Chapter 21: Whispers Beneath Candlelight

"This deal is quite simple," He Simu said, her voice like frost on silk. "I will help fulfill your wish, and in exchange, you lend me one of your five senses. Each wish will cost you one sense for ten days, during which you will lose that particular sensation. After ten days, I will return it to you. In other words, you will have many opportunities to make wishes to me."

It was the most refined solution He Simu had crafted after centuries of studying the incantations within the Bright Pearl. A one-time trade would have been ideal—but the mortal body was fragile. Borrowing more than one sense at a time would shatter Duan Xu’s body like porcelain under pressure. That kind of shortcut would be no different than slaughtering the goose that laid golden eggs.

Even this method came with a price. The more senses Duan Xu lent, the more his own would deteriorate. That was why the Bright Pearl had waited three hundred years to find someone like him—someone who could endure the curse.

He Simu laid out the terms with chilling clarity. "Let me make this clear—wishes also have limits. They cannot overly influence the mortal world. For example, you could wish for me to save your life on the battlefield, but you cannot wish for me to help you win the war. Do you understand?"

She was ready to negotiate, but Duan Xu, ever the rogue, blinked up at her and pointed at their current predicament. "Do we really have to talk in this position?"

He was sprawled on the bed, while He Simu sat atop his waist, pinning his neck with ghostly grace. Anyone walking in would be stunned by the intimate absurdity—then horrified by her deathly pale complexion. Thankfully, she had withdrawn her ghostly aura, and her eyes were now human—black and white. Otherwise, it would’ve been a triple fright.

He Simu didn’t flinch. "What’s wrong with this position?"

Duan Xu sighed, tactful as ever. "You’re not light, and you’re very cold."

It was the dead of winter, and her body felt like a block of ice—just slightly softer. He was already wounded and bloodied, and her chill made him shiver.

With a graceful slide, He Simu moved to the edge of the bed. The sheets where she’d sat were icy to the touch.

Duan Xu sat up, his clothes rumpled from her earlier grip, giving him the look of a Southern Capital playboy. He smirked. "So, Ghost King, you have no five senses? No taste, smell, color, sound, or touch—what about pain? Do you feel none of that either?"

She didn’t. Pain was a warning for the living. The dead had no use for it. The mattress beneath her palm felt no different than a table leg—just easier to deform.

"Clearly, the dead have no need for such things."

"What a pity," Duan Xu murmured.

"There’s nothing to pity," He Simu replied gently. "It’ll be the same for you when you die."

But Duan Xu’s gaze shifted. "I pity myself. After thinking for so long, I can’t come up with a single wish to make. Ghost King, I never make wishes."

He Simu stared at him, unconvinced. She had struck countless deals with mortals—borrowed bodies, consumed Soul Fire—and never once had someone said, “Thank you, I’ve lived well and want for nothing.” Desire was the heartbeat of the living. Even monks and Taoists who claimed detachment still harbored hidden wants. And Duan Xu? He was no ascetic.

"If I hadn’t saved you today, you might have died at the hands of the Hú Qì People. The battlefield is a place where survival is uncertain. Are you sure that without my help, you could escape death every time?"

Duan Xu propped his leg up, resting his chin on his hand, a faint smile playing on his lips. "In any case, I thank the Ghost King for your assistance today."

Birth, aging, sickness, death, war, rise and fall—each a relentless tide claiming countless lives. In contrast, the act of Evil Ghosts devouring humans seemed almost... trivial.

He Simu sat in silence, watching Duan Xu as his eyes fluttered shut. His face, pale from blood loss and weariness, was bathed in the soft flicker of candlelight. Each breath he took stirred the loose strands of hair across his cheeks, fragile and fleeting.

She leaned forward, placing a finger beneath his nose.

Nothing.

No warmth. No breath. No sensation.

She could see the winds of heaven and earth, trace the subtle shifts in the atmosphere—but she could not feel them. The world moved around her, but never through her.

And yet, Duan Xu slept peacefully, untouched by the chill that clung to her like a second skin.

He Simu whispered, almost to herself, "Not a word of truth from this little fox."

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