made and sold pickled vegetables in the very shop Udiet had rented.
He was sincere, kind, and his skill at pickling vegetables was exceptional—so he had many customers. But one day, Jorge closed the shop and began peddling from a cart instead.
“Jorge said his contract had ended, but we could tell at a glance—that wasn’t the real reason.”
A few days later, the landlord began selling pickled vegetables in that same shop. He’d driven out Jorge because the business was thriving.
Yet even pushing a cart, Jorge’s business fared far better than the landlord’s. Envious, the landlord started spreading rumors that Jorge was of the Shartin Race and had placed a curse on his pickled vegetables before selling them.
The problem was that Jorge really was of the Shartin Race.
“Jorge looked nothing like a Shartin to begin with, so no one believed it. But the landlord dragged Jorge’s mother to the Square. His mother was unmistakably Shartin.”
Jorge, who had been steadfastly denying he was Shartin, couldn’t bring himself to turn away from the elderly woman the landlord had dragged before him. People stopped buying pickled vegetables made by a Shartin, and Jorge eventually quit the vegetable business and got work as a chimney sweep.
“Isn’t it laughable? Food made by a Shartin, they won’t eat. A chimney cleaned by a Shartin, that’s fine. Jorge was deeply wronged by all of it.”
Max, the old chimney sweep who taught Jorge the trade, closed his eyes sadly whenever he thought of the boy.
“The landlord knew from the start that Jorge was Shartin. He exploited that weakness, forcing all manner of drudgework on him. Later, he even demanded to learn the secret to Jorge’s vegetable pickling.”
“So Jorge refused to teach him?”
“No, he did teach him.”
“Then why did Jorge reveal he was Shartin? Why would he do that?”
“Why else? The landlord needed Jorge gone so his own shop’s sales would increase.”
A villain so vile that even demons would recoil in disgust.
“But how did Jorge end up…….”
“He fell off the roof while cleaning the chimney. His foot slipped.”
Max and Jorge’s mother collected Jorge’s body together, or so the story goes.
According to the caretaker of the public cemetery where Jorge was buried, his mother stopped eating and spent days and nights at her son’s grave, until one day she appeared with tongs and a basket, collecting centipedes and laying them out by the dozens.
“She’d lost her mind from grief. I went to stop her because it was so pitiful to watch, but she was smiling the whole time she was catching them.”
“And then?”
“Well, what else? I figured if catching centipedes brought her some solace, I showed her mistress where they nest. Either way, you two be careful. Centipede bites are nothing to scoff at.”
And indeed, the area around Jorge’s grave was thick with centipedes. At first, she’d assumed Jorge had harbored a grudge and laid a curse upon the place.
But it wasn’t Jorge. It was his mother—hollow with the sudden loss of her son—who had done it.
“Being Shartin Race, she must have had some knowledge of Poison Magic.”
However crude the method, it was likely the only means of vengeance his mother had against the landlord.
“That landlord is a real piece of work, isn’t he?”
Even Ern let out a low whistle of disgust.
“Can you handle someone like that?”
“Not on my own, I’m afraid.”
Udiet’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You fight poison with poison.”
* * *
Smith’s office.
He was startled by Udiet’s sudden arrival—it wasn’t payment day—but he didn’t turn away such a punctual debtor, one who paid down her interest with clockwork regularity.
Besides, there were whispers that Udiet’s candles were selling like wildfire these days. Why turn away a borrower who would keep meeting her obligations on schedule?
“A guest arrives and you offer no tea, Mr. Smith?”
“I’ll have some brought out shortly.”
Smith’s brow furrowed. Does she think this is a teahouse?
“What about wine? Don’t you have any wine?”
Ern, standing behind Udiet and surveying the office, posed the question.
“We have no wine, I’m afraid.”
Does he think this is a tavern?
“No wine? Half the men outside look like they were born with a bottle in their hand. How do you square that circle?”
“This is a place of business. One cannot work while drinking, now can one?”
He ground his teeth. This pair was trouble, the both of them.
“So what brings you here? Surely you’re not saying you can’t make the interest payment again—”
“My dear sir.”
“…?”
Smith flinched at the sudden, incongruous word that cut short his sentence. My dear sir? Not “boss” or “mister”—my dear sir? He stared at Udiet, bewildered, seeking clarification, but Ern merely looked away with an expression that clearly said he wanted no part of this.
Of course, Smith and Udiet had signed a contract stipulating that if she failed to repay her debt, he would adopt her and transfer his title—a rather peculiar arrangement. Still, to be addressed as “my dear sir” out of the blue felt absurd.
“My dear sir?”
“Please don’t call me that. It’s deeply uncomfortable. State your business, if you would.”
Smith frowned openly. Udiet dragged her chair closer to his desk.
“We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”
“Typically, creditor and debtor aren’t considered allies, but fine—grant me that much. Given this talk of sides, it seems you’ve come to ask a favor. Out with it.”
“I’d like to borrow your name and a few of your men.”
Smith went silent for a moment, truly at a loss for words.
“This is a lending establishment. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course I understand.”
No, she clearly doesn’t. Not actually.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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