The desolate tomb at Longshan Temple has come to life once more.

Li Xintian and Hu Qiuyan, together with Yang Zhenye and the young page, followed the old caretaker to the back gate of the Qi residence. The old man took out a key and unlocked the door, ushering them inside before closing it firmly behind them and leading the way.

“Oh dear, look, the sky is almost dark. We have nowhere to go. Old sir, could we perhaps stay in the Qi residence for the night?” Yang Zhenye walked behind the old caretaker, addressing him.

“Sigh, there are four of you. This young lad here can perhaps make do with me for the night, but as for Young Master Yang, Young Master Li, and Miss Hu—there’s simply no place for you to settle,” the old man replied with a sigh, guiding them forward.

“Please, don’t worry about me, sir. If there’s a bed without blankets, or a chair without a bed, I can rest just as well,” Li Xintian said with equanimity.

“No need to mind me either. I’m just a girl; I’m sure I can find a spot to sleep somewhere in the house,” said Hu Qiuyan, unfazed, for in truth, her nights were spent in cultivation regardless.

The old caretaker could only nod his head.

“What about that room?” Yang Zhenye, well aware of the abilities of Li Xintian and Hu Qiuyan, looked up at a locked door on the second floor and pointed to it.

“That belonged to Miss Qi. Ever since her death, it’s been kept locked—no one has opened it since,” the old man replied, glancing up at the room in question.

Yang Zhenye felt as if struck by lightning. Qi Hui had died in her own boudoir.

“She died? Why did she die?” Yang Zhenye’s voice caught in his throat, pain evident in his heart.

“I wouldn’t know. I only arrived here two months ago, after Miss Qi Hui passed away,” the caretaker said as he opened up the better rooms for them.

“Oh, by the way, if Young Master Yang is brave enough, you could spend the night in the lady’s room. The bedding inside is still intact,” the old man added, half in jest.

Li Xintian, surprised to hear that Qi Hui—who had only recently been revived—had died again, was left bewildered. The wedding had turned into a funeral. Beside him, Hu Qiuyan was even less afraid.

“Very well, then, please open the door for me,” Yang Zhenye replied. He was no stranger to ghosts or fox spirits, and his longing for Qi Hui pulled him to her room.

The old caretaker obliged and opened the door for him.

“The room was just cleaned a few days ago,” he said upon opening it.

He then motioned to the young page, “Come along with me, young man.”

“Alright, off you go,” said Yang Zhenye with a nod.

The page nodded and followed the caretaker.

“Brother Zhixin, we’ll leave you be,” said Li Xintian, knowing that while Yang Zhenye might be somewhat unreliable, he was at least loyal in love, and now sorrowful. He dragged the curious Hu Qiuyan away.

Both Li Xintian and Hu Qiuyan could sense the presence of a ghost in the room; Hu Qiuyan was itching to see it for herself.

“Why did you pull me away? I’ve never even seen a ghost before,” Hu Qiuyan complained, having never encountered one since she began her cultivation.

“The ghost inside is likely Miss Qi herself. She is Zhixin’s wife—let’s leave them to their reunion,” Li Xintian replied, heading off to choose a room for himself, not bothering further with Hu Qiuyan.

Finding herself alone, Hu Qiuyan lost interest and selected a room next to Li Xintian’s.

The young page shared a room with the old caretaker; they lay head to head as the caretaker spoke, “That locked room—every midnight, you can hear someone inside, weeping and singing.” The page was so frightened he dared not reply, shutting his eyes tightly and forcing himself to sleep.

Yang Zhenye entered the room and lit a candle, filling it with light. He walked slowly to the bed, pulled back the covers, and discovered a book. Picking it up, he sat at the bedside. The title read: “Qi Hui’s Collected Poems.” He opened to a page.

It read: “The mysterious night’s bitter wind blows counter, fireflies disturb the grass and brush the curtain. Who can see the lonely pain of the heart, as slender sleeves shiver at moonrise.” It was from these verses they had first become acquainted.

Memories of their time together in the study flooded Yang Zhenye’s mind, and tears fell onto the pages. He set the book aside, wiped his eyes with a sleeve, and looked up at the opposite side of the bed. There, a woman in a white dress, her face veiled, stood in profile.

Yang Zhenye hastily dried his tears and stood up, but the figure vanished.

He wondered if his longing for Qi Hui had conjured an illusion. Removing his outer robe, he sat at the bed’s edge—only for the woman’s figure to appear again.

“Are you Qi Hui?” he asked.

“I am,” she answered, not daring to turn toward him.

“Turn and look at me, please. It’s me, Yang Zhenye. I’ve come back,” he said, taking a few excited steps forward.

“I dare not turn; I fear I would frighten you,” she replied.

“Qi Hui, Qi Hui…” Yang Zhenye stepped forward, wanting to draw nearer.

Qi Hui quickly raised her hand, “Don’t come any closer. I am a ghost once more.”

“Why did you die again?” he asked, stopping.

“After you left to take the exam, my parents, disdaining your poverty, insisted you would surely fail and broke their promise, wishing me to marry a lazy, lecherous man. I refused and, hearing no word from you, took my own life by hanging,” Qi Hui answered, her voice choked. “You once gave me the great gift of life, restoring me from ghost to human. Who would have thought that at our reunion, I would be a ghost again?”

Yang Zhenye, ignoring her warning, went to her and reached for her veil.

He embraced her. “Qi Hui, let us relive our past happiness, just one more night,” he whispered.

Qi Hui pushed him away. “No, I fear my ghostly chill would harm you.”

“What should I fear?” Yang Zhenye replied, pulling her to the bed. “Once you were a ghost and we shared a bed many times. Now, all is as it was—why should it matter, human or ghost?”

And so, with passion rekindled, they spent the night together.

Meanwhile, in the caretaker’s room, the old man, seeing the page silent, continued, “The previous gatekeeper told me: one night, he heard crying from the embroidery tower. Gathering his courage, he opened the door to look. What did he see? A woman with her hair disheveled, tongue lolling out two feet long—he was so terrified he could hardly make it down the stairs.”

“What did he see?” the page asked, feigning bravery as he sat up.

“He saw a female ghost with long black hair, her tongue hanging out two feet,” the old caretaker said, gesturing.

The page, terrified, buried himself under the covers.

The old man chuckled merrily.

In the deep of night, in Qi Hui’s room, man and ghost lay side by side. Yang Zhenye rolled over and awoke to see Qi Hui beside him, still veiled, even during their recent intimacy. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached out and slowly lifted her veil—only to see her face deathly pale, with a tongue two feet long protruding from her mouth: the very image of her death by hanging.

Yang Zhenye recoiled in terror, sitting up in bed, all sleep banished.

Qi Hui quickly covered her face again. “I told you not to look upon me. You have broken our promise; I have no choice but to leave you now,” she said, then vanished from the bed.

“Qi Hui, don’t leave me!” Yang Zhenye cried, getting out of bed.

He saw a shadowy figure across the room, weeping.

Watching Qi Hui cry, Yang Zhenye’s heart turned tumultuous, and he recalled something Hu Na had once said to him in the Hu residence:

“Young Master Yang, though this demon pearl is the culmination of my life’s cultivation, I am willing to give it to you. Perhaps it will be of use to you one day.”

Yang Zhenye coughed up the demon pearl from his abdomen into his palm. Its glow was gone; only its red color remained.

“Qi Hui, there’s hope for you yet,” he said, holding up the pearl.

“How could there be hope?” Qi Hui sobbed.

“Here, swallow this pill,” Yang Zhenye said, hurrying to her and placing the pearl in her hand, without telling her what it was.

Qi Hui brought it to her nose, “Such a fragrant scent,” and swallowed it.

Yang Zhenye embraced her, carrying her to the bed, and once again passion filled the chamber.

After Qi Hui swallowed the demon pearl, more than ten days passed.

“Lift it higher,” commanded Hu Changyun as he directed the servants to hang the festive lanterns in the Hu residence.

In the main hall, a giant character for “double happiness” was displayed.

It turned out that Qi Hui had learned it was Hu Na who had revived her, and, seeing the depth of Hu Na’s feelings for Yang Zhenye, agreed to a double wedding—she and Hu Na would both marry Yang Zhenye.

“You wretched girl, how quickly you’re getting married,” Hu Changyun said with a hearty laugh.

The Qi residence, too, was festooned with wedding decorations.

Li Xintian was drafted by Yang Zhenye to help set up the wedding and was asked to serve as witness for the three, since there was no time to invite Yang Zhenye’s family, and Qi Hui’s parents had moved away without a trace.

But as a soul reborn, Li Xintian was more than capable of arranging festivities.

“Qi Hui, when I made you human again, we were soon parted; you became a ghost and we were reunited; now, you live again,” Yang Zhenye said, embracing her.

“Yes, and what is that lovely scent?” Qi Hui asked, catching a whiff. “It’s the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms.”

Yang Zhenye smelled it, too, and together they entered the hall, where a vase held a branch of osmanthus.

“Xiaoxian,” Yang Zhenye said, recognizing the tree.

“Who is she?” Qi Hui asked.

“After we were parted, I met many good people—though not all of them were… entirely human,” Yang Zhenye replied.

“What else could they be?” Qi Hui asked, puzzled.

Yang Zhenye recounted all that had happened since their separation.

And so, the story came to this moment.