The north wind howled desolately, winter’s chill carrying death upon its breath. Liang City lay silent—utterly lifeless.
At this moment, the streets were littered with corpses, blood flowing like rivers, the stench rising to the heavens. The city itself had become a vast grave, where even the sound of breathing felt too harsh.
A crow descended from the distance, landing on the eaves with a hoarse cry that split the silence. Then came another. And another. Soon, flocks darkened the sky, pouring into the streets and alleys, their claws trampling over the dead that filled every corner.
Amid this bleak scene, a pair of light apricot cloth shoes stepped into the main street, instantly soaking with blood.
They belonged to a young woman in a moon-white dress, no more than seventeen or eighteen. Against the crimson backdrop, she resembled a lotus blooming in a pool of blood.
In her hand she idly spun a jade pendant, its cord looped around her finger, the stone releasing a faint blue glow.
“Looks like the city’s been massacred…” Her voice was unnervingly calm.
Any ordinary girl, faced with such horror, would have fainted from fright. But He Simu was no ordinary girl.
She was an evil ghost.
When people die bound by deep obsessions, unable to reincarnate, they become wandering souls. Those who survive centuries, devouring others of their kind, transform into evil ghosts—hunters of the living.
He Simu was one of them, and she was hungry.
The night was so dark that one could not see a hand stretched before them. Corpses lay heaped upon each other, yet He Simu moved lightly between them, finding precise footholds as if the dead offered her a path. After six steps, however, something seized her foot.
“Save… save…”
She lowered her gaze. A man lay before her, his abdomen torn open, blood matting his features beyond recognition. His cloudy eyes, unfocused yet stubborn, lifted to hers. With trembling fingers, he pointed weakly to the side.
“Save… my son… save… Chen Ying…”
Following his gesture, He Simu saw a boy of seven or eight pinned beneath several bodies. His pale little face was barely visible, chest still faintly rising, though he remained unconscious.
Her eyes returned to the dying man. “Your son’s condition is far better than yours. You’re the one at death’s door.”
“Save…” He didn’t hear her—or perhaps refused to. His plea remained unchanged.
He Simu squatted, hands resting on her knees, and leaned close. “If I devour you, and in return save your son—would you agree? Think carefully. Those eaten by evil ghosts lose a soul flame. After reincarnation, they suffer misfortunes untold, perhaps needing countless lifetimes to recover.”
The man faltered, confusion flashing briefly in his gaze. Then, as comprehension dawned, terror widened his eyes and his hand quivered against her foot.
“You refuse?” She tilted her head.
He trembled for a long moment. Tears welled in his eyes. At last, he whispered, “…I… agree…”
He Simu’s lips curved into a faint, pitying smile. “Good.”
In the next breath, she seized his hair, forcing his head back, and sank her sharp canines deep into his throat. Blood gushed hot across her face as the jade pendant blazed and then dimmed.
The man’s hand slipped lifelessly from her foot. A glow rose slowly from his body, drifting toward the heavens.
Every human bears three soul flames—at the crown and each shoulder. At death, they merge into a single lamp of light, ascending like a meteor to the sky. Only evil ghosts can see this final brilliance.
For one of He Simu’s strength, the crown soul was her feast. Without it, the man’s ascending light was pale, diminished—a soul marked for countless lifetimes of suffering. All for a father’s final wish. Mortals, she thought, so fond of losing bargains.
She released him, letting the body fall with a heavy thud. At that same moment, the night began to pale. The restless crows stirred as dawn approached.
Dusting her hands, she stepped over the corpses, following the bloody trail toward the child.
Though she could have devoured the man outright, ghosts of her level kept certain rules. He Simu always respected her meals. A fair exchange. A promise kept.
She lifted one corpse off the boy—only for its head to come loose, rolling into her hands as the torso collapsed back onto the child.
The boy’s pale face grew ashen with the impact.
He Simu frowned at the severed head in her grasp, its dead eyes wide with terror. How troublesome.
“The Great Liang army has arrived!” A cry rang out from the city gates, hoarse and trembling with all an elder’s strength.
The ground shook with hoofbeats. A tide of living breath swept death away like a storm. Survivors staggered from hiding places, voices breaking into sobs.
The city gates creaked open. Dawn spilled over the horizon as endless ranks of soldiers entered—armored, disciplined, unyielding.
At their head rode a youth on a tall white horse, clad in silver armor, bathed in morning light. His frame was strong, his nose straight, cheekbones high. His almond-shaped eyes, slightly upturned, burned bright and sharp.
He was strikingly handsome. Noble. A blade gleaming against the dark.
This was He Simu’s first glimpse of Duan Xu.
All around, survivors wailed and reached for salvation. She, meanwhile, still held a severed head.
The youth’s gaze swept across the carnage. His brows knit slightly, but his composure never faltered.
He Simu tossed the head aside and shifted her attention—not to the youth himself, but to the black sword at his waist. Its silver engravings glimmered faintly, its hilt exquisitely wrought.
Recognition flickered. The Po Wang Spirit Sword. Forged three centuries ago by her uncle, second only to the Bu Zhou Sword. A weapon coveted by countless sects.
What was such a sword doing in the hands of a mortal youth with no trace of cultivation?
“General! You’ve come to save us!” a man cried, rushing past her to kneel.
He Simu glanced at the weeping masses, then considered. Should she cry out too?
A hard bite on her tongue brought instant tears. She pushed past the kneeling man, skirts brushing the blood, and ran to the youth’s horse.
“General, the Hu Qi people massacred the city before retreating. Countless are dead and wounded. Have you come to save us?”
The youth reined his horse, his men halting behind him. His young face held the steadiness of command.
“I am Duan Xu, commander of Great Liang’s White-Treading Army. The enemy has fled north of the river. From today, Liang City returns to Great Liang.”
He paused. “As long as I live, the Hu Qi will not set foot here again.”
Tears of joy burst forth among the crowd. He Simu joined in, pretending grief, tugging at his sleeve.
Swords flashed as guards moved to strike, but Duan Xu lifted a hand to stay them. He pulled a handkerchief from his robes, leaned down, and offered it to her.
“Wipe away the blood.”
His hands—long, pale, yet calloused—spoke of both nobility and battle.
He Simu accepted, brushing his fingers deliberately. Behind her lowered lashes, a smile flickered. Yes, a beautiful host had its advantages. Tears and pleas softened men’s hearts.
Yet as she felt his pulse, her suspicion deepened. He was no cultivator. How, then, did the Po Wang Sword yield to him?
Her thoughts broke as the body she possessed wavered, on the brink of collapse. She quickly pointed at the trapped child. “Save that child!”
Then she fainted.
Her ghostly form rose from the host, arms folded, sighing at the frailty of mortals.
Unseen by all, she watched Duan Xu command calmly: “Take her away and tend to her. From today, military affairs will be restored. Spare all possible effort for the living. Anyone caught looting will face military law.”
As her host body was carried away, He Simu followed lazily, rolling a luminous pearl in her palm. “Feng Yi.”
The pearl glowed, runes flaring softly. A man’s voice yawned awake from within.
“What a rare call, Ancestor. Dawn’s barely broken. What is it?”
She ignored his complaints. “Investigate someone. A man from the imperial court.”
“Oh? Since when do you meddle with officials? Who?”
“The one with the Po Wang Sword.”
Silence. Then surprise. “That sword reappeared? What’s his name?”
“…What was his name again?” She frowned. At first sight, all she had seen was the sword. The boy’s name had slipped past like mist.
Her long death had blurred many such details.
From the pearl, Feng Yi laughed. Water splashed in the background. “You didn’t even get his name? Forget it. Once you do, I’ll find him for you. Planning to steal the sword?”
“What use would I have for it? I don’t cultivate the Dao.”
She lifted her gaze. Duan Xu’s white figure gleamed like sunlight on steel. Her lips curved. “I’m simply bored. Perhaps I’d like some entertainment. If you’re free, Imperial Tutor, we’ll play together.”
He chuckled. “Flatterer. Very well. Once you bring me his name, leave the rest to me.”
The pearl dimmed.
He Simu slipped it back into her robes, watching sunlight spill across the corpses and the grieving survivors. Her steps remained light, unhurried, as if she were nothing but a passing guest.
The world reeled in blood and sorrow. Yet the heavens above smiled, bright and clear.
The grass, parched for days, drank deep of this crimson flood. For it, today was a good day.
.jpeg)
.jpeg)