Love Beyond the Grave

"This deal is quite simple. I will help fulfill your wish, and in exchange, you lend me one of your five senses. Each wish will cost you one sense for ten days, during which you will lose that particular sensation. After ten days, I will return it to you. In other words, you will have many opportunities to make wishes to me."

This method proposed by He Simu was the best outcome she had derived after carefully studying the incantations within the Bright Pearl.

Naturally, she would have preferred a one-time solution, but borrowing one sense for ten days was the limit a mortal body could endure. Any more, and Duan Xu's body would quickly collapse—a one-time solution would be akin to killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.

Even with her current proposal, the more times Duan Xu lent his senses to her, the more his own senses would deteriorate. If not for this, the Bright Pearl wouldn’t have taken three hundred years to find someone like Duan Xu, who could withstand this curse.

He Simu clearly and concisely explained these risks to Duan Xu and added, "Let me make this clear—wishes also have limits. They cannot overly influence the mortal world. For example, you could wish for me to save your life on the battlefield, but you cannot wish for me to help you win the war. Do you understand?"

She was prepared to bargain with Duan Xu, but he listened attentively to her words, then innocently pointed at himself and her, saying, "Do we really have to talk in this position?"

Duan Xu was still lying flat on the bed, while He Simu sat on his waist, pinning his neck. If someone were to walk in, they would first be startled by the intimate yet bizarre posture, then terrified by He Simu’s deathly pale complexion. Fortunately, she had retracted her ghostly energy, and her eyes were now normal—black and white—or else it would have been a third fright.

He Simu didn’t seem to find anything amiss and calmly replied, "What’s wrong with this position?"

Duan Xu sighed tactfully. "You’re not light, and you’re very cold."

In the depths of winter, her body was no different from an ice block outside—perhaps just a bit softer. Having just suffered injuries and lost a lot of blood, he was already sensitive to the cold and shivered from her chill.

He Simu glanced at him and gracefully slid off, sitting by the edge of the bed. Where she had been, the touch of the sheets was icy.

Duan Xu sat up. His clothes were already disheveled by He Simu, giving him the air of a Southern Capital playboy. He leisurely remarked, "So, Ghost King, you have no five senses? No taste, smell, color, sound, or touch—what about pain? Do you feel none of that either?"

Naturally—she felt none. Pain existed to help the living avoid the risk of death. For example, if a person felt the burn of fire, they wouldn’t touch it. But the dead are already dead—what use is pain to them?

Moreover, the cotton-wrapped mattress beneath her palm—what the living would describe as "soft"—felt no different to her than the legs of a table or chair. The only difference was that it was easier to deform.

"Clearly, the dead have no need for such things."

"What a pity," Duan Xu lamented.

He Simu kindly reassured him, "There’s nothing to pity. It’ll be the same for you when you die."

But Duan Xu abruptly changed the subject. "I pity myself. After thinking for so long, I can’t come up with a single wish to make. Ghost King, I never make wishes."

The young man spoke with utmost sincerity, but He Simu could only think he was spouting nonsense.Over the past few centuries, she had borrowed bodies, consumed Soul Fire, and struck countless deals with the living. Yet never had any living person said—thank you, I’ve lived well and can die in peace, I want for nothing. People always harbor desires in this world. Naturally, monks and Taoists who have transcended worldly concerns might be free from wants, but Duan Xu didn’t possess even the slightest hint of such detachment.

"If I hadn’t saved you today, you might have died at the hands of the Hú Qì People. The battlefield is a place where survival is uncertain. Are you sure that without my help, you could escape death every time?"

A faint smile lingered in Duan Xu’s eyes as he propped his leg up, resting his chin on his hand, and said leisurely, "In any case, I thank the Ghost King for your assistance today."

His "in any case" carried a subtle implication of "even if you hadn’t saved me, I could have escaped on my own." He Simu narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him for a long moment. She moved closer to him, peering into his bright, deep eyes at an intimate distance—this time, his gaze finally reflected her pale face.

She chuckled softly and said, "Young general, you’re still too young. You must understand that fate is fickle, forcing all things to bow before it, beyond the reach of mortal power."

Duan Xu blinked and repeated, "Fate is fickle, forcing all things to bow."

Then he grinned brilliantly, his eyes brimming with arrogance and defiance: "But I am fickle too."

I am fickle too.

I am fickle too?

He Simu thought, fine, this kid is utterly shameless, beyond saving. Let whoever wants to teach him a lesson do so—sooner or later, he’ll stumble. If he ever truly becomes an Evil Ghost, she wouldn’t be as patient as she was now.

With a flick of her sleeve, she rose from the bed, making as if to leave and end the conversation. But as soon as she took a step, she met resistance. Turning back, she saw Duan Xu holding onto her sleeve, his pale fingers stark against the rust-red—though in her eyes, it was black—fabric. He smiled brightly and said, "The Ghost King’s attire is truly magnificent, unlike anything of this world."

Once again, his words veered wildly off-topic, and they were spoken with deliberate subtlety. Nowadays, the women of the Southern Capital wore narrow-sleeved robes and gauzy skirts. If He Simu walked the streets of the Southern Capital in her Triple-layered Robe, she’d likely look like she’d just crawled out of an ancient tomb.

He Simu smiled faintly and replied, "If the young general is interested, dig up a few tombs from three hundred years ago—you’ll see plenty."

Duan Xu grinned, but his fingers tightened slightly, tugging at her sleeve. No matter how much strength he exerted, it wouldn’t stop her, but this faint pressure carried a hint of pleading.

He Simu raised an eyebrow, shifting her gaze to his hand. "Your hands have no calluses, and the wounds are fresh."

At first, she had been fooled by these hands, thinking he was a proper scholar.

"Ah..." Duan Xu glanced at his own hand and said lightly, "There used to be calluses and scars, but I removed them with medicine. Any traces that others might see have been thoroughly erased."

"When did you remove them?"

"At fourteen."

Duan Xu answered smoothly and naturally, but he was so often cryptic that even this seemingly sincere exchange was hard to trust.

Still holding her sleeve, he said, "Aren’t you curious, Ghost King, about the many events of late? What exactly happened with Han Lingqiu? Who is the real traitor?"He Simu looked at him for a long moment before offering a false smile. With a flick of her sleeve, she shook off his hand and instead sat down on his bed. She turned over, kicked off her shoes, and slid into the inner side of his bed, pulling his blanket over herself as she reclined beside him.

Now it was Duan Xu’s turn to stare at her wide-eyed in astonishment. He Simu reached up to undo her hair ribbon, snapping her fingers as the ribbon dissolved into smoke and vanished, her ink-black hair cascading across the bedding. Her pale skin was like snow covering dark branches of red plum blossoms, striking and mesmerizing in its intensity.

“Didn’t you say you couldn’t bear to see me leave, little general? Then I’ll stay and listen properly—I’m quite interested myself.” He Simu patted the bed beneath her. “Tonight, I’ll sleep right here.”

For once, Duan Xu froze. His eyes flickered slightly. Any ordinary, upright person—especially one well-versed in the Four Books and Five Classics—would have immediately protested about propriety between men and women and the disgrace of such behavior.

But Duan Xu was clearly no such upright person. He merely sighed in resignation and said, “Then I suppose I won’t be sleeping tonight either.”

“Go on, what’s the deal with Han Lingqiu?” He Simu couldn’t care less about his sleep.

“Han Lingqiu hasn’t been showing his true abilities. I’ve seen him in training matches before—perhaps out of gratitude for Wu Shengliu’s recognition or for some other reason, he deliberately holds back, losing to Wu Shengliu repeatedly. But today, the speed at which he drew his blade and pressed it to my neck was leagues faster than anything he’s shown in the training grounds. He came from Danzhi—does the Ghost King know of a secretive organization under the Danzi Royal Court called ‘Heaven Knows’?”

“I don’t usually concern myself with the messy affairs of the mortal world. But if it’s a secret, how do you know about it?” He Simu said lazily. “What’s your connection to the Danzi Royal Court?”

Duan Xu smiled but didn’t answer her question, continuing instead, “Heaven Knows has always been shrouded in mystery, dedicated to training utterly loyal assassins for the Danzi Royal Court. These assassins push human potential to its limits—they’re incredibly formidable, and only one is trained each year. My guess is that before losing his memory, Han Lingqiu was one of them.”

Guess? He was being far too modest. He Simu thought this wasn’t something one could just casually deduce. She had been listening to Duan Xu and Han Lingqiu’s conversation all along. Duan Xu had likely met Han Lingqiu before—and was probably quite familiar with him.

“So? You think his amnesia is fake? You suspect he’s the mole?”

Logically speaking, the ambush on the way to Shuozhou to retrieve her, the fire in the granary, and the trap during the grain raid—each incident had some connection to Han Lingqiu. His identity as a Danzhi native and his claimed memory loss were both suspicious.

During the grain raid, the Hú Qì People had orders to capture Duan Xu and Han Lingqiu alive. Duan Xu was the commander, so that made sense—but Han Lingqiu was just an obscure junior officer. Why would Danzhi want him alive?

If Han Lingqiu was a spy, then the Hú Qì People’s orders not to harm him would also make sense.

Duan Xu frowned, interlacing his fingers absently before releasing them again. “It’s not certain yet, but we’ll know soon enough. The Ghost King is in for quite a show.”

He Simu thought to herself, What a load of nonsense that amounted to absolutely nothing.Duan Xu ended the conversation with a sigh, then casually removed his outer robe, leaving only his undergarments before pulling back the covers and lying down on the bed. After gazing at He Simu for a moment, he asked, "Would you like half of my pillow?"

He Simu rested her head on her own arm and replied coolly, "It's the dead of night, and an Evil Ghost is lying on your bed. Aren't you afraid? I devour people, you know."

"Fighting for land fills the fields with corpses; battling for cities fills the streets with the dead. This is what it means to lead the land in consuming human flesh. Seen this way, we're in the same trade," Duan Xu said with a laugh.

Fighting for land fills the fields with corpses; battling for cities fills the streets with the dead. This is what it means to lead the land in consuming human flesh.

Duan Xu certainly had the Four Books and Five Classics memorized—evidently, his second-place examination ranking was earned honestly. Though Mencius disapproved of war, he likely never equated generals with Evil Ghosts.

Yet in this world, birth, aging, sickness, death, war, rise and fall—which of these does not claim countless lives? Perhaps, in comparison, the act of Evil Ghosts devouring humans seems almost trivial.

He Simu watched as Duan Xu slowly closed his eyes. His face, pale from blood loss and exhaustion, was cast in the dim glow of candlelight. His breathing was steady, faintly stirring the loose strands of hair on his face.

She reached out and placed a finger beneath his nose but felt nothing.

That sensation of breath against skin, the warmth—there was none of it.

She could see the winds of heaven and earth, predict the subtlest changes in weather, but she could not feel them.

Even so, Duan Xu remained undisturbed, sleeping soundly. He Simu murmured under her breath, "Not a word of truth from this little fox."