Volume Two: The Yin-Yang Umbrella Chapter Seven: White Hair Returns, Umbrellas Fill the Capital

The Waking of Insects had come and gone. Thunder rumbled inside thick clouds over the capital, like countless beasts growling deep underground, yet not a single drop of rain fell.
The city had changed. After that blazing fire at the Governor’s Mansion, the air always carried an acrid smell of char, mingling with the usual bustle of the capital in a way that felt deeply uncanny. Even stranger was the new custom among the common folk — no matter the scorching sun or overcast sky, one could always see people dressed in fine silks, clutching tightly to a pale grey oil‑paper umbrella.
The umbrella covers were almost transparent, glowing with a sickly pallor under the light, as if made from treated animal hide. Those holding the umbrellas never met anyone’s eyes. Their steps were stiff and eerily silent; they made no sound on the bluestone pavement. They moved through the alleys in groups, looking from afar like giant ghostly flowers blooming in broad daylight.
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Dali Temple, the deepest dungeon: No Sunlight.
The heavy, mountain‑like black iron gate ground open with a piercing screech, releasing a wave of cold air that had festered for decades.
Shen Zhui stepped out of the darkness.
His official robe was still the same pitch‑black magistrate’s gown, but his hair — once black as a raven’s wing — was now as white as perennial snow, startling to behold. That was the irreversible price of summoning the prison fire and burning the living‑stake pit. His skin bore a sickly grey‑blue tint, and the sharp edge in his eyes had dulled into a bottomless darkness, as if the embers of hell still glowed deep within his pupils.
On his chest, the Bi’an scar left by the great fire throbbed faintly — the mark of prison fire fusing with his flesh.
“Magistrate Shen… y‑you’re out.” The young gatekeeper stammered, his legs weak, unable even to grip his sword properly.
Inside the Dali Temple, no one dared look Shen Zhui in the eye. Rumors whispered that Magistrate Shen had died in the fire, that the one who returned was a living corpse who had borrowed a soul from the underworld to exact vengeance.
Shen Zhui said nothing. He didn’t even glance at the guard. Gripping his long blade, Baipi, now wrapped in cloth soaked in black dog’s blood, he walked with steady, silent steps through the long tunnel and into the glaring sunlight.
The sun fell on his white hair but brought no warmth — only a cold, sharp glint.
He stopped at the top of the Dali Temple steps.
Dozens of pale grey oil‑paper umbrellas were moving slowly across the street. Under the direct sunlight, the umbrella covers gleamed with a waxy, viscous shine. He could even see raised veins on the surface — like living human blood vessels.
A familiar medicinal stench, which he had smelled countless times among the Longevity Cult followers, drifted to his nose. No longer herbal — it was a rotting, nauseating mix of decay and cheap incense.
“Stop.”
Shen Zhui’s voice rasped like two dry pieces of wood rubbing together.
A fat merchant in embroidered silk stopped. He turned stiffly. His face was caked with thick powder to mask the deathly grey underneath, and his lips were painted a lurid red, as if he had just swallowed raw meat.
“Officer, something you need?” The merchant’s eyes were hollow, his pupils moving with unnatural slowness.
“It’s midday. No wind, no rain. Why are you holding that umbrella?” Shen Zhui didn’t draw his blade, but the prison‑fire killing aura radiating from him silenced the stray dogs that had been barking — they whimpered and fled, tails tucked.
“You jest, Officer. The sun is vicious — it stings.” The merchant gave a stiff, lifeless smirk. “This umbrella… came from the Longevity Hall in the east part of town. A sun‑repelling umbrella. Holding it feels wonderful — makes me feel like I could live another hundred years.”
Shen Zhui’s gaze fell like a dagger on the merchant’s wrist. Beneath the thick silk sleeve, he saw a thin red line — as if some parasite was writhing and burrowing under the skin.
The Longevity Cult was not dead. With Lu Zhenying gone, their scattered pills had found a more insidious, more hidden way to infect this prosperous capital.
“Those under these umbrellas have no way back.” Shen Zhui tossed the words coldly and walked past.
He had no time for these scattered living corpses now. Though the list had been burned, he still remembered several key names. Before Lu Zhenying died, that woman Ajiao had ripped out the core “catalyst” of the Longevity Pill — and its energy pointed to the most forbidden place in the capital: Xuan Yang Ward.
He avoided the main streets and turned into a familiar narrow lane, arriving at the wonton stall he and Old Sixth used to frequent.
The stall was as shabby as ever. The wooden table against the wall that Old Sixth loved was empty. Shen Zhui sat down and placed his heavy long blade on the table — thud.
“Boss, a bowl of wontons. No scallions, extra spice.”
The owner answered and hurried over with a steaming bowl. But when he saw Shen Zhui’s white hair, his hand shook violently, spilling hot broth.
“Magistrate Shen… it really is you?” The old man’s weathered eyes were filled with fear and pity. “Your hair… what happened overnight…”
“Burned. Doesn’t matter.” Shen Zhui lowered his head and took a sip. The spicy, scalding broth slid down his throat — that intense shock reminded him that his cold heart was still beating.
Just then, a silvery, yet utterly cold, laugh came from the corner of the street.
A woman holding an exquisite red umbrella, dressed in a goose‑yellow pleated dress, approached the stall slowly, flanked by expressionless guards holding green umbrellas. The red umbrella was startling — as if dyed in fresh blood peeled from a living body.
Her face was half hidden by the umbrella’s rim, revealing only a pale, delicate chin. She stopped before Shen Zhui and tilted the umbrella upward, exposing a pair of captivating yet wicked peach‑blossom eyes.
Su Mei’er — the capital’s famous courtesan dancer.
“Magistrate Shen, how does it feel to rise from the dead?” Su Mei’er laughed lightly behind her hand, leaning forward. A rotten, perfumed scent washed over him. “Look at your hair — white as frost. Such a pity.”
Shen Zhui raised his head, slowly putting down his spoon. His right hand rested on the cloth‑wrapped handle. Under the red umbrella, he saw a thick, tangible dark‑red resentment oozing out. That umbrella was far more sinister than the green ones on the street — a king nurtured by the blood‑qi of ten thousand corpses.
“Miss Su, what hide was used to make your umbrella?” Shen Zhui’s voice was low, laced with killing intent.
“It’s not hide, Magistrate. It’s obsession.” Su Mei’er’s eyes were cold as she breathed near his ear. “The Princess heard that you had been reborn and specially sent me to deliver an invitation. Tonight at the hour of the Rat, there will be a Moon‑Viewing Feast at her mansion. All the umbrella‑bearers in the capital will be there. If you wish to know what the Governor didn’t finish saying, don’t be late.”
She extended her slender finger, holding out a pitch‑black invitation that exuded a strange, inky fragrance.
There were no words on the invitation. Only a dark‑red, blood‑dripping totem — a flower of the other shore blooming on a pile of white bones.
The same totem he had seen on the Longevity Cult’s secret letter deep inside No Sunlight.
“Moon‑Viewing Feast…” Shen Zhui touched the scar on his chest, which burned like a brand. The Bi’an was roaring; the prison fire inside him surged wildly, thirsting for slaughter.
Su Mei’er twirled her red umbrella. Then, like a phantom, she vanished into the alley with her green‑umbrella guards — not even a speck of dust was stirred.
Shen Zhui stood up and pressed a worn‑smooth copper coin onto the table.
“Keep the change, Boss.”
He picked up his blade and walked toward the setting sun. In the blood‑red twilight, his white hair took on a burning, determined red. He knew that the Princess’s mansion was the next, greater living‑stake pit. And this time, he would face the rot at the highest peak of the Great Jing Dynasty’s power.