45: Zhou Langxing confessed.

While Zhou Shurong was lingering at the cemetery in the west of the city, pondering the “afterlife,” he came across a ghost—one he recognized, no less. The ghost seemed to be searching for something, wandering aimlessly until he suddenly bumped into Zhou Shurong, who was perched on a gravestone.

Startled, he stared at Zhou Shurong for a long moment, hesitating as he said, “Hey, you look kind of familiar. Have we met?”

Zhou Shurong, agitated and frustrated at his inability to comprehend the key to advancing into a vengeful ghost, had no intention of responding at first. But on second thought, the ghost before him was strange—the aura he gave off was that of a mediocre wandering spirit.

Who knew how long he’d been dead or how long he’d been drifting, and yet he was still so weak. But back when he had faked getting hit by Zhou Shurong’s car, he’d spilled gore all over the place, and his body had been completely solid. That had never quite made sense.

So Zhou Shurong offered a prompt: “Car accident.”

The ghost didn’t get it at first. With his hands tucked into his sleeves, he tilted his head and said, “I died from drinking pesticide.”

So he had a backstory.

Zhou Shurong gave another hint: “Red Lamborghini. Gold ingot.”

The ghost’s face turned ghostly white—well, whiter than usual, as if drenched in cold sweat—if that was even sweat. His eyes widened in alarm. “I-it’s you!”

Seeing how powerful Zhou Shurong had become made him panic, as if he might devour him like some ghost-eating fiend. He hastily clasped his hands together and began stammering for mercy.

Just a moment ago, he’d been calling him “brother.” Now it was nothing but “big brother.”

“I’m not going to eat you,” Zhou Shurong said calmly, resting one leg on the gravestone. His expression was indifferent, but his eyes held an untraceable weariness.

“What were you just looking for?”

The ghost, too timid to even straighten his back, mumbled, “I was looking for my grave. When I was buried here, it was still an undeveloped hill. But now…”

He finally looked up, eyes scanning the area in confusion. With a bitter smile, he said, “I can’t find it anymore.”

Zhou Shurong looked mildly surprised. “This cemetery has been under development for thirty years. You’ve been dead that long?”

“Yeah. My wife’s an old lady now.”

“All that time, and your power still…”

“Not gonna lie,” the ghost interrupted, “I only became conscious three months ago. Before that, I don’t even know where I was drifting. I’ve been trying to find a path to the underworld. I want to be reincarnated.” He muttered, “Why haven’t Black and White Wuchang come to take me?”

TN: Two iconic figures from Chinese mythology and folk religion. They are deities or spiritual officials in the underworld, responsible for escorting the souls of the dead to the afterlife. 

His every word carried a mournful note, like a drifting cry carried far on the wind.

Zhou Shurong thought, Maybe that’s exactly why there are so many ghosts showing up in the world—the underworld’s collapsed.

He asked, “That time you threw yourself in front of my car—was all that blood and gore fake?”

“It was! All fake,” the ghost replied in a panic. “I found this bead two months ago. It can create illusions for weak ghosts. I named it Ghost Gear.”

As he spoke, he rummaged in his pocket and nervously presented a translucent bead the size of a small moon, both hands trembling as he offered it to Zhou Shurong.

Zhou Shurong accepted it with interest, toying with it. “Ghost Gear? That’s a pretty fitting name. Only ghosts can use it?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Zhou Shurong thought for a moment. “That car I drove—was that a ghost gear too?”

“I don’t know that either,” the ghost said bitterly. “When I became self-aware, I had nothing on me. No burial items.”

“You said once that you could use money to rebuild your body. You said you had connections, knew a broker. So what, there’s a ghost organization now?”

The ghost’s smile turned even more bitter—and awkward. “That was a lie.”

Zhou Shurong stared at him.

The ghost’s half-transparent face flickered, creepy enough to scare other ghosts.

“Then what did you need ghost money for?”

“I figured, if I ever made it to Hell, I could bribe the underworld officials. Maybe reincarnate early, maybe into a good family! Who knows, maybe I’d even keep my memories!”

Zhou Shurong let out a long breath as the ghost looked at him anxiously.

“I’ll take the bead.”

“Yes, yes! Consider it an apology, big brother!”

With a wave of Zhou Shurong’s hand, the ghost fled in a flash.

Midway up the hill, silence returned. Not even the chirp of insects or birds remained.

Zhou Shurong stood and looked around this desolate place. Night was deep, countless gravestones stood in neat rows, and the faces in the photos on them stared forward—some numb, some smiling.

He muttered, almost to himself, “How long have I been here?”

Day and night, he thought endlessly. During the day, he hid underground. He didn’t live in a coffin but in a paper villa, complete with paper servants who tucked him in.

He hesitated on what kind of resentment to embrace. He was afraid that once he gave into it, he would lose control and do something he’d regret.

While thinking, most of his thoughts were of Qin Yan. A few were of Zhou Langxing.

His growing resentment also centered around them. The most obsessive thought he kept returning to was:

Why is Qin Yan still alive? Why didn’t he choose to become a pair of doomed lovers with me?

Once that thought emerged, it refused to disappear.

Zhou Shurong tried to ignore it, but there was no way to resolve it. It was like a fishbone stuck in his throat—impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.

Little by little, it returned again and again.

Until finally, voices began to echo from all directions. Dreamlike, surreal, neither demonic nor divine, they surrounded him in a whisper, all murmuring the same sentence:

“Why didn’t he die with you?”

Urged on, Zhou Shurong began to waver. Now, he was eager—desperate—to see Qin Yan again.

…

The clinic had aged.

So had its owner.

He was open-minded and left space for the two young men. Sitting alone at his desk, he slowly pounded herbs into a jar. The door was shut tight, and the sounds from outside drifted in faintly, indistinct and muffled.

The two young men sat on a bench—one that was brand-new and didn’t match the worn-down clinic at all. Its slick red lacquer looked oddly out of place. Qin Yan wore shorts, and before long, his skin had stuck to the seat. Whenever he shifted, the bench creaked in an awkward, skin-peeling way.

A cotton swab soaked in iodine dangled mid-air as Zhou Langxing asked quietly, “Was I too rough?”

Qin Yan settled back into position and shook his head.

Zhou Langxing resumed applying medicine to his cheek.

They faced each other. Because of the task at hand, their distance was barely half an arm’s length. Qin Yan’s gaze landed on the second button of Zhou Langxing’s shirt—it looked like it was made of shell, glinting with delicate hues under the light.

When Zhou Langxing walked out wearing that shirt, for a moment Qin Yan thought he had stolen his older brother’s clothes. But then he saw the button—and understood that this was still very much Zhou Langxing’s style. He liked to put thought into little details.

His eyes moved upward, curious to see if, aside from the watch and the unique button, Zhou Langxing had any other hidden touches.

He examined his ears, partly hidden beneath his hair, wondering if there was a discreet earring tucked inside.

Left side—nothing.

Right side… he couldn’t see the right side.

He tilted his head slightly, and just then heard a soft “Hey.” He looked up, right into Zhou Langxing’s bright, sparkling eyes. Zhou Langxing lightly waved a cotton swab and said, “Bear with it—don’t move for a second.”

Qin Yan lowered his head, a little embarrassed, brushing away the clutter in his thoughts. Then came another gentle “Hey,” and Zhou Langxing said, “Lift your face.”

Qin Yan jerked his face up with effort, his cheeks flushed with shame and frustration.

Zhou Langxing struggled not to laugh.

Once he was done cleaning Qin Yan’s face, he held the tiny swab in his fingers, lowered his head, and began laughing silently, shoulders shaking.

Qin Yan said faintly, “If you didn’t want me to know you were laughing, you should’ve made up an excuse and gone to the bathroom.”

He was still confused. “Is it that funny?”

Zhou Langxing looked up after a moment, nearly in tears from laughing, and waved it off. “I wasn’t laughing at you—I just thought of something funny.”

Qin Yan didn’t buy it. To show where he stood, he let out a heavy huff and scooted away. But his sweaty skin slid against the glossy red lacquer bench, producing a long, awkward noise.

It sounded exactly like a long, slow, unmistakable fart.

Zhou Langxing finally burst out laughing.

Qin Yan turned his head away and stared at the floor in silence.

“I won’t laugh anymore!” Zhou Langxing leaned toward him.

Qin Yan reached out to push his face away, but was caught off guard when Zhou Langxing’s warm, burning hands closed around his. That kind of heat—it felt like an old house catching fire. Qin Yan looked at him in surprise. Zhou Langxing’s eyes were curved in a smile.

And then, quite suddenly, he said, “Qin Yan, I like you.”

It was Wednesday, June 14th. They had just survived a car accident without injury. Now, sitting on a worn bench in an old clinic, still dabbing iodine on their cuts… Zhou Langxing confessed.

The strange smell of iodine lingered at the tip of his nose. Qin Yan stared at him, stunned.

“You can feel it, right? My feelings for you?”

Zhou Langxing’s hand held his tightly. His palm was warm—and a little damp.

Qin Yan’s hand suddenly became hypersensitive. Every inch of skin felt fevered, trembling. That maddening heat crept from his fingertips and spread slowly.

His brain felt like it was being invaded.

His thoughts slowed to a crawl.

Even the organ called “eyes” blinked sluggishly, as if delayed.

“You… what did you say?”

“I think you can feel that I like you.”

Zhou Langxing was nervous—his face didn’t show it, but his heart pounded violently. Afraid of stammering, he spoke each word clearly and carefully, enunciating every syllable, making sure not a single one could be misheard.

Qin Yan finally found his rhythm again. He blinked, eyes shifting and flickering.

He wasn’t made of wood. He could feel things. He could tell.

But he’d always assumed it was one of those three great human delusions—He likes me.

Qin Yan said softly, “Let go.”

Zhou Langxing didn’t move.

Qin Yan was slightly angry, but didn’t struggle too hard—Zhou Langxing was too cunning. He had used the hand that once dislocated its socket to grip him tight.

Zhou Langxing was about to try harder—but suddenly, he felt something strange.

Like a needle prick between the shoulder blades.

Someone was watching him. Coldly.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew—Zhou Shurong had arrived. As if possessed, he leaned in and planted a kiss on Qin Yan’s uninjured cheek.

Cold.

Freezing…

Like biting into a delicious pudding, only for it to freeze into a block of ice before the taste even registers.

A thin layer of frost covered Zhou Langxing’s hair, face, and body.

His lips turned bluish-purple.

His eyes shifted in a certain direction.

Qin Yan was startled. His anger hadn’t even reached his face before panic took over.

“Zhou Langxing!!”

Zhou Langxing was staring in one direction.

Qin Yan felt the gaze behind him and slowly turned around. He saw Zhou Shurong standing at the end of the hallway, silently watching them.

A shaft of sunlight streamed through the window, slicing across his body.

One half of him was bathed in golden light.

The other half was cloaked in shadow.

The eye caught in the sunlight was as clear as a small mirror, reflecting the two of them with chilling clarity.

Qin Yan slowly stood. His hand slipped naturally from Zhou Langxing’s.

Zhou Langxing turned his eyes with effort.

No one spoke.

Zhou Shurong said nothing. The air became suffocating.

Qin Yan began to feel like he couldn’t breathe—as if a pair of iron hands were tightly clenching his throat.