Chapter Five: The Governor’s Mansion – The Living Dead

In the latter half of the night, the rain over the capital took on a sickly sweet smell of earth, a rotting odor that seemed to seep up from deep underground.

Shen Zhui, wearing his tattered Dali Temple uniform stained black with living‑corpse blood, slipped over the back wall of the Canal Transport Governor’s mansion like a ghost forgotten by the living world. Inside, the silence was unnerving. This dead stillness was not the peace of late night; it felt like a giant carcass whose innards had been scooped out. Not a single patrolling guard could be seen. Only the red lanterns under the long corridors spun violently in the gale, their wooden fittings creaking and grinding — squeak, squeak — as if something in the darkness was chewing on bones.

He pressed a hand to his aching chest, where the heart’s blood had been drawn. With every step, the wound felt like thousands of fire‑tipped ants gnawing at him. He could feel his vitality draining away with the rain, but his gaze remained colder than a blade’s edge.

Lu Zhenying was sitting in his study.

No large lamps were lit. Only a single oil lamp, its flame the size of a fingernail, flickered on the desk. The light was orange‑red but crushed by the chill seeping through the windows. The powerful governor kept his head lowered, holding a delicate pair of silver scissors, carefully trimming a pot of withered plum blossoms that had been painted bright red. His movements were gentle, elegant, utterly focused — as if behind him there was no abyss, only the golden age of the Great Jing Dynasty.

“Zhui’er, since you’re here, come in and have a cup of tea. The rain outside is cold. If you freeze your bones, the timing won’t be right.”

Lu Zhenying did not look up. His voice was as warm as ever, carrying even a hint of an elder scolding a junior. For a moment, Shen Zhui felt dizzy. Once upon a time, Lu Zhenying had been the most upright minister of the Dali Temple. He used to take Shen Zhui and Old Sixth to eat hot wontons at the street corner — one of the few warm memories Shen Zhui had.

Shen Zhui’s long blade remained unsheathed. Its tip dragged across the rain‑soaked marble floor, leaving a shocking red trail and a hiss — hiss — like a venomous snake slithering.

“Uncle Lu, three years ago, Old Sixth died in that fire. You personally sent a fine nanmu coffin, and even the burial clothes were Suzhou embroidery you chose yourself.” Shen Zhui stopped at the threshold, his voice hoarse as if filled with crushed stones. “I always thought that was because you cherished old friendships. I spent these years killing myself to solve cases to repay you. Now I know — that nanmu coffin wasn’t for burying a brother. It was a nest for a living stake. And that Suzhou embroidery was to suppress the resentment in his throat, wasn’t it?”

The hand holding the silver scissors paused. Lu Zhenying slowly raised his head.

His face in the lamplight was almost transparently pale, the skin pulled tight like a cicada pupa that had not seen sunlight. The most disturbing thing was the thick, dark black fox‑fur scarf wrapped around his neck — even on this muggy, rainy night, he had not taken it off, instead wearing it tightly fastened.

“Zhui’er, you practice the Bi’an Path of the Death Row. You look at the sins and punishments of the world. But you are too young. You have not seen the roots of this Great Jing Dynasty.” Lu Zhenying put down the scissors and pointed to the empty armchair across the desk. “Sit. That seat has been kept for you for three years. You are my final piece. I cannot bear to see you die standing.”

Shen Zhui laughed coldly. He whipped out the blood‑stained skin‑paper list from his robe and slapped it onto the desk with a crack. The paper did not soften in the heavy rain. The impact shook the precarious oil lamp.

“The ingredients for the Longevity Pill. Your name, Governor Lu, stands first. Are you turning yourself into furnace slag? Or do you truly believe the sewers of this capital can carry you to immortality?”

Lu Zhenying gazed at the list. There was no fear of exposure in his eyes — only a feverish, morbid obsession. He slowly put down the silver scissors, lifted his fingers to his neck, and undid the black fox‑fur scarf.

Shen Zhui’s pupils shrank sharply. He had never seen such a horrifying sight in all his years of investigating cases.

On Lu Zhenying’s neck, the Adam’s apple had disappeared. In its place was a fist‑sized, nearly transparent sarcoma. Inside the sarcoma lay a dark golden pill. Around the pill grew countless tiny, silk‑thin tendrils that burrowed into Lu Zhenying’s blood vessels and nerves, squirming as if they had a will of their own. Each pulse of the sarcoma made Lu Zhenying’s muscles twitch unnaturally. This was not taking a medicine; it was the pill feeding, parasitizing.

“This is not immortality. This is turning yourself into a cauldron.” Shen Zhui’s stomach churned violently. He thrust his long blade across Lu Zhenying’s throat. “How much of you is still human?”

“Zhui’er, you see ugliness. I see eternity. This shell is nothing but dust on rotting bones.” Lu Zhenying’s smile was bitter. The sarcoma quivered with his laughter, making a faint, sucking sound. “The living‑stake pit under the capital has already swallowed nine hundred and ninety‑nine able‑bodied men. You are the thousandth — the most crucial one. In these three years, every unsolved case you solved has accumulated murderous aura in you. That aura is the last low heat for this furnace.”

“When Old Sixth died, I stood outside the warehouse watching the fire. He cried and begged me to save you. He said you were the last conscience of the Dali Temple, that this conscience must not be burned.” Lu Zhenying’s face suddenly twisted, his voice turning icy and sharp. “But that fool never knew — it is precisely because you have that conscience that your heart’s blood is the purest, most potent catalyst for the pill.”

“Beast!”

With a furious roar, Shen Zhui released three years of pent‑up grief and revulsion. His blade descended like an enraged dragon.

But Lu Zhenying did not move.

A shadow shot out from behind the screen in the study. Two icy‑cold fingers caught Shen Zhui’s blade with a gentle pinch, stopping the strike that could split steel.

Those fingers were almost translucent white, with nails of astonishing length, an eerie purple, faintly engraved with tiny charms.

“Magistrate Shen, such ferocity. If you harm the Governor’s precious body, the Longevity Pill will be ruined.”

Ajiao had appeared at his side. She had shed the glaring red dress of the innkeeper and now wore a plain, elegant grey Daoist robe, with a cinnabar dot on her forehead. She looked dignified and holy, but her eyes were as cold as a winter snake.

“You are also an actor in this farce?” Shen Zhui gritted his teeth, feeling a cold, sticky force travel up the blade.

“I am the master of ceremonies for this sacrifice.” Ajiao said softly, then flicked her fingers. A tremendous force sent Shen Zhui, already exhausted, staggering back several steps.

Lu Zhenying looked at Shen Zhui, a trace of final pity in his eyes — a pity that only deepened the despair. “Zhui’er, accept your fate. Tonight at the hour of the Rat, the living‑stake pit will open. If you walk into it willingly, I promise Old Sixth’s soul can enter reincarnation and no longer suffer the torment of burning tar. If you resist…”

He slowly turned his head and pointed out the window.

Shen Zhui pushed open the casement. Outside, in the rain, stood a dense crowd. They wore ragged cloth clothes — commoners, vendors, even beggars. Every face was blank, eyes rolled up white. In their hands they clutched farm tools and short knives.

These were not living corpses. They were ordinary people of the capital, controlled by the “Longevity Cult” through the catalysts planted in their bodies.

“Each of them carries a living‑stake seed inside. Kill one, and you personally murder a citizen you once swore to protect.” Lu Zhenying stood up. The dark golden pill throbbed wildly inside the sarcoma, even emitting a heartbeat‑like rumble. “Shen Zhui, will you choose your conscience and let the streets run with blood? Or will you choose your path and sacrifice yourself for the pill?”

Shen Zhui gripped his blade so hard his tiger‑skin split; blood mixed with rain.

It was a dead end. Lu Zhenying had tied the lifeblood of the capital to his own.

“I want both conscience and the path. But I also want your lives.”

He took a deep breath and suddenly sheathed his sword. From his robe he pulled the shattered remains of his Soul‑Calming Bell — broken in No Sunlight — and jabbed the bloody copper shards into his palm, letting the edges tear his flesh.

He pressed his hands together in a seal — a forbidden technique of the Death Row, never to be used in the living world.

“Shen Zhui, Magistrate of the Death Row, offers himself today to fill the pit. Summon… Bi’an from the underworld!”

From Shen Zhui’s mouth came a string of archaic, destructive syllables. The entire floor of the governor’s mansion began to tremble violently. A surge of pure, yang‑charged black‑red killing aura, far more intense than the living‑stake resentment, erupted from beneath Shen Zhui’s feet.

This was the prison fire that had been suppressed for a hundred years at the bottom of No Sunlight — his final card as a warden.

For the first time, fear appeared on Ajiao’s face. She shrank back, screaming, “You’re mad! Channeling prison fire into your body will annihilate your soul! You won’t even have the chance to reincarnate!”

“If I can drag this grand dream of yours down to hell with me, then I’ll gladly give up my chance at rebirth!”

Shen Zhui raised his head amidst the billowing black aura. His eyes had turned into bottomless darkness. Cracks like molten lava spread across his skin; rain turned to steam the instant it touched him.

He was not fleeing. He was seeking death.

He would carry this prison fire into the living‑stake pit, where life and resentment converged, and burn away every last filth and sin beneath the capital.