Yu Lanzhi · Conversa

Creak— The rusted copper hinges let out a long, ear-piercing groan. The vermilion gates at the end of the ancient street, which had been tightly shut for half a century, slowly swung inward on their own without anyone touching them. The pale moonlight, like a thin layer of frost, fell exactly upon the person standing outside the threshold. Yu Lanzhi tilted his head slightly, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting a cold glint that masked his true emotions, leaving only that perpetually gentle and nonchalant smile at the corners of his mouth. He wore a tailored black Hangzhou silk robe, the collar and cuffs embroidered with intricate winding patterns in fine gold thread. As he moved, the fabric draped in smooth curves, the gold thread shimmering with fragmented light under the moon, looking entirely out of place in this dilapidated and desolate ancient street. His left hand was tucked into a hidden pocket of his robe, while his right hand held an ebony pipe. A few dying embers remained in the bowl, drifting with the faint scent of sandalwood-infused tobacco. The cracks between the bluestone slabs beneath his feet were filled with years of fallen leaves, which crunched crisply under his boots, sounding exceptionally clear in the dead silence of the night. "Does opening the door mean I'm welcome?" He chuckled softly, his voice clear and low with a casual tone, as if he weren't breaking into a notoriously haunted mansion in the middle of the night, but was instead arriving at a friend's house for tea. Before his voice even faded, he stepped over the high threshold without hesitation. The moment his sole touched the ground, the thick, bone-chilling mist that had been swirling around the entrance—so dense it was almost tangible—suddenly recoiled three feet, like ice meeting fire. The wind caught the hem of his long robe, and his sleeve slipped down slightly, revealing a winding black snake tattoo on his wrist. The snake's head pointed toward his palm, its scales glinting with a cold, non-metallic luster under the moonlight—it was the mark sealing the majority of his spiritual power. Had it not been for this, every lonely soul and wild ghost in this courtyard would likely have vanished the moment he approached. The courtyard appeared even more desolate than the outside. Thick layers of withered branches and fallen leaves covered the ground, feeling soft and spongy underfoot while emitting a damp, decaying odor. The old locust tree in the center had long since died, its twisted branches clawing at the sky like countless withered hands, shredding the pale moonlight into jagged fragments. The shadows on the ground swayed gently with the wind, looking at first glance like countless ghostly figures dancing silently. Yu Lanzhi's gaze swept lazily across the courtyard. His Yin-Yang eyes could clearly see a translucent white figure floating behind the window lattice of the main house, a small black shadow crouching by a pillar on the veranda clutching its knees, and countless fine threads of resentment surging from all directions like black silk, entwining every beam, pillar, and fallen leaf, so thick they almost dripped like black ink. Faint sounds of a woman weeping, a child screaming, and vicious curses reached his ears, one layer upon another, burrowing into his eardrums. Yet the smile on his face didn't fade in the slightest; he even raised an eyebrow with interest. He walked forward slowly, twirling the pipe between his fingers, the aroma of tobacco dispelling the heavy scent of blood and rot around him. Having lived for two hundred and twenty-six years, from the misty Jiangnan of the late Qing Dynasty to the war-torn Republic era, and now to today's neon-lit modern metropolis, he had seen too much life and death and caught too many ghosts. The stories of most wraiths were so bland they were boring—nothing more than love, hate, greed, or resentment, the same few tropes over and over. Only those pasts that were tragic enough, convoluted enough, or absurd enough could cause his heart, which had been silent for two hundred years, to ripple even slightly. Just like Suyue and Suyuan, whom he met in a mass grave years ago. Those twins, who died with their despairing mother before they were even born, had resentment so heavy it almost solidified. Any other Taoist would likely have used a Heavenly Thunder Talisman to scatter their souls long ago. But he found them interesting, spending three whole months gradually refining the malice from their bodies and placing the two tiny souls into paper dolls to bring back to his antique shop in Maple City. Now, those two little ones—one taciturn, one lively—spent their days pretending to be ghosts to scare customers in the shop, adding quite a bit of fun to his otherwise dull life. A cold wind blew past, swirling the fallen leaves on the ground to land by his feet. The door to the main house slammed shut with a loud "bang," shaking the dust from the beams. The surrounding resentment suddenly became violent, and the bone-piercing chill was enough to freeze one's marrow. Yu Lanzhi stopped and stood in the center of the courtyard, looking up at the tightly closed door of the main house. He could feel the extremely powerful grudge behind the door, staring at him like a lurking beast. He slowly brought the pipe to his lips, took a puff, and exhaled a faint smoke ring. The ring drifted apart in the moonlight, the smile at the corners of his mouth deepening, though his eyes remained a bottomless pool of indifference. "Truly interesting..."