The shop owner must have been puzzled. Today, he really had quite a few terminally ill customers. One had silvery-white skin, with a face that looked as if it belonged to the dead. Suddenly, another arrived—a man whose face was so gaunt it seemed almost fleshless. The first was likely an albino, while the second probably suffered from esophageal cancer, having gone years without a proper meal, hence his emaciated state.
The shop owner had a distant cousin who, years ago, had also battled esophageal cancer and ended up looking just like Hua Zhongyang—unable to eat, drooling at the sight of food, and eventually reduced to slurping thin noodles one by one into his stomach. So, the owner deliberately brought out a plate of rice noodles, eyeing Hua Zhongyang with deep sympathy. The shop was packed, steam rising in the air. I glanced at Sanjin, and Sanjin glanced back.
The old beggar—none other than Guo Jue—suddenly turned his gaze our way. Guo Weixin had mentioned that Guo Jue and my grandfather had clashed, and it was he who had planted the Hundred Yin on me. But I never expected Guo Jue to show up at a Hong Kong lamb hotpot restaurant with a Silver-Armored Corpse, let alone figure out how he’d smuggled Sanjin past customs.
Guo Jue gestured at me, picking up two slices of lamb with his chopsticks and tossing them to Sanjin. Sanjin gnawed at them greedily, swallowing them whole, bones and all. Meanwhile, Lord Hua—though equally delighted with the lamb—at least had the decency to spit out the bones.
A while later, Guo Jue and his Silver-Armored Corpse, Sanjin, came over to join our table. Xie Xiaoyu tensed up, eyeing Sanjin warily. I patted her cold hand reassuringly. Lord Hua, too busy devouring lamb, merely glanced up at Guo Jue and called out, “Boss, bring two more sets of bowls and chopsticks!”
The shop owner, seeing the two men—one dark, one silver-white—sitting together, hurried over with the utensils, his heart aching for them. “Eat your fill,” he said kindly. “This one’s on me.”
Lord Hua grinned. “Then bring us more meat!” The owner quickly signaled a waiter to replenish the platter—after all, how much could they possibly eat at this stage? Guo Jue, silent, picked up clean chopsticks and began feeding Sanjin lamb from the pot.
One of life’s most absurd moments: sitting across from two ancient zombies at a hotpot restaurant.
Guo Jue fed Sanjin patiently. Lord Hua ate meticulously. There was no trace of enmity between them. Little Rascal bristled with anger but gave up resisting, tucking his head in and resigning himself to guarding his four legs and one head—grateful, at least, that he hadn’t been turned into hotpot yet.
Lord Hua, nearly done, sighed. “Still missing something. Xiao Qi, your dog must taste amazing. When can we try him?” Guo Jue nodded. “Absolutely. Wouldn’t disappoint.”
I was baffled. Hadn’t Guo Jue stormed the Hua family headquarters with his Silver-Armored Corpse? And now they were amiably discussing turning my dog into hotpot? If I hadn’t seen the attack myself, I’d have sworn they were old friends reuniting over a meal.
“Are you two sure you won’t start fighting here?” I asked. “If you do, I’ll step aside and come back when you’re done.”
Guo Jue picked up a piece of lamb, chewed thoughtfully, then replied, “Who fights all the time? We’re old friends. Sharing hotpot is perfectly normal.”
Hua Zhongyang chimed in, “Exactly, Master Xiao. Why are you so eager for us to fight?”
I was stunned. Guo Jue had led a Silver-Armored Corpse against the Huas. The first time Hua Zhongyang met me, he nearly killed me, mistaking me for a Guo. And now he was accusing *me* of wanting a brawl?
Shaking my head, I muttered, “I really don’t get you two.”
Guo Jue scoffed. “You’ve been drinking Guo Weixin’s Kool-Aid. Did he also offer to marry his granddaughter to you? Ghost School successors used to be exceptional. What happened to your generation?”
He continued, “Guo Weixin probably showed you some letter, claiming he and your grandfather were acquainted—but never bothered to tell you. Call you stupid, and you’d argue. All he wants is for you to unlock the copper jar’s secret.”
I pulled out the jar. “Then why return it to me?” Guo Jue tugged at his long braid. “That old fox is framing me. He must’ve accused me of killing Long Youshui. Damn it. That letter was meant for me.”
At this, I recalled the letter’s opening: *”Brother Guo…”* Both men shared the surname, so either could’ve been the recipient. If Guo Jue was right, Guo Weixin was just as suspect.
I used to think I wasn’t dumb. But after dealing with these monsters, I felt like a complete rookie.
Once Hua Zhongyang finished eating, he smirked at Guo Jue. “Why’d you even come? Looking to die? With me here, your little Silver-Armored Corpse is nothing.”
Guo Jue’s expression darkened. “Hua Zhongyang, you ancient fiend. Sanjin’s been with me for years. Harm him, and I’ll strip the flesh from your bones to make a cane—they’re hard enough.”
Hua Zhongyang chuckled. “Try me.” Guo Jue stood abruptly. “Sanjin. We’re leaving.”
As they exited, I turned to Hua Zhongyang. “What was that about?”
He grinned. “He’s protective of his corpse. I can drain its energy. He’s scared I’ll leave it a husk.”
“Drain it? Isn’t that the Abe clan’s dark art?” Abe had sucked Old Corpse Bai Jingren dry—absorbing life force or corpse energy to fuel his own power.
Hua Zhongyang spat. “Don’t lump me in with the Japanese, okay? I siphon corpse energy for justice. They do it to become monsters.”
Now I understood why the Guos feared him.
I had to ask, “So… are you human or a zombie?”
Stretching, Hua Zhongyang yawned. “Let’s go. No dog meat, but lamb’s good enough. Hope I don’t get heartburn tomorrow.” He slung his coat over his shoulder, radiating joy—as if he hadn’t eaten or enjoyed the city’s bustle in ages.
Outside, a gang armed with machetes charged toward us. Their leader shouted in Cantonese, “Boss, that’s him! He’s with the Golden Triad—one of Laughing’s men!”
Hua Zhongyang sighed. “Forcing my hand? Master Xiao, you handle this.”
Worried he’d turn them all into jerky, I dashed back inside, grabbed a folding stool, and yelled, “Looking for a gang fight?”
It was indeed a gang fight. Two thugs, blades wrapped in cloth, lunged. I swung the stool, knocking teeth loose before they could react.
Hua Zhongyang cheered, “Master Xiao, quite the stylish fighter!”
*Easy for you to say,* I thought.
Surrounded by yells, I took them down effortlessly. Xie Xiaoyu watched, unmoving.
Unfortunately, we ended up at the police station. The thugs caused chaos, but Hua Zhongyang was bailed out swiftly by Hammer and his lawyers. Hammer, still holding a grudge, claimed not to know me, leaving Xie Xiaoyu and me stranded overnight.
Digging out Zhao Banshan’s business card, I dialed his number. Within half an hour, he arrived with a lawyer.
His car held a white parrot that squawked unintelligibly. “It’s saying ‘welcome,’” Zhao explained.
Apologizing for the trouble, I asked, “Why help me?”
Zhao smiled. “I knew you were Long Youshui’s successor the moment I saw you. It’s my duty.”
“Long Youshui was my grandfather. But why such generosity?”
He shrugged. “A small act to him, a life-changing one for me. No need for details. I saw you at Sotheby’s—here for the golden jar?”
Little Rascal barked, startling the parrot into shrieking, “Bad man! Bad man!”
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