Chapter 111: Shizun Is Like a Blade, You Are Like Water

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."