A cold palm clamped tightly around that slender, delicate neck.
Yet Qing Ling could feel that hand trembling. More than just his hand, Shang Zhangheng was trembling minutely, as though suppressing some surging, overwhelming pain, while only his gaze remained as frigid as ice.
“I know you are unwilling.”
His voice dropped low, cold to the point that every single word sounded like a sharp blade of ice.
“What does your unwillingness matter? How many in this world ever get their wishes fulfilled? All things are like stray dogs.”
As he spoke, he sounded as though he were talking about himself as well. Qing Ling couldn’t tell precisely who he was addressing these words to; perhaps it was both of them.
“I am, and so are you. No one can escape.” Gripping Qing Ling’s neck, Shang Zhangheng pressed his icy lips down in a kiss.
His kiss was urgent, as if desperately eager to grasp onto something. Qing Ling felt fear, yet dared not resist. Just as the kiss threatened to drain away his very breath, Shang Zhangheng’s movements gradually softened, lingering against his lips in a tender, lingering caress.
A flush of color surged into Qing Ling’s previously pale cheeks. He was not old, and he had only ever grown this close with Shang Zhangheng. Fear was fear, but shyness was still shyness.
Exchanging a silent glance for a moment, Qing Ling had nothing to say. Only moments ago, he had been conspiring with someone else on how to put this evil spirit to death, yet right after, he was back to being affectionately intimate with him, kissing so passionately they were practically inseparable. Unwilling though he undoubtedly was, his body’s reactions were always so disappointingly out of his control.
Even Qing Ling himself found it perplexing: exactly why was this? Could it be that he was naturally capable of… being with a man as well?
No one could answer his doubts, save for the fierce ghost before him, who was meticulously tracing the contours of his cheeks with his kisses.
Afterward, Qing Ling was scooped up by Shang Zhangheng, carried horizontally in his arms until he was placed back onto the couch. When Qing Ling tried to push himself up again, his shoulders were pressed back down by Shang Zhangheng, followed closely by an icy kiss falling against his ear.
“Qing Ling.”
Shang Zhangheng’s soft murmur sounded almost like a sigh.
In a realm beyond Qing Ling’s vision, Shang Zhangheng’s eyes appeared frozen in frost, yet tinged with a distant, drifting vagueness, as though gazing at something, and yet looking at nothing at all.
He said, “Fall into the path of hell together with me.”
Shang Zhangheng was very strange tonight.
During their intimacy in bed, he actually didn’t employ many tricks; each time was as direct and perfunctory as conducting official business. Since Qing Ling had no intention in the matter to begin with, he found it hard to accept.
Tonight, however, he was exceptionally patient, as if the one on the verge of losing control from overwhelming rage wasn’t him at all. He even managed to spare the mental energy to soothe a pitifully weeping Qing Ling, behaving as though they genuinely were a deeply devoted couple.
It wasn’t until late into the night that Qing Ling finally snatched a brief breathing space.
Draped in Shang Zhangheng’s luxurious burial robe, he rose from the couch, walked over to the table, and sat in absolute silence, staring down at the awl-like spike that had been tossed aside there.
Qing Ling could only see his back, which appeared as solid and real as a living person under the candlelight, yet inexplicably carried an air of grief and profound solitude.
Too exhausted to even open his eyes, Qing Ling originally didn’t want to bother with him. However, sensing that Shang Zhangheng’s return tonight was completely out of the ordinary, and worrying that he might have recalled something else, coupled with that parting curse of “fall into the path of hell together” after much hesitant deliberation, Qing Ling still dragged himself up. Slowly pulling on his inner garments to conceal the spots and marks covering his body, he laboriously climbed down from the couch, walked over to the table, and took a seat on the opposite side.
The refined and delicate features of Qing Ling still retained a lingering, self-unconscious air of lazy post-coital satisfaction. The loosened strands of dark hair were gathered over one shoulder against his chest, making him look exceptionally pretty and gentle-tempered.
Lifting his gaze, Shang Zhangheng had already regained his composure, even offering a faint smile toward Qing Ling.
“You still have the energy to get up.”
What he said was rather unpleasant to hear.
The tips of Qing Ling’s ears burned hot, so he simply chose to ignore it. Directing his gaze instead toward the awl-like spike engraved with scripts of an unknown dynasty, he asked, “What is this?”
Following a brief silence, Shang Zhangheng chose not to answer directly, instead explaining: “The corpse-nurturing array of this ancestral hall was set up by practicing blood-sacrifice rites upon living humans, blocking the yang energy and gathering the yin energy. There is a living corpse right beneath this place, Qing Congnan’s biological father. The sacrificial offerings are all corpses of children under seven years of age who died less than two days ago. Right after the Dragon Boat Festival, when the living corpse is at its weakest, the offerings are meant to feed it.”
Hearing this, Qing Ling frowned. Yet having already made similar guesses, he felt no sense of surprise.
Glancing sideways at the spiked awl once more, Shang Zhangheng continued, “When a person dies, their soul departs. Using this object, the living corpse forcibly retains its soul in the mortal realm, attempting to forge an immortal shell for itself and lodge its soul within it.”
Qing Ling understood.
That grandfather of his wanted to carve out an immortal, undying corporeal shell for himself, using this artifact to anchor his soul and evade entering the netherworld. However, how this connected to his own birth remained unknown, except for the fact that this very item had been excavated directly from Shang Zhangheng’s tomb.
In other words.
The reason Shang Zhangheng could still swagger about freely in the human realm was because this object had preserved his soul down to the present day.
Fidgeting for a long moment, Qing Ling finally voiced the question he wished to ask: “Then you… did you remember something else? What on earth is going on between the Qing family and you?”
Their eyes met.
Shang Zhangheng did not deny it.
A growing sense of unease settled in the bottom of Qing Ling’s heart.
At last, Shang Zhangheng spoke in a soft voice: “The Qing family are my tomb-keepers.”
Qing Ling did not miss the flash of mockery that briefly crossed Shang Zhangheng’s expression. Yet this explanation tied up loose ends: the Qing family resided right in Lincang, guarding the ancient tomb beneath Dragon-Slaying Mountain outside the city, before ultimately committing the crime of stealing from within and digging the burial goods out of Shang Zhangheng’s tomb. But to be able to employ an entire family as tomb-keepers… his previous conjecture had indeed been correct: this fierce ghost must have been some kind of high-ranking noble or aristocrat during his lifetime.
Shang Zhangheng added, “Things over there are about to reach their conclusion.”
He glanced toward the direction of the main house.
Pausing, Qing Ling understood that Shang Zhangheng was referring to the fact that Qing Wenxu was about to die.
“Why hasn’t there been the slightest sound?” Qing Ling asked. For someone to die within the Qing estate, if discovery was delayed, one could blame the sheer size of the compound. But in such a tiny little courtyard, apart from that initial scream, he hadn’t heard a single sound since, which clearly defied reason.
Displaying unusual patience tonight, Shang Zhangheng explained, “Just a minor illusion trick.”
With that, as if recalling something else, he let out a soft, mocking huff. “For her sake, you were even willing to give up killing me. You don’t look like the type.”
Qing Ling was taken aback. He had never engaged in such a peaceful, calm conversation with Shang Zhangheng before, even if the topic of conversation wasn’t particularly peaceful. Offering a faint, self-deprecating smile, he replied, “I didn’t expect it either, but,”
He looked toward the direction of the main house, a complex expression passing over his features before he continued after a moment, “At the time… there simply wasn’t any leisure to think about much else.”
He didn’t explain why, but Shang Zhangheng seemed to understand everything. Nodding lightly, he remarked, “If her resentment hadn’t been so overwhelmingly heavy at the time of death, she wouldn’t have been able to endure all these years. The end for a fierce ghost is never a good one, even with my assistance, she only has these couple of days left.”
The implication was that she likely lacked the time to carry out any extensive revenge.
Qing Ling wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat.
Shang Zhangheng recognized the unspoken plea he held back, yet merely shook his head.
He stated, “How can there be so many complete fulfillments in this world?”
Regrets were precisely what the world never lacked.
A single sentence that spoke for all living beings, including the two individuals sitting opposite one another at this very moment.
Gazing at Shang Zhangheng, Qing Ling felt his expression appeared both wistful and ice-cold, almost prompting him to blurt out the question: “What about you?”
What unfulfilled regrets did you harbor that made you so stubbornly determined to remain in the mortal realm?