Xue Tong was currently under heavy restrictions from the Heavenly Dao. She excelled at breaking rules and was even better at exploiting loopholes from the rules’ own perspective, which had led to one patch after another until they nearly chained her up.
Many years ago, the Xun Family had frequent dealings with her. Several ancestors had even chatted philosophy with her and become friends. But one day, contact suddenly ceased, and their reunions became purely business. Thus, the family records on Xue Tong were sparse—a few brief entries that Xun Ruosu had unearthed.
She had read them over a decade ago and long since forgotten most of the details. Only Xue Tong’s heartfelt tears just now had jogged her memory.
One line in the Xun Family ancestor’s notes stood out: “The one who grasps Reincarnation is the repository of all resentments. She is not a person so much as a tomb, embracing every form of death in the world.”
Xun Ruosu let out another sigh.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Yan Qing’s voice came from outside, warbling a shaky rendition of that viral creepy chant: “Sis! Sister Xun! My room is way too spooky—how am I supposed to sleep tonight?”
The door swung open, and right on cue, Yan Qing’s stomach let out a timely growl. He looked a bit sheepish. “Fear burns calories.”
He had been driving the winding mountain road since noon, his mind filled with grisly true-crime stories. Even after reaching the summit, the anxiety hadn’t let up—it had shifted to supernatural tabloid fodder. His heart rate was twice its normal speed. The only reason he wasn’t crashing from low blood sugar was his all-brawn-no-brains constitution.
“Let’s check your room first, then grab some dinner,” Xun Ruosu said. She glanced back at Xue Tong, who had already turned away—clearly not wanting anyone to notice her still-reddened eyes. Xun Ruosu shut the door again.
Yan Qing shrank behind her. “What’s up with my boss?”
“Nothing. She’s just tired and needs a rest.” Xun Ruosu didn’t call her out on it.
The two monks’ cells faced each other across the hall. Yan Qing’s was south-facing and shouldn’t have been so damp by rights. But even before stepping inside, a wave of musty stench hit Xun Ruosu.
Outside, the sunlight still blazed without mercy, yet half the room lurked in shadow. Yan Qing’s first move upon entering was to flick on the lights. Then he retreated behind Xun Ruosu again.
The walls were papered over in large swaths, much of it peeling and flaking. The four corners were hit worst by the mold, which had flourished under the damp and was even creeping toward the center of the walls.
The room’s furnishings defied all principles of feng shui.
A large wooden bed sat squarely in the middle, unmoored from any walls. At its head stood a dressing table topped with a mirror half the height of a person.
The table didn’t face the bed directly, but a person’s side profile would inevitably catch in the glass. What made it eerie was how long the table had sat there untouched—the mirror bore a vertical crack running its full length. From up close, it was impossible to fit a whole reflection into one pane.
The room was small, and the bed took up a good chunk of space. There was no getting far from the mirror unless they hauled the table out entirely. That crack would bisect any shadow in the room.
Yan Qing let out a wail and squeezed his eyes shut. He jabbed a finger at the mirror. “Sis, why the hell is there a dressing table in a monks’ temple? I bet that old monk had no good intentions!”
Yuan Jie’s arrangement was indeed suspicious. The room clearly hadn’t been occupied in ages. When Xun Ruosu had peered at the door earlier, she’d noted the remnants of an iron padlock and sealing tape. The mountain humidity had rusted the lock, and even after removal, a reddish-brown stain lingered.
While talking with Yan Qing at lunch, Xun Ruosu had run the numbers in her head. The young man had strong yang energy but a light fate. Malevolent forces wouldn’t dare approach him directly, but they’d whirl around him chaotically. A bolder soul might shrug it off, but Yan Qing was the type who could literally scare himself to death.
Xun Ruosu gave him a sympathetic look.
“…Sis, you’re just gonna stare at me like that? No ideas to help?” Yan Qing pulled a long face. “I wouldn’t even lie on that bed. I’d rather hug a blanket and guard the gate for you guys.”
“No way. Plenty of things will be knocking on my door tonight. Run into them, and I’d have to call an ambulance.” Xun Ruosu shot him down. “Don’t give the paramedics extra work.”
Yan Qing accused her. “So you’re just gonna let me die!”
“If you really can’t stand this room, I do have a spot for you.” Xun Ruosu nodded toward the courtyard outside. “The Abbot’s Quarters are right nearby. If Yuan Jie won’t give you a bed, camp out by his ear reciting math problems all night.”
“…”
The idea sounded odd, but it gave Yan Qing a strange sense of security. If things got too bad after dark, he’d cling to the abbot like a barnacle. For the sake of his life, he’d throw his dignity out the window.
Besides, Yuan Jie was the host here at Soaring Firmament Temple. What kind of host stuck a guest in a moldy horror show of a room? No conscience at all.
After laying down the law, Xun Ruosu glanced back at the mirror on the dressing table twice more.
Even under the unflinching fluorescent lights overhead, the glass looked murky from certain angles. Cobwebs clung where the frame met the mirror, and a spindly-legged spider lay curled and dead in their midst.
Everything in this courtyard felt unnaturally eerie. With her away, Yan Qing could serve as bait for whatever Xue Tong needed to handle. But all things considered, his light fate was even weaker than a Xun Family member’s when it came to self-preservation. He might dodge disaster this time, only to fall deathly ill. There was little point in keeping him here any longer.
“Amitabha.” The Old Abbot was in for a night crammed full of linear algebra and calculus.
She wondered if he’d still be chanting sutras come morning.
