Chapter 8#

Red Curtain#

At the command, there was no time to think. Everyone charged together into the central passageway.

But they hadn’t run far before a thick fog suddenly appeared out of nowhere before them, seeming boundless and endless.

Xiang Wan, in the lead, was startled. He dragged his feet across the ground, leaving long marks, barely managing to halt himself before rushing straight into the fog.

“Stop!!” Xiang Wan shouted, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

There was no need for him to say it; the others had also seen the fog and stopped abruptly, staring in horror at the white mist ahead. If it were poisonous, they’d be done for. But the fog lay there like a sleeping beast, neither advancing nor retreating.

“W-what do we do?” a disciple stammered. “There are snakes behind us!”

“The snakes aren’t chasing us.” Feng Xianyu’s voice rang out, like a clear breeze dispelling the gloom among the disciples.

Xiang Wan pricked up his ears. Sure enough, he no longer heard the giant serpent pursuing them. It seemed that once they entered this fork in the path, the snake had stopped chasing.

For now, the situation seemed temporarily safe.

Feng Xianyu coughed several times.

At this moment, he was still firmly carried on Zhuo Yu’s shoulder, in a somewhat undignified—no, very undignified—posture, far from the elegant demeanor of a cultivator. Taking advantage of the disciples’ poor visibility and the temporary respite from danger, he quickly sent a telepathic message to Zhuo Yu: “The junior disciples are watching. Put me down.”

In the dimness, Feng Xianyu couldn’t make out Zhuo Yu’s expression, but he felt the grip on his legs tighten, squeezing so hard that the blood in his calves seemed to stop flowing.

Feng Xianyu urged Zhuo Yu on with a punch, inadvertently brushing against his long hair.

For a moment, Zhuo Yu seemed to open his eyes—or perhaps not. Feng Xianyu wasn’t sure. He thought for a moment, then grabbed the ice-cold black hair and, as if possessed, called out, “Senior Brother.”

For some reason, Feng Xianyu felt Zhuo Yu’s breath seem to deepen slightly before quickly returning to normal.

After a moment, Zhuo Yu finally set Feng Xianyu down gently.

Once on the ground, Feng Xianyu immediately rubbed his stomach, his brows furrowed, looking like he wanted to vomit—the jostling had really been too much.

In the darkness, the culprit Zhuo Yu didn’t leave. Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair that had fallen across Feng Xianyu’s cheek behind his ear. The gesture was so natural that neither of them reacted for a moment.

Feng Xianyu froze. Scattered fragments of memory suddenly flashed through his mind.

It was a spacious room decorated with lanterns and red candles, warm and cozy. Ambiguous red curtains hung down, gold and silver coins and colorful fruits were scattered across the bed. A crescent moon hung silently in the night sky, and the clamor of daytime gongs and drums seemed yet to fade, lingering around the bridal chamber.

Slap.

Zhuo Yu gently closed the window and turned to look over quietly.

That was the first time Feng Xianyu had seen Zhuo Yu wearing such a blazing, eye-catching red. It was as if he had become a different person, the color warming even his cold, indifferent face, making it seem illuminated. He had drunk a little wine, and though his eyes remained calm, there was a hint of spring breeze approaching.

Feng Xianyu was rarely so nervous that his mind went blank.

Because he collapsed at the slightest drink, Kong Yan had mysteriously warned him not to touch any alcohol, lest he lose face. Although Feng Xianyu still didn’t understand what Kong Yan meant, he obediently refrained from drinking a single drop that day. Yet now he wished he had drunk a few cups, so he wouldn’t be so at a loss, not knowing how to place his hands or feet.

What should he say now? What expression should he make? How should he deal with Zhuo Yu?

Would Zhuo Yu do the things from those storybooks?

Would he?

They were both men—should they still do those things in this situation?

Feng Xianyu sat on the bed, his habit of letting his mind wander striking him particularly hard at this moment. He didn’t even notice that Zhuo Yu had silently come to stand before him, less than an arm’s length away. Looking up, he could see in Zhuo Yu’s indifferent eyes his own reflection, dressed in gold and red bridal robes, looking so festive it was almost foolish.

A faint trace of intoxication flickered in Zhuo Yu’s eyes. Suddenly, he raised his hand, as if to touch Feng Xianyu’s face.

Startled by the coldness of Zhuo Yu’s fingers, Feng Xianyu instinctively flinched slightly. His heart skipped a beat as he realized his avoidance was inappropriate, and he awkwardly leaned back in.

But Zhuo Yu’s thin lips were tightly pressed together, as if he hadn’t noticed Feng Xianyu’s slight resistance. Gently, even stiffly, he tucked the strand of hair that had slipped across Feng Xianyu’s cheek behind his ear.

“Senior Brother—”

Xiang Wan’s voice snapped Feng Xianyu back to reality. He took a deep breath in the shadows, averted his gaze from Zhuo Yu, and responded to Xiang Wan: “I’m here. What is it?”

“It seems the fog isn’t poisonous,” Xiang Wan said hesitantly.

A non-toxic fog lingering in such a place sounded suspiciously like a cover-up.

“I remember this fog!” Ah Yue suddenly spoke up excitedly. “This is the place! Once we get through it, I’ll see my Yan Lang!”

Xiang Wan: “Miss Ah Yue, are you sure?”

Feng Xianyu saw Zhuo Yu raise his hand again. Before Zhuo Yu could bring the elixir to his mouth, Feng Xianyu snatched it and crunched it down himself. He walked directly to the edge of the thick fog and raised Qi Qi—the golden bow had five-inch blades at both ends, sharp enough to cut through iron and jade, usable as a melee weapon in emergencies. He used one blade to slice through the fog.

The mist barely touched the blade before parting to either side, the edge still gleaming. It was indeed non-toxic.

What was the point of this fog here?

Feng Xianyu lowered his gaze and continued to examine the blade. Suddenly, he froze: on the shiny blade that had been touched by the fog, a pair of dead, ashen eyes flashed briefly. In the pupils, he could dimly see the back of a woman, then more eyes—male and female, with different faces, but almost all had dilated pupils, extinguished as if by fire, piling up layer upon layer.

This is resentment, he thought. Then he heard Zhuo Yu say, “This is resentment.”

“Resentment?” Xiang Wan tilted his head in confusion.

Feng Xianyu’s lips twitched upward almost imperceptibly before he quickly smoothed them. He then said, “Zhuo… Senior Brother is right.”

If they would never be Dao partners again in this life, they were still senior and junior brothers. He let out a breath, thinking.

Ah Yue gazed quietly at Feng Xianyu. He explained: “These are the resentful spirits of cultivators who died here. Even ordinary mortals with strong grudges at death can become ghosts, let alone these cultivators with spiritual power. Dying unjustly, their resentment is bound to be hard to dissipate.”

“Is it serious?” Xiang Wan asked worriedly.

“It’s just resentment, nothing serious.” Feng Xianyu’s tone was flat. “Dead is dead. People die like lamps going out; what storms can they stir up?”

With that, Feng Xianyu shrugged lightly and said, “Just walk straight through. It has no offensive power.”

At most… it might make you recall some unpleasant memories.

But the disciples brought along this time all had fulfilling lives, never having experienced serious grief or pain. They would probably just see scenes of being punished by their parents for childhood mischief.

The group exchanged glances. Feng Xianyu slung the golden bow over his back and, without looking back, strode straight into the thick fog. His red robe disappeared instantly into the mist. In no time, Zhuo Yu followed.

“Then I’m going too.” Xiang Wan clenched his fist and said, “Miss Ah Yue, follow me.”

Ah Yue nodded, offering him an encouraging look.

Xiang Wan took a deep breath. Even though he trusted Feng Xianyu and Zhuo Yu completely, he still approached the mysterious fog with wary imagination, afraid of encountering something terrible. When he forced himself to enter, he instinctively closed his eyes. Immediately, he was hit with a violent shiver from the cold.

The thick fog felt like a thousand-year-old ice cellar. Endless mist surrounded him on all sides, obscuring everything, damp and salty.

Xiang Wan was so cold that his mind stopped working. He moved forward almost purely on instinct.

Suddenly, a memory flashed through his mind, making him stumble:

It was the mountain gate of Qingdu Mountain and the long bluestone steps.

In spring, petals would fall; in summer, the heat would bring light rain summoned by the sect leader and elders; in autumn, golden ginkgo leaves covered the ground; in winter, snowflakes fell like goose feathers, turning the entire mountain white.

But in this memory, Qingdu Mountain was empty and desolate, with no trace of people. Xiang Wan almost didn’t recognize it.

The only things that stood out were the spots of bright red bloodstains on the long steps, even seeping into the bluestone itself. With a loud crash, the mountain gate collapsed in a cloud of smoke.

Xiang Wan shuddered in shock, wide-eyed, trying to see more clearly. But the mist swirled inward, as if mocking him, and pushed him out.

Once out, he saw Feng Xianyu leaning against the mountain wall with his arms crossed, waiting for them, gazing blankly into the distance. Zhuo Yu was beside him, always watching Feng Xianyu.

But Feng Xianyu’s expression was far from pleasant.

As for Zhuo Yu… Xiang Wan couldn’t tell; he always had that look.

Hearing movement, Feng Xianyu turned around, habitually curving his lips into a smile at Xiang Wan, though his eyes still held lingering coldness: “Did you see something?”

Xiang Wan instinctively shook his head.

Feng Xianyu smiled. “I thought so.”

Xiang Wan wanted to ask what Feng Xianyu had seen in the fog, but the question rose to his throat several times, only to remain unspoken.

Soon, the other disciples and Ah Yue emerged one after another. Their expressions showed no abnormality, only relief as they chattered animatedly: “I saw myself sneaking a drink as a kid and getting chased all over the yard by my dad, hahaha!”

“I dreamed I was being chased by the fiercest goose in the village. Scared me to death. I thought I’d forgotten all about that.” The disciple patted his chest fearfully.

Ah Yue watched them with wide eyes, then heard Feng Xianyu’s voice: “Miss Ah Yue, look. Is your Yan Lang over there?”

At Feng Xianyu’s words, all the chatter abruptly stopped. Everyone turned to look in the direction he was pointing.

There was a small cave. Inside, simple furniture was faintly visible: a bed, a screen, a table, a bookshelf… and a single, still oil lamp.

A young man lay on the bed, handsome in appearance, clearly someone with a gentle and mild temperament. His face was pale to the point of being blue, his hair neatly combed, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful, as if dreaming. His hands were placed properly before him, and his chest showed no rise or fall.

“Yan Lang!” Ah Yue cried out, running to the bedside, her eyes brimming with tears. She held his cold hand tightly against her cheek and said tenderly, “I’m back! Yan Lang, Ah Yue is back!”

The surrounding air was thick with a familiar smell.

It seemed a heartwarming scene of lovers reunited: the wife had found help, and together they could escape their suffering.

But amidst the girl’s sobbing by the bed, everyone felt goosebumps rise.

“Am I… seeing things…” Xiang Wan said, pale and trembling.

The reason was undeniable: the familiar, overwhelming stench of rot, and the cyan, spiderweb-like marks spreading across the face and limbs of Yan Pei, who lay on the bed as if sleeping with eyes closed, all indicated—

This legendary Yan Pei had been dead for at least three or four days.

That is, before they even met Ah Yue, Yan Pei was already dead.