The Xun Family truly wasn’t thriving, and that was beyond dispute.
Xun Ruosu’s father had come from a renowned line of fortune-tellers. But later, they realized that fortune-telling came at a heavy cost—it shortened one’s lifespan and left them too passive to act. So their ancestors had abandoned divination for exorcism, becoming the industry benchmark for the number of ghosts they sent off each year. Even if Xue Tong were poked full of holes like a pincushion, she couldn’t match that quota.
As the saying goes, it’s good to have a big tree to lean on. The Zhong Family even had ancestors with famous names, enshrined in the human world and receiving incense offerings. Any cultivator who heard the names Zhong Kui or Zhong Yunfeifan would show them respect. As for Xun Jian… who knew what backwater charlatan family she came from?
Yet Xun Ruosu’s father just couldn’t stick it out in that grand estate. One night, he packed his things and eloped with his beloved.
Her parents had never spoken of those events back then. After they passed away, leaving her alone, Xun Ruosu had tried to learn more. All she heard was that the Zhong Family had strict rules for their branches—never exceeding the Big Dipper Number. If her father hadn’t left and severed ties, the position of family head wouldn’t have gone to his older brother, her great-uncle. As for the rest, everyone in the know clammed up.
She had once watched those events unfold with her own eyes. Thirteen years later, reliving them, Xun Ruosu’s gaze remained calm, as if she weren’t gazing at her own past.
She was merely a bystander—thoroughly detached, coldly indifferent. She watched until the malicious ghost was vanquished. The father who had just celebrated her birthday now had a hole in his chest. Warm blood splashed onto Xun Ruosu’s face, trickling down her nose bridge. The thirteen-year-old version of her lunged forward, only to be pulled back by her mother, wailing in a way that bore no resemblance to the Xun Ruosu of today.
“…”
Xue Tong suddenly flopped against Xun Ruosu’s chest, curling two fingers to tap it. “Let me listen. Were you born missing a heart or something?”
Xun Ruosu stepped back. She wasn’t used to such closeness.
“Thirteen years,” she said. “I merely let myself go. The souls that come and go all carry obsessions, great or small. Those obsessions troubled them in life—they didn’t just appear after death. I’ve seen malicious ghosts: souls that couldn’t let go of themselves. One misstep, and they become malicious ghosts, creating even more karma.”
“I merely let myself go.”
“Dad, you should let yourself go too.”
The black shadow pooling at Xun Ruosu’s feet suddenly froze. She continued, “That malicious ghost has long been reduced to ashes. After I came of age, I visited the Zhong Family. They are blessed with profound fortune, yet they haven’t exorcised a malicious ghost in a century. Your brother—my great-uncle—is in charge now.”
“He told me that if a Zhong Family member uses their flesh, bones, and soul as the vessel, they can utterly erase a malicious ghost. But the caster must be willing to pay the price. Not just their own life, but ten lifetimes of merits. Those ten lifetimes mean no family or kin—pure Heavenly Lone Stars. The slightest reluctance, and they’ll be trapped by heart demons.”
He had been willing to sacrifice flesh, bones, soul, ten lifetimes of merits—even a century of solitude. The only thing he couldn’t let go was Xun Ruosu. In his previous life, he had died without seeing her one last time, eyes unclosed in peace.
“Dad.” Xun Ruosu stood amid the shadow. The courtyard ground sloped unevenly toward the northeast, blood soaking her toes. “I’m here now, all grown up. And today, I’ve come to ferry you across.”
“I’ve rewritten your name in the Zhong Family genealogy. Great-Uncle said you’re his only brother. If one day I see you again, the Zhong Family will provide those ten lifetimes of merits on your behalf.” Xun Ruosu half-squatted as she spoke, compass in hand. On its face spun a yin-yang fish, surrounded by the four symbols, crisscrossed by the six lines. The Fu Xi trigrams branched into sixty-four, the characters alive like living things. Finally, two hexagrams emerged—
“Tianze Treading” and “Fire Heaven Great Possession,” tangled between fortune and misfortune.
With Xun Ruosu as the medium, the two hexagrams fused. Symbols of merit slowly dissolved the surrounding blood-red haze into radiant Buddhist light.
The black shadow finally shed its outermost misty veil, revealing a faint soul spark. Unlike Zhang Yue’s, this remnant thought from his previous life was seven parts transparent, even in formed shape.
The soul was that of a man in his thirties, round-faced and mild-mannered, wearing thin-rimmed glasses. He gazed at Xun Ruosu, smiling faintly. He gestured to her height—years apart, their reunion staged in blood.
He spoke. “Was the cake good?”
“It was,” Xun Ruosu nodded. “Very sweet.”
“Daddy’s leaving.”
“I’ll see you off.”
Xun Ruosu took the faint soul’s arm and led it out of the courtyard. A wind blew from somewhere, scattering it into golden raindrops. Beyond the Xun Family Old Estate stretched an endless bluestone road, the sky narrowed to a line, frozen still like an inkstone of jade.
Xue Tong leaned against the doorframe. The golden rain consisted of tiny characters, smaller than thumbnails. Xun Ruosu stood calmly under the clear sky, in the rain—for an instant, she seemed on the verge of enlightenment.
“Hmph.” Xue Tong snorted. “Fat chance of you becoming a Buddha in this life.”
“What?” Xun Ruosu turned to ask her.
The lamp wick flickered, then blazed bright.
Everything around them receded in a rush. Small Sumeru folded and withered, sinking into Zhang Yue’s lamp vessel. The final remnant formed a fleeting vision—
Xun Ruosu’s mother stood in Zhang Yue’s family living room, greeted by an elderly couple. The house was cluttered but clean, the table piled with lesson plans. The calendar was stuck over a year ago—before Zhang Yue’s mother got pregnant.
This remnant memory belonged to who knew whom; it offered only images, no sound. Xun Ruosu saw her mother pull out a yellow paper with Zhang Yue’s birth chart written on one side.
Then they parted. Xun Ruosu’s mother bowed, walked to the courtyard, and left with her husband.
“…”
So on her birthday, only she had been truly happy. Those who could divine heavenly fate had foreseen every farewell.
Being a remnant, it dispersed in an instant.
Xun Ruosu’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted; her feet staggered, nearly stepping on something. Xue Tong yanked her back.
Emerging from one layer of Sumeru, even her senses lagged. When Xun Ruosu recovered, she saw a “corpse” on the ground—Zhang Yue, head split and bleeding. Beside him lay a wooden stool; the suona’s bell hung upside down from a high cabinet shelf, copper tube swaying downward.
The boy wasn’t dead yet, but the blow to his head left him immobile and mute. Blood pooled slowly. His gaze fixed on the suona, full of reluctance and unwillingness.
Yet the house stood empty.
“He lay like that for a full day, dying in utter silence. His teacher found the body the next day,” Xue Tong said from behind Xun Ruosu. “Zhang Yue was young when he learned suona—probably influenced by his past life. Departed souls, guided by his clarion call, found their way to the proper path, step by step.”
Xun Ruosu pulled the tablecloth over Zhang Yue.
Those doomed to die offered no power to change fate. She patted his head gently. “May you live to eighty next life, surrounded by children and grandchildren.”
As her words fell, a bell tolled in Xun Ruosu’s ears—like a sudden dousing of clarity, jolting her awake.
Back in the real world, dizziness hit first—heavy head, light feet. Her chest seized; no matter how fast she breathed, oxygen wouldn’t come. Black spots danced before her eyes until warm hands covered her mouth and nose. Xue Tong’s voice murmured close, “Relax.”
“Forgot to warn you—coming out of the lamp vessel is rough. It was a real life, after all. Tampering or peeking brings punishment. That’s the rules.”
“Our line of work has tons of rules. I’ll teach you bit by bit.”
Before blacking out, Xun Ruosu had just five words in mind: “Thanks a lot.”
She didn’t sleep long. Noontime sun filtered dimly through layered curtains. A faint bedside night-light glowed; the room was quiet save for the slow, rhythmic tick of a wind-up alarm clock.
The room’s layout was astonishingly simple. Aside from the night-light and clock, there was only a small table against the wall. Pure white latex paint coated the walls—no paintings or decorations. It was a world apart from Xue Tong’s opulent tastes.
Xun Ruosu always woke grumpy. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, body limp but head clear. Perhaps the night-light’s glow was too gentle, or the quiet idleness finally allowed it, but she reflected on how she’d ended up like this.
The Xun Family were all spendthrifts with merits—they couldn’t accumulate any. Yet their divination signs never erred. Some peers suspected the thin bloodline was punishment from the Heavenly Dao for prying too deep.
Even Yama couldn’t claim a life at midnight without a buffer hour, but Xun Family iron mouths predicted the exact minute, second of death. Once, an ancestor divined too precisely and got beaten in the street, needing a doctor. So they set a rule: only divine for family.
In the Xun Family Old Estate sat a genealogy detailing every ancestor’s death time. Only five had deep blessings, living past thirty—including Xun Ruosu’s mother, the only one in the entire book to reach nearly forty.
That long life probably burned through all their merits. By Xun Ruosu’s generation, the line ended.
Her name in the genealogy clearly marked her death for last night. No ancestor, not even herself, had ever corrected it. Just now, pinching her fingers, she found herself outside the five elements, beyond the six realms. She tried Xue Tong’s—and Ghost Realm really had a Xue Tong.
Xue Tong’s name was carved in Yama’s Palace. Yet as her half-body, Xun Ruosu left no trace, like a soul scattered to ash.
Xun Ruosu lay back and sighed.
