The atmosphere suddenly became a little strange. Only after Qin Shu blurted the words out without thinking did he realize what he had actually said.
But to tell the truth, even Qin Shu himself had not realized that this bothered him until now.
And actually… it was not limited to something intangible like the soul. If somebody else bit Pei Zhao before Qin Shu ever did and left a mark on him, Qin Shu would care about that too.
That was seriously perverted, and completely inexplicable.
Qin Shu stiffly reflected on himself, but he did not avoid their awkward eye contact. Instead, he let that strange feeling slowly settle into his mind. In a way, this was another example of him taking a mile whenever he was given an inch.
The two stared silently at each other for a long time. In the end, Pei Zhao was the one who could no longer stand being watched. He idly rolled the glittering bracelet around his wrist, lowered his eyes, and said softly, “Fine. I’ll teach you.”
“Really? I can mark you?” Qin Shu’s eyes instantly lit up.
“…Don’t make it sound so strange.” Pei Zhao hesitated for a moment. “It’s only a simple location marker. Once you leave a soul mark, you’ll always be able to tell where I am.”
Qin Shu became even more excited and naturally took Pei Zhao’s hand between his own. “Zhaozhao, you’re the best. How do I do it?”
“…It’s very simple. Look between my brows and concentrate. Remember how it felt when you erased her mark. The principle is almost the same, but remember that what you want this time isn’t destruction. It’s creation. Do the opposite.”
It sounded extremely abstract, yet Qin Shu unexpectedly understood exactly what he needed to do. He drew a deep breath, concentrated completely, and began imagining it.
He wanted to leave something behind on Pei Zhao, something deep enough and secure enough that no matter what happened, it could never easily be erased…
“Hiss.”
A moment later, Pei Zhao pinched Qin Shu’s finger. Qin Shu immediately caught his wrist and held on even more tightly, making the bracelets collide in a succession of crisp little sounds.
“Don’t move. I’m almost done,” Qin Shu said quietly. His tone sounded almost soothing, but he was concentrating too intensely to see himself.
A dangerous dark-red glow seeped from the depths of his eyes, staining his bright black pupils bloodred. Pei Zhao, however, could always see what lay there: greed, possessiveness, reckless willfulness—the nature of someone completely centered on himself.
Hidden beneath that pleasant exterior woven from kindness, he naturally earned trust, dependence, and followers from every direction. It seemed that nobody had ever thought to question him.
What was right? What was wrong? What should be done, and what should never be done? Did an objective standard truly exist? In the end, wasn’t Qin Shu himself the one deciding all of it?
Pei Zhao had no intention of stopping him. Qin Shu had been spoiled into this state, and Pei Zhao himself was hardly innocent in that. Still, exposing his soul and allowing another person to peer into it, trace across it, and carve a mark there produced an undeniable sense of unease, almost like being scorched by open flame.
It hurt a little. There had not been many things capable of making Pei Zhao feel pain in recent years, so the sensation was actually rather novel.
“…Mm, done! I drew a little cat! I didn’t expect I could really draw one.”
An instant later, Qin Shu released him, his own eyes full of novelty and delight. “Zhaozhao, I learned it! As long as I focus really hard on thinking about you, the mark I placed starts glowing in front of me! No, wait—it’s more like it glows on a map inside my head… So cute.”
“You hurt me.” Pei Zhao’s face was expressionless.
“Huh? Then… then what should I do?”
Before Pei Zhao could answer, Qin Shu had already hauled him forcefully into his arms. Pei Zhao’s head was abruptly pressed against Qin Shu’s chest, and his eyes widened slightly in astonishment as his muffled voice nearly failed to escape. “Qin Shu, you…”
“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll be gentler. Hug, hug, hug.”
“What the hell are you two talking about? Holy shit, what are you doing?! No flirting at my dining table! If you’re going to do that, can’t you go do it in a bedroom?!”
“…”
Unfortunately, their movements had finally become large enough for Tang Rui Cheng, who had remained completely immersed in his game, to sense that something was wrong and remove his VR headset.
Apparently, the moment he took the headset off, he discovered that these two esteemed gentlemen had actually started hugging right in front of him.
Truly, public morals were collapsing by the day.
“What nonsense are you talking about? Zhaozhao and I were discussing something serious.” Qin Shu still did not release him. He merely changed positions naturally and continued holding an arm around Pei Zhao’s shoulders before lifting his chin toward Tang Rui Cheng. “Old Tang. Look down.”
“You little—? Wait. Seriously? Is this real?! This is actually real?!”
The moment Tang Rui Cheng lowered his head, his pupils practically underwent an earthquake. He hurriedly picked up Liang Ming Yue’s autograph from the table and examined it from every angle with trembling hands. “Holy shit, it’s really hers… Brother. Buddy. Adoptive father. My biological dad!”
“Come on, it’s not that serious. Is there any exclusive merchandise you want? I can ask for you. Or maybe arrange a chance for you to meet her, if she’s willing.”
“No way! Privately contacting your idol is morally corrupt. The fandom would put me in a pig cage and drown me!”
Elio’s Notes: “Being drowned in a pig cage” is an old punishment image associated in popular culture with severe moral or sexual transgressions. Tang Rui Cheng is jokingly exaggerating how scandalous inappropriate private contact with an idol would be.
Tang Rui Cheng frantically waved the only hand he could currently move. After pausing, he lowered his voice and asked, “Did Ming Yue run into a ghost too? I thought something was weird while I was watching the livestream. How did that police officer suddenly disappear? And the broadcast ended so abruptly…”
“She did run into something supernatural, but nothing serious happened. The police officer is fine too. The situation’s complicated, and I can’t spread the details around right now.” Qin Shu thought for a moment and added, “Don’t worry. I’m not the only person helping her.”
“Then it’s fine. I trust you. Ever since we were kids, I’ve never met anyone more reliable than you. Seriously, sometimes I think you’re more reliable than my mom.”
Tang Rui Cheng sighed before adding, “Old Qin, whatever you’re getting involved in and whoever you’re trying to protect, keep yourself safe first. Don’t end up like me, almost getting crushed to death without even knowing what happened and now having to play games one-handed… Having broken arms and legs is genuinely miserable.”
“Okay. I understand. Thanks for the compliment. But Old Tang, aren’t you getting a little sentimental?” Qin Shu smiled, poured tea into a clean cup, and pushed it toward Tang Rui Cheng.
Tang Rui Cheng also realized he had gotten rather sentimental. He coughed awkwardly, picked up the teacup, and drained it in one gulp. “You think I’d bother saying all that if you hadn’t brought me Ming Yue’s autograph?!”
“…Hm? You brought this tea? It’s good. Give me another cup.”
His objective accomplished, Qin Shu stopped teasing Tang Rui Cheng. They finished freeloading dinner, did their homework together while they were there, then left without staying particularly late.
These past few days really had been unsettled. Qin Shu was also worried that hanging around Tang Rui Cheng’s house for too long might accidentally attract a few shrimp soldiers and crab generals to him… or something even more troublesome.
Occasionally needing to stay home for several days to recover might actually be good for Tang Rui Cheng. Perhaps it would allow him to avoid quite a few of the bizarre things happening around No. 2 High School.
After leaving Tang Rui Cheng’s courtyard, Qin Shu’s own house was only a few steps to the left. It was already late at night. Thick mist veiled the moon, and even the permanently lit streetlamp outside the gate glowed hazily.
Qin Shu directly took Pei Zhao’s hand, his movements becoming increasingly practiced. “Zhaozhao, stay at my house tonight?”
“No.”
“Why are you like this?!”
“…It’s inconvenient. I’ll come over on the weekend.”
The refusal was so decisive that there was clearly no hope tonight. Reluctantly, Qin Shu led him in the opposite direction and pulled out his phone. “Fine. I’ll get a car and take you back to No. 2 High School. It’s too late for you to go back alone.”
Pei Zhao said faintly, “You can check my location whenever you want now. What are you still worried about?”
“No, no. If something really happens, by the time I notice, it’ll already be too late. Oh, right, Zhaozhao. Should I let Yuanbao stay with you for a while?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Their ride arrived quickly, and No. 2 High School was not far away, so they soon returned to the dormitory building.
It was not yet lights-out. Students returning from late-night snacks came and went downstairs amid noisy conversation and laughter, while several couples hid in dark corners whispering to each other, either holding hands or hugging. None escaped Qin Shu’s eyes.
He had no interest in looking, but he saw them anyway. Darkness was no longer effective concealment from him. As long as there was even the faintest trace of light, Qin Shu could easily count exactly how many ants were crawling across the ground.
The dorm supervisor’s silent, observant gaze was even harder to ignore. Qin Shu lowered his eyes toward his and Pei Zhao’s joined hands and felt slightly guilty.
But after thinking about it again—so what? As long as Pei Zhao was willing.
Having instantly adjusted his mentality, Qin Shu returned to normal. “Good night, Zhaozhao. Go to bed early. Do you want those spring pastries from the teahouse again tomorrow?”
“I do.” Pei Zhao’s eyes immediately brightened, looking prettier than the cat’s-eye gemstones around his wrist.
“Then I’ll message Boss Lin and swing by the back entrance in the morning to buy two boxes.”
Pei Zhao moved a little closer and met Qin Shu’s eyes. He stroked Qin Shu’s hand, the cool bracelets between them chiming lightly against each other in what felt like an awkward attempt at affection. “Four boxes. Two each.”
“Okay.”
“Mm. Good night.”
The “pixels” at the corners of Pei Zhao’s mouth visibly curved upward. One glance was enough to tell that he was happy.
After seeing off a Pei Zhao who was clearly in a good mood, Qin Shu naturally felt full of motivation as well. Instead of immediately leaving the school, he boldly slipped back into the pitch-black teaching building and pretended he was merely wandering around.
Killing ghosts made him stronger. That was an objective fact. The effect had not been especially obvious at first, but after experiencing more and more, Qin Shu had gradually begun to understand the pattern. Originally, he had thought there was no need to rush; provoking something he could not defeat would be dangerous, and he could never kill every ghost anyway… But the situation had changed.
The surface world remained perfectly calm, but beneath the places human eyes could reach, undercurrents had never stopped moving. Becoming stronger quickly had turned into a genuinely urgent necessity.
“Sister Qian, Yuanbao, your eyes are sharper than mine when it comes to this stuff, right? Help me find the ones that deserve to die. Not the ones who died unjustly or have genuine grievances. We’ll start with the truly evil ghosts.”
Qin Shu lowered his voice as his footsteps echoed through the empty teaching building.
The little centipede crawled out from his collar, its cold, hard segments curling around the side of Qin Shu’s neck while its antennae waved back and forth. The sensation almost made him instinctively raise a hand and swat the little thing away.
“…Left? You want me to go onto the roof?” Qin Shu became thoughtful and slowly climbed upstairs according to Yuanbao’s directions.
Creeeak—
The moment he pushed open the slightly rusted rooftop door, Qin Shu stopped. An oppressive sensation descended on him so abruptly that it became difficult to breathe.
Yuanbao’s eyes really were much sharper than his.
The rooftop was packed with densely clustered human-faced, eagle-bodied little ghosts.
They were breeding.
The supplied raw describes their □□ behavior as no different from that of ordinary eagles and falcons. One little ghost beat its wings while mounted on another’s back, circling low through the air, and the entire process took less than half a minute.
Elio’s Notes: The chapter contains □□方式 here. The surrounding sentences make it unambiguous that the missing term is about their mating or reproductive behavior, so we conveyed this in English without reconstructing the exact missing Chinese characters.
But that was not what disturbed Qin Shu the most.
Every one of these little ghosts had an entirely standard human face, and they were terrible at controlling their expressions. Whenever one met Qin Shu’s eyes while mating, it would simply stare straight at him with rigid, hollow black pupils, as though he too were merely part of the nighttime scenery.
One of the little ghosts even looked exactly like the student who had jumped from the building the previous week. It was an absolute duplicate, without the slightest difference.
“…I’m completely certain that student died. Thoroughly dead. So why did it copy his face?”
The staring made Qin Shu’s scalp crawl, while the questions in his mind multiplied. He increasingly felt that there was something strange hidden in how these little ghosts formed.
And it definitely was not anything good.
When a person dies, they become a ghost. When a ghost dies, it becomes Jian. When Jian dies, it becomes Xi; when Xi dies, it becomes Yi.
The unexpectedly scholarly sentence suddenly surfaced in Qin Shu’s mind.
Yuanbao had said it.
Qin Shu fell silent for a moment, took out his phone, searched the phrase, and finally understood what it meant.
Elio’s Notes: Jian (聻) is an old folkloric term for what a ghost may become after “dying” again. The saying continues through Xi (希) and Yi (夷), imagining progressively fainter states of spiritual existence. The novel uses Jian specifically as a ghost-eating entity.
“Wait. You mean these little ghosts aren’t actually ghosts at all? They’re Jian that specifically eat ghosts?”
Qin Shu could hardly believe it. Even more absurdly, these little ghosts were probably several times older than Qin Shu himself.
That was because Jian formed from wandering ghosts who could not reincarnate, had lingered in the human world for an extremely long time, yet did not possess enough resentment to strengthen themselves through any other means.
As those wandering ghosts drifted endlessly through the world with nothing to do, everything in them that had once belonged to a human—their memories, personalities, reason, and emotions—would gradually be ground away by the passing years.
Eventually, nothing remained except a muddled, empty shell that could scarcely even be called a ghost anymore. That was what it meant for a ghost to truly die of old age.
Yes, die of old age. Not only had its human lifespan run out, even its lifespan as a dead spirit had been completely exhausted.
Whether those remains simply dispersed into nothing and became nourishment for the natural world or transformed into ghost-eating Jian depended on circumstance, location, and whether the surrounding spiritual energy was abundant enough.
Logically speaking, monsters like Jian that ate only ghosts posed no threat to humans because they did not eat living people. Yet as Qin Shu stood there staring at this enormous group of eagle-bodied, human-faced creatures, he still felt that far too many things did not add up.
“Yuanbao, the Jian you’ve seen elsewhere probably didn’t have human faces, right?” Qin Shu boldly moved a step closer and studied the face identical to his dead schoolmate’s.
No.
“Then why do all the ones at No. 2 High School look like this? Secretly copying people’s faces… No, copying the faces of dead people!”
Qin Shu paused, a chill gradually rising from the bottom of his heart. “Don’t tell me every face I can see here belongs to someone who died. What are they trying to do?”
Squish, squelch…
The moment he finished speaking, a disturbingly wet sound came from the swollen mass of little ghosts.
Then, with a soft plop, a white eagle egg with a soft shell dropped from beneath one of their wings.
It was damp and pliable, wrapped in a sticky translucent membrane. Under the moonlight, Qin Shu could faintly make out the shape inside.
A tiny headless chick lay curled within the egg. Wet down covered its thin, shriveled body as it trembled and struggled inside the suffocatingly tight membrane.
Qin Shu tensed his mind and said nothing, silently watching this eerie yet strangely miraculous reproductive process.
The other little ghosts, which had been circling restlessly through the air, also fell silent in unison. Their movements almost perfectly mirrored Qin Shu’s as they fixed their dark eyes on the single frail egg their group had produced that night.
The struggling inside the egg gradually weakened. That was only natural. Under ordinary circumstances, a hatchling should have used its tender beak as a weapon, combining it with its claws to peck its way through the shell.
But this tiny chick did not even have a head. It lacked the single most important tool it needed to break free: a beak.
Qin Shu felt uncomfortable all over just watching it, yet the little ghosts that had finally managed to produce an offspring remained completely indifferent. Like a crowd of blockheads, they simply stood there with their wings folded, staring fixedly at the soft egg as though sheer concentration might somehow make the chick emerge.
Qin Shu could not take it anymore. He secretly nudged Yuanbao in his mind.
Yuanbao, it looks like it’s about to suffocate. Can I help it?
?
Yuanbao’s confusion could not have been more obvious. It even stood halfway upright on Qin Shu’s shoulder in an extremely humanlike manner and tilted its head at him, completely unable to understand Qin Shu’s mentality.
As far as Yuanbao was concerned, killing every unclean thing on the rooftop, eating until it was full, then going home to sleep would clearly be the best solution.
Qin Shu did not exactly disagree with it, but when a new life was born into the world innocent and ignorant, having done nothing evil yet, perhaps that represented limitless possibilities.
Of course… the more important reason was that Qin Shu personally thought baby eagles were much cuter than baby flies.
Even one without a head was cuter than a fly. It was fluffy. How could that not be adorable?
So he ignored Yuanbao’s faint dissatisfaction, cleared his throat, and announced, “Can all of you understand human speech? I’m going to help this baby hatch now. Anyone who tries to stop me gets beaten to death.”
He finished speaking.
Not a single ghost cared.
The little ghosts did not even move their gazes. They continued staring at the egg as though possessed.
“Fine. I’m starting.”
Qin Shu drew a deep breath, pushed aside several little ghosts blocking the outside of the group, and forced himself into the middle.
The temperature inside the mass of little ghosts was extremely low. The sinister cold emanating from all of them gathered together and wrapped completely around him.
Qin Shu did his best not to shiver. He reached out as quickly as possible, snatched up the soft white egg, and directly tore through its damp outer membrane like ripping paper, right in front of every ghost.
The chick dropped into his palm, wet, icy cold, and so weak that it was already on the verge of losing consciousness. Qin Shu hurriedly smoothed out its tangled down and cupped it between his hands to warm it slightly, coating one hand in strange slime in the process.
The texture made Qin Shu uncomfortable, so he rested his hand against one of the dazed little ghosts beside him and wiped it clean on the creature’s dry black feathers.
It worked surprisingly well.
Yuanbao: “…”
Yuanbao cautiously withdrew into Qin Shu’s coat, terrified that it might be grabbed and used as a hand towel next.
Yet Qin Shu’s behavior, which bordered on outright provocation, managed to irritate exactly one creature: Yuanbao.
The densely packed little ghosts showed no dissatisfaction whatsoever.
Never mind trying to reclaim the chick—they were still staring rigidly at the place where the egg had originally lain without moving at all, as though their entire system had crashed. It was like a program that had failed halfway through execution and gotten trapped in an endless initialization loop.
“Do you still want this baby? If you don’t, I’m really taking it.”
Qin Shu experimentally carried the chick back and forth in front of them.
Nothing happened.
In that case, he really was taking it.
Of course, this group of little ghosts could not be allowed to remain either.
Ten minutes later, feathers filled the sky above Jiangcheng No. 2 High School.
The dorm supervisor poked his head outside in confusion and looked around. He took a photograph of the rain of pitch-black feathers, only to find that the photograph contained nothing at all. It had captured only the ghostly white moon emerging from behind the clouds and mist.
He shuddered violently, hurriedly deleted the picture, and hid back inside his little office.
Countless campus ghost stories had circulated through No. 2 High School over the years, and a midnight rain of feathers was one of them. Those who understood such things pretended they knew nothing, while those who did not understand had never believed the stories anyway.
Actually encountering the real thing was still pretty damn creepy…
Meanwhile, Qin Shu rubbed his aching arms, sore from having used too much force, and quietly left No. 2 High School.
As he leisurely walked home through the night, he messaged Boss Lin to reserve breakfast for the next morning. Curled inside his partially unzipped school jacket was a tiny headless chick.
Boss Lin happened to still be awake, so Qin Shu also took the opportunity to ask whether he had ever seen monsters like these eagle-bodied little ghosts that copied human faces.
Lin Shi Yu sent him an emoji trembling in fear with the words “RUN.”
[Boss Lin: In most situations, a human face created through transformation is bait. It’s used to attract people connected to the deceased, especially lovers and relatives, making them lower their guard before being lured toward death… Student Qin, be careful.]
[Qin Shu: It’s fine. I killed every one I saw. But aren’t these things only supposed to eat ghosts, not humans?]
[Boss Lin: Once a human dies, they become a ghost and therefore become edible. If there is no injustice or strong resentment involved, a newly formed dead soul is usually very weak and will remain briefly confused, unable to immediately become a serious threat. Before the underworld constables arrive, the Jian can start eating at once.]
…That made perfect sense.
Qin Shu suddenly understood. If there was no ready-made food left to eat, then they would simply have to manufacture their own food.
These days, even ghost-eating monsters had to come up with creative new ways to feed themselves.
There might be ghosts everywhere inside No. 2 High School, but that did not necessarily mean they were easy prey. If the Jian could not defeat any of them, then naturally they would need another approach: target living humans instead and eat them fresh after death… Perhaps over time, this behavior had already evolved into something fixed and permanent within the species.
The thought made Qin Shu’s heart jump. He lowered his head, pulled open his jacket, and looked at the tiny bird nestled against him.
It was still very small, no bigger than Qin Shu’s fist, with two thin little legs tucked beneath its belly like miniature toy parts. Yet its rate of growth was far faster than Qin Shu had imagined.
It had already grown a head.
The head was roughly the size of a walnut, its facial features as delicate as a finely painted miniature.
A tiny human face.
Qin Shu could hardly believe his own eyes.
Because the face he saw was Pei Zhao’s.
He was looking at Pei Zhao’s face.
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