To reveal remarkable talent 1

Upon entering my abode, I heaved a profound sigh of relief. After engaging in that exchange of elaborate courtesies for quite a while, I was, in truth, utterly devoid of confidence. Had the other party truly chosen not to show me any deference, I would have been at a complete loss. Fortunately, that wolf demon was rather courteous, and, much to my astonishment, I managed to retrieve Williams without a hitch.

I hastily lit a cigarette to compose myself. Williams and the other two stood before me, heads hung low and motionless.

“Regarding today's incident, I presume there's no need for me to elaborate. You’re well aware of what happened. I have scarcely any sense of my standing within this realm. And yet, look at you—you've landed me in this predicament. I hadn't even the slightest inkling that there were wolf demons in New York until today. When I encountered that wolf demon earlier, my legs nearly gave way. Fortunately, he was gracious enough. Otherwise, had he truly turned hostile, I wonder what means I could have employed to rescue you.”

Williams promptly nodded. “Boss, I'm truly sorry. I was wrong. I never anticipated he'd take issue with me over a mere apple. I've learned my lesson and will never dare to repeat such folly.”

With the cigarette clasped between my fingers, my hand still trembled slightly. “I've only been engaged in this vocation for a fortnight. Aside from summoning spirits, I possess not a shred of sorcery. Today's encounter has indeed broadened my horizons. Should anything of this sort recur, none of you are to seek my assistance again.”

“Never again, never again!”

Having finished the cigarette, I took a deep breath. “Well, since the matter has been resolved, I shan't reprimand you further. As for what ought to be done hereafter, I assume you all have a clearer notion than I do. I overheard John and the others mention that you've been bragging to others, proclaiming yourself to be affiliated with me. Does my name truly carry any weight out there? And yet you dared to boast so freely!”

“Of course it does. In the past, they were constantly bullying the three of us. Ever since I told them I was now in your employ, those specters have been fawning over me.”

“Oh? So you believe you had just cause for your boasting?”

He waved his hands frantically. “No, no. I won't do it again, I swear.”

I truly had no inkling as to how I ought to handle him today. Observing the three of them with their heads bowed, I felt the urge to lash out, yet I was at a loss for words.

“Let me say no more about other matters. The bare minimum is that you must rectify that despicable habit of yours—those sticky fingers.”

“Very well, very well, very well. I'll refrain from it, I promise.”

“Oh, forget it, forget it. Let's drop the subject. Today's affair has, rather curiously, piqued my interest. As a Grim Reaper, precisely what rank do I hold? Am I merely the lowest of the low?”

Seeing that I was no longer pursuing the matter, the three of them visibly relaxed and began chattering away, offering me their insights.

It turns out that beneath Satan and the Judges in the Underworld lie we Grim Reapers. As for demons, their rank is not particularly elevated either. Moreover, from what they related, I came to understand that Grim Reapers are not singular in number but exist in great multitudes. Otherwise, with only one Grim Reaper in the entire Underworld, how could all the tasks possibly be accomplished? According to their account, the Grim Reaper, as I comprehend it, is akin to the police of the Underworld.

Williams informed me that once we Grim Reapers have dispatched a hundred spirits, we become eligible for promotion. Apparently, our profession is stratified into several tiers. The higher the rank, the more potent the sorcery. As a novice like myself, I am, in essence, equivalent to an apprentice and thus bereft of any supernatural prowess.

I calculated in my mind. I manage to recruit three spirits per month, which amounts to thirty-six in a year. It would take nearly three years to amass a hundred. Truly, it seems a rather distant prospect. I asked Williams whether the spirits I had previously assisted, such as Alice and that young lad, would count towards the tally. He opined that, based on his understanding, they ought to count. Well, that's rather interesting. In less than half a month, I've already enlisted four spirits. If I were to extend my aid to a few more, perhaps within a year or so, I might be in a position to ascend in rank. However, I've no inkling as to what additional powers I would acquire upon promotion.

“What rank had my father attained prior to his departure?”

Williams paused for a moment to reflect. “I believe he reached the sixth level.”

“Ah? Merely the sixth? Surely my father couldn't have recruited six hundred spirits over the course of several decades?”

“Of course not. The initial promotion requires a hundred spirits, the second, two hundred, the third, four hundred, the fifth, eight hundred, and the sixth...”

This progression bears a striking resemblance to the leveling-up system I encountered in online forums during my younger days. With each elevation in rank, the requirements double. By this reckoning, my father must have recruited at least 3,100 spirits over the course of his lifetime. What an extraordinary feat!

“When will I ever be able to reach the sixth level, like my father?”

Williams and the other two averred that, based on their knowledge, only a dozen or so Grim Reapers had managed to ascend to the eighth level over the past few centuries, and merely two or three had attained the ninth. As for the tenth, it appears that not a single one has emerged. My father's achievement of reaching the sixth level was already a remarkable rarity. Hearing this, I felt even more disheartened. It seems that I shall have to regard my father's accomplishment as my life's goal.

“Incidentally, let's shift the topic. James, you and the others had earlier informed me that the wolf demon was an extremely formidable adversary. However, having interacted with him just now, I found him to be rather amiable. Why the disparity?”

James curled his lip disdainfully. “He was merely showing you respect. His usual demeanor towards us is far from congenial. Moreover, I suspect he was simply reluctant to incur your enmity. In truth, he's been perpetrating all manner of nefarious deeds in private. In short, it would be advisable for you to maintain a safe distance from him hereafter.”

There was no need for him to say as much. I had no intention of provoking the wolf demon in the future. Nevertheless, a sudden premonition assailed me. I had the distinct feeling that this encounter would most assuredly not be my last with him. Alas, I could only hope that my intuition was inaccurate. I had no desire to embroil myself in further trouble.

It had been quite a few days since Father's departure, and I had yet to properly tidy up his room. Coincidentally, since I had planned to stay indoors today, I decided to give his room a thorough cleaning.

In truth, Father's room was furnished rather simply. There was a bed, a wardrobe, and a computer desk—nothing more. In half an hour, I had managed to pack up all his clothes. I set aside the particularly worn items for disposal, while the rest I planned to drop into the street-side clothing recycling bin later, hoping they might prove useful to the less fortunate.

After emptying the wardrobe, I noticed a small drawer. It was where we usually stored household documents and Father's old photographs. Since I was already sorting things out, I figured I might as well clear out any obsolete documents as well.

I recalled that when I was a child living on the west side of New York, I would often rummage through old family documents. Looking back now, I can scarcely fathom what the allure was. It had been at least a decade since I last gave those items a proper look.

Here was Father's university graduation certificate. Glancing at the photograph affixed to it, he seemed scarcely different, save for his thinner hair.

Hmm. It was remarkable that he had kept such an old relic—his work ID from 1986.

Continuing my search, I chanced upon my parents' photo album. Opening it, I beheld their blissful smiles, and my eyes immediately grew moist.

I stared at the album for a long while, lost in thought. It felt as though my parents had been by my side only days ago. So why was I now all alone?

I shook my head, dispelling such melancholy musings. I carefully arranged all the documents, unable to part with any of them. I resolved to preserve them all and revisit them during idle moments. To me, they were cherished memories I would never wish to forget.

After laying out all the documents, I happened to notice a corner of an old, yellowed piece of paper protruding from the upper left corner of the drawer. I gently tugged at it, only to find that it was snagged on something. Lowering my head to peer inside, I realized that, due to the drawer's low position, I couldn't quite make out what was obstructing it. Without further ado, I removed the drawer entirely and placed it on the bed. Only then did I discover that the paper was caught on a hard cardboard box, flush with the width of the drawer and affixed to the very back. Ordinarily, if one were merely retrieving items from the drawer, it would have been impossible to detect its presence.

I tapped the box a few times. It was wedged quite tightly, and I had no idea what it contained. I didn't dare to exert too much force, lest I damage it. Retrieving a steel ruler from my toolbox, I carefully pried along the edge of the box until, gradually, I managed to extract it. Opening the box, I found a sword approximately fifty centimeters in length, bereft of a scabbard. It was a jet-black blade. Unlike the silver swords commonly seen on television or for sale in stores, this one was entirely black, with a faint coppery sheen when held up to the light. Upon closer inspection, it appeared the blade had yet to be sharpened. Perhaps it was merely decorative.

Why had Father concealed such an ornamental sword in such an obscure location? Ah, perhaps it had something to do with his role as a Grim Reaper. Could this be the magical implement he had once wielded?

I meticulously wiped the sword clean and noticed another peculiarity that set it apart from other swords. The hilt and the blade were a single piece, unlike conventional swords where the hilt was typically made of wood or another material and the blade of metal. This sword seemed as though it had been carved from a single block of metal. Truly remarkable. After wiping, the sword glimmered faintly with a coppery metallic luster under the lamplight. It looked rather fetching. Since I had no inkling of its purpose, I carried it into the living room and placed it on the TV cabinet, where it made for a rather unique decoration.

I had just finished reinstalling the drawer when Alen from the company called, informing me that a couple had arrived at the office and wished to discuss the details of their wedding day. He urged me to hurry over. Such is the nature of our profession—ordinarily, there's little to do, but when duty calls, we must respond promptly.

By the time I arrived at the company, both the boss, Rick, and Alen were present. The couple had been waiting for me and had just stepped out to buy drinks from the convenience store across the street.

Rick inquired, “Sam, have you sorted out everything at home?”

“Mm, all taken care of,” I nodded.

“Good, that's good. Try to look on the bright side. If you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know.”

“Sure thing, Rick. You can count on me.”

I had stumbled into this line of work through an older brother of a neighbor I chanced upon on the street. Since I had moved away, we hadn't seen each other for over a decade. Upon meeting, he informed me that he was now engaged in wedding planning. At the time, it was a completely foreign field to me. I was twenty-four then, and none of my friends had married. Aside from attending a few weddings of my cousins, I had little experience with weddings.

When I mentioned that I had studied broadcasting, he casually remarked, “With your qualifications, you should consider joining me in the wedding business.” I wasn't sure if he was being polite or jesting, but I took him at his word. After graduating from university, I had interned at a television station. However, for various reasons, I was never offered a permanent position and was ultimately compelled to change careers. Hearing him suggest that wedding planning was somewhat related to my field of study, I decided to visit his company. And thus, in a rather befuddled state, I formally embarked on this career path.

However, after entering the profession, I discovered that true mentors were scarce. Apart from certain rules and customs, everything else was highly flexible and relied almost entirely on one's ability to improvise. Initially, he merely had me accompany him to weddings, instructing me to observe and ask questions. But as a novice, while I could watch, I scarcely knew what to ask.

I followed him for three or four months, participating in nearly a dozen weddings. Eventually, he began booking weddings for me. When I met with my first clients, I was so ignorant of basic protocols that I had only observed him during meetings and had never received formal instruction. Looking back, I truly have no idea how I managed to muddle through those initial weddings.

After handling three or four weddings, he suddenly informed me, “I'm going to introduce you to a veteran in our industry. He was my mentor when I first started out.” And so, in a daze, I was brought to Rick's company. After that, my former mentor all but disappeared. He no longer invited me to accompany him to weddings, nor did he book any more for me. Perhaps he deemed me too inept to teach, or perhaps I had unwittingly offended him. Even after a decade, I still haven't unraveled the mystery.

Fortunately, Rick proved to be an exemplary mentor. Although he never instructed me in a classroom setting, whenever issues arose during client meetings, wedding planning, or hosting, he would patiently point them out and offer guidance.

Under his tutelage, I made rapid progress. When I first joined the company, there were six or seven established planners, and I was the youngest and most recent recruit. Yet, five or six years ago, I had already ascended to the position of the company's lead planner.

So whenever someone asked who had introduced me to this profession and who my mentor was, I invariably named Rick. In my eyes, he would always be my teacher.

Our profession has a high turnover rate. The cooperation between the company and planners is essentially based on gentleman's agreements, with no fixed contracts or salaries. When new clients arrive, the company recommends a selection of planners. Once the clients choose, the company liaises with the selected planner. Payment is made per wedding. Thus, the cooperative relationship hinges entirely on personal integrity. It's not uncommon for individuals to switch companies or establish their own ventures.

Over the past decade, only two or three individuals, including myself, have remained at Rick's company for more than ten years. While new recruits frequently join, they often come and go like the tide.

Naturally, numerous companies have approached me with offers. Yet, while I’m open to occasional collaborations, my long-term commitment remains with Rick's company, *Happy Times*.

After a short while, the couple returned, carrying several bottles of drinks. They distributed one to each of us, and I accompanied them upstairs to the meeting room.

“Truly,” I swiveled my office chair to face the couple from Indiana, the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the studio, casting geometric patterns on the walnut floor, “the pranks Ryan's fraternity brothers have in store for your wedding will surely astonish you.”

The groom, Ryan, scratched his short, sandy-blond hair. “Remember that wedding in Miami last year? The groomsmen dressed the groom in a pink tutu and sprayed him with shaving cream until he looked like a snowman.” The spurs on his cowboy boots clinked against the floor. “This time, they're threatening to paint my vintage Ford pickup in rainbow colors.”

The bride, Emily, clutched her Starbucks cup, her New York accent sharpening. “You never mentioned anything about paintball!” She tapped her iPad screen with champagne-colored fingernails. “Look at clause 27 of this proposal—what does *‘Suggest preparing a waterproof wedding dress’* mean?”

I caught Alen's eye, and he understood my cue. He switched on the projector, and a video sprang to life on the wall: a wedding scene in Texas, where the groomsmen had transformed the groom's white suit into an abstract painting with fluorescent paint. A drunken reveler then knocked over the champagne tower while brandishing a fire extinguisher.

“Last year in Missouri,” I paused the video, “the bride's Versace dress was ruined.” I advanced the clip. “And in Florida, they used an industrial-grade streamer gun...” On the screen, the groom looked like a Christmas present wrapped in candy paper.

Emily's Gucci loafers tapped impatiently. “This is what you call a *country wedding*?” She tore off her pearl earrings and flung them onto the teak conference table. “When we were trying on dresses in Brooklyn last week, you didn’t mention *body painting* during the exchange of vows!”

“Baby, it’s an old fraternity tradition...” Ryan’s Indiana accent grew thicker, like melting cheese. “My senior year, I painted the president's Harley pink with Hello Kitty motifs. They've been waiting seven years for payback.”

“Then let them wed your Harley!” Emily snatched up her Fendi Peekaboo handbag. “I’ll book the tickets to Las Vegas right away and head to the Grand Canyon for our honeymoon after tying the knot at the Little White Chapel.”

In the echo of the oak door slamming shut, Ryan cast a wry smile at us. “When she first came to our barn party on the farm, she thought tossing glow sticks into the beer keg was rather romantic.” The silver buttons on his cowboy shirt glimmered in the sunset. “Times have changed, Jack.”

As Alen stepped over to sort out the documents, he murmured, “Ever since that wedding in Colorado—where someone used dry ice to create smoke and triggered the fire alarm—whenever I see ‘rustic style’ on an order, my heart skips a beat.”

“Think you’re hot stuff now and can be picky?” Rick’s voice drifted from the pantry. The veteran wedding planner, with forty years in the business, strolled in, cradling a mug emblazoned with the faded gold letters “World’s Greatest Father-in-law.” “Remember that mud-wrestling wedding we organized in Oklahoma in the eighties?”

I exchanged a glance with Alen. Indeed, there was a legendary video in our archive: the bride, clad in a mud-splattered wedding gown, tossed the groomsmen into the mud pit one by one and finally kissed the groom when the referee counted to ten.

“These modern couples…” Rick shook his head as he sipped his coffee. “Last week, that couple insisted on setting off drone fireworks during the ring exchange—and it ended up burning the bridesmaid’s wig.”

Suddenly, the vintage phone in the studio rang. After answering it, Alen said, “Mr. Ryan left a message saying they’ve decided to have an elopement ceremony in Aspen, in the Rocky Mountains. All they need is a photographer and…” He stifled a chuckle. “…a team of guides armed with bear spray.”

I gazed out of the window at the sightseeing boats cruising along the river. The neon lights were beginning to twinkle in the twilight. On the top floor of a hotel across the river, the wedding lights flickered like crystal pendants suspended in the air. Perhaps I should suggest to Emily that she choose a waterproof mountaineering wedding dress—who knows if the brown bears in the Rocky Mountains might want to crash the party?

We chatted for a while longer, and then Rick said, “Don’t go home for dinner tonight. Let’s have a get-together at my place!”

Since I often dropped by Rick’s place for a meal after dealing with clients or weddings, I didn’t hesitate to agree.

When Rick parked his vintage Buick in the driveway, the setting sun was painting the wooden villa a honeyed hue. Ten years had passed, and he still lived in the “Redwood Street Old House” he had mentioned when teaching me to decorate my first wedding—except now there was a Dyson spherical bird feeder beside the porch swing.

“Uncle Sam!” Della dashed down from the porch, barefoot. The newly dyed purple tips of her hair fluttered in the evening breeze like neon jellyfish. This girl, studying visual arts in New York, always managed to give her Gucci outfits a street-graffiti vibe. “My TikTok followers surpassed 100,000 last week!” She waved her phone case with its blinking LED lights. “All thanks to the zombie bride look you designed for last year’s Halloween wedding.”

I took the chilled beer she handed me. Droplets on the aluminum can dripped onto the redwood floor. The aroma of garlic bread wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the sizzling of the steak and Aunt Lorraine’s voice. “Sam, remember to remind your boss to change his blood pressure medicine—he picked out the broccoli again last week and fed it to Bruce!”

Rick grumbled as he loosened his tie. “That stupid dog even ate my golf ball.” His baggy khaki pants were still smeared with the confetti from the morning wedding. As we sat on the backyard patio, Bruce chased the sprinkler in circles, and the lemon scent of Corona beer bottles hung in the water mist.

As the charcoal fire grew hotter, the conversation drifted to the past. “Remember when you first decorated the flower arch?” Old Rick jabbed at his ribs with his barbecue tongs. “You replaced all the roses with cacti, claiming that the Texan couple would love it.” His laughter startled the blue jays on the oak branches. “And the bride’s bouquet ended up pricking the groom’s hands all over.”

Della, chewing on a roasted corn cob, chimed in, “If you ask me, we should have used neon resin flowers. There was an art installation at MoMA last year…” Her phone screen lit up in fluorescent hues in the twilight, and the lock screen displayed Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe.

“Speaking of art,” Aunt Lorraine emerged with the potato salad, her apron stamped with the pink lip print “Kiss the Cook.” “The daughter of the new pastor at the church graduated from Parsons…” The frequency of her winking reminded me of the disco ball light I helped Della adjust last month.

Rick poured beer into my glass, wiping the foam off the rim with his thumb. “Last week, when I was planning the wedding for Kate’s daughter, there was a great female doctor in the bridesmaid’s group…”

Suddenly, Della held up her phone. “Look! Ryan and Emily just updated their Instagram!” In the video, the eloping couple was rowing a raft in the rapids of Colorado. The bride’s waterproof wedding dress shimmered with a pearl luster in the sunlight. Then the camera shook violently—their guide was aiming bear spray at a shadow on the shore.

“That’s what I call a wedding!” Della smeared the last piece of roasted pumpkin with maple syrup. “I want to have my ceremony in a volcano crater and wear a liquid metal wedding dress…” Her fingers traced a meteor trail in the air, and the Chrome Hearts bracelet on her wrist jingled.

Old Rick’s Apple Watch suddenly vibrated. He glanced at the message and muttered, “The couple in the North District changed their minds again. They want to release fireflies from a hot air balloon.” Bruce seized the opportunity to snatch the roasted sausage off his plate, knocking over a stack of sauce-smeared napkins.

As Della began to explain her holographic projection wedding plan, I gazed at the solar-powered night lights twinkling on the terrace railing. The warehouse where Rick taught me to tie my first bow ten years ago was now filled with vintage wedding props he couldn’t bear to part with: a rusty bell carriage, a faded Millennium balloon arch, and that dry ice machine that nearly caused a fire.

When Aunt Lorraine brought out the homemade cherry pie, the evening breeze carried cheers from a high school football game in the distance. Rick dozed off in the lounge chair, and Bruce lay beside his scuffed work boots. Della projected the drone-captured night view onto the garage door. The skyline, thirty miles away, twinkled like scattered diamond fragments on a bridal veil...