Desolate Tomb, Dragon Mountain Temple 21 Qi Hui

Night fell, and the hour grew late.

The door to the house stood ajar. Yang Zhenye paced back and forth inside, a book clutched in his hand, while outside the constant cries of crows echoed through the darkness.

Li Xintian glanced in Yang Zhenye's direction, sensing that nothing unusual would occur tonight, and resigned himself to sleep, thus missing the hour.

Yang Zhenye returned to his desk and had just settled when he glimpsed the faint outline of a beautiful woman, hazy and indistinct, as if she were walking in from outside.

He instantly rose and closed the door tightly, his heart beating with trepidation. Returning to his seat, he tried to focus on his book, but before him stood a woman dressed in pale blue, her delicate hands resting atop the desk, her face hidden.

Yang Zhenye wished to cry out, yet dared not, fearing for his life. He forced himself to speak: “Since you have graced my humble abode, why do you not reveal yourself fully?”

He only heard the woman’s voice, soft, ethereal, and tinged with shyness: “Sir, your learning is profound and your bearing exceptional. I fear you might mock me.” She still would not show herself.

“Oh? Where is your home?” Yang Zhenye, perceiving no immediate danger, relaxed and asked.

“My name is Qi Hui. I hail from Jinhua, and with my father settled in Shangxi Village nearby. At seventeen, I fell ill and died suddenly.” Qi Hui drew a pale blue silk scarf from her right, draped it over her head, and revealed her exquisite beauty—long, shining black hair cascading to her waist, though her features remained partly veiled beneath the scarf.

Qi Hui continued, “Buried in this desolate wilderness, I have been lonely and forlorn. In my solitude, I composed two verses, reciting them for ages but unable to continue. Last night, you supplied the last two lines, and they were so fine that even in the underworld I felt joy.”

Yang Zhenye stood, extending his hand. “Please, take a seat.”

Qi Hui nodded gracefully, moving with elegance and gentleness, the sound of bells accompanying her steps as she sat beside him.

Yang Zhenye followed, and upon Qi Hui’s sitting, noticed a ribbon tied to her embroidered sock, and a purple ribbon adorning her other foot. Just as he reached out, Qi Hui nervously raised her hand to block him.

Recalling he had found a purple ribbon, Yang Zhenye took it out. “Is this yours?”

“I lost it the night before. Where did you find it?” Qi Hui asked, seeing it in his hand.

Without answering, Yang Zhenye knelt. “Let me tie it for you.”

Qi Hui, bashful, half-lifted her foot.

After fastening the ribbon, Yang Zhenye looked up at Qi Hui.

Qi Hui blushed under his gaze, removed the silk scarf from her head, and turned aside, hiding half her face behind her hair in embarrassment.

Only now could Yang Zhenye fully behold Qi Hui’s unparalleled beauty. He slowly stood, gazing at her, his mind awash with restless emotions.

Qi Hui shyly lowered her head and rose to stand with him.

Yang Zhenye, overcome, wished to embrace her, but Qi Hui vanished on the spot. He searched the room but found no trace of her.

“You are too reckless.” Qi Hui’s voice came from the doorway. “I am a ghost wandering in the night, unable to consort with the living. If you indulge in pleasure with me, it will shorten your life.”

Qi Hui, seeing Yang Zhenye embarrassed and silent, walked to the desk and noticed a book titled “The Ballad of Lianchang Palace.”

She opened it. “This was my favorite book in life.”

Yang Zhenye approached. “You loved poetry as well?”

“If one does not read, one becomes a common soul,” Qi Hui replied with a gentle laugh, enchanting Yang Zhenye, who could only stare. Qi Hui shyly avoided his gaze.

Yang Zhenye regained himself. “Ah, you speak so well.” He asked, “Did you have any confidants or friends in life?” Forgetting his earlier impetuousness.

Qi Hui glanced at Yang Zhenye, then shyly lowered her gaze. “I was confined in the inner chambers for many years. How could I have met anyone?”

“It is late. Sir, you should rest.” Qi Hui looked outside, saluted, and said, “I must take my leave.” Before departing, she urged that their acquaintance remain secret, lest ill-intentioned people harm her, as she had been timid since childhood.

Upon Qi Hui’s departure, Yang Zhenye told her his name and promised to keep her secret.

Morning came to Shangxi Village.

The Qi Residence.

Leading the way was Miao’er, the maid who had cared for Qi Hui. She carried a feather duster, followed by three maids with basins and brooms, heading to Qi Hui’s former chambers.

Miao’er placed the feather duster on the ground, took a key from her waist, and unlocked the door, which lay in darkness. “Go in,” she said.

One maid, broom in hand, hesitated. “I’m afraid.”

Miao’er picked up the feather duster. “Useless creature,” she chided, entering the sitting room, rolling up the bed curtain, opening doors and windows, and stirring up dust that made her cough and wave her hand before her nose.

Sunlight flooded in, revealing withered and faded flowers. Miao’er saw the maids lingering outside. “Hurry up and clean!” she called. The three maids reluctantly obeyed and entered.

Miao’er moved into the room where Qi Hui had rested, rolled up the bed curtains, and approached a painting, thick with dust. She gently brushed it clean, revealing Qi Hui’s portrait. “Miss Qi Hui was a beautiful and gentle lady. The day after tomorrow is the anniversary of her death. Clean her room well.”

The three maids replied and began their tasks. One, as she straightened the bedding, was startled by a mouse and shrieked, her face pale with fright.

The Book Chamber by the Wild Grave.

“Ah, Brother Zixin, what refined leisure!” Li Xintian remarked, seeing Yang Zhenye’s servant bring a zither and chess set. He noticed nothing unusual, for Qi Hui had never harmed anyone.

“Brother Zhixian, forgive me. After much reading, some relaxation is needed.” Yang Zhenye answered, keeping Qi Hui’s secret.

Night came. The sound of zither playing drifted out. Li Xintian saw only Yang Zhenye’s silhouette and thought nothing of it—the music was played by Qi Hui, enthralling Yang Zhenye, who was utterly absorbed.

As Li Xintian prepared to sleep, a knocking sounded at the book chamber’s door. Seeing Yang Zhenye make no move to answer, Li Xintian rose and opened it himself.

Three young men in scholar’s attire stood outside.

“Brother Zixin… ah, you are not Brother Zixin. May I ask your name?” asked Xue Sheng, tall and dressed in blue.

“So you seek Brother Zixin. He’s inside playing the zither,” Li Xintian replied, introducing himself.

The trio, upon hearing, addressed him as Scholar Li. Li Xintian said they could use his name or courtesy name. The three, pleased by his manner, began referring to him as Brother Zhixian. The four proceeded to Yang Zhenye’s room, where Qi Hui sensed their arrival and vanished.

Yang Zhenye, entranced, realized Qi Hui had gone. He rose to search for her, found nothing, and heard knocking. He opened the door.

“Brother Zixin, we knocked outside for ages and you didn’t notice. It was Brother Zhixian who opened the door. I recall you don’t play the zither,” Xue Sheng remarked as he entered.

Li Xintian grew alert. Yang Zhenye could not play the zither; thus, the sorrowful, delicate, ethereal voice he’d heard must have been a woman—the very one from that night. He surveyed the room but saw no trace.

Yang Zhenye was about to speak when his servant announced, “Young master, the old gentleman has fallen ill.”

“What? How did he fall ill?” Yang Zhenye asked.

“Today, the Huai family came to collect debts. The old gentleman quarreled with them and became agitated. Please come home to see him,” the servant urged.

“Very well, you go ahead,” Yang Zhenye replied. The servant nodded and departed.

“May I ask all of you to leave for now and return another day?” Yang Zhenye, worried about Qi Hui, asked.

“As you wish. We’ll visit again tomorrow,” Li Xintian said, departing first. The others followed.

Li Xintian returned to his room and kept an eye on Yang Zhenye’s chamber.

Yang Zhenye closed his door. Qi Hui appeared behind the zither, then walked to the desk, where the chess pieces lay.

She removed her jade bracelet and hairpin, placing them on the desk.

Yang Zhenye approached, puzzled. “What is this?”

“Take these and pay off the Huai family’s debt,” Qi Hui explained.

“I can’t accept such precious items,” Yang Zhenye protested.

“These are my burial goods and have no use for me now. You should take them.” Qi Hui held out the bracelet and hairpin.

“No, I cannot bear to part with them,” Yang Zhenye refused. Qi Hui insisted, forcing the items into his hands, then departed.

Li Xintian watched this scene, thinking to himself: This woman bears no hint of malice, but rather seems a gentle spirit. She even offered her burial goods. Li Xintian could not bring himself to harm an innocent ghost, especially one who had never taken a life. Since Qi Hui had left, he suppressed his concerns and went to rest, planning to continue his observations.