Mid-July, the ghost festival among the living.

There wasn't a chilling wind, only a moon like a jade disc, shrouded in the humidity of the day's rain, blurring its outline, yet it was still beautiful—ethereal beauty, dreamlike and illusory.

The gates of hell opened, and before the hundred ghosts arrived, he was there.

Da, da, da, da...

The steps were neither hurried nor slow, and the woman in the cage sat up in alarm, shivering and shrinking back.

There were no lights on in the room, a gap in the curtains allowed the silvery moonlight to leak in, casting a thin strand of light onto the cold floor and onto the golden chains.

Click.

The door was pushed open, the wind gushing in, carrying the warm dampness of the tides, and the scent of his men's cologne.

The bright light from the corridor shone into the room that had not seen sunlight for years. The woman on the floor raised her hand to shield her eyes. The chains on her wrists were tugged, making a grating noise, and through the faint light between her fingers, she looked at him—her husband.

He wore a handsome suit of skin, dressed in a suit and leather shoes, genteel and graceful. But beneath the human skin was a ghost of mid-July.

"Arang."

Arang was the childhood nickname her mother had given her.

He turned on the light, and beneath the purple glass lamp, the golden cage refracted blinding light. She wore a black dress, huddled in the corner of the cage, her gaze filled with terror, watching him close the door, watching him draw closer and closer.

"Did you miss me?"

He opened the cage, knelt down, and lifted her panic-stricken face.

He said, "I love you so much."

She told him to get lost.

Outside the villa, there was a very old sycamore tree, crows cawing in its branches, the moon watching, insects chirping below, ants crawling about. People passing by didn't glance sideways as the flowers competed in wild splendor.

Soon, the woman's cries could be heard from inside the house.

Outside in the corridor, a girl in a princess dress, about six or seven years old, with hair down and diamond hair clips sparkling by her ears, was where the moonlight, the corridor lights, and the light from the stairs all converged, creating patterns of light and shadow on the ground due to their different brightness. The girl, lifting the hem of her lace dress, hopped over the patterns, the hem laden with multicolored gems—red, green, blue—that dazzled and flickered with her movements.

After a long while, the girl got tired of hopping and leaned against the wall, kicking the carpet on the floor with her foot.

Click.

The door opened again.

"Rae Rae."

The girl lifted her face, her eyes shining brightly. She called out clearly, "Daddy."

The man came over and picked her up.

Mid-July was her birthday, and the older generation often said that children born on the ghost festival would be cursed by a hundred ghosts.

She didn't believe it for a second, she would curse a hundred ghosts.

At that moment, the moon hid behind the soft clouds.

Daddy asked Rae, "What do you want for your birthday present, sweetheart?"

"I want a golden cage," she said, waving her delicate arms to depict the size of the cage, her expression earnest as she told her father, "And the diamonds on top have to be super big."

Dad asked her what she wanted the cage for.

"To lock up the little boy, so he can only play with me," she replied.

See, a hundred ghosts couldn't curse her.

Her name was Rae Bennett, the little demoness born to the Bennett Family's great demon.

Late, the demoness grew up.

*****Eighteen Years Later*****

At ten o'clock at night, at Hua Xing Funeral Home. The corpse transport vehicle entered the grounds, passing a hundred meters of green shade, throwing the old street lamps behind it. The morgue was on the far left of the funeral home; the corpse transport drove down the dedicated lane and stopped at the morgue's entrance. After being sprayed with disinfectant, two people in suits and with black armbands climbed out of the vehicle. One of them lifted the tailgate while the other entered the morgue to wheel out the stainless-steel corpse cart. They exchanged a glance, moved forward together, lifted the yellow body bag wrapped corpse out, placed it on the corpse cart, and pushed it into the morgue's disinfection area.

Soon, the night shift staff hurried over, a lady in her forties wearing a mask, hair fastidiously arranged, dressed in the funeral home's uniform. She spoke in a low voice with the people who had brought in the body, then unzipped the body bag. Inside was a corpse of someone who had died of advanced liver disease, with a deathly pallor. The woman checked the tag on the body bag for identification, then wheeled it into the preservation zone.

To the right of the preservation zone was the frozen area, and further to the right was the plastic surgery district for body repair and makeup, each an independent building linked by corridors.

At this hour, the plastic surgery district still had people in it, probably because about half an hour ago, a car accident victim had been brought to the funeral home, and the family requested body repair.

Smith was a new intern; this was his first time dealing with a body needing repair since he joined the funeral home. Master Sir Perry had specifically asked him to observe and learn the technique. He eagerly went, but Sir Perry himself didn't show up, and he felt he had been tricked by Sir Perry.