Chapter Four: The Eagle Eats the Chick

That unknowable, terrifying presence pressed in, hovering just half a foot behind He Chang’an’s head. The veins on his left hand bulged as he gripped the wrist-dagger with measured strength, ready to crouch and slash—

A faint click, and a sharp pain lanced through his eyes, as if he’d taken a heavy blow to the sockets. Two streams of bloody tears welled up, tracing down his handsome, pale cheeks.

In the blink of an eye, the world before him shifted into a grotesque tableau.

He Chang’an froze, his heart sinking utterly. Forcing himself to see through the veil, he immediately noticed a severed head had appeared on the table across from him—a ghastly, pallid face.

Not wild-haired nor excessively bloody; but for the fine, cold hairs prickling the white skin, the strange smile tugging at the lips, the bluish-purple mottling, the hollow eyes ringed with two deep shadows—were it not for these, he’d have admitted this face was, damnably, almost handsome even in death.

He wasn’t afraid of the dead, nor did he much fear so-called monsters, ghosts, malevolent spirits, the resentful or vengeful dead. His only real fear was, quite simply, dying.

Above that eerie head floated a miasma of red tinged with black and purple. In that moment, a flash of insight—

At least level twenty. What now?

Meanwhile, the threat from behind pressed so close it seemed to breathe its icy chill against his ear, whispering, softly singing, gently licking his earlobe—

A shudder ran through him, and he was instantly drenched in cold sweat.

…

“He Lang…”

An icy hand settled lightly atop his crown, pressing just enough to paralyze his limbs, constrict his breath, and force his eyes slowly outward.

With that, his spirit-sight faded; the strange head vanished from the table. All that remained was the solitary lamp, its bean-sized flame flickering in the invisible draught—then snuffed out entirely.

Moonlight spilled in, cold and white, filling the room in an instant.

He Chang’an silently unclenched his left hand from the dagger.

His gaze vacant, he slowly turned his head.

And there he saw the village girl’s face—gentle features, glossy black hair cascading smooth as silk, and eyes like crescent moons brimming with tenderness, concern, and longing. Her trembling lips drew close to his—

Is this the infamous ‘romance between man and ghost’?

I have absolutely no experience with this…

Heaven, earth, O Taishang Laojun, by your decree—Brother Ji, the fishmonger, Zhou the butcher, Brother Wang, the Black Mountain Ghost—never mind that one, he’s probably in on it…

Back to the point: gods above, save me quickly!

The eagle has snatched the chick…

He Chang’an’s mind raced frantically, clinging to the last threads of consciousness. He knew full well his opponent was a ghost, overwhelmingly powerful—she could crush him with the flick of a finger.

What she’d unleashed was a kind of illusion.

He had no intention of dying so confusedly, of submitting without a fight. That was not his way. He still had blades and bullets; there was a chance yet.

But she was far too strong. With his meager skills, ‘Quick-handed He Chang’an’ wouldn’t even suffice to fill the cracks in her teeth.

In the span of three or five breaths, his mind was seized, and he stumbled, dazed, toward the bed…

…

He had no idea how much time passed before he drifted back to consciousness, his entire body wracked with chill that seeped deep into his bones, his organs hollow and aching.

He kept his eyes shut tight, trembling uncontrollably, his teeth chattering, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

It wasn’t affectation—his eyes truly hurt unbearably.

So this spirit-sight exists solely to frighten myself…

He Chang’an forced himself not to open his eyes, terrified that if he looked down, he’d see the ‘knightess’ who’d tormented him all night, not yet sated, whispering by his side:

He Lang, the rooster has not yet crowed…

“He Lang, the rooster will crow soon.” An icy little hand brushed softly across his chest, followed by a breath like orchids as the village girl gazed at him with rapt, dreamy intensity.

“From now on, you are mine. He Lang, does that make you happy?”

Yes, I’m just glad you haven’t killed me yet…

“He Lang,” she murmured on, her tone laced with tender affection, “Ordinarily, you’d have to wait three days and nights before I could teach you the ‘Breath-Feeding Technique.’ But I couldn’t bear to see you suffer, nor let your vital essence drain away…

My little mischief, you must cultivate diligently now. On the next night of the full moon…

Wait for me.”

As she finished, she pressed a cool kiss to his brow, reluctantly rising.

He Chang’an felt a wisp of chilling breath seep into his forehead and congeal there, though he had no idea what manner of ghostly thing it was.

A few breaths later, he felt his pillow shift, as if the village girl had slipped something beneath it—presumably the promised ‘Breath-Feeding Technique.’

“Remember, you’re mine now. Go to the brothel for a song if you must, but if those fox-spirits suck your essence dry, then…” The ghostly woman laughed coldly, dissolved into shadow, and drifted over the wall.

At that very moment, the rooster crowed at last…

…

He Chang’an lay motionless, eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness for a long while. Not until the cock crowed thrice did he finally ‘slowly awaken.’

In the thatched hut, the chill gradually faded, everything as tattered as before.

One lamp, its flame like a bean, on the table.

The night’s terror, the aching ecstasy, the dreamlike delirium—all receded like the waning moonlight, leaving behind only weariness and fatigue, slowly dimming away.

He Chang’an opened his eyes, tried to move—he could, barely. Though his head throbbed, his body ached as if he’d been pounded to pulp, and only his fingers retained some strength.

He let out a silent sigh of relief.

Next full moon night…

The thought that there were still twenty-some days before the ‘knightess’ would return made his teeth ache.

He finally understood why, every month, the men of Weiyang County would spend two or three days suffering from sore backs and waists, pale faces, purpled lips, and twin black circles under their eyes…

So it seems, they’d all been ‘kept’ by a female ghost?

He didn’t need to check to know his own appearance now likely rivaled that of Old Tiger Zhang or Old Hu the Fourth—perhaps even worse.

After all, ‘Quick-handed He Chang’an’ was a bit too capable—he’d nearly emptied himself out.

If not for the village girl’s timely mercy, worried he’d lose all his essence, these two nights would likely have finished him off for good…

Diligent cultivation, the Breath-Feeding Technique?

He Chang’an strained to listen, forcibly activated his spirit-sight, and scanned the room—nothing amiss, the ghost finally gone.

He rolled over with effort, reached under his pillow, and found a ten-tael silver ingot and a thin booklet.

A cultivation method?

He Chang’an drew out the booklet, and by the meager lamplight and the dim moonbeams, opened the first page with a faint sense of anticipation…