The fourth ghost king's second palace had only one entrance, and
there were guards stationed outside. Not that Mo Ran was so dumb as to
saunter in through the front door. He vaulted up onto the roof, tucked the soulcalling lantern into his qiankun pouch so its light wouldn't draw any
unnecessary attention, then flitted across the roof tiles, swift as a bolt of
black lightning.
As grand as the second palace appeared from the street, the interior
was still more massive. Courtyard after courtyard of winding corridors
sprawled beneath his feet. Mo Ran leapt to the top of one of the taller
buildings and flattened himself against the dark brown tiles of the roof. From
his high vantage, the second palace looked like a small town that stretched as
far as the eye could see.
Mo Ran was unbearably anxious. He understood now why that man in
the doorway wouldn't tell him where his shizun had gone—he was probably
afraid to tick off this ghost king. But though Mo Ran knew that Chu Wanning
was here in this palace, he still had no idea what to do about it. There were
at least nine hundred rooms here, if not a thousand. Which of them held his
shizun?
Mo Ran was like someone on the cusp of finding a treasure, both his
hands and heart alike tremoring violently.
Shizun…where are you?
He was absorbed in these thoughts when a line of soldiers outfitted in
golden armor and battle boots stomped around a corner, each bearing a red
lantern. They marched single file from the east gate to the main walkway, and
after many convoluted bends and turns, arrived at an unremarkable side
room.
A massive old pagoda tree stood before this room, neatly blocking Mo
Ran's line of sight. He could see only half of the courtyard, the other half
hidden behind lush foliage.
The ghostly soldiers entered. Chaos followed—there came shouts and
the sounds of tables and chairs being knocked over. Then a frightened scream
pierced the air, and a disheveled woman was dragged out and tossed into the
courtyard. Her clothes, already half falling off, slipped further under the
rough handling, exposing large expanses of snowy skin.
"Trying to run?! Trying to fucking run?!"
A whip cracked viciously down on the woman's body. This was
undoubtedly a punishment tool of the underworld; it could inflict searing,
unbearable agony even on ghosts. The woman curled up on the ground,
trembling. She looked as if she wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go—
she was hemmed in by soldiers on all sides.
"Fuckin' bitch! You think you can just leave the fourth king's palace?"
"I lived a virtuous life!" the woman shrieked. "I did nothing wrong!
Why are you doing this to me? Let me go, I want to reincarnate! I don't want
to stay here—!" Her words turned into wails as the lash came down again.
"Serving the fourth king frees you from suffering the cycle of
reincarnation! You sure don't know what's good for you!"
"He didn't even choose me! Why won't you let me leave? I—Ah!"
Another lash, this time across her face. The woman wept, shivering
uncontrollably, yet still tried to crawl away. Her animalistic desperation
seemed to amuse the Fourth Ghost King's soldiers. All of them laughed
uproariously. One after another, more "tributes" were dragged from the side
room.
The leader of the soldiers raised his voice: "Everyone's been working
hard, and I know how bored you all get. These here are the fourth king's
leftovers; go ahead and pick a few to play with. If any in particular strikes
your fancy, come register with me and you can take them home for yourself."
Those lecherous ghosts howled and laughed as they crowded into the
room to pick the comeliest goods. The woman outside wasn't spared, either
—she was instantly boxed in by several people under the tree. They lunged at
her, like a pack of starving wolves intent on ripping her soul to pieces.
The sounds of rough breathing and obscene words rose and fell inside
the room. There were people crying, screaming, begging. There were also
those who couldn't handle the torment and wanted out, who submitted to
everything and did all that they could to earn favor. Whether in the
underworld or living world, people all had this same ugliness.
Mo Ran jumped nimbly off the tall building onto the roof of the side
chamber, carefully hidden under the cover of night. If what the old man at the
wonton stall told him was correct, Chu Wanning had come here only recently.
He wouldn't have been here long enough to go through the ghost king's
selection process, so he shouldn't be among these castoffs. But Mo Ran
couldn't help his worry. He pried a piece of the dark brown roof tiles up a
sliver and stealthily peeked through the gap. The room smelled of sex, hot
and heavy. And in that mess of debauchery, Mo Ran spied a familiar face.
Rong Jiu.
That prostitute he had favored in his last life, who had taken advantage
of Mo Ran's fondness to scheme against him and try to steal his cultivation.
He was in there as well.
Rong Jiu was a clever thing. He knew death as well as he knew life.
Many in the room below struggled desperately, refusing to give in. Amidst
that hazy chaos, some called the names of their lovers in life, while others
cursed and fought for their dignity. But Rong Jiu was different. Mo Ran knew
what he was like—he loved money and he loved his life. He no longer had a
life to love, of course, but he still valued his soul and had no desire to suffer.
Atop the sheets of that wide, rumpled bed, the other unpicked tributes
struggled and pleaded. Only Rong Jiu had his eyes closed, mewling as softly
as a kitten as he let the soldiers manhandle him without a word of complaint.
At the sight of Rong Jiu's face flushed with arousal, Mo Ran felt a chill
pierce his heart. He thought of Chu Wanning.
Rong Jiu was soft and pliant. Chu Wanning was firm as steel. Anyone
could see he was cold and hard as black iron, unbending and unyielding. In a
situation like this, Rong Jiu would flatter and fawn, would lie back and use
his softness to build himself an invulnerable fortress. As for Chu Wanning?
Mo Ran didn't even have to think about it. He knew what that person would
do—he'd sooner scatter his soul and fall into the eighteen hells than allow
anyone to touch him. Running water never breaks, but steel blades snap.
A sudden bang startled those in the room below as well as the one on
the roof above. Mo Ran raised his head to look toward the courtyard, and his
face blanched. The woman from before, the one fierce as an inferno, had
been run through by one of the soldiers. Tears slid down her cheeks as her
soul gradually faded to transparency.
For an instant, everything froze. Then her figure dissolved into
countless specks—her soul had scattered.
The soldier who had struck her cursed as he got to his feet. There was
a lash mark stark across his face—the woman had likely wrested away his
ghost-suppression whip and struck him with it. "Fucking wench!" the soldier
spat. "Already dead and still so damn prissy, bah! Stupid bitch!"
Mo Ran felt like he had fallen into an icebound cave. It was as if the
one he had seen just now wasn't some woman he didn't even know, but Chu
Wanning himself, and the choice he would have made.
Rong Jiu was still tumbling in bed with those lecherous ghosts. This
was a skill he had honed for survival: he would attach himself to someone
sturdy like a climbing vine and engulf them in his softness like a trap.
One by one, the tributes in the room submitted, the stench of sex heavy
and nauseating. Mo Ran didn't know how long passed before the curtain
finally fell on the lurid spectacle below.
Rong Jiu really did know how to charm people. One of the soldiers
pulled on his pants and immediately went to register with his leader. All that
was left was for the fourth king to look it over, and the soldier would be free
to bring Rong Jiu home. These ghost soldiers were subordinates of the fourth
king and were therefore exempt from the cycle of reincarnation. Although it
wasn't quite as advantageous as joining the retinue of the fourth king himself,
sticking with these guys would still net Rong Jiu a fairly comfortable life free
from humiliation. Rong Jiu was quite content with that.
The soldier who'd petitioned to bring Rong Jiu home flirted with him
for a few minutes longer before leaving for guard duty. The group of fiends
marched away into the distance, leaving the side room in disarray. It was
dreary and cheerless, like the aftermath of a feast, leftover wine and
sentiments spilt over the floor to grow cold.
Rong Jiu sat up languidly. Despite being a man, he was the most
composed of the group. He dressed and groomed himself. As he gazed into
the copper mirror, he felt that his face looked much too pallid in death
compared to the rosy glow he'd enjoyed in life, and it didn't complement his
coquettish gazes. And so, ignoring those sobbing, dazed, trembling women,
Rong Jiu cheerily straightened out his clothes, slipped on a pair of silk shoes,
and strolled into the courtyard.
Hell had rouge flowers as well, of an even deeper red than those that
bloomed in the world of the living. He picked a cluster of the flowers, then
dipped the tip of a slim finger into the sap to paint his lips and blush his
cheeks.
Everyone had their own priorities. Rong Jiu had led a difficult life
since birth. In his eyes, only the affluent, who stood high above the rest and
never had to worry about going hungry, had the leisure to chase after things
such as friendship. As for himself, he was merely some dirty thing in the
mud. He couldn't afford to care about integrity and honor or whatnot. All he
had was his life, and now that even that was gone, all he had was his soul.
He heard a slight rustling behind him, like someone had brushed past
the flowers. Rong Jiu thought the soldier who'd taken a liking to him had
doubled back, so he laded his gaze with a generous helping of affection—
everything cost money, only affection was free—and cast a coy glance back.
He appeared exceedingly beautiful and charming, indistinguishable between
male and female. But when he saw who it was standing coldly next to the
flowers, Rong Jiu recoiled. He backed up a step, his eyes wide open and lips
parted slightly, as though he had been struck by lightning.
"You?!"
"Me," said Mo Ran.
Rong Jiu's soft, pretty face cycled through a wild array of expressions:
shock, hesitation, smugness, anger, apprehension, feigned nonchalance.
Finally, he settled on cool and detached. He was too accustomed to wearing
a smile. Those overly intense and ferocious expressions felt heavy on his
face; he didn't feel like burdening himself with them.
"Fancy seeing you here, Mo-gongzi." The two had parted on terrible
terms last they'd met. Rong Jiu straightened his spine and affected an air of
studied indifference.
"I'm looking for someone," Mo Ran said.
Rong Jiu scoffed. "Who would've thought? A philanderer like Mogongzi, so attached to someone even in death."
Mo Ran didn't feel like wasting his breath on Rong Jiu. He took out
the scroll and handed it over. "Have you seen him?"
Rong Jiu gave the drawing a quick glance. "Eh, average-looking," he
sneered. "Which brothel is he from?"
Mo Ran frowned. "What do you mean 'brothel.' Just tell me if you've
seen him."
"Nope," Rong Jiu said indifferently. "And I wouldn't tell you even if I
had."
Mo Ran eyed him.
"I'm tired now, gotta go get some beauty rest. Please see yourself out
and go back wherever you came from."
"Rong Jiu!" Mo Ran called out to him.
That slim figure paused, and his pretty face turned slightly, his
expression smug. "Yes?"
"I'm going to rescue him. I'll rescue you, too, if you want. This place
is ruthless. Surely you don't mean to stay here and hang around with those
soldiers. You should go reincarnate."
Rong Jiu turned a bit more. "Easy for you to say, Mo-gongzi," he said
sweetly. "Sure, this place may be ruthless—but what place isn't? Little ol'
me lived a tough twenty years up there, and honestly, it's not much different
down here, except that my patrons are now ghosts instead of humans. What
does it matter if I reincarnate or not?"
Mo Ran paused. "If you stay here, you'll be living under a knife."
Rong Jiu burst into laughter. After a moment, he pulled himself
together, still chuckling as he looked Mo Ran over. "When have I not lived
under a knife? People are knives. I'm just the meat on their chopping block. If
I'm lucky and get someone nice, maybe they'll pay me a little more. But if I
get someone 'extra nice' like Mo-gongzi, getting stiffed is the least of it. You
stole from me and then turned around and pretended you didn't even know
me. Mo-gongzi, first you stab me, then you warn me of knives—how very
considerate of you."