Chapter 31

Tears fell one by one, sliding along the tip of his chin into his collar and moistening his snow-white neck with a glistening sheen.

He was clearly just a poor boy helping out for free at someone else’s funeral, yet the strands of hair hanging down were pitch-black and soft, draping over his chest like a pair of silk ribbons. They rose and fell against his chest with each sob.

That crying especially drew sidelong glances. It was low and soft, brimming with grievance, as if he’d truly been bullied badly by someone.

…Who cries at a funeral like that?

Huo Yin was momentarily choked up, unsure whether to stop him or let him carry on.

In the end, he could only irritably remind the boy, “Call him Master Huo. Master Huo.”

Luo Li sobbed on, his head bowed as he softly called out, “Master… Master Huo…”

A gust of yin wind suddenly swept past the front of the spirit carriage. The two brothers instantly felt a chill creep up their spines.

When the yin wind died down, the yellow paper that had been lying steadily on the altar table abruptly flipped up, rustling noisily without end.

The vermilion ink spilled over, spreading along the creases in the paper like flowing tears of blood.

The brothers exchanged a glance, each tightening their grip on their spirit banners as they peered at the yellow paper.

The paper lifted on its own without any wind, the red bloodstains upon it growing ever thicker. The moment Huo Cheng reached out to grab it, the paper slipped through his fingers and flew outside.

Huo Cheng glanced at Huo Yin. “Chase it!”

And just like that, the two of them dashed out of the shed after it.

Luo Li remained before the spirit carriage. Afraid of being scolded, he continued softly calling for Master Huo.

It was only after his eyes grew sore from all the crying that he slowly wiped at them with the back of his hand. Looking around, he realized there was no one left.

He had no idea where the Huo brothers had gone. The procession outside the shed had vanished into thin air as well.

All that remained was the pitch-black coffin in the deep, shadowy corner. The spilled vermilion had dyed the tabletop dark red, with plenty more splattered across the coffin itself.

Panic seized Luo Li. He tried to scramble to his feet at once, but his legs had gone numb from kneeling so long. He could only slowly push himself up, palm by palm against the ground.

“Pa.”

The portrait toppled over.

In his daze, it seemed as if some shadow flickered past.

Luo Li trembled violently in fear, his legs growing even weaker. He couldn’t stand at all.

The oversized mourning clothes hampered his movements as well. Waves of numbness pulsed through his legs, while cold air began to seep out from all around him.

Then, something latched onto his calf.

The thing was freezing cold. It pressed against the meat of his calf and bore down on the back of his knee. It felt like a person’s grip—the fleshy part between thumb and forefinger—pressing into the slight dip just below his tightly clenched knee. Slowly and methodically, it slid down his calf to his ankle.

There was a slight protrusion at his ankle bone, and the thing began to rub it, very, very slowly.

The fingers formed a circle, as if measuring the slenderness of his ankle.

…Fingers.

This thing… it had hands.

Luo Li didn’t dare move a muscle. He quickly realized something else: whatever this was, it probably hadn’t just started touching him now.

His legs had been numb for a long time, devoid of sensation. Even if it had been touching him before, he wouldn’t have felt it.

But now, as feeling slowly returned, the eerie sensation grew sharper and more distinct.

It had started… fondling his feet.

Through the thin fabric of his ragged cloth shoes, light and heavy presses targeted his plump little toes.

A palm cupped both his small feet and squeezed them roughly.

Luo Li didn’t dare look back. He could smell a heavy, fishy stench. The chill around him seeped into his very bones, and the hot fog of his breath threatened to form frost on his eyelashes.

His toes curled tight instinctively, trying to kick the restless hands away.

But that bit of force held no threat at all. In his panic, one of his ill-fitting cloth shoes nearly came off.

“Hey! Luo Li, you in there?”

Someone shoved the shed open, and the fishy stench suddenly dissipated by more than half.

Chu Jing strode over. The boy in mourning clothes was curled up shivering before the spirit carriage, his legs pressed tightly together as if struggling to fend something off.

The ground was littered with yellow paper soaked red, a truly creepy sight.

Even Chu Jing shuddered. Supporting the boy by the arm, he hauled him up from the ground.

“Damn, aren’t you afraid of the bad luck? Daring to hang around by the coffin for so long.”

Luo Li clung to his shoulder, his lips gone pale. “There… there was someone…”

“What’d you say?”

“Someone touched me… my feet…”

Chu Jing scanned their surroundings. There was no sign of anyone. “You must’ve knelt so long you’re seeing things. Come on, let’s go.”

Tears welled in Luo Li’s eyes, but he didn’t dare defy him. Limping along, he made his way out of the shed. Outside, everything had returned to normal. The funeral procession was chatting idly, as if nothing had happened at all.

But the moment he rejoined the group, a burly man with sharp eyes called out, “Hey, what’s that on your leg?”

He looked down. Beneath his rolled-up pant leg, a string of crimson blood beads gleamed starkly against his porcelain-white ankle.

They shimmered with a bone-chilling bloody light, as if responding to some summons.

…

Luo Li stood at the tail end of the procession, still feeling intermittent icy touches on his ankle.

His heart pounded with guilt as he tugged his pant leg down to cover the beads. He had no idea where they’d come from and knew he couldn’t explain it even if he tried. He certainly didn’t dare tell anyone.

He tried to remove them several times, but they seemed tailor-made for him, fitting so snugly that they wouldn’t budge.

What was he supposed to do…?

The funeral procession was now on its way back. They had gathered in front of the Huo Mansion, chatting idly.

Luo Li sat in a corner, gnawing on the sorghum flatbread he’d been given. His pampered stomach couldn’t handle the coarse stuff. The more he thought about it, the more aggrieved he felt, on the verge of turning the flatbread into a soggy mess soaked in tears.

“I don’t want to be a beggar anymore… Always hungry…”

It was then that 007 spoke up. “Then what do you want to be?”

Luo Li sneaked a glance toward the interior of the Huo Mansion.

He saw the butlers and servants bustling about in fine, crisp clothes. The young masters of the household didn’t even need mentioning—they practically glowed amid the crowd.

Summoning his courage, he said, “Well… at least someone from the mansion… or something like that.”

“You’ve got some ambition. Want to get into the mansion, huh?”

Chu Jing’s voice came from behind him. Luo Li jumped in fright and swallowed the last bit of his flatbread. “I didn’t mean…”

“Alright, alright. Come on, I’ll introduce you to someone.”

Luo Li followed him all the way to a secluded little courtyard, where a man dressed like a fortune-teller was waiting in the main hall.

Chu Jing called out, “Hey, Little Waste, show Zhang Banxian the thing on your leg.”

Luo Li had been agonizing over the blood beads for days now, so he obediently rolled up his pant leg and stuck out his calf.

“Oh… oh… just as I thought.”

Zhang Banxian’s hands trembled as he touched the string of beads on the boy’s ankle. “Mm… these are Master Huo’s belongings. A relic.”

“A relic? So how’d it end up on his leg for no reason?”

Zhang Banxian chuckled. “Little brother, what exactly did you do in front of the spirit carriage that day?”

Luo Li nervously lowered his gaze. “N-nothing… I just cried a bit… called out for Master Huo a few times.”

“That’s probably why.” Zhang Banxian turned to Chu Jing. “Huo Jieqi’s ghost has been lingering without dispersing. Clearly, the little brother called it over. With these blood beads left here, sooner or later, Huo Jieqi himself will come looking.”

“Ah?” Luo Li was on the verge of tears again. “Th-then take them off quick! I don’t want them!”

“You fool, do you have any idea how valuable this relic is?” Chu Jing could barely contain his excitement. “With this, we might even get a shot at claiming some inheritance from the mansion!”

Luo Li couldn’t care less about any inheritance. He pouted, clearly unhappy. “Then you wear them. I don’t want them anyway.”

Zhang Banxian burst out laughing. “Not just anyone can have them. These beads are precious. The fact that they’ve latched onto your ankle means… he’s taken a liking to you.”

Chu Jing’s brows furrowed, and he let out a tsk. “That old pervert. Can’t get it up himself, so he has to eye other people’s goods.”

In just a few words between the two, Luo Li learned more about Huo Jieqi.

Huo Jieqi’s three sons weren’t his biological children. They were sons from other branches of the Huo Family, adopted to serve as his heirs.

To the common folk, it made no sense for such a wealthy merchant—loaded with riches—to have no women by his side and no heirs of his own, forcing him to adopt. Rumors swirled that Master Huo was impotent, doomed to die without issue.

Yet he’d never taken even a single concubine, so some said he had no interest in women at all—that he preferred men.

Both tales were hard to verify, but since the spot by Huo Jieqi’s side had always remained empty, most people figured he simply couldn’t perform.

After seeing Zhang Banxian off, Chu Jing turned back around. He saw Luo Li perched on a chair, swinging his legs idly.

The blood beads rolled gently along his slender ankle. The boy’s long, curled lashes were lowered, his expression a little dazed.

“Hey, come here. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Luo Li raised his almond-shaped eyes and tilted his head back with a huff.

Chu Jing knew he was upset. Squatting down, he patiently explained.

“Think about it—that’s the Huo Family! Even a tiny scrap leaking from Huo Jieqi’s inheritance would be enough for you to live comfortably for life.”

Luo Li remained silent. The little one’s dark eyes were full of defiance. He clearly had no respect for his boss whatsoever.

“But I can’t even get into the mansion. And I don’t know Master Huo at all.”

“You don’t know him? Someone else does, don’t they?”

Chu Jing sat down beside him with a cryptic smile. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Huo Jieqi kept a male lover on the side a while back. He died a few days ago—leprosy, they say.”

Luo Li blinked in confusion, his lashes fluttering blankly. He had no idea what Chu Jing was getting at. “I never heard about that.”

“You dummy. If you haven’t heard, that means nobody has. Isn’t that perfect?” Chu Jing paused for effect. “Anyway, he’s dead now. Why don’t you step into his shoes? Pretend to be Master Huo’s kept man and head over to the Huo Mansion. With these Blood Beads on you, they’ll buy it hook, line, and sinker.”

Luo Li nodded, looking like he half-understood. Chu Jing figured he’d gotten through to him, but then came the inevitable follow-up: “But what’s a mistress, exactly?”

Chu Jing was speechless. “…A mistress is like a concubine—a side wife. Only she’s kept on the down-low, hidden away outside the main household, just there to service the man. Clear now?”

“Then why not just marry her properly and bring her home?”

“‘Cause Old Ghost Huo’s a real piece of work. Hit it and quit it—no strings attached. He just wanted someone convenient to bed whenever the mood struck. Bringing her home would’ve stirred up all kinds of drama, and he wasn’t about that.”

Being a mistress sounded downright pitiful.

“But that gigolo is dead now, and so is Old Ghost Huo. You won’t have to deal with any of that mess.”

Luo Li still wasn’t sold. “Then why don’t you go yourself?”

Chu Jing felt like he was about to lose it. “With this big, burly mug of mine? I’d never pass for a mistress—not even as a nephew. But you? You’re a different story.”

The man cradled his cheeks in his hands.

Strands of the boy’s soft, jet-black hair slipped aside, revealing a dainty oval face no bigger than a man’s palm. Every feature on that petite face was exquisitely refined—fair-skinned, delicate, and so very young. If he’d been born a girl, some wealthy family would’ve snapped him up ages ago to raise as a child bride.

…The perfect material for warming some old man’s bed.