Chapter Two: Memories of the Past, The First Appearance of the Ghost Lord

The slave collapsed helplessly to the ground, bursting into laughter. The sound of Huashang’s laughter, her weeping, the image of her in agony, struggling and screaming his name—all of it haunted his mind, impossible to dispel.

At last, he wept, crying like a child. Half of his life had been spent in bloodshed and storms, and Huashang was the sliver of light in his dark existence. Yet that faint light, in the end, was lost by his own hands.

That glimmer turned to wind, to rain, ever lingering yet never again able to remain in his world, at his side.

Hearing these sobs, the man slowly put down his teacup and said, “All things in this world have their cause and effect. As for the effect of Huashang’s death, the cause was sown by herself. The blame is not yours.”

The slave collected himself, moved forward, and knelt before the man. “I thank you for saving my life, my lord. Now that I have recovered from my wounds, I will no longer trouble your household. As for the debt of your kindness, I swear: wherever I may be, should you call, I will come at once, and pledge my life and loyalty to you.”

With that, the slave kowtowed three times, each thud resounding sharply. By the time he raised his head, both his forehead and the spot where he knelt were stained red.

The man frowned unconsciously and sneered, “You wish to leave?”

“Since when has the place of the Lord of Ghosts been somewhere a mere half-demon could come and go as he pleases?”

From behind the curtain, another person emerged, smiling. “Well, this time, did you bite off more than you could chew?”

That person, it was clear, was Moyan, who had taken care of the slave for some time.

Moyan kept smiling, looking at the slave. “You really are someone who doesn’t know how good you have it! A single medicine from the Lord of Ghosts is worth more than gold, yet so much was wasted on this fool. What a pity. I pestered for so long and never got even a single pill!”

The slave’s expression was unreadable, lips pressed tightly together, only now regaining a hint of color.

But then, the Lord of Ghosts spoke, “Do you wish to save Huashang?”

The slave jerked his head up, disbelief in his eyes, but he nodded without hesitation.

“Very well, I do have a way to save her. But…”

“But?” the slave pressed.

The Lord of Ghosts looked disgusted, as if recalling something unpleasant. “But I do not wish to do it myself.”

“I can learn!” the slave said urgently.

The Lord of Ghosts smiled. “Oh? But my method is something I only wish to teach my own disciples.” The implication was clear.

A gleam flickered in the slave’s eyes; he declared resolutely, “Number One pays his respects to Master.”

“Number One? Perhaps you should choose a new name. How can any disciple of mine lack a proper name?”

The slave paused to consider, then answered in a low voice, “Hei Nu. My name is Hei Nu.”

“‘Slave’? Can it be that you cannot rid yourself of the servility in your bones?”

“No, I merely wish to remind myself…”

A reminder? It was all an excuse. The slave knew in his heart that he only wanted to cling to whatever faint light remained of his past.

His Huashang…

Huashang…

Hall of Asura.

The slave leaned against the wall, murmuring unconsciously. He spoke only two names, over and over: Master, Huashang…

While the slave slept, he didn’t notice someone approaching. That person looked just like Obsidian, who should have been recuperating in bed, but not quite—there was an innate aura of authority about him that Obsidian could never imitate. Upon closer inspection, his features were even more refined than Obsidian’s, but colder, more aloof, clearly the presence of someone born to rule.

With a soft sigh, the man waved his hand in the air. As he withdrew it, several wisps of demonic energy were extracted from the slave’s body. He held them gently as they dissipated.

The slave's wounds began to heal at a remarkable rate.

Slowly, the slave opened his eyes and saw the man before him. Startled, he exclaimed, “Master?! What is happening?”

There was a hint of a smile in the Lord of Ghosts’ eyes. “Are you feeling any discomfort?”

The slave scrambled to his feet, half-kneeling. “Thank you for your concern, Master. I am unharmed.”

“Unharmed?” the Lord of Ghosts enunciated each word, crisp and clear.

“If so, then how was it that you were so foolishly used by others?” The fleeting smiles vanished.

The slave’s gaze dimmed. “I acknowledge my mistake.”

“Enough. Since you are well, stay by Obsidian’s side for now.”

“And you, Master…?” the slave asked, puzzled.

“I know what I’m doing. When the time comes, I will return.” With a cold snort, the Lord of Ghosts swept his sleeve and left.

The slave remained silent. This master of his suddenly seemed like a stranger, though he couldn’t say exactly why. Nonetheless, whatever the orders, he would obey.

After leaving the Hall of Asura, the Lord of Ghosts stopped and spoke, “How much longer do you intend to follow me?”

The other man chuckled, not the least bit embarrassed at being discovered, as if he had never been sneaking around at all. “Not long, not long. I only followed you from when you came out.”

He was dressed in white, holding a folding fan, and wore a mask patterned with peach blossoms.

Yet the Lord of Ghosts recognized him at once, casting only a cold glance and warning, “Xiaobai, mind your own business. If you meddle again, I will not be bound by our past friendship.”

With those words, the Lord of Ghosts disappeared.

The man removed his mask, covering his face as he laughed. “Friendship? What I desire is far more than friendship.”

Hall of Yanluo.

A figure slipped silently into the room where Yanluo and Obsidian were resting, unnoticed by all.

The Lord of Ghosts stood dazed beside Yanluo, his hand reaching out involuntarily, tracing the air above Yanluo’s nose, eyes, lips, his entire profile, eyes brimming with longing. “Aqing, Aqing, Aqing…”

Again and again, he traced and repeated the name, as though gazing upon the greatest treasure. That’s right—he was his treasure.

He lowered his head, kissing Yanluo’s forehead lightly, full of tenderness.

His hand lingered at Yanluo’s neck, exerting the slightest pressure, murmuring, “Do you know how much I’ve missed you, Aqing…”

The door creaked open.

Hearing the approaching footsteps, the Lord of Ghosts couldn’t help but laugh, then slowly faded away.

Yan Nianqing poked his head in, creeping with exaggerated caution, his small face solemn as if on a crucial secret mission.

He tiptoed to the bedside, fretting as he gazed at the sleeping Obsidian. After a long moment, he sighed. Why hasn’t Mother woken up yet? And that frosty old man—limiting his visitation time, making him sneak in at night… was it easy for him?

Watching Obsidian sleep, Yan Nianqing couldn’t stifle a yawn. His eyelids drooped, his little head bobbing as he fought sleep.

Swaying on his feet, everything became a blur. He thought he saw someone rise from the bed, slowly approaching. He tried desperately to keep his eyes open, but his vision remained foggy.

Before long, he felt himself lifted into the air, arching through a perfect parabola before being tossed out of the room. Startled awake, he gritted his teeth, “That frosty old man!”

Yanluo, after tossing his son out, returned to bed in silence, pulling Obsidian into his arms, nuzzling instinctively against him. Yes, much more comfortable.

Throughout these actions, Yanluo’s eyes were hazy, his mind not yet fully awake.

The next morning.

Yanluo’s eyes flew open. He sat up abruptly, his hand trembling as he touched his own forehead. Was it a dream? Or…

He turned to look at the sleeping Obsidian, his gaze complicated.