Midnight Visitor
Staring at the worn, mottled book on the table, Zheng Que’s consciousness was hazy and muddled. He sat there in a daze, utterly bewildered.
A chilling wind wrapped in cold mist poured in endlessly through the broken opening. Visibility rapidly declined as darkness surged like a tide, howling and sweeping in, gradually devouring everything around.
Slowly, the remaining outline of the main hall vanished; the grand armchair vanished; the long table vanished. Only the book inscribed with the Book of Life and Death remained, suspended alone in the darkness.
In his confusion, Zheng Que felt he ought to do something, but his thoughts were unbearably sluggish. Each turn of mind was a struggle, leaving him only able to stare blankly at those three blood-red characters.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when darkness like smoke and clouds crept over the book’s cover, quickly saturating the yellowed pages to ink-black, then coiled layer by layer around the blood-red characters.
As the final blood-red character was swallowed by the darkness, Zheng Que abruptly sat up in bed. Before him was a familiar room: a bed, a table, a chair, a cabinet, and in the corner a bamboo clothing rack draped with two outer garments. It was unmistakably his own bedroom.
No lamp was lit inside. Moonlight clear as water streamed in through the rear window, casting a frosty glow across the floor.
He gasped for breath, sweat pouring down his forehead, soaking through his inner garments in the blink of an eye.
Looking around, Zheng Que frowned.
This dream again.
Ever since his transmigration to this world, he had often had this dream.
Everything in the dream was hazy and indistinct, except for that yellowed Book of Life and Death, which remained etched vividly in his memory.
Yet each time, his consciousness was far from clear. Like a block of wood, he had no idea what to do, simply sitting dumbly before the table until he awoke.
Moreover, perhaps because of this dream, he had been unusually sensitive to death since childhood.
His ability to choose correctly among the seven bowls of wine earlier that day relied precisely on this extraordinary intuition.
Just as he was lost in thought, a sudden knocking sound echoed.
Thump, thump, thump!
“Disciple, come out quickly and follow your master back to the mountain!”
A vaguely familiar voice called from outside the door.
Hearing this, Zheng Que immediately recognized it as the voice of the gray-robed old man who had taken him as his disciple earlier that day.
Snapping back to reality, he dared not delay and hurriedly responded, “Yes!”
No sooner had the word left his mouth than Zheng Que felt a sudden heaviness in his chest, as if an intense chill had descended from nowhere, enveloping him completely.
His movement to get out of bed and put on his shoes froze instantly.
He was all too familiar with this abrupt bone-chilling cold.
It was the aura of death!
The next moment.
Creak.
The securely latched door was pushed open by something. Outside the moonlight was clear as water, yet no figure could be seen. Only a chilling wind drifted in, howling as it entered the room.
Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps echoed clearly, drawing nearer, yet the solid earthen floor showed no trace of anything.
“Disciple, follow your master quickly.”
“Disciple, where are you?”
“Disciple, stop hiding. Come out now!”
The familiar voice drew closer alongside the footsteps. The surroundings grew colder and colder, the icy chill so intense it seemed to seethe and boil.
Zheng Que sat on the bed, not daring to move a muscle. He stared intently at the cloth shoes placed one facing up and one facing down at the foot of the bed, his pupils dilating, his heart pounding like a drum.
That thing calling him “disciple” was not his master!
He shouldn’t have answered earlier!
“Disciple! Come out quickly!”
“Hurry! Time is running out!”
“Disciple… disciple…”
The voice continued to urge, growing increasingly frantic and impatient.
Zheng Que’s scalp prickled with fear. Slowly he raised a hand and pressed it tightly over his mouth. He didn’t know what exactly had entered the room, but one thing was certain: if he answered again, he would surely die!
Even with the shoes placed one facing up and one facing down at the foot of his bed, it made no difference now.
Time passed slowly. The familiar voice and footsteps circled the bed again and again, seemingly finding nothing, before gradually fading away.
After another moment the door closed once more, plunging everything into dead silence, as if the earlier commotion had never existed.
Outside the window the moonlight was cold and desolate, with no one in sight. Everything seemed to have returned to normal.
But the chilling sense of impending death that clung to Zheng Que had not faded in the slightest.
The danger was not over. That thing imitating his master’s voice was still inside the house!
Sure enough!
Not long after, a familiar voice tinged with amusement suddenly whispered right beside his ear: “Disciple, I’ve found you!”
Zheng Que’s blood instantly ran cold and his heart nearly stopped.
But soon he forcefully suppressed his fear and resisted the desperate urge to flee.
A cold wind blew in through the window, rustling his clothes.
In the darkness his entire body remained motionless, and even his breathing slowed to its lowest frequency.
After a long stretch of silence the familiar voice spoke again: “Disciple, your master is going to devour you now!”
This time the voice clearly came from about a foot away at the foot of the bed, filled with undisguised rage.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The footsteps suddenly grew heavy, as if many people were running around chaotically.
The ground trembled. Tables, chairs and furniture began to shake, while bottles and jars fell one after another, shattering in a cacophony of crashes. Amidst the noise came dull heavy thuds.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Something was desperately slamming against the walls.
The sudden clamor was deafening, as if the entire house were about to leap into the air. Only the bed and the shoes placed one facing up and one facing down at its foot remained untouched.
Zheng Que watched all this with tense nerves, gradually steadying his mind.
As long as he remained silent and didn’t leave the bed, the thing inside the room couldn’t find him.
Outside the window the moonlight was pale and cold. Dawn was still some time away.
Zheng Que didn’t dare close his eyes. He sat motionless on the bed, waiting.
The cold wind twisted and turned in the cramped room, howling and roaring. At times it swept up pots, pans and dishes, smashing them to pieces; at other times it knocked over furniture, sending it crashing repeatedly against the floor; at still other times it rattled the doors and windows, making the entire house groan as if on the verge of collapse. And beneath it all the sound of sharp claws scraping against wooden boards, echoing without end.
Time seemed to stretch out unbearably, each second passing with excruciating slowness.
In a daze the moonlight faded, twilight dissolved and a distant rooster’s crow broke the silence. Zheng Que snapped back to reality and immediately turned to the window. A sliver of pale dawn was breaking in the east, scattered rays of morning light wrapped in early glow.
Day had broken.
He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he realized the chilling presence lingering around him still showed no signs of fading.
Zheng Que’s brow furrowed. The sky had brightened, the sun was nearly up, and yet the thing inside the room had not left.
This was trouble.
But just as the thought crossed his mind, he felt the foot of his bed sink slightly, as if something had crawled onto it.