Chapter Six: The Covenant Through the Ages

After some days had passed, the Ghost Lord, as promised, sent people to deliver the materials needed by the Matchmaker to the Pavilion of Longing. Afterward, he no longer appeared before the Matchmaker. This brought great comfort to the Matchmaker's heart; he felt he had finally found the right method to rid himself of that old ghost. The gloom in his chest eased considerably, and for several days he slept soundly through the night, waking only at dawn.

The Matchmaker had a habit of resting for three quarters of an hour at noon each day. Before sleeping, he would instruct the young attendants to light three sticks of Twin Infant Incense. As the name suggested, Twin Infant Incense consisted of three sticks crafted simultaneously, burning sequentially and extinguishing just in time for his nap. The Pavilion of Longing used such incense to mark time, and beyond that, it had effects of calming the mind or inducing sleep.

The method of use determined the effect.

The world knew the Matchmaker as the overseer of mortal bonds, but few realized that he managed the bonds of all four realms, not just the human world.

The difference lay in this: the red threads of mortal love were tied personally by the Matchmaker, while those in the other realms grew freely, though they still needed his regular care.

The red threads tied by his own hand he could sever at will, but those in the other realms were beyond his power.

That day, the weather was perfect. Having finished his daily chores, the Matchmaker rested on a lounge chair in the adjoining room. The young attendants lit the three sticks of incense and quietly withdrew.

During his nap, the Matchmaker usually slept dreamlessly. But this time, without reason, he dreamed.

In his dream, as usual, he went to the giant tree of fate in the human world after resting. To his astonishment, all the red threads on the tree had been severed, scattered across the ground. Shocked, he looked up at the tree and saw a black cat perched atop it, staring at him with an almost possessive gaze, as if it intended to devour him. Startled, he watched as the black cat leapt from the tree directly toward him—

The Matchmaker cried out, awakening abruptly to find his back drenched in sweat.

A shameless laugh suddenly echoed in his ear. The Matchmaker's face darkened instantly.

The Ghost Lord chuckled, “I merely added a little something to the incense you wanted. I never expected it to work so well!” His tone was one of disbelief, but from his satisfied smile, it was clear he was pleased with the outcome.

For the first time, the Matchmaker scrutinized the Ghost Lord's features. There was no need to say more; this old ghost was undoubtedly handsome, or he wouldn't have lured so many young and beautiful women. His appearance was alluring, yet possessed a masculine vigor. Especially when he wasn't smiling, his gender was unmistakable. His gaze was usually icy, but now carried a hint of genuine mirth. It was often said that men with thin lips are fickle in love. The Matchmaker, thinking this, grew curious about the Ghost Lord's own fate.

His thoughts wandered further and further. When he regained his composure, even he was surprised at himself. He spoke coldly, “Why are you here again? There's still some time before the wine is ready.”

The Ghost Lord rested his chin in his hand, pondering, “I'm impatient. I figured you might have some wine in reserve, so I came to beg a few cups.” His gaze was earnest. The Matchmaker sighed softly and turned to fetch the wine.

After several such episodes, the Matchmaker ceased to battle wits with him.

He couldn't say why, but to him, the Ghost Lord's behavior was no different from a child denied candy. Yet he couldn't help but feel a certain melancholy. The Ghost Lord's name was known to anyone of any standing. To them, he was a terrifying figure, his cultivation unfathomable, undefeated in all his years. The weapons he forged and medicines he concocted ranked highest, unmatched and impossible to imitate.

Moreover, no one knew his origins, yet he maintained deep connections with the leaders of all realms, even with the tribes that wandered between them.

Such a person now lingered here, seeking wine. The Matchmaker had planned to give the old ghost fewer jars, but on reconsideration, he brought an extra jar.

The Ghost Lord glanced sideways at the Matchmaker, took the wine, and laughed lightly, “Old fellow, you can't hide your thoughts; whatever you think shows on your face. No wonder you've been tricked so many times!”

The Matchmaker's once sympathetic gaze turned sharp as a knife. Drink! Go on and drink! If you drink yourself to death, it serves you right!

Turning away, the Matchmaker ignored the old ghost. He left the room and headed for the main hall of the Pavilion of Longing, the Ghost Lord trailing behind with the wine jars.

Passing through several corridors and winding turns, the Matchmaker reached the main hall and began tending to his daily affairs. The Ghost Lord, seeing this, did not disturb him, simply finding a table and sitting on a mat to drink quietly.

A few hours passed in this way. The air was unusually quiet, yet strangely harmonious.

To the Ghost Lord, the Matchmaker's duties seemed dull and tedious, but the Matchmaker's face was suffused with contentment. Even as his body showed signs of fatigue, his mood grew ever brighter.

So much so that the Ghost Lord found himself affected by it. Inwardly, he marveled—this old fellow truly was a strange one.

The Matchmaker's tasks were nothing more than tying red threads, recording them in the Book of Fate, sorting more threads, recording again... repeating the same process endlessly. How he could endure it, the Ghost Lord could not fathom.

He couldn't help but ask, “Old man, your duties are so tedious. Ordinarily, not even I could bear it. How do you manage?”

The Matchmaker's hands never paused. He sighed, “To me, nothing in this world is more precious than love. You, old ghost, feel nothing and know nothing of love. How could you bear it?”

The Ghost Lord scoffed at this, “Love? What's there to understand? Should I become like those mortals in the human world, lost in infatuation, unable to extricate myself from their endless longing?”

The Matchmaker pursed his lips and countered, “But you, old ghost, have never tried. How can you know?”

The Ghost Lord set down his wine cup, “How would I try?”

The Matchmaker was startled by the question, his hands stilling for a moment. Then he smiled faintly, “Why not make a wager with me?”

The Ghost Lord asked, “How do we wager? What's the stake?”

The Matchmaker replied, “You must enter the mortal world and experience emotion for yourself. Regardless of the outcome, from then on, whenever you visit, I will provide you with fine wine, free of charge, with no limit.”

The Ghost Lord raised an eyebrow—was there really such a bargain? With a sly smile, he said, “This is your promise, old fellow.”

The Matchmaker nodded, “Yes, I said it. I can swear an oath right now if you wish.”

The Ghost Lord picked up the remaining wine jars and replied, “No need for oaths. Anyway, I'm bored lately, and perhaps this wager will bring some amusement. I’ll arrange everything in the next few days. Give me three days—after three days, I’ll give you my answer. What do you think?”

The Matchmaker responded, “Very well.”

With the wager settled, the Ghost Lord departed with a carefree air. Yet the Matchmaker felt an unusual sense of discord and unease in his heart. Only then did he wonder if he had acted too rashly. If the old ghost truly fell in love...

He thought about it, then dismissed the idea. No, it was impossible. That old ghost had lived countless years; how could he so easily be moved by love? Surely he was overthinking it. Yes, surely...