Dragon Mountain Temple of the Desolate Tomb 22: Ghostly Servant

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Shangxi Village, the Qi Residence, in Qi Hui’s boudoir.

Today was the anniversary of Qi Hui’s death.

Her portrait, painted while she was alive, stood in the room, surrounded by candles, fruit, and half-cooked meat. Beside it, a brazier burned as a maid quietly fed paper coins to the flames.

Madam Qi sobbed into her hands, overcome with grief. Lord Qi, having lost his only daughter years before and now left without heir or child, felt an emptiness beyond words. Hearing his wife’s weeping, sorrow welled up within him, and he embraced her. In his arms, Madam Qi broke down completely, her cries echoing through the room.

Even the maids nearby, moved by the scene, wiped away their own tears in silence.

Early that morning, Li Xintian rose to find the page boy cleaning Yang Zhenye’s quarters. Yang himself was absent, having gone home to visit his ailing father.

Just then, Yang Zhenye’s three close friends arrived outside.

“Brother Zhixian!” Xue Sheng, wearing a hat that day, called out in greeting alongside the other two.

“Brother Xue, Brother Wu, Brother Qi,” Li Xintian replied, acknowledging each in turn.

“Where’s Brother Zixin?” Xue Sheng asked the page boy as he cleaned.

“Young master has returned home to see the old master, who is ill,” the page answered, continuing with his chores.

The shorter Wang approached the table, eyeing the chess pieces with a knowing smile—he was well aware that Yang Zhenye was no chess player. He then wandered over to the zither, running his fingers lightly across its surface.

“When did your young master learn to play the zither and chess?” Xue Sheng inquired of the page.

“I don’t know,” the boy answered, shaking his head before resuming his cleaning.

“Hey, come look at this,” Qi Li called, picking up a notebook filled with elegant, delicate handwriting. As Li Xintian and the others gathered around, Qi Li continued, “This hand is unmistakably a woman’s.”

Li Xintian already knew that, for several nights now, Qi Hui had been visiting Yang Zhenye, staying until nearly dawn each time.

The other two examined the writing, nodding in agreement. “Indeed, it’s a lady’s hand,” they said in unison.

“Brother Zhixian, you live next to Brother Zixin’s room,” Xue Sheng said, looking at Li Xintian. “Be honest—do you know if Brother Zixin has had a romantic encounter?”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask him when he returns,” Li Xintian replied with a shake of his head. “I go to bed early every night and have no idea what happens in his room.”

The three exchanged glances, then pulled Li Xintian aside to debate the upcoming provincial examination topics for a while before taking their leave, promising to visit again once Yang Zhenye returned.

That night, a ghostly official appeared outside.

Li Xintian, though asleep, sensed its presence at once. His eyes snapped open; he rose swiftly and rushed outside, where he saw a terrifying figure—its tongue lolling long from its mouth, eyes blood-red, standing three meters tall and wielding a menacing staff, its entire being exuding a chilling aura.

The ghost official looked at Li Xintian, sensing the upright energy radiating from him. Dazzled and nearly blinded by the righteous force, it felt as though its body was burning, the heat so intense it seemed ready to engulf it entirely—even at a hundred paces, Li Xintian’s presence was palpable.

“My apologies for disturbing you,” Li Xintian said, recognizing the ghost as an official sent to collect souls. He clasped his fists in a respectful gesture, suppressed his righteous energy, and returned inside.

The ghost official, seeing Li Xintian withdraw, dared not linger a moment longer and promptly fled, deciding to return another day. The righteous aura had nearly injured him.

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“There is no more pure righteous energy left in this world, and yet someone still knows how to wield it, and with such strength!” The ghost official, thoroughly intimidated, thought to himself. Even as Li Xintian returned, he had no idea the ghost had been so frightened by him.

After that, the ghost official did not appear again for over a month.

During this time, Yang Zhenye’s friends visited and happened upon Yang Zhenye and Qi Hui together. Startled, Qi Hui vanished from Yang’s embrace on the spot. In the darkness of the neighboring room, Li Xintian had not been asleep—he was secretly observing, a professional bachelor peeping on Yang Zhenye’s romantic exploits, having endured countless nights as an unwilling witness. Yang and Qi Hui were embracing when Xue Sheng and the others interrupted.

“Brother Zixin, stop pretending—we saw her,” Xue Sheng said, glancing around for any sign of the girl.

“We saw the poems she copied, too. You may as well tell us the truth,” Qi Li added, grinning.

“She was a young maiden who died before her time—her name was Qi Hui. She excelled in poetry, music, chess, calligraphy, and painting. We became close friends after we met,” Yang Zhenye confessed with a trace of sadness.

“A scholar and a beauty—a perfect match! What’s there to be sad about?” Xue Sheng said cheerfully, showing no concern that Qi Hui was a ghost. Wasn’t this a recipe for Yang Zhenye’s early demise?

“Come, let us meet the lady,” Qi Li urged.

“Qi Hui made me promise not to reveal her presence,” Yang Zhenye protested, though it was already too late.

Xue Sheng’s admiration for the unseen Qi Hui only grew. The friends teased Yang Zhenye until, with no way out, he reluctantly agreed, and only then did they finally leave.

After they had all truly gone, Qi Hui appeared, furious. “What did I tell you? Yet you couldn’t keep your mouth shut!” she scolded.

Yang Zhenye tried to explain, but Qi Hui cut him off. “Our fate together ends here!”

Despite his many attempts to comfort and explain, Qi Hui remained upset. “I’ll have to keep my distance for a while,” she said.

The next night, Xue Sheng came alone, but Yang Zhenye told him Qi Hui refused to see anyone.

That night, Li Xintian, unusually, was actually asleep. But knowing the ways of women in ancient times—when they said they would avoid someone, they meant it—he reasoned that some time would have to pass before Qi Hui would see Yang Zhenye again.

Xue Sheng suspected Yang Zhenye was making excuses. On the third night, he returned with Wu Sheng and Qi Li, who refused to leave and kept Yang Zhenye up all night with their noisy antics.

Yang Zhenye could only roll his eyes in exasperation and endure it.

After several nights without so much as a glimpse of the mysterious lady, the friends finally gave up and left.

Suddenly, a mournful voice was heard reciting poetry outside. The group listened in silence, struck by the sorrowful tone.

Xue Sheng was listening intently when Wu Sheng, one of the friends, grew irritated. He picked up a large stone and hurled it in the direction of the voice, shouting, “If you won’t show yourself, what good is your poetry? Your wailing only makes us restless!” At once, the voice ceased.

Everyone rebuked Wu Sheng, frustrated and angry. Yang Zhenye’s face darkened, his words growing sharp. At dawn, they all departed.

Left alone in his empty room, Yang Zhenye longed for Qi Hui’s return, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Li Xintian, meanwhile, spent his days inside, observing in secret—peeping had become second nature to this professional bachelor.

Two more days passed before Qi Hui suddenly returned, weeping. “You brought such dreadful guests—I was nearly frightened to death!”

Yang Zhenye apologized repeatedly, while Li Xintian continued his covert watch.

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Qi Hui hurried out, saying, “I told you our fate was over. We must part forever!”

Yang Zhenye tried to call her back, but she vanished before he could say a word.

After that, more than a month passed without a single appearance from Qi Hui.

Yang Zhenye thought of her day and night, growing so thin he seemed little more than skin and bone, but there was nothing he could do.

One night—

“Brother Zixin, you need to eat more,” Li Xintian said, feigning ignorance, knowing full well that Qi Hui was punishing Yang Zhenye for his mistakes.

“Thank you for your concern, Brother Zhixian.” Yang Zhenye clasped his hands in gratitude, then took up his wine and retreated to his bed. After a few drinks, he lay down, about to close his eyes, when suddenly Qi Hui appeared before him.

“You’ve forgiven me?” Yang Zhenye sobered instantly, rising to his feet.

“Brother Zixin, what a romantic encounter,” Li Xintian joked from the side, then introduced himself.

“Greetings, Young Master Li,” Qi Hui replied. She knew of Li Xintian—the first time she had recited poetry, it was both he and Yang Zhenye who had frightened her away.

With that, Qi Hui broke into tears and fell silent.

Yang Zhenye heard Li Xintian jest, “Brother Zhixian, please don’t laugh at me.”

“Miss Qi, if something troubles you, please, let us hear it,” Li Xintian said, his expression turning solemn.

Qi Hui bowed, wiped her tears, and said, “Two nights ago, a ghost official forced me to become his concubine. I am the daughter of an honorable family—how could I degrade myself to such a fate? But as a weak woman, how could I resist him? That’s why I fled to Young Master Yang for help.”

It turned out that two nights before, Li Xintian had sensed the ghost official’s presence. Believing it was on routine duty, he had stayed in his room. Upon hearing Qi Hui’s tale, he was filled with anger. Now the ghost’s sinister aura that night made sense—it had come to force Qi Hui into becoming its concubine, but had fled from Li Xintian’s overwhelming righteous energy a month ago.

“Miss Qi, you needn’t worry. If the ghost official dares to return tomorrow night, I will deal with him myself,” Li Xintian promised, a trace of righteous energy emanating from him.

“Ah!” The force startled Qi Hui, who retreated behind Yang Zhenye. Though unharmed, she felt a wave of heat and fear at the aura, her face still etched with terror as she looked at Li Xintian.

“What’s wrong?” Yang Zhenye asked, not understanding her fright.

“My apologies, Miss Qi!” Li Xintian quickly bowed in apology.

“I don’t know—just now, I felt an immense power coming from Young Master Li,” Qi Hui replied, still puzzled.

Sensing the tension, Li Xintian sensibly excused himself, leaving Yang Zhenye and Qi Hui alone. He reasoned that this gave Yang Zhenye a chance to make amends and win her back. Sure enough, after talking throughout the night, the bond between man and ghost deepened, growing as close as that of husband and wife.

As a professional bachelor, Li Xintian wondered to himself—was it only by being a scoundrel that one could win the heart of a woman like this?