Hair, black as ink, cascaded to her waist like a silken waterfall. Though the woman sat squarely before her, that long, dark curtain of hair veiled her face completely.
“I’m the one who got him to come…” The woman’s tone was soft, her smile faint, yet it cleaved through Jun’er’s confusion like a knife through mist.
“No… you can’t do that…” Jun’er’s voice trembled. Her strength fled from her limbs, leaving her hollow. A suffocating despair surged from deep within, consuming her whole. Tears, thick and luminous as pearls, streamed uncontrollably down her cheeks.
The woman rose in unhurried grace, her movement eerily fluid as she stepped closer.
“The man surnamed Song was prey prepared long ago, and you want to let him go? That’s against the rules. So, I impersonated you and wrote to him… oh? He didn’t just come alone, but brought along two other pieces of fresh meat… not bad…”
They had been waiting for men like Song Zhenguo—those born in the Yin hour—for a long time. Such prey was rare, and they would never let a single one escape their net.
Jun’er’s tears flowed ceaselessly, her body frozen like a lifeless doll. She did not resist as the woman’s cold hand brushed her cheek, fingers tracing her skin with unsettling affection. Then, that hand slid upward, fingertips pressing into her temple—piercing through flesh, slipping inward. The motion was slow, deliberate… stirring something unseen.
As the woman’s hand twisted gently, the clarity in Jun’er’s gaze dimmed. Her once-bright eyes grew languid and seductive, her skin gleaming with an uncanny, ethereal glow. A faint, intoxicating fragrance began to drift in the air around her.
But then—the woman paused. Behind those alluring eyes, she caught a glimmer of unbearable sorrow still clinging to Jun’er’s soul.
“Stay here for a while and clear your head. As for the man surnamed Song, I’ll send someone else.”
Her tone turned sharp; realizing something was wrong, she withdrew her hand. With a cold, disdainful hum, her form faded into nothingness.
Jun’er remained seated in the silent chamber, her face streaked with tears that refused to stop falling.
…………
Song Zhenguo led Chen Jiaorong and Lu Sheng up the pleasure boat, its lanterns swaying gently with the rippling water beneath.
“Young Master Song, Young Master Chen, Young Master Lu! It’s a grand occasion tonight. Everything’s been arranged perfectly—we were only waiting for your arrival.” The boat mistress greeted them with a radiant smile, her jeweled hairpin glinting under the lamplight.
“Where’s Jun’er?” Song Zhenguo asked, his tone light and full of cheer.
“Still dressing up. Young Master Song, you must cherish her well tonight,” the boat mistress replied with a teasing lilt, her smile never faltering.
“With pleasure, with pleasure!” Song Zhenguo chuckled heartily, his face glowing with anticipation. With Lu Sheng and Chen Jiaorong in tow, he followed her into a lavishly adorned chamber prepared especially for them.
The three men took their seats. Outside the window, the night was cloaked in a soft mist; moonlight filtered through like silken gauze, pooling faintly upon the wooden sill.
The boat mistress lingered for a moment. She turned, clapped her hands once—and at her signal, a procession of veiled ladies entered gracefully, one after another.
Their attire was daring and delicate: sheer white sashes bound their chests, and a faint, translucent gauze of pale green draped below the waist, revealing more than it concealed. Each figure moved with effortless grace, their silhouettes as fluid as mist over water. Even through their veils, their beauty was unmistakable.
One among them cradled a pipa in her arms. As she stepped forward, she began to pluck the strings, releasing a cascade of tender notes that shimmered in the air.
The melody wound through the chamber like perfumed smoke—soft, languid, intoxicating. It caressed the senses like a lover’s whisper, stirring something primal. The three men shivered slightly, their eyes reflecting the flicker of lantern light and desire alike.
Plates and wine soon arrived, each dish carefully prepared, each cup brimming with potent aromas. The food itself was spiced with aphrodisiacs, their scents blending seamlessly with the fragrance of incense and wine.
Song Zhenguo’s cheeks flushed red with delight. “Come now, brothers, eat! Don’t hold back—tonight’s for enjoyment!” he urged, his laughter bubbling up between sips of wine.
Lu Sheng ate only a few bites before setting his chopsticks down. He leaned back, his gaze half-lidded, listening quietly as the pipa’s sweet, entrancing notes filled the room.
The feast stretched on for more than two hours, accompanied by three rounds of graceful entertainers who came and went like drifting petals. Wine flowed freely, laughter rose and fell, and by the end, all three men were thoroughly drunk and flushed with satisfaction.
“Ordinarily, this pleasure boat forbids any physical intimacy,” Song Zhenguo said with a smug grin, swirling his cup lazily. “But tonight’s an exception. The boat master agreed—so long as I redeem Jun’er and take her away tonight, we can each choose any of the entertainers we fancy to spend the night with.” His voice brimmed with self-satisfaction.
“Are you certain about that?” Chen Jiaorong leaned forward, eyes widening in surprise. “I’ve never heard of this boat offering such liberties. They’ve always stayed apart from the brothels.”
“That’s exactly why I’m celebrating!” Song Zhenguo laughed heartily, pounding the table with joy. “Ordinary men can only dream of such privilege. My brothers, don’t hold back! I already have Little Jun, so I couldn’t care less about the others. But you two—go on, pick one or two! Enjoy yourselves!”
Lu Sheng cast a glance toward the window. The sky outside had deepened into a quiet indigo, moonlight glimmering faintly upon the rippling water. Time seemed to have slipped past unnoticed. Beyond the chamber, the bustle on the deck had faded; only the faintest murmur of conversation drifted in from afar, nearly swallowed by the gentle lapping of waves.
“Why don’t we play a game of Pot ‘n’ Arrows?” Song Zhenguo suggested, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “It’s the Scented Satin Festival tonight—if we score well, we might even earn a few special add-ons.” His tone carried the easy confidence of a man far too familiar with the pleasures of such nights.
Lu Sheng simply nodded. Chen Jiaorong chuckled and raised his cup in agreement.
At their request, several attendants appeared, carrying a bronze pot and a bundle of slim wooden arrows. Song Zhenguo took the first arrow, squinting with drunken focus before letting it fly. It arced gracefully and landed squarely in the pot, prompting laughter and delicate applause from the gathered ladies.
Each time an arrow met its mark, the women clapped and giggled, their laughter light as chimes. Chen Jiaorong, already flushed with drink, reached out and drew the smallest of them into his arms, whispering playfully into her ear as she squealed in mock protest.
The air was thick with the scent of wine and perfume, laughter rippling through it like the melody of silk brushing skin.
Pot ‘n’ Arrows was a favored banquet pastime—players took turns shooting short wooden arrows into a pot no larger than a wine bottle. It was a game enjoyed by scholars and commoners alike, simple yet endlessly entertaining.
After estimating the time from the faint slant of moonlight through the window, Lu Sheng turned casually to the lady sitting beside him. “It’s already so late. Don’t you ever close for business?”
“No, we don’t close for business,” she replied with a demure smile, her tone soft yet strangely hollow.
Lu Sheng studied her expression, a faint unease tugging at him. Something about her smile felt off—too practiced, too still—but he couldn’t place why. After a brief pause, he dismissed the thought and looked back toward Song Zhenguo, who was laughing boisterously as he reached for another jug of wine.
The three men continued playing, their laughter mingling with the soft thrum of the pipa in the distance.
“It’s getting late. We’ll go freshen up and be right back to keep you company,” one of the dancers murmured, bowing gracefully as she spoke.
“Go on, go,” Song Zhenguo said with a careless wave, still chuckling.
The line of veiled ladies withdrew one after another, their perfume lingering faintly in the air. The last woman paused briefly at the doorway before closing it gently behind her.
Silence descended.
The chamber felt heavier now, thick with the scent of wine and extinguished candles. Dishes and cups were scattered across the low table, and two jugs of wine lay toppled on the floor, their contents staining the mats in dark patches.
“I’ve drunk too much tonight,” Chen Jiaorong muttered, rubbing his temple.
“Don’t hold up what’s important,” Song Zhenguo said, laughing. “Need the latrine?”
“I’ll go wash my face.”
Lu Sheng stood, shaking his head to clear the haze. He stepped out into the corridor.
The hallway beyond was dim and silent. The lamps had burned low, their light flickering against the lacquered walls. Every chamber door was shut tight—no laughter, no footsteps, no sign of the women who had filled the boat with life only moments ago.
A dull throb pulsed in Lu Sheng’s temples as he made his way toward the latrine, the faint sway of the boat beneath his feet unsettling his balance.
He splashed cold water on his face, the chill cutting through the wine’s fog. The world sharpened again; his head cleared. He wiped his face with a towel and turned to leave.
After only a few steps, his body suddenly stiffened—something had caught his attention.
Light from the main hall spilled faintly across the corridor outside the latrine. Yet something about it was wrong. The color was… different.
I remember it being yellow, Lu Sheng thought, his brows knitting as he squinted at the patch of luminous scarlet gleaming across the wooden floor.
The silence was absolute—so still that even the soft lapping of waves against the hull had vanished. The air itself felt suspended, heavy and soundless. Lu Sheng glanced down once more at the blood-red reflection beneath his feet before stepping cautiously out of the latrine and into the corridor.
The main hall stretched before him, shrouded in an eerie calm. The warm yellow lanterns that had once bathed the space in golden glow had somehow transformed—each one now burned with a ghostly, crimson light. The scarlet glow bled across the walls, tinting everything in the hue of fresh blood.
Lu Sheng moved to the railing and looked down. From the second level, he could see the lower deck clearly—completely deserted. Just earlier, before he went to wash up, the place had been filled with laughter, the clinking of cups, the rustle of silks. Now, not a single soul remained. Only a cold, wandering breeze drifted through the still air.
His brows tightened. Quickening his pace, Lu Sheng strode toward their chamber.
Pushing open the door, he found the room empty. Chen Jiaorong and Song Zhenguo were gone. Perhaps, he reasoned, they had gone to the latrine as well and hadn’t yet returned.
He turned to leave—but then stopped. His gaze sharpened.
Two large red lanterns hung in the chamber. They swayed gently, suspended right above the spot where the three of them had been feasting moments before. Their glow pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
The open door creaked softly under the wind, but not another sound came from within.
Lu Sheng stood still, his eyes moving from the lanterns to the empty wine table, then across the silent room.
“Brother Song? Brother Chen?” he called out, his voice echoing dully.
There was no reply. Only the lanterns flickered faintly, painting his shadow in shades of red.
In that quiet moment, a memory surfaced—of the strange, crimson-decked boat he had once visited. A chill ran down his spine as his expression darkened.
Lu Sheng sat back down, placing both hands calmly on his knees. The room was silent but for the faint creak of the boat beneath him. He waited, unmoving, for Song Zhenguo and Chen Jiaorong to return. If they had only gone to the latrine, surely they would be back any moment now.
Time passed slowly.
Then—soft, measured footsteps echoed from beyond the doorway.
The sound grew clearer, each step crisp against the wooden floorboards, until it stopped just at the corner beyond his line of sight.
“Brother Song?” Lu Sheng called out, standing from his seat.
No response.
Someone—or something—stood right around that corner, utterly silent.
Lu Sheng’s eyes narrowed. His hand drifted behind his waist, fingers brushing the hilt of the short saber hidden beneath his robes. It was a compact blade, no longer than his forearm—small enough to conceal, sharp enough to kill.
He began to move toward the door, each step quiet and deliberate.
But as he rose, a pale, indistinct figure appeared behind him—white as bone, gliding silently through the air. It wore long, tattered robes that drifted like mist, and its face was nothing but a blur of cold light. Soundlessly, it stretched out a clawed hand toward the back of Lu Sheng’s head.
“Chchch…”
Without warning, Lu Sheng pressed his palm hard against the wooden wall beside him, leaving behind a dark handprint. The sudden motion and sound made the specter flinch, its claw freezing midair.
It turned toward the wall, sensing movement—but finding nothing.
Then, as if realizing it had been fooled, it began to move again. The pale claw extended once more, reaching toward Lu Sheng’s back—
Only to freeze.
This time, Lu Sheng was no longer facing away. He had turned, eyes sharp as blades, their gleam cutting through the dim red light.
“What are you doing?” His voice was calm, his smile slow and cold. White teeth glinted under the lantern glow, a grin that sent a chill crawling through the air.
The figure recoiled violently, its shape twisting in fear before melting backward into the wall like smoke.
“BOOM!!!”
In a flash, a black shadow lunged forward—Lu Sheng’s saber slicing through the air in a silver arc. The blade crashed into the wall with explosive force, its edge glinting like lightning, scattering splinters as if slashing through a waterfall.
It was Lu Sheng.
Without hesitation, he struck—one clean, explosive blow. The sheer power behind it shattered the wall in an instant, splinters bursting outward like sparks from a forge. The strike landed with the effortless precision of a butcher slicing tofu.
Before the dust could settle, Lu Sheng surged forward, chasing the fleeing, white-clothed figure.
The phantom recoiled in shock, its pale silhouette flickering as it glided swiftly into the neighboring chamber, melding once more into the wall like vapor sinking into mist.
“BOOOOM!”
“DIEEE!!!”
Lu Sheng’s roar thundered through the boat as his saber came down in another earth-shaking swing. The wall exploded into fragments, debris scattering through the air as he charged straight through the wreckage.
His pursuit was unrelenting. Each swing of his blade tore through the silence, a storm of fury and raw strength.
Veins bulged across his arms and neck, pulsing like coiled serpents beneath his skin. His blood surged violently, a primal energy radiating from every fiber of his being. His muscles swelled, stretching his robes tight until his entire frame seemed to grow, his figure towering and broad—like a miniature giant brought to life.
In his enormous hand, the saber appeared absurdly small—nothing more than a thin, silver branch gripped between his fingers. The blade’s width was scarcely a third of his forearm, yet in his grasp, it gleamed with the weight of unstoppable power.
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