SES Chapter 221 Part 1

Chapter 221

So it really was on them after all.

Strangely, there wasn’t much panic. He let out a long breath of relief. A blade had been hanging over his head for far too long—better to let it fall outright. A little blood was fine; at least then his mind could be at ease.

The problem was: how were they supposed to get this thing out? The blood of five people hadn’t worked—what about dying? It had worked on Pinting before. Would it work this time?

The mystic was troubled too. “This isn’t the same as Pinting’s case. Your ‘near-death’ states might get pulled back—Little Radish is proof of that.”

In other words, unless they truly died, half-measures and fake deaths—briefly stopping breathing or heartbeat—wouldn’t fool it anymore.

Cao Yanhua suddenly had a thought. “Even if we really die… would the power of the vicious slips just revive us again?”

Luo Ren shook his head. “Unlikely. Before, we were only critically injured, not truly dead. ‘Returning from death’ should be the strongest ability of the vicious slips—but now it’s split into five. The power is diluted.”

A dramatic, absurd turn of events: all seven vicious slips were suddenly accounted for, and the Phoenix Luan Buckle—used to seal them—was right there at hand. A deadlock that could only be broken by death. Without dying, they couldn’t force out the seventh slip. Everything was ready, as if all sides had conspired to push them onto an altar of sacrifice.

Cao Yanhua ground his teeth. The words “Fuck this, I’m done” stuck in his throat—desperate to come out, yet impossible to say.

If this were just a job, it’d be simple. A lousy boss? You walk away, shut down the stall, and disappear from the scene.

But the vicious slips weren’t like that. Whether you wanted out or not, they stayed right at your elbow. Like a shadow you can’t cut off in sunlight—you might be immune, but everyone around you was at high risk. Who knew when it might suddenly take an interest in the next person beside you?

Wan San was surprisingly calm. Maybe last night’s drunkenness had already burned off most of the pent-up frustration and anger. One burst of effort, then decline—right now, he just felt worn out.

On the coffee table across from him lay the Phoenix Luan Buckle, spread out in full view. Golden, exquisite, solemn—each phoenix and luan carved with an air of inviolable authority.

Wan San honestly couldn’t figure it out. What exactly was this thing good for? Telling stories, giving vague hints, and that initial “foot-severing”?

He almost wanted to ask Laozi himself: Aren’t you supposed to be a once-in-thousands-of-years sage? And this is the trap you left for later generations?

Then it occurred to him: maybe to the ancients, one general’s success is built on ten thousand bones. Trading five lives for several hundred years of sealing the vicious slips probably seemed like a pretty fair deal.

Cao Yanhua finally forced out a sentence. “Brother Luo… I don’t want to die.”

Luo Ren replied, “Who does? Who said anyone’s dying?”

Cao Yanhua smiled bitterly. Those words didn’t lift him anymore.

Death was bad, sure—but living didn’t seem to hold much hope either. That kind of despair couldn’t be washed away by even the strongest liquor.

When they hung up, the mystic tried to comfort them. “Don’t lose heart. Maybe you’ll still think of something. You’ve got seven days.”

Yan Hongsha muttered, “Seven days—what can you even do in seven days?”

The mystic said, “You never know. In Genesis, God created the world in seven days.”

Yeah, right. God. Who was going to compare themselves to God?

Yesterday, they still had the energy to get drunk. Today, they couldn’t even bring themselves to go downstairs.

Dinner was room service: the simplest hand-pulled noodles, with greens, egg, and wood ear mushrooms. An ordinary meal—but Cao Yanhua stared at it for a long time, almost cherishing it. The greens were vivid, the soft-boiled egg plump, the noodles springy, strand by strand. Even the steam rising from the broth felt gentle and familiar.

Maybe because the number of meals left was suddenly countable. He’d never thought noodles smelled this good before. He lowered his head and shoveled them in, slurping loudly.

Yan Hongsha lifted a single noodle with her chopsticks—it was so long she had to raise her hand high, and it still didn’t reach the end. It reminded her of the longevity noodles she used to eat. Her grandfather used to say they symbolized endless blessings and long life.

By this time next year… who knew where they’d be? Or whether they’d still be alive.

Just then, with a clatter, Wan San pushed his bowl and chopsticks away. “I can’t eat anymore.”

…

That night, everyone went to bed early, yet no one could truly fall asleep.

Yan Hongsha wrapped herself tightly in the blanket, leaving only her nose and eyes exposed. She stared wide-eyed at the pitch-black ceiling. “Mu Dai, I want to go home.”

“A couple of days ago, I dreamed about my grandpa. He was still drinking his chicken-liver chrysanthemum tea for his eyes. I had a rope tied around my waist and was being lowered into a well, bells hanging from the rope, jingling. Down there were so many gems—cat’s-eye stones blinking like they were alive, amber, stardust sand…”

She clicked her tongue. “Even in the dream, I felt unbelievably happy.”

Mu Dai reached out from under the covers, patted her head, and said, “Silly girl. Go to sleep.”

“Mu Dai… do you think we still have hope?”

“Of course. We still have seven days.”

What kind of answer was that? Yan Hongsha turned over, sulking. “I really don’t like the number seven.”

Mu Dai smiled. As she closed her eyes, her ears suddenly caught a faint, soft sound of a door closing.

Because of her martial training, her hearing was sharper than most. She clearly picked up the electronic beep. It wasn’t an interior door—someone had gone out.

Luo Ren was sleeping in the living room. Was it him?

Mu Dai hesitated, then threw back the covers and got out of bed. The living room sofa was empty. She hurried to the door and opened it—the hallway was empty, front and back.

She stepped out, jogged to the elevator. The display still showed their floor; it hadn’t gone down.

So where had he gone?

She walked to the stairwell at the end of the corridor, leaned over the railing, and listened carefully.

No footsteps going down. This was a high floor—if Luo Ren had gone downstairs, it would take time, and she should still hear him. But below was dead silent.

So… up?

Mu Dai held the railing and climbed, step by step.

Two floors up, around the corner, was the top floor. At the far end, the door to the rooftop stood wide open. As she crossed the threshold, the wind suddenly surged.

The hotel slippers had thin soles. At night, the chill of the rooftop floor felt like hands scratching at her feet. She walked a few steps—no one was there.

She didn’t know why, but she suddenly looked up.

On the edge of a massive water tank sat a dark silhouette, smoking. The red ember flared, then dimmed, white smoke curling up against the black night.

Mu Dai called up to him, “Luo Xiaodao.”

Luo Ren looked down and waved, motioning for her to come up.

The iron ladder by the tank was loose and reeked of rust. Each step made it sway, banging dully against the tank. When she was still a short distance away, Luo Ren leaned down and grabbed her arm. She used his pull to climb up and fell into his arms.

“You’re really light,” he said.

“And you’re freezing. You’re wearing too little.”

He held his cigarette between his fingers and drew her closer with his other arm. When he touched her icy feet, he simply took off her slippers, wrapped his hand around her ankle, lifted her feet onto his legs, and pulled his jacket over her.

Good thing she was slender, he joked. “I should wear one of those big coats. With it on, I could still fit one whole you inside.”

As he spoke, smoke drifted by her ear, carrying a faint warmth.

She asked softly, “I thought you didn’t like smoking.”

He countered, “Want one?”

He brought the cigarette to her lips. She took a light drag—the filter was slightly damp, carrying his scent. Luo Ren suddenly snapped out of it. “I shouldn’t corrupt you.”

He flicked the cigarette away. The dark red glow traced an arc through the air before disappearing over the edge of the rooftop.

Mu Dai said, “The ants downstairs will see that glow and think it’s a star.”

The hotel was the tallest building in Tong County. Up on the water tank, they were higher still. The view was unobstructed—buildings and mountains lay at their feet, above them the sky, deep ink-blue. Reach up, and the stars seemed to kiss your fingertips in the strong wind.

Mu Dai said, “If there are gods in the sky, maybe these stars are just cigarette butts they tossed away when they got annoyed.”

Luo Ren laughed, resting his chin affectionately against her forehead. “You really can’t just look at the stars normally, can you?”

Last time, if he remembered right, she’d said the sky was hung with the corpses of stars, that all starlight was just ghostly phosphorescence.

Mu Dai laughed too. “When two people are on a date, of course, you look at each other. Why look at stars? They’re thousands upon thousands of miles away—you don’t even know what planet it is. For all you know, it’s a toxic mess crawling with aliens. Where’s the romance in that?”

Maybe the brighter the star, the worse the cigarette butt.

Luo Ren teased her, “You always say strange things. When you’re old, you’ll definitely be a weird little grandma.”

“Will we really live safely to be that old?”

The wind picked up, tangling her hair. Luo Ren helped smooth it back. He stayed silent for a long time, then finally said, “I’m thinking of a way.”

He really was thinking. If he’d truly given up, he wouldn’t be sitting here on a night like this, lighting a cigarette in a place like this.

The mystic had said that if this confrontation were a war, then this round, the vicious slips had changed tactics.

War was something Luo Ren knew. He’d been trained as a mercenary, even taken a course called The Art of War. The instructor drilled into them over and over: war is deception. After that, countless real battles—reading the terrain, flanking here, encircling there, surprise assaults, inside-outside coordination. It had become as natural as eating or getting dressed.

That night, sitting at the highest point in Tong County, he kept thinking: when you’re cornered, when there’s no road left, that’s when finding a path is most urgent and most possible. Where could this battle be broken open?

How could they draw out the seventh vicious slip? How could they do it without dying?

Mu Dai reached up and touched his brow—it was furrowed painfully tight.

“Luo Xiaodao,” she said, “can I tell you something?”

“When I had that car accident in Lianshu, Uncle Zhang noticed something was wrong with me. He contacted Aunt Hong right away and sent me to Doctor He.”