“My Lord, another sacrifice has been delivered.”
Before his consciousness had fully returned, Jiang Tang heard the words spoken beside him. He opened his eyes and swiftly took in the scene around him.
It was an ancient, stately palace. On either side stood bookshelves that rose almost to the beams overhead, with horrifying ghost-face carvings set between the wooden shelves. The hall was kept impeccably clean, yet it was shrouded in a gloomy, sinister atmosphere.
Jiang Tang narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze settling on the long table before him.
Two stacks of documents lay on the brown tea-colored table. A slender soft-bristled brush rested beside the inkstone, next to a document covered in writing that had yet to be completed.
As the fog clouding his mind dispersed, Jiang Tang’s thoughts gradually cleared, allowing him to understand his current situation.
Jiang Tang had been bound to a system calling itself “233.” It had told him that he had died unexpectedly, and that by completing a series of rescue missions, he could earn a chance at rebirth.
This was his first mission world.
Perhaps because it had been waiting for a response for too long, the voice spoke again: “My Lord, would you like to inspect the sacrifice now?”
The palace doors were shut tight. The voice had come from outside.
Jiang Tang took less than a second to think before replying, “Bring him in.”
At the same time, a childish voice rang out in his mind: 【Receiving the current world’s information. Host, please prepare yourself.】
A massive amount of information was crammed into his mind all at once. Jiang Tang frowned in discomfort and raised a hand to press against his throbbing temple.
This was a world where, after the founding of the nation, all manner of beings could cultivate into spirits. Humans and ghosts coexisted, but most people could neither see ghosts and spirits nor learn of their existence.
Jiang Tang’s mission target was named Song Xuan, the adopted son of Song Qingzhou, the second master of the metaphysical Song family.
Everyone said that Song Xuan must have saved a bodhisattva in his previous life to become the lucky one chosen by the Song family in this life. But Song Xuan knew very well that the Song family had adopted him for an entirely different purpose.
Behind the family’s outward splendor, the Song family had long secretly worshipped an evil spirit. The evil spirit guaranteed the Song family wealth and prosperity, while in return, the Song family offered it a sacrifice every year.
Song Xuan’s identity sounded pleasant enough when called the Song family’s adopted son, but in reality, he was the evil spirit’s “prospective sacrifice.”
The Song family had raised Song Xuan to adulthood for one reason only: to offer him to the evil spirit as the “perfect sacrifice” on the day he came of age.
He was little more than livestock raised in captivity, awaiting slaughter.
After sorting through his thoughts, Jiang Tang asked: 【So my mission is to save Song Xuan from that evil spirit?】
233 tried to put it tactfully, but failed: 【No. You are that evil spirit.】
A question mark slowly appeared above Jiang Tang’s head.
Before he could ask anything else, the palace doors were pushed open from the outside. The ingratiating voice from earlier said, “My Lord, I have brought the sacrifice to you.”
The speaker—or rather, the ghost—was entirely black and slightly translucent, with wisps of dark mist drifting around him. A rather ridiculous black top hat sat on his head.
The little ghost clutched a long rope formed from ghostly energy. Jiang Tang’s gaze followed the rope backward, and what entered his sight was a pair of hands with clearly defined knuckles.
Jiang Tang raised his brows and met the eyes of the owner of those hands.
He had sharply angled brows and striking features, eyes as bright as stars and stones. His short black hair was wet and clung to his forehead. His lips were pale, and he looked rather disheveled, but those extraordinarily captivating black eyes were filled with cold, sinister malice.
Without any reminder from the system, Jiang Tang could guess that the youth being dragged into his hall, bound by ghostly energy, was the target of this mission—the sacrifice, Song Xuan.
Jiang Tang fell silent for a moment. 【System, what if he tries to kill me? He looks like he wants to eat me alive.】
233 was silent for a moment as well. 【Wake up, Host. You’re the evil spirit.】
Jiang Tang calmly replied, 【You’re right.】
233 reminded him anxiously: 【The character setting, Host! You absolutely must maintain the character setting!】
Jiang Tang hummed inwardly.
Seeing that Jiang Tang had not reacted, the little ghost’s tone grew hesitant. “My Lord, is there something wrong with the sacrifice?”
The little ghost watched Jiang Tang cautiously, but another gaze was far more bold and direct.
Song Xuan had also been staring intently at the figure behind the desk.
That person—or rather, that specter—was dressed in a dark robe. The deep-red trim and matching sash were the only bright colors on the garment, yet they did nothing to make it seem brighter. Instead, they only accentuated its eerie, gloomy quality.
Ever since Song Xuan had followed the little ghost into the hall, the specter had not moved at all. He had remained reclining diagonally in the soft chair behind the desk, one hand propping up the side of his face, as though his gaze were fixed in Song Xuan’s direction.
—It was only “as though,” because a layer of hazy black mist swirled around the specter’s face, making his features impossible to discern and leaving no way to know what expression he wore.
Song Xuan tugged lightly at the corner of his lips and thought, What an act—putting on airs and playing mysterious.
Then he sneered inwardly at himself. The other party was a dead spirit to begin with. There was no need for him to pretend to be one.
The next moment, the figure that had been sitting motionless suddenly moved.
Jiang Tang rose to his feet and slowly circled around the desk. The little ghost below him held out a rope formed of ghostly energy with a fawning smile.
Jiang Tang did not take it. His insubstantial form stopped before Song Xuan, and he lowered his gaze to study him.
The young man was forced to his knees by the oppressive ghostly energy, yet his back remained ramrod straight. He tilted his head up, glaring at Jiang Tang with those dark, somber eyes, seemingly unafraid in the slightest despite the man before him being a malevolent spirit of notorious renown.
After a long while, Jiang Tang spoke slowly. “This is the sacrifice the Song family has offered this time?”
His voice was low and unhurried, as though shrouded in dense fog, making it impossible to discern either pleasure or displeasure from his tone.
The little ghost looked somewhat uneasy. “Yes, my lord.”
Jiang Tang bent down and abruptly lifted a hand, gripping Song Xuan’s pale chin and tilting it upward so that the young man’s face was displayed more clearly before him.
Jiang Tang did not use a light touch. The corner of Song Xuan’s mouth twitched involuntarily, but he swiftly pressed his lips together again, seemingly enduring the pain and unwilling to let Jiang Tang notice.
According to the information provided by 233, Song Xuan had only just turned eighteen—an age caught between adolescence and adulthood. His deeply defined, handsome features still retained a trace of youthful immaturity. His straight back was lean but not frail, and beneath his slightly loose white shirt lay the faint impression of the strength unique to a young man.
Jiang Tang narrowed his eyes, sounding dissatisfied. “The quality of the Song family’s sacrifices really does get worse with each passing year. He isn’t even as good as the little one they sent last time.”
The little ghost hurriedly agreed. “Just as you say, my lord. The last sacrifice they sent was a breathtaking beauty, peerless and exquisite. How could this sort of thing compare?”
At that, the mockery in Song Xuan’s dark eyes deepened.
Jiang Tang made an ambiguous sound through his nose. The black mist swirling around his face churned as though expressing his displeasure.
The little ghost shrank his neck and asked tentatively, “Th-then, my lord, sh-should I take the sacrifice back and return him to them?”
“Return him?” Jiang Tang gave a soft, derisive laugh. “He’s already been sent here. We’ll make do with him.”
As he spoke, the pad of his thumb brushed across the young man’s soft lips, wiping away the trace of ghostly energy that had sealed them. His voice was like a murmur—or the intimate whisper between lovers. “Perhaps he’ll even bring some unexpected surprises.”
The force sealing his lips and tongue gone at last, Song Xuan was finally able to speak. He tugged at the corner of his mouth. His voice was hoarse, but the disdain in it was utterly undisguised.
“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, then.”
He emphasized the word “you,” as though stressing something—though upon closer listening, it carried a faint note of ridicule.
“Whether I’m disappointed is not for you to decide,” Jiang Tang said with a soft, humorless laugh. At last, he released the young man’s chin. “You need only do your utmost to serve me well.”
The evil spirit’s gaze lingered on Song Xuan’s face for a moment. The young man’s chin was sharp and pale, now marked by a distinct red fingerprint.
From Song Xuan’s perspective, the evil spirit’s invisible gaze was immensely oppressive. Yet Song Xuan fearlessly met it, his eyes not shifting in the slightest.
Jiang Tang withdrew his gaze and turned back toward the desk. The broad hem of his robe swept out behind him in a long arc, black mist roiling faintly within its folds.
The little ghost spoke enviously. “The chance to attend my lord at close hand is a fine post that countless ghosts could only dream of. And yet a human sacrifice like you has stumbled into such good fortune.”
Song Xuan said nothing, merely sneering inwardly.
A fine post?
To serve a malevolent spirit who did not even dare show his true face?
The ghostly energy pinning down his legs had not yet dissipated, and Song Xuan remained kneeling on the floor. He looked up at Jiang Tang’s back, the cold malice in his eyes as piercing as ice.
Jiang Tang, however, seemed entirely unaware of it. Calmly, he returned to the cushioned chair where he had been seated before. His fingers moved lightly against the armrest, and Song Xuan felt the weight on his legs vanish as the ghostly energy rapidly dispersed.
“Leave,” Jiang Tang said.
The little ghost bowed. “Yes, my lord.” With that, it backed away and departed.
Song Xuan also intended to follow, but after kneeling for so long, his legs had gone stiff. When he stood, his whole body swayed. Before he could catch up to the little ghost, the figure above him spoke languidly.
“I didn’t tell you to leave.”
Song Xuan halted. The little ghost beside him winked and gestured, whispering, “My lord wants you to stay!”
With that, it hurried out of the great hall, thoughtfully closing the doors behind it and leaving Song Xuan alone to face the dark-robed evil spirit.
Thinking of the “service” the evil spirit had mentioned earlier, Song Xuan lowered his eyes, his mind racing for a way to escape.
—There was none.
Song Xuan’s gaze darkened slightly, and the hand hanging at his side slowly clenched into a fist. The figure behind the desk was an evil spirit—a powerful being the Song family had worshipped for decades, one that had protected their family for just as long. Yet he was merely an ordinary human, not even qualified to risk his life against the other party.
So be it, Song Xuan thought. Ever since learning Song Qingzhou’s true reason for taking him in, he had no longer expected to live for very long.
What use was there in refusing to accept it?
This was his fate.
“What are you standing there for?”
The sudden voice interrupted Song Xuan’s thoughts. Jiang Tang tapped the desktop lightly with a bent finger. “Get over here already.”
Song Xuan pressed his lips together and slowly walked to the desk. Only once he drew near did he notice the documents spread across it. The ink on the open file had yet to dry, and the handwriting on it was free-flowing and elegant. Even though Song Xuan knew nothing about calligraphy, he could tell that it rivaled the work of a master.
Jiang Tang pointed at the inkstone on the desk. “Grind the ink. Can you do that?”
Song Xuan froze again.
Grind ink?
Jiang Tang reached out and nudged the inkstone toward the youth. A faint smear of fresh ink stained his pale fingertips. “Can you or can’t you?”
Song Xuan felt as though his mind had stalled for a moment.
Serve him? Grind ink?
Wasn’t “serving” supposed to mean the kind of service he had been imagining?
