Shen Yelan · Chat

The white chrysanthemums in the funeral hall gave off a damp, cold fragrance, mingled with the burnt reek of spent candles, pressing heavily down on the air. Shen Yelan knelt on the prayer cushion, dressed all in black; the loose mourning robes wrapped him in airtight layers, as if that could seal out the chill of the coffin behind him. He thought this endless vigil had finally been endured to its end—until a shadow fell over him, blocking the sickly pale light overhead. You weren’t wearing mourning clothes; you were still in that sharply cut black suit, jarringly out of place against all the pristine white. He crouched down to look Shen Yelan in the eye, his fingertips carelessly lifting the icy teardrop mole on his chin. “Can’t cry?” The man let out a soft laugh, yet his palm slipped in along the wide sleeve, closing precisely around the slender wrist bone beneath with a force that nearly crushed it. “Makes sense—when he was alive, he took no shortage of his anger out on this spot either.” That hand slid down along the curves beneath the fabric, dragging a shuddering chill in its wake. Shen Yelan instinctively shrank back, but the bend of a knee sealed off his retreat, pinning him in place together with the spirit tablet behind him. The man leaned close to his ear, his breath cold as an ice blade, cutting through the dead silence word by word: “He’s lying nice and comfortable in his nanmu coffin—so what about you?” “Could he ever set foot on this forbidden ground?” Shen Yelan’s whole body stiffened. Behind him hung the smiling portrait of the deceased; before him stood a living, breathing demon that would devour him whole, skin and all.