Metaphysics’ Public Enemy 85

Chapter 85:

New Year – “Chen Henian, May You Live a Hundred Years.”

Chen Henian’s eyelashes fluttered, his eyelids lifting, his eyes opening to the white ceiling above.

He lay in the large bed of the villa, the room filled with a damp, musty odor, the crystal chandelier unlit. A moment later, a rustling sound, a hand reaching out, resting on his shoulder.

He turned his head, looking at the figure beside him, a moment of disorientation, his mind still clinging to sleep, the unfamiliar intimacy of a shared bed.

“Are you tired?” Yu Lin asked.

“No, you can’t affect my essence. You’re yang, I’m yin, our energies complement each other,” Chen Henian replied.

Yu Lin smiled, his eyes, dark and intense, fixed on him, his shadow like a predatory beast, half his body cloaked in darkness.

“It’s snowing,” he said softly.

Chen Henian got out of bed, his bare feet on the cold floor, opening the window, the wind and snow swirling around him, Yu Lin draping a thick robe over his shoulders.

The snow was heavy, having started sometime during the night, covering the ground in a thick white blanket, the lawn and trees hidden beneath it. Chen Henian enjoyed the stark beauty of the monochrome landscape, but the air was cold, his breath misting before him.

“Don’t catch a cold,” Yu Lin said.

“Aren’t you here?” Chen Henian replied, his voice a playful challenge.

Yu Lin’s gaze lingered on his exposed neck, then he raised his hand, and the wind shifted, the snow and cold air no longer entering the room, the window a barrier, Yu Lin a shield against the elements, a wall between him and the winter chill.

The villa was warm, but he had slept late. Jiang Wan and Zuo He sat in the living room, looking up as he and Yu Lin entered.

“You missed breakfast and lunch,” Jiang Wan pointed at the clock on the wall. “It’s four o’clock.”

It was late. He hadn’t noticed the time, glancing at Yu Lin reproachfully, blaming him for not waking him.

Zuo He studied his face. “You look well-rested,” he said, then turned to Yu Lin. “King Jiang’s aura has calmed, that’s a good sign.”

His voice turned serious. “I doubt it was just the wine. You must have worked hard, Junior Brother Chen. Are you hungry? I’ll make you some noodles.”

Chen Henian shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” Jiang Wan was surprised. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“It’s alright,” Yu Lin said, his voice calm, a hint of amusement in his tone. He seemed pleased. “We cultivated together last night, I shared my essence with him, he’s not hungry.”

“Cultivated?” Zuo He asked, his brow furrowed. “What technique?”

No one answered.

Jiang Wan glared at Chen Henian, slamming her hand on the table. “No wonder you smell different, even Xiao Bai and Da Huang are avoiding you. You even hurt Xiao Bai! Did it interrupt your fun last night?”

The white snake, hiding in her sleeve, refused to come out, Yu Lin’s gaze cold and menacing, as if he would skin the snake alive.

“It wasn’t its fault, I summoned it,” Chen Henian said to Yu Lin. “You were being so hesitant, I had to give you a push.”

“What did you do?” Zuo He asked.

“A private matter between them,” Jiang Wan said quickly. “Pillow talk, you don’t want to know.”

“Pillow talk?” Zuo He started to ask, then, seeing Jiang Wan’s glare, stopped himself.

“Where’s Master? Has he finally left?” Chen Henian asked, changing the subject.

“He’s on the third floor,” Jiang Wan replied. “He went out to chop some wood, he’s making a spirit tablet for King Jiang, to be enshrined here, so he can receive offerings. He’s decided this is our home now. No talismans or swords on the first floor, only on the third floor, he doesn’t want the living room to look like a shrine.”

Chen Henian nodded. “What’s for dinner?”

“Dumplings,” Zuo He stood up. “I’ll go get Uncle-Master. He said we’re making dumplings together. It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow, we have to eat dumplings.”

Chen Henian had lost track of time. “Do we have enough time?”

“Seven pairs of hands, of course we do,” Jiang Wan replied.

Four humans, three ghosts, seven pairs of hands.

The mirror ghost, its sleeves covered in flour, complained, “Even in death, I’m still your slave! Is there no justice in this world?!”

“Only the ceiling, and even that won’t answer your prayers,” Zhou Xianzhi, also struggling with the dough, retorted. “Complain again, and I’ll send you back to the Southern Mountain. Do you want to work there?”

The mirror ghost cowered, its shoulders slumping. “I prefer being with Master,” it said, the thought of the Southern sect’s endless rituals and judgments making it nauseous. It looked at Chen Henian ingratiatingly, then flinched under Yu Lin’s cold gaze.

“I’m still going to buy him back,” Zuo He said, kneading the dough, glancing at the pale and trembling mirror ghost. “My wages for the past few months, six thousand yuan, I’ve put it in the mirror.”

“The Southern sect is so wealthy, less than ten disciples sent out for training each year, why are your wages so low?” Chen Henian asked, surprised.

Zuo He shook his head. “It’s the sect’s decision, I don’t question it.”

A sudden burst of laughter echoed through the room.

Zhou Xianzhi, his body shaking with laughter, bent over, his mouth wide open, his hand slapping his knee, his behavior strange and inexplicable, sending flour flying across the table.

Chen Henian, suspecting this was another one of his antics to avoid work, kicked him lightly.

A white footprint appeared on Zhou Xianzhi’s pants. He finally stopped laughing, leaning closer to Chen Henian, his voice a whisper. “Don’t ask, he’s an idiot, that greedy master of his took ninety percent of his wages to buy expensive wine.”

Chen Henian chuckled, then glared at Zhou Xianzhi. “You’re both the same.” He picked up a rolling pin, tossing it at him. “Roll out eighty dumpling wrappers, and don’t be lazy.” Zhou Xianzhi’s face fell, his laughter silenced.

They prepared the filling and the wrappers, a three-hour task, Zuo He the only one skilled with kitchen utensils, his movements precise and efficient. They worked and chatted, the dumplings, of varying shapes and sizes, a testament to their combined efforts. By the time they finished, night had fallen, and they cooked the dumplings, their hunger growing.

Xiao Bai ate raw meat dumplings, and they drew a talisman and burned paper dumplings for the mirror ghost, no one forgotten. After dinner, they went to the rooftop, their scarves wrapped around their faces, their hands in their pockets, the city lights twinkling below, the glass windows a barrier against the cold night air.

At midnight, fireworks exploded in the sky, red and gold, their fleeting brilliance a celebration of the new year.

“Happy New Year!” Zhou Xianzhi said.

“Happy New Year!” they echoed.

This winter wasn’t as cold as the previous ones.

After New Year’s Day, then the Minor New Year and finally New Year’s Eve arrived, the ghosts remained dormant, no work for them, their days spent relaxing in their new home. Zuo He prepared a lavish New Year’s Eve dinner, Zhou Xianzhi tended to the ancestral altar, Jiang Wan cleaned, Chen Henian wrote couplets on red paper.

Chen Henian and Yu Lin’s relationship was no longer a secret, Zuo He having finally understood, his initial discomfort replaced by acceptance, Zhou Xianzhi the most enthusiastic, chuckling and pointing at the red string between them, claiming he had foreseen their union, a thread of destiny.

Yu Lin practiced his calligraphy, writing two characters, then crumpling the paper in frustration, burning it, Chen Henian’s brushstrokes more elegant, more refined.

“My calligraphy isn’t as good as it used to be, yours is still terrible,” Chen Henian said. “Haven’t all those memorials improved your handwriting?”

“Seeing those mountains of useless documents made me appreciate your efforts even more,” Yu Lin replied. “Those pampered officials, they even write about their meals, their trivial acquisitions, a waste of time and effort.”

Chen Henian chuckled, his hand guiding Yu Lin’s, dipping the brush in ink, the familiar movements returning, his calligraphy flowing, elegant and effortless, a scholar’s grace.

Yu Lin watched him, his gaze unwavering, until he finished.

“What did you write? Let me see.” Jiang Wan walked over, reading the still-wet ink aloud. “May your wishes be fulfilled, and peace prevail.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Who writes New Year’s couplets like that? You’re both so sappy, it’s sickening.”

“You bought a book,” Yu Lin said, his voice sharp, his eyes fixed on her. “Obscene and vulgar, giving it to your brother, corrupting his mind.”

A few days ago, Jiang Wan, wanting Chen Henian to be more assertive in bed, had given him a collection of homoerotic woodblock prints.

She didn’t regret it.

“Oh,” she scoffed. “Not even married yet, and you’re already acting like his husband? Do I have no say in my brother’s marriage anymore?”

“What should I call you now? Brother-in-law?”

“You can,” Yu Lin replied.

“Ugh, you agreed so easily,” she said, rolling her eyes.

A faint smile touched Yu Lin’s lips, his amusement evident, his eyes softening.

Chen Henian chuckled. “Enough bickering, wash your hands and set the table.”

They gathered around the table, the food ready, a tradition, offering the first bite to their ancestors, a bowl of rice with chopsticks placed on the table, a silent prayer, a remembrance, the empty chairs a reminder of those who were gone.

Zhou Xianzhi poured the wine, his face flushed, his laughter echoing through the room, his body swaying slightly.

Chen Henian drank tea, waiting until midnight, then they retired to their rooms.

New Year, new wishes, unspoken lest they not come true, but Yu Lin was a ghost, unbound by such superstitions.

So, in the quiet of the night, the ghost king, his voice a soft whisper against Chen Henian’s ear, said, “Chen Henian, may you live a hundred years.”