I bellowed, “Gu Xiulian, how dare you kill?” The purple-masked figure muttered, “It’s you, Master Xiao. Don’t forget the poison curse I placed on you that day. You must join me in dealing with this red-masked woman.”
Only then did I realize it was indeed Gu Xiulian. What shocked me even more was that the red-masked woman turned out to be Guo Furong, the woman Zhou Liangliang had been searching for all this time.
The red-masked woman cradled the fallen Zhou Liangliang in her arms. Gu Xiulian was about to strike again when Xie Xiaoyu intervened, knocking him to the ground. His mask fell off, revealing his face—half of it was covered in scars. During his assassination of Zuo Shan, Zuo Shan had spat poisonous blood in his face, disfiguring him. It was rumored he had gone to South Korea for plastic surgery, but the scars remained.
His once-handsome face was now a grotesque mess, like a demon from hell.
With his identity exposed, Gu Xiulian pulled out a gun and fired, the bullet bursting a balloon in a child’s hand. The child wailed as the crowd noticed Zhou Liangliang bleeding on the ground, held by the red-masked woman. The sight of Gu Xiulian’s gun incited panic, screams erupting instantly.
I drew my Black Star pistol and fired at Gu Xiulian. The loud gunshots quickly drew attention to the shootout.
The red-masked woman—no, Guo Furong—lifted Zhou Liangliang. Though her movements were stiff, she walked swiftly and calmly. I called Xie Xiaoyu back, firing as we retreated. Seeing no chance to eliminate us, Gu Xiulian fled into the panicked crowd.
After a short distance, we discarded our masks in a trash bin. Outside Ocean Park, we boarded a Castor business van. Inside sat a zombie draped in black cloth—an *Unrotting Corpse* with formidable cultivation, likely the one unearthed from Lügang Town’s coal mine.
The van stopped in a secluded spot two miles away.
Gu Xiulian’s bullet had struck a fatal spot. Zhou Liangliang’s life was slipping away.
Zhou Liangliang, a skilled assassin, should have reacted swiftly. That he was caught off-guard proved one thing: he had trusted the person who approached him. Though her aura was concealed, he recognized her. He took the bullet meant for Guo Furong because he knew—she was his beloved.
This was a lover’s intuition, inexplicable yet undeniable. For some reason, tears welled in my eyes.
Guo Furong removed her mask. Her lips were pale, frosted with a thin mist. Her nails had grown long and green.
Zhou Liangliang whispered, “I never thought I’d see you again. The moment you neared me, I knew it was you. Only you could catch me off guard.”
Compared to the photo Zhou Liangliang had shown me, Guo Furong’s face had changed drastically. Her eyes were less dark, her eyebrows longer, her nails unnaturally extended—she was no longer fully human. Her muscles had stiffened, her movements slowed, as if even her emotions had dulled.
The youthful beauty from the past was gone, replaced by something unsettling.
Zhou Liangliang murmured, “Furong… you’ve suffered all these years…” His face grew paler. My chest tightened. I stepped out, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the van, watching the encroaching night.
Smoke curled into the hazy darkness. Inside the van, a final farewell unfolded.
Guo Furong finally spoke, “You fool. That bullet wouldn’t have hurt me.”
Zhou Liangliang smiled weakly. “Even if it didn’t hurt you, it would’ve hurt *me*.” Blood dripped onto the road. He gasped, “Master Xiao… turn me into a zombie… now!”
I crushed my cigarette and reentered. Zhou Liangliang clutched my hand, his breathing shallow, his eyes dim.
I turned to Guo Furong. “You could bite him. Turn him. Then I’ll find a way to help you both.” This went against my Ghost Sect’s principles. Zhou Liangliang’s pleading gaze met her motionless silence.
Guo Furong shook her head. Without a word, she bent down and kissed his forehead.
His breath faded, his body cooling. At last, tears fell from her eyes.
“It’s alright,” she said. “Let him pass peacefully. Becoming a zombie… no. It’s not that simple.” She paused, then confessed, “I’m a failed experiment of the Guo family. I was meant to be a *Fragrant Corpse*, but my soul lingered. My body… changed. My nails grow fast, my face stiffens, and I grow uglier.”
I didn’t press further. The Guo family’s corpse-refining secrets were not for outsiders. Instead, I asked, “What happened between the Guo and Chong families? What of Guo Qiqi?”
Guo Furong explained: Chong Lao-Si, armed with Guo Tianjie’s *Insect-Rearing Notes* and his mountain-bred insects, had nearly crushed the fractured Guo family. Only Patriarch Guo Weixin’s resilience prevented their collapse.
“Patriarch Guo is remarkable,” I remarked.
She nodded. “Guo Jue intervened. Chong Lao-Si withdrew, lifting the insect curses and blood contracts. The feud ended.”
I was surprised—Guo Jue still acknowledged his roots.
“But,” she added, “Chong Lao-Si refused to return the *Notes*. Clashes ensued. Innocents died.”
I cursed. “That bastard. I’ll deal with him one day.”
Guo Furong sighed. “If he masters the *Notes*…”
—
Zhou Liangliang died—not as a zombie, but in his lover’s arms. Perhaps, for him, it wasn’t sorrowful.
I had failed him. Yet few depart this world as he did.
*Longing lingers, regret lingers,
Only peace comes with reunion.
Under the moon, one leans on the tower.*
Tonight’s moon was unusually bright.
News of the Ocean Park shootout spread fast, footage showing masked figures fleeing. I bought new clothes, discarded the old, dressed Xie Xiaoyu in fresh green, and donned a cap. Back at the hotel, luck held—no one noticed.
But Hong Kong police were efficient. Unease gnawed at me.
The next day, Lord Hua Chongyang arrived with Hua Changsheng and Hammer. Their first stop: registering at Sotheby’s.
Hua Changsheng, now bearded and rugged—far from his pretty-boy past—booked a presidential suite, inviting me to stay and discuss the auction. I brought Xie Xiaoyu. Befriending the wealthy? Never a bad idea.
While Hua Changsheng attended meetings (escorted by Hammer), Lord Hua was left with me. The arrogant old monster grated on my nerves.
He demanded entertainment. With Ocean Park off-limits and Xie Xiaoyu sun-sensitive, we settled for cards—a dull pastime.
By evening, restless, Lord Hua insisted on experiencing Hong Kong’s nightlife. I couldn’t stand his antics any longer. His ancient attire screamed “outsider.” I forced him into jeans, a plaid shirt, and a cap—though his dark, withered skin still terrified shopgirls. I spun a tale: “My grandfather’s terminally ill. Be kind.”
Pity softened their stares.
Lord Hua craved dog hotpot. Settling for lamb, he cackled, nearly losing his dentures. I apologized to the staff: “His illness makes him… eccentric.”
The owner muttered, “Odd. Several ‘terminally ill’ diners today.”
I ignored it—until I spotted a familiar figure at the far table: the old beggar, slightly cleaner, sharing a pot with a silver-skinned man.
An *Armored Corpse*—no, it was San Jin!
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