The folded sword he drew sliced across the monster beast’s neck, as lightly as if he had casually plucked a flower. The head crashed to the ground behind him, and Wu Ping’an remained enveloped in his ghostly long hair until he pulled her up.
Shivering all over, Wu Ping’an heard the youth sitting beside her murmuring something softly. At that moment, her ears were still ringing from the shock, and she couldn’t make out his words. Instinctively, she stiffened her neck and turned her face toward him.
The youth, who from their first meeting had carried the lofty, immortal air of one whose “temperament is like white jade, even burning remains cold,” now sat beside her, leaning against a tree trunk. His disheveled, raven-black hair cascaded over his peach-blossom-hued, delicate robe, yet without a trace of femininity. Unconcerned with his own injuries, he instead cradled a severed lock of hair in his palm. His butterfly-thin eyelashes fluttered as he frowned and murmured.
“My hair broke.”
Ji Yuwei cherished his long hair, especially his own full head of glossy black locks, which he usually cared for with flower essences and fragrant ointments. Yet now, a strand had been severed.
“Fifth Young Master, are you alright? Is the monster beast dead?” Wu Ping’an asked, her voice trembling.
Ji Yuwei lifted his gaze to her pale face. Clearly terrified to the point of trembling lips, she was still forcing herself to appear calm.
Seeing her fearful expression, he suddenly recalled the Wu woman who had sung the dirge of a fallen kingdom not long ago.
Back then, the Wu woman had leaned against a waterside pavilion, cradling a pipa. Her melody flowed from the instrument’s seven cold strings, filled with boundless sorrow yet unattainable longing. The music was beautiful, yet compared to Wu Ping’an, it seemed to lack vitality—that yearning for life that pierced through fear.
The feeling was indescribable. Hearing it had made him tremble all over, his uncontrollable excitement and joy peaking after the bloodlust. He had been eager to fetch his konghou, sit on the ground, and play, capturing this joy of life in music.
For once, Ji Yuwei found her face somewhat pleasing. He folded his sleeves, his cheeks flushed, his pupils still shimmering with unquelled excitement, amidst the blood-soaked ground and the headless corpse of the monster beast with its entangled limbs nearby.
Thinking Ji Yuwei was severely injured and thus trembling as he sat beside her, Wu Ping’an wanted to ask about his wounds, but he suddenly grasped her hand.
Ji Yuwei’s skin lacked the warmth a living person should have, carrying instead a cool, jade-like temperature. As she stared in shock, he pressed his blood-stained cheek against her palm, gazing at her with an almost dependent fervor, utterly indifferent to the blood on himself.
“Lady Wu, can you sing?”
Why had he not noticed before that she possessed such a fine voice? Such a marvelous sound ought to be caged and made to accompany his performances at banquets.
The feverish and radiant youth, with his hair disheveled and blood streaming down from his forehead, marring his porcelain-glazed face like cracked black patterns, chose this critical moment not to care about his injuries but to tremble with excitement as he asked if she could sing.
If he hadn’t suddenly covered his mouth and coughed up blood in his excitement after asking, Wu Ping’an might have thought he was possessed by a demon or ghost.
Though as it stood, it wasn’t far from that.
The excitement faded from Ji Yuwei’s eyes as he bent over, covering his mouth and nose while coughing. Blood seeped from between his fingers, and his complexion visibly weakened.
His unexplained vomiting of blood again frightened Wu Ping’an, making her almost think he was dying.
“It’s alright. May I trouble Lady Wu to help Yuwei move elsewhere? The scent of blood here will likely attract more monster beasts soon.” Ji Yuwei seemed to have exhausted all his strength, tilting his head to rest on her shoulder as he softly comforted her. His pupils lowered vaguely, obscuring the expression in his eyes.
In truth, he could easily kill dozens more of these monster beasts now without issue, but he saw no need to waste time on such repulsive creatures.
Wu Ping’an dared not look at the fallen monster beast. Hearing him say that more would arrive soon, she hurriedly tried to support his body and stand up.
Though the youth appeared young, his stature was as tall and slender as a young man’s—lean but not gaunt. She nearly lost her balance several times, her legs giving way until she knelt on the ground.
This wouldn’t do. More monster beasts were coming, and Ji Yuwei seemed injured. If they truly encountered the beasts, they might both end up as food in their bellies.
Bracing his arm over her shoulder, Wu Ping’an gritted her teeth and endured. Driven by extreme fear, she managed to lean against a tree and help him stand. Then, Ji Yuwei’s gentle breath whispered by her ear.
“Head southwest. There’s a hidden cave there.”
Suppressing the urge to cover her ears, Wu Ping’an supported him and walked in the direction he indicated.
Fortunately, he didn’t lean entirely on her, sparing her from bearing his full weight. Along the way, he picked up a stick to use as a crutch.
Both of them were covered in blood by the time they finally found the cave he mentioned.
It was a beast’s den.
Inside, it was pitch black—so dark they couldn’t see their own hands.
Wu Ping’an hesitated to enter. As she tried to set him down, she accidentally touched something that made him let out a soft groan.
His voice was pleasant, cool yet gentle. With him leaning against her shoulder, Wu Ping’an felt a strange tingling sensation spread from her earlobe, making her instinctively push him away.
This time, he truly grunted in pain and called her name with a hint of helplessness: “Lady Wu.”
Covering one ear, Wu Ping’an groped for him in the dark cave entrance. In the utter blackness, her hand first touched his chest.
Ji Yuwei frowned but didn’t brush her hand away, waiting for her to help him up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Wu Ping’an apologized.
In the darkness, Ji Yuwei replied impassively, “It’s fine. I know you didn’t intend to.”
A flame ignited in his hand, and Wu Ping’an’s vision gradually cleared.
It was a secluded, clean cave, with some beast fur still clinging to the haystack. Ji Yuwei sat on a round stone, holding a firestarter. “Lady Wu, could you bring over that dry hay to start a fire?”
Wu Ping’an gathered the hay, then crouched before him and dutifully built a fire pile.
Sitting on the stone, Ji Yuwei watched her pale face without much feeling, accustomed to such scenes. He casually tossed the firestarter into the pile.
Warmth gradually filled the cave.
Wu Ping’an curled up in a corner, silent.
She couldn’t suppress her fear—the massive monster beast’s head severed so easily, the ground drenched in a river of blood, the overwhelming stench of gore filling her nostrils. The last shred of reverence she held for natural science vanished without a trace.
The eerie silence made Ji Yuwei glance sideways.
Wu Ping’an looked utterly wretched at that moment. To put it bluntly, she resembled a grimy little dog in his eyes, unworthy of even a glance.
Ji Yuwei looked at her twice before shifting his gaze downward and beginning to draw something.
After a while, Wu Ping’an heard his gentle, polite voice.
“Lady Wu, could you do me a favor?”
Wu Ping’an turned around to see the beautiful youth sitting before the flickering flames, his face nearly translucent. He gazed at her with a kind expression, his peach-pink robe loose enough to reveal half of his jade-white collarbone—so pale he resembled a seductive ghost under the night lamp.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting up.
Ji Yuwei’s pale lips curved upward as he whispered, “Come closer, my lady, and let me extract a bit of living essence—it will help me send a message out.”
Wu Ping’an had witnessed his effortless mastery of spellcraft before, yet now he was reduced to relying on her help here. Clearly, spending the night in this place was extremely dangerous. The outskirts were plagued by monster beasts during the day and ghostly apparitions at night, leaving her no choice but to depend on Ji Yuwei.
She approached and knelt before him, lifting her face as instructed.
The young man sat upon a stone, rolling up his sleeve and extending his palm to rest upon her chest. As he extracted her breath, his lowered face swayed in the firelight like a bewitching specter.
Once again, a suffocating sensation overwhelmed her.
Wu Ping’an gritted her teeth and endured, listening as Ji Yuwei explained gently.
“I am injured now and cannot easily extract breath, so I must temporarily borrow yours, Lady Wu. If it becomes too unbearable, please tell me.”
Wu Ping’an nodded and said decisively, “I can’t take it anymore.”
The palm that had only just pressed against her chest for a few breaths paused, then pressed down for an instant. Just as she was about to cry out, that pale, slender hand withdrew.
“Very well.”
Wu Ping’an clutched her chest, gasping for air.
Ji Yuwei, his complexion slightly restored, lifted his face. The vermilion mark between his brows resembled a bead of blood seeping from beneath his skin. When he gazed at her with eyes full of remorse, he seemed like a mountain spirit about to devour a human—beautiful yet chilling. “Just breathe deeply a few more times, Lady Wu, and you will recover. I did not take much.”
Wu Ping’an nodded. Once the suffocation eased, she watched him bite his finger to draw blood and lower his head to draw something on a yellow paper.
She had intended to wait until he finished, but after a long while, she noticed he was still drawing, growing increasingly absorbed. Drowsiness gradually crept over her, so she turned and leaned back into the haystack, closing her eyes to rest.
Deep into the night, the fire before them was about to die out. Ji Yuwei finished his drawing and looked up to see Wu Ping’an curled into a ball in the corner.
He observed her carefully, recalling how she had knelt before him earlier—seemingly trusting him wholeheartedly, yet in reality, after the first extraction of breath, she had sensed discomfort and subtly inquired about ‘breath’ from the servants.
The servants had told her that extracting breath would not harm one’s life—this was common knowledge. They had not lied; it was still the truth. Having been in Dongli for several days, she had also heard a little about breath. So, after learning this, she became as she was now—trusting enough to let him extract it.
If extracting breath was harmless for others, no one knew that he could transform it for his own use, extracting the living qi of humans.
He should have died young, but defying fate, he had lived until now. Though gifted in spellcraft, he would occasionally cough up blood for no reason. With each episode, he distinctly felt his life force draining away. No matter how he tried to replenish it, nothing worked. This sensation of impending death tormented him ceaselessly.
Over the years, he had sought many ways to survive—obediently practicing spellcraft, obediently taking medicine, trying anything that could extend his lifespan. Yet those around him, while not saying it openly, whispered among themselves that he would not live past twenty-five.
Later, he killed the first person who called him short-lived, because that person could not save him and instead cursed him. After the first came the second, the third… After killing countless people, he inadvertently realized through spellcraft: breath is the spiritual energy of the human body. When breath is gone, the person dies. Why not seize the living essence of others and make it his own?
However, such an act defied the natural order. Unless absolutely necessary, he was unwilling to use this method to prolong his life.
Unfortunately, he had now fallen to such a state.
Ji Yuwei smiled as she gazed at Wu Ping’an in the corner, soft light dancing in her eyes. Her rosy cheeks flickered in the candlelight, innocent as a jade bead rolling atop peach blossoms—truly beautiful.
She had originally thought that with Ji Yuwei present, even if no one came to rescue them in time, the night would be safe.
Yet Wu Ping’an was awakened by the constant dripping of a sticky liquid.
She opened her eyes to find a ghastly pale face magnified before her—white without irises, black pupils occupying the entire eyes, lips equally colorless. The figure wore a golden silk satin dress, disheveled hair cascading down as it sat atop her, grinning at her. Within the dark, hollow mouth, there was no tongue or teeth, only overflowing crimson blood. Its appearance was the very image of a ghost.
Terrified, Wu Ping’an wanted to scream, but her throat felt clogged by the sticky fluid. She could only struggle desperately.
Just as she panicked, believing she had encountered a ghost, a sudden flash of intense light swept before her eyes. Her body seemed to regain control, and she abruptly sat up, gasping for breath.
“Lady Wu?”
A young man kneeling beside her called out softly.
Drenched in sweat, Wu Ping’an had yet to regain her senses. Her eyes, vacant and unfocused, turned toward him, her face pale and bloodless.
Ji Yuwei studied her face, pale to the point of bluish-gray, then tilted his head to glance at the other side of her ear. Sure enough, he found a drop of blood that had not been wiped clean.
In places with few living people, wandering ghosts easily appear, especially late at night. They are drawn by the scent of living blood and cling to feed on their vital essence.
Though Wu Ping’an seemed awake, she was still ensnared by the ghost.
Ji Yuwei adjusted his dignified kneeling posture, shifting to sit with one leg bent, elbow resting on his knee, palm supporting half his jaw. He carefully observed Wu Ping’an’s fear-dilated pupils. His jet-black, glossy straight hair cascaded down his back, and his long, heavy robe shimmered like a pool of peach blossoms under the candlelight, the gold-red earring in his left ear faintly gleaming.
Wiping away that drop of blood would free Wu Ping’an from the ghost oppression. Yet, he truly enjoyed seeing her like this.
Though her features were plain, her pupils were strikingly beautiful—dark and glossy like oil, their light scattering in fear, reminding him of the final rally before death.
Ji Yuwei watched for a long time. Hearing the sighing howl of the wind outside the cave, he lifted his slender, jade-white fingers, cupped her chin, and brushed away the drop of blood that had dried on her skin with his thumb.
Wu Ping’an finally awoke from the terrifying entanglement. Her vision gradually cleared, revealing the candlelight and a face whose beauty remained undeniable even in its blurriness.
Still believing she was being haunted, she instinctively grabbed his shoulders and forcefully pinned him to the ground.
Surprised, Ji Yuwei fell onto his back, his long hair splaying out like spilled ink across the ground. The red mole on his pale forehead stood out like blood as he lifted his narrow, fox-like eyes to gaze at the unusually fierce Wu Ping’an.
Thinking she was still trapped in a nightmare of ghost oppression, Wu Ping’an held him down firmly, summoning the courage to fight back against the ghost. As she gasped for breath, the scattered light in her eyes gradually refocused.
He did not struggle, merely watching calmly the beautiful pupils of Wu Ping’an above him. For some reason, his attention was drawn to her parted lips, pink and panting.
Ji Yuwei’s gaze drifted downward from her eyes, settling on the seam of her lips. He peered deeper, into the dark cavity of her mouth, further and further inside.
As a scion of a scholarly family, he recited Buddhist scriptures each morning and studied the Book of Rites and Commentaries each evening. No book had ever taught him to gaze so brazenly and impolitely at a woman’s lips as she panted for breath.
Yet he seemed to see… within those rosy lips, a tiny, vivid red speck of flesh, so subtle it resembled a fragment of berry pulp left behind after a bite.
Author’s Note:
He steals a little now, but later, when Ping’an suffers a minor illness or pain, he recalls what he did today and tries to return it—only to find he cannot. Fearing that Ping’an might die young because of that missing bit of living essence, dread shadows him relentlessly, tormenting him even in sleepless nights. How melodramatic! [dog head holding a rose]