As night fell, lanterns were lit within the fog-shrouded ancestral hall.
Yet to outsiders, this small courtyard appeared completely normal, entirely devoid of any mist, and the entire city of Lincang remained as peaceful as ever. However, to the eyes of those versed in the occult, the ancestral hall was tightly cocooned, layer upon layer, in impenetrable, pitch-black yin energy.
Qing Congnan died precisely as expected.
Back then, Qiulian’s death had not been executed by his own hands, and the person who had actually carried it out had long since been quietly and cleanly disposed of. In this remote region far from the emperor’s reach, the death of a few individuals in a secluded mountainous area was nothing out of the ordinary.
Now, he met an identical end to the one he had meticulously orchestrated years ago: first subjected to physical torment and abuse, followed by the fatal “water torture”, layer upon layer of paper soaked in water, leaving the victim to suffocate or drown in their own lungs.
Having gone all day without food, Qing Ling was, after all, a living human being and couldn’t endure it, so he simply set about cooking a bowl of noodles in the small backyard kitchen. Though his hands lacked heavy calluses, he was already quite adept at such tasks; during the period when Uncle Yu was gravely ill, he had been the one taking care of things.
While tidying up the bowls and chopsticks he had used, Qing Ling suddenly felt an icy, malignant gaze lock onto him. The sensation was exceedingly subtle, as though he were being targeted by some entity, yet that scrutiny seemed to emanate from all directions, inescapable, pervasive, and brimming with malice.
Turning his head, Qing Ling spotted the female ghost draped across the threshold at the entrance of the kitchen. Over the past two days, her form had been gradually growing increasingly translucent and feeble.
Her bloodied, distorted arms were slowly dragging themselves forward inch by inch. Her water-logged face retained only a chilling, numb vacancy as she parted her lips to utter a raspy, muffled plea: “Eat, eat.”
She surely isn’t here to eat noodles, Qing Ling thought with deadpan detachment. The only thing in this place capable of serving as food for an evil spirit was his own “supreme medicine” body.
He was somewhat afraid, but not excessively so.
Though her gruesome visage was undeniably terrifying, Qing Ling knew full well that he wasn’t going to die here.
Sure enough, the female ghost, who had yet to crawl past the threshold, abruptly halted, her head drooping downward as if pinned directly to the ground by an invisible, crushing weight that rendered her utterly incapable of movement.
“She’s reaching her limit,” the omnipresent Shang Zhangheng materialized inside the kitchen. “That’s why she’s taking the risk to consume you.”
“Oh,” Qing Ling washed the bowls and chopsticks clean, neatly stacking them to one side. As he prepared to head back, he glanced at the female ghost, who remained pinned to the threshold and continued to writhe and struggle futilely. After a brief moment of silence, he spoke again: “Could you have her move aside? I can’t get out.”
With a flick of Shang Zhangheng’s hand, the female ghost suddenly regained her ability to move. She attempted to crawl forward once more, only to be frightened back instantly by a low, stern command of “Scram” uttered by Shang Zhangheng.
Just as he stepped past the threshold, Qing Ling heard Shang Zhangheng ask: “Before daybreak at the latest, her soul will scatter into nothingness. I thought you would try to protect her like before.”
Pausing slightly, Qing Ling continued walking with unperturbed calm.
“Last time” naturally referred to abandoning his cooperation with Miaoyuan for her sake. Speaking in a level tone, he replied, “I’ve already done everything in my power. Human strength has its limits, and as you yourself said earlier, how can there be so many complete fulfillments in this world?”
Qing Ling remained entirely clear-headed about the matter: her tragic death had been avenged by the perpetrators paying with their lives, but that had nothing to do with him. Furthermore, having never known his mother since childhood, he harbored no deep emotional attachment; avenging her once repaid the debt of birth, and anything beyond that simply did not exist.
Before Qing Ling could even make it back to his room, a panicked Qing Wenlin came bolting from the front courtyard. Acting as though he had just stumbled upon a savior, he dropped to his knees before Qing Ling, clutching the hem of his robe while weeping and wailing uncontrollably.
“Qing Ling, Qing Ling, none of this has anything to do with me! I’m only a few months older than you, please spare me, let me go! I’ll beg for your forgiveness, I don’t want to die, I really don’t want to die!”
I don’t want to die either, Qing Ling thought to himself.
Yanking his robe free from Qing Wenlin’s grasp, he lowered his head and said, “What’s the use of begging me? The one who wants your life has never been me.”
Completely defeated, Qing Wenlin collapsed limply onto the ground. While he had still been plotting for the family estate during daylight, after witnessing Qing Congnan’s blood-soaked, mangled corpse with his own eyes, all he cared about now was simply staying alive.
Within the ghost-haunted, gloomy courtyard, the terror of impending death kept everyone on edge, everyone except Qing Ling.
Yet peace was short-lived. Through the lattice paper of the window, Qing Ling caught sight of a figure stepping forward through the courtyard, seemingly dragging something in their hand. As the silhouette drew closer, the door was yanked open with a loud bang, allowing Qing Ling to finally identify the newcomer.
Disheveled and reduced to an absolute state of wretchedness, Qing Conglan stood in the doorway, dragging a blood-drenched human foot behind him by the ankle. The person being clutched by the ankle and hauled all the way across the floor was none other than his delicate wife, Zhao Yunrou, judging by her attire.
Frowning, Qing Ling watched as Qing Conglan discarded the foot, abruptly dropped to his knees, and began furiously kowtowing against the floor with loud thuds. His bloodshot eyes were filled with absolute madness and raw terror as he immediately began pleading for his life: “Nephew, this, this woman who wanted to harm you is dead, she’s dead! You, please spare your uncle, I beg you, spare me!”
Qing Ling furrowed his brows.
How Zhao Yunrou had died could be easily deduced, but what logical connection was there between murdering one’s wife and securing one’s own survival?
He had truly lost his mind.
Taking a deep breath, Qing Ling asked with steady composure, “Want to live?”
Snapping his head up, Qing Conglan stared fixedly at him.
Pointing toward the corpse, Qing Ling instructed, “Drag her to the front. And don’t come wandering around the backyard again.”
The command was delivered on shaky grounds, but Qing Conglan, being thoroughly unhinged, genuinely believed he had grasped onto a lifeline. Nodding frantically, he retreated the exact way he had come, dragging Zhao Yunrou along behind him. All that remained behind were winding streaks of blood smeared across the ground, alongside a clump of blood-soaked long hair that had fallen loose during the dragging. Just how precisely he had managed to kill Zhao Yunrou remained an unfathomable mystery.
Standing in the doorway with an expression that drifted rarely between shifting emotions, Qing Ling stared blankly for a long moment before finally turning toward the empty room and snapping in sheer exasperation: “What on earth are you planning to do?”
Shang Zhangheng materialized, a smile gracing his pale face. His handsome features carried a sharp, piercing edge; combined with such a malicious, sinister grin, it was enough to strike awe and dread into anyone who beheld it.
“What? Isn’t this fun?” Shang Zhangheng was genuinely deriving amusement from the spectacle.
He was entirely capable of directly slaughtering every single one of these people, yet he chose not to. Instead, he preferred to set up a chessboard with malicious cruelty, trapping everyone inside while he simply watched from the sidelines, letting these chess pieces tear each other apart without lifting a finger.
Whether these people lived or died was naturally of no concern to Qing Ling, but he valued peace and quiet, and detested excessive chatter. This endless cycle of incidents was genuinely giving him a headache.
Just as he was about to speak, a figure abruptly flashed across Qing Ling’s peripheral vision. Turning his head to look, he felt the silhouette looked vaguely familiar, why did it resemble. Qing Wenxu? But it vanished in a mere blink, leaving him uncertain.
Leaning against the doorframe to peer outward, Qing Ling frowned and remarked, “I just thought I saw, Qing Wenxu.”
Pulling him back into an embrace around the waist, Shang Zhangheng casually waved a hand to shut the door behind them. “I’m just having them stop bothering you. Why are you getting so angry?”
In a hazy, trance-like moment, Qing Ling was almost tempted to believe they actually were a deeply devoted couple. Yet he quickly steadied his composure, pushing against the arm wrapped securely around his waist.
“Release me first. Once you’re done killing them, what do you plan to do? Are you still planning to hunt down your mortal enemies from back then?” Qing Ling attempted to probe.
Thoughtfully pinching Qing Ling’s chin, Shang Zhangheng ignored the question, turning it back on him instead: “Your courage has grown significantly. Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you?”
“Before you finish doing what you want to do, you won’t kill me,” Qing Ling stated with absolute certainty. Shoving Shang Zhangheng’s hand away, he continued calmly, “Qing Congnan’s words reminded me: the marriage contract didn’t just bind me; it bound you as well, didn’t it? The reason you’re able to linger in the mortal realm collecting debts right now is because of me.”
Lifting his face to meet Shang Zhangheng’s gaze, Qing Ling felt a surge of newfound leverage that naturally gave him greater confidence, prompting him to voice his logical deduction: “Whether due to the marriage contract or my peculiar destiny, as long as I remain alive, you won’t end up like her, weakened to the point of having your soul scatter into the wind.”
“Correct.” Shang Zhangheng continued to smile, though with a distinct trace of mischievous ill intent, deliberately dropping his voice to a soft murmur: “Though you made a slight error in your reasoning. When a wandering ghost roams the mortal realm, encountering underworld emissaries results in being dragged down below; contracting a marriage with a living person, however, grants a measure of leniency. Having you here simply provides a valid pretext whenever the emissaries come searching. As for what you just mentioned, do you know precisely how it works?”
That final question was breathed directly against Qing Ling’s ear.
As an icy, chilling draft brushed past his earlobe, Qing Ling instinctively tightened his grip on Shang Zhangheng’s sleeve, only to hear him chuckle softly: “Consuming your soul and possessing this physical body. A corpse-born infant, you see, it’s the absolute ideal vessel for a wandering spirit to inhabit. Even after possession, the body won’t gradually rot away. That way, I’d be able to remain permanently in the human realm and accomplish whatever I set out to do.”
The meager shred of leverage Qing Ling had just acquired vanished entirely in an instant.
Expressionless, he silently unleashed every single curse word he had ever learned throughout his entire life upon the incompetent, half-baked fools of the Qing family. To think they had actually pinned their hopes on a ghostly marriage to control this fierce ghost?! Calling that delusional would be being far too polite to them.
What kind of imprisonment or ghost-commanding control was this? This was practically gift-wrapping a perfect, living-world resurrection vessel and presenting it to Shang Zhangheng on a silver platter to curry favor with him.
Sensing the lean, slender wife in his arms begin to tremble, Shang Zhangheng let out a soft laugh. Easing his grip slightly, he stroked his chin and remarked, “Rest assured, I don’t currently have such intentions.”
The word “currently” made it exceedingly difficult for Qing Ling to feel reassured.
Shang Zhangheng added, “It’s a pity I wasn’t entirely clear-headed when I first emerged; otherwise, I would have already claimed this body of yours.”
With a deadpan tone, Qing Ling retorted, “What do you mean?”
Shifting his smile into something with a deeply ambiguous edge, Shang Zhangheng swept his gaze slowly up and down Qing Ling’s form before speaking in a slow, leisurely drawl: “I simply have no desire to possess a body I’ve already slept with.”
Qing Ling never in his wildest dreams anticipated that this would be the reason, simultaneously absurd and distressingly logical.
Scoundrel. Beast. Bastard.
Poor Qing Ling had grown up in the mountains, yet he was an exceptionally well-read and well-mannered individual; his vocabulary of insults consisted of only a handful of terms, and right now, those few words fell woefully short of fully expressing or venting the complex, surging anger churning within his chest.
The pale flush of fear that had drained Qing Ling’s face moments ago vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by a blazing, peach-red blush that spread furiously across his cheeks, scorching even the tips of his ears and his neck. Fixing a fierce, indignant glare at Shang Zhangheng, abandoning forever his customary aloof, unsmiling composure, Qing Ling decided he never wanted to speak another word to him again. Not a single word, ever.