Chapter Thirty-One: The Beastly Teacher, Continued (Part One)

I saw Zhou Runfa walking out of the school gate, while the old guard was sprawled out on his bed, deep asleep. This was unprecedented; nothing like this had ever happened before. Even the gatekeeper never slept on duty without cause. There was definitely something suspicious about this.

The school rules clearly stated that teachers must register at the gate when leaving campus during working hours. Yet Zhou Runfa slipped out without registering, dressed in a trench coat and a baseball cap, making it nearly impossible to see his face unless one looked closely. I only recognized him when he briefly lifted his head.

I kept out of sight, careful not to let him notice me, and followed him discreetly. To my surprise, he headed to the cemetery just beyond the academy’s wasteland. What business could he have there? The graveyard, battered by years of neglect, looked rundown and desolate. If he had relatives’ ashes here, I found it unlikely.

Besides, I’d never heard of anyone paying respects at a graveyard late at night. From this moment, Zhou Runfa seemed ever more enigmatic.

When he reached the cemetery, I remembered the old caretaker had passed away years ago. Now, with no one to tend it, the place was eerie, the memorial pines and sprawling half-meter tall dead grass making the graveyard under the night sky resemble hell itself.

Gusts of chilly wind swept through the trees, whistling like the cries of ghosts.

This forsaken, pitch-black cemetery didn’t faze me. I opened my Fiend’s Eye, seeing everything. Zhou Runfa knelt before a relatively new gravestone, muttering something I could not hear over the wind. I saw several wandering souls gather around him, siphoning his life force.

A cemetery left unattended for years breeds unrest among spirits; without peace, they are bound to act against the natural order. Though these souls weren’t attacking him, their disturbance would surely leave Zhou Runfa ill for some time. Of course, only I could see them—if Zhou Runfa could witness such a spectacle, would he ever dare return here to pay respects?

After a while, Zhou Runfa rose, brushed the dirt from his knees, and walked out of the cemetery. I hid among the tall, dry grass, and he passed by without noticing me. As he went, I remembered what Liu Jing had said about the scent of lavender cologne on men.

He hurried off, disappearing from my sight in less than a minute. Naturally, I had to see whose grave he’d been worshipping. Perhaps it would unravel some great secret.

This place had once been a natural sanctuary, but now the trees blocked the sky and the sunlight, increasing the gloom and turning it into a gathering place for wandering spirits.

A single glance revealed dozens of translucent souls drifting aimlessly. If an ordinary person saw such things, I doubt they’d survive for long.

There’s a rule in the underworld: any act of peering into its secrets is considered crossing the line. Anyone caught will have their life force drained within a certain period—at best, they become a substitute for the dead, at worst, they are damned for eternity.

I approached the gravestone, wiped away the dirt, and was shocked to see a familiar name engraved upon it: “Liu Jing!”

Was this a coincidence, or was Zhou Runfa the culprit from eight years ago? His suspicion grew ever stronger in my mind, and I resolved to keep a close eye on him.

Leaving the graveyard, I caught a bus straight to the workers’ settlement where Uncle Mao and Wang Sheng lived. I knocked on the door and called, “Uncle Mao, it’s Xiaodong! Open up!”

It was nearly eleven o’clock. I assumed they’d gone to bed and knocked several times before hearing movement inside.

Wang Sheng’s groggy voice answered, “Coming, coming!”

Soon the door creaked open and the dim lamp illuminated the small living room.

It looked like Uncle Mao was already asleep, while Wang Sheng had been slumbering on the sofa, woken by my knocking. He now sat slumped, rubbing his face vigorously to rouse himself.

I felt a certain kinship with Wang Sheng and Uncle Mao, though I suspect it stemmed from the bond between the supernatural and ordinary folk.

Wang Sheng poured himself a cup of coffee to wake up and asked if I wanted some. I declined and immediately asked if he and Uncle Mao had managed to learn anything from A Shuang that day.

At the mention of this, Wang Sheng panicked, gulping his coffee before he could calm himself. I didn’t know why he was so flustered, so I pressed him, growing agitated, “Do you know something? Tell me!”

Wang Sheng was never good at lying. He stammered, “I don’t know, I don’t know anything, don’t ask me,” then took another gulp of coffee.

That wasn’t the reason I’d come, and since Wang Sheng refused to answer, I couldn’t push him further. I sighed, “Fine, if you won’t say, I won’t ask. Come, let’s have a drink.”

I took two bottles of spirits from my bag and laid out some cooked food I’d bought along the way. “Wang Sheng, go wake Uncle Mao. Let’s have a drink. You know I’m a night dweller, not much use during the day, so the three of us should drink together at night.”

Relieved that I’d dropped the subject, Wang Sheng steadied himself, “Alright, I’ll go wake my mentor, Uncle Mao,” and went to rouse him from the other room.

We drank freely, quickly finishing the two bottles. But Uncle Mao was still in high spirits, so I was about to suggest buying more from the nearby shop when Uncle Mao, his face flushed, turned to Wang Sheng: “Sheng, bring out the Erguotou I’ve been saving for years. Let Xiaodong see what real liquor tastes like!”

Erguotou! He’d been hoarding Erguotou all this time—a true local treasure!

Wang Sheng went into Uncle Mao’s room and soon returned, carrying two bottles of aged Erguotou. As he opened them, I realized how ignorant I’d been. I’d assumed Uncle Mao had merely kept some cheap Erguotou, but now I saw what “aged” truly meant.

Judging by the jars, they must have been a century old at least. If sold, they’d fetch a hefty price.

Wang Sheng placed the jars before Uncle Mao, then leaned close to me and whispered, “See? The old man always said only he could open these, and even pouring the drinks must be done by him. If he spills a drop, he’d probably lick it up himself.”

I chuckled quietly, watching Uncle Mao lift his hands to open the jar. He first knocked away the mud seal, then pierced a layer of transparent material I couldn’t identify. Instantly, the room filled with a fragrant aroma. I greedily inhaled, and could only describe the sensation with one word: bliss.

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(Brothers, I owe you an apology. I didn’t schedule the new updates properly, so after the teacher’s chapters, there’ll be another two added. I hope you all understand... Stay tuned!)