Chapter Thirty-Two: The Aftermath of the Beastly Teacher (Part Two)

Even the aroma of the wine was so rich and mellow that I felt certain this jar must be better than the Maotai of today. Uncle Mao, his face flushed, stood up to pour for us. Bit by bit, he filled our cups, as if reluctant to part with the precious liquid, making me all the more eager to taste it. He poured half a cup for Wang Sheng first, then it was my turn.

Watching Uncle Mao let the wine trickle ever so slowly into my cup, I couldn’t help but urge him, “Uncle Mao, you’ve hidden such a fine wine for so long, you have to pour me a bit more!”

But Uncle Mao replied, “Though the jar is labeled ‘Erguotou,’ it isn’t ordinary Erguotou. Even half a cup is enough to get you drunk on the spot.” Having said this, he poured himself half a cup as well. As Uncle Mao and I raised our cups, there was a loud crash—Wang Sheng had already collapsed to the floor!

I stared in shock, seeing Wang Sheng sprawled face-down, thoroughly intoxicated. Uncle Mao tisked and shook his head, saying, “That reckless boy, downing it all in one gulp. He probably didn’t even savor the taste!”

Now, only Uncle Mao and I remained at the table. With just half a cup, I finally understood what true liquor was; all those I’d drunk before were nothing but foul water in comparison. Uncle Mao’s wine was the real thing.

Astonishingly, half a cup kept us drinking and talking until dawn, when we both finally succumbed to drunkenness.

Morning came and I woke before the others. Seeing them still asleep, I left a note and quietly made my way out, catching a taxi straight to the academy.

It was supposed to be Professor Zhou Runfa’s lecture that day, but news came from the academy that Professor Zhou had fallen ill.

I was not surprised, considering how many wandering spirits had drained his life force. Falling ill was the least of what he deserved; had he slept somewhere else, he might have been found dead that morning.

With the hard-won professor ill, the academy naturally arranged for students to visit him, and I was among those chosen.

Of the six top archaeology students, five were women; I was the only man. Accompanying five women on a visit to the ailing Professor Zhou felt a bit awkward for me, but there was no refusing a teacher’s request. So the six of us went to where Professor Zhou was staying and knocked on the door. A housekeeper let us in, and Professor Zhou invited us to sit.

As a renowned scholar recruited by the academy, Professor Zhou was well cared for. He lived in a small Western-style villa with two floors, a housekeeper attending to his needs, and a handsome salary—he truly knew how to enjoy life.

The moment we entered, a strong scent of lavender filled the air, and everything in the house was meticulously arranged, nothing like the chaos of a young man’s quarters. Had I not known this was Professor Zhou’s residence, I would have thought a woman lived here.

We entered the professor’s bedroom, where he lay pale on the bed. One by one, the others greeted him and recited their well-practiced words of blessing, each leaving with a satisfied smile. Soon, only Professor Zhou and I remained. Instead of idle chatter, I quietly sat on a low stool by his bedside, watching him with a slight smile.

Perplexed by my gaze, Professor Zhou asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I didn’t want to beat around the bush. I wanted to see his reaction if I mentioned Liu Jing. Assuming a detective’s air, I said, “Professor, would you care to hear a story?”

He misunderstood, smiling genteelly, “A story? Certainly, go ahead.”

His smile was outwardly refined, but I sensed it was a veneer, concealing something sordid. My instincts told me the man Liu Jing spoke of was none other than Zhou Runfa himself.

A man fond of lavender perfume, who secretly worshipped before Liu Jing’s grave at night—was it mere coincidence, or was he the culprit? I couldn’t say for sure, but my intuition told me the truth was about to surface. Lost in these thoughts, I fell silent.

Professor Zhou nudged me, “I’m still waiting for your story, you know.”

His words brought me back to the moment. Flustered, I replied, “Oh!” and began recounting what Liu Jing had told me.

The story unfolded gently: On a pitch-black night, a girl, newly separated from her boyfriend, ran into the deserted field behind the school, weeping in solitude. There, in the emptiness, she was struck unconscious and violated. Broken by despair, she wept bitterly, and that very day, she took her own life…

Before I finished, Professor Zhou looked at me with a calm intensity, “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Seeing that he understood, I became certain he was the one. My confidence surged. I leapt up, grabbed him by the collar, and swung my fist at him. He didn’t dodge; my punch sent him sprawling. He crawled up, trembling and weeping, “Did you see Jing’er’s ghost? But you don’t understand us, you don’t understand at all!”

Gone was the cultivated demeanor; he no longer played the invalid. He took a cigarette from the drawer by the bed, lit it, and inhaled deeply, filling the room with a sharp, acrid smoke. Then he looked at me calmly, “Since fate has brought us together, and since you’ve seen Jing’er’s restless spirit, let me tell you our story.”

Eight years ago, Jing’er was a third-year student and I was a teacher at this academy. We fell in love, but the academy’s rules forbade it. Fearful of discovery, I began to think of breaking up, and that thought destroyed Jing’er’s life.

That night, we evaded the dorm supervisor and walked through the dusky campus. I hadn’t intended to say it, but cowardice overcame me—I was afraid of being expelled, so I suggested we break up. I never expected Jing’er would take her own life. The coroner later found she was a month pregnant.

Wracked with guilt, I resigned and left, hoping time would erase the past. But I underestimated the persistence of the dead.

Every day, Jing’er’s spirit hovered near me, pouring out her grief, begging me to visit her grave, but I lacked the courage, terrified of seeing her again.

For eight years, she haunted me—until I met you. You gave me someone to confide in. Now I can finally face Jing’er, even if it means death.

I was utterly bewildered. Liu Jing and Zhou Runfa had given me two completely different versions. I couldn’t make sense of it. “You don’t have to die,” I said. “Tonight, we’ll go together and seek the truth. Let’s resolve this fate between you. I’ll bring the best Daoist priest to help, but everything depends on whether you’re telling the truth.”

Professor Zhou nodded, “Very well, I’ll go with you. For now, please leave. I’ll find you tonight.”

I left my phone number with him and withdrew from his room, then called Wang Sheng, telling him to come to the archaeology academy as quickly as possible.

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