42 The Curse of Malevolent Doom

It was the second year that Fang Ai had been at the Dong residence, on the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival.

After the family banquet, Dong Zhanchu did not return to his room to sleep; no one knew where he had gone. She spent the night alone in her quarters and, through the open lattice window, gazed at the full moon hanging in the sky. Thinking of her own kin, scattered to the ends of the earth, fearing they might never be reunited in this lifetime, she was unable to keep sorrow at bay. Her heart heavy with gloom, she put on a cloak and stepped outside, letting the bright moonlight guide her through the garden to dispel the oppressive clouds in her mind.

She wandered at a leisurely pace to the rear garden, when suddenly she noticed that, deep within the bamboo grove, a clearing was faintly aglow with red light. It did not resemble the flames of a fire, but rather seemed like layers of shimmering red phosphorescence drifting through the air—strange and wondrous even from afar.

Could it be that the “immortal tree” was showing its power?

Unable to restrain her curiosity, Fang Ai carefully followed the narrow path into the grove. At the end of the path, she saw the great tree, its trunk enveloped in crimson light. Up close, the red glow seemed to flow through the air like blood, exuding an inexplicable aura of evil.

Dong Zhanchu stood beneath the tree, shrouded in the red light, his head tilted back as he gazed at the crown.

What was he watching?

Curious, Fang Ai followed his line of sight and saw, to her astonishment, a blood-red flower blooming rapidly at the top of the tree.

Yes, it was blooming rapidly. Bathed in the red glow, she could see clearly as the thick petals unfurled, the bud swiftly opening until it was in full bloom and finally stretching out a black stamen.

The flower was plump, heavy, and exuded a powerful fragrance that filled the air. It remained in full bloom for only a short while before the petals began to fall away, and then a small fruit formed and grew before her eyes, swelling to the size of a fist, then coming to rest, motionless.

Fang Ai could see it clearly: the fruit was flesh-colored and unmistakably shaped like a cross-legged infant.

Was this the “ginseng fruit” Dong Zhanchu had spoken of?

She had never truly believed his words, and now her astonishment left her speechless.

With a soft snap, the fruit, apparently ripe, detached from its stem and dropped into Dong Zhanchu’s waiting hands beneath the tree.

He cradled the fruit carefully, speaking to the tree: “It’s done.”

Who was he speaking to? Fang Ai peered closely but saw no one else beneath the tree. The red glow gradually faded, and darkness returned beneath the canopy. Suddenly, a shadow stirred; someone emerged from the trunk of the tree.

Fang Ai’s heart leapt—she had not seen anyone else there before. Could someone have been hidden behind the trunk? The shadows were too deep to see clearly.

As the figure approached Dong Zhanchu and took the fruit from him, Fang Ai saw his face at last.

It was the Prefect Dong.

As the father and son turned to leave, they suddenly caught sight of Fang Ai standing at the entrance to the path. Both were visibly shocked.

Prefect Dong muttered harshly to his son, “How did she get in here?”

Dong Zhanchu replied, “The spell doesn’t work on mortals, and I was focused on the ginseng fruit—I didn’t notice her.”

Prefect Dong’s face darkened. “I told you before, don’t keep her here, but you wouldn’t listen!”

Dong Zhanchu pleaded softly, “Father, I care for her. She’s one of us, she won’t say a word.”

Prefect Dong snorted, shot Fang Ai a cold glare, and left, carrying the fruit in one hand, ignoring her completely.

Fang Ai stood there, terrified and uneasy, explaining to Dong Zhanchu, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

He answered gently, “I know. This is an immortal’s secret—you must never speak of it.”

Fang Ai nodded anxiously, then hesitated. “Just now, your father said ‘don’t keep her’…”

Dong Zhanchu reassured her, “He’s just afraid the secret will be revealed, and wants to send you away. Don’t worry, you won’t have to leave.”

These words calmed Fang Ai’s heart somewhat.

Never did she expect that, passing by the study and overhearing an argument between father and son about Yin’er, she would realize that “don’t keep her” truly meant “don’t let her live.”

From their conversation, she also gathered that the tree, with its name evoking celestial holiness, was actually nothing but an abomination—a demon tree. The ginseng fruit shaped like an infant was in fact transformed from a baby buried beneath the earth.

The Dong father and son were not human, nor ghost, nor demon.

They were monsters. One attached to the demon tree, the other stealing the life essence of infants.

And Yin’er, born at midnight on the fifteenth of the seventh month, had been chosen by the demon tree as its next “ginseng fruit.” The terror of losing her child gripped Fang Ai’s heart. No wonder Dong Zhanchu, after his son’s birth, so often appeared anxious—he had always known Yin’er’s fate.

That night, Fang Ai fled.

She ran with Yin’er in her arms. The fate of being shut in the soul altar by his own father, buried alive in the earth, his essence drawn by the demon tree possessed by his own grandfather and transformed into a fruit—this calamity must never befall her son.

In her panic, Fang Ai could only think of escape.

Dong Zhanchu, who could command rat spirits, found her easily.

In the middle of a country road beyond the wilderness, Dong Zhanchu stood with hands clasped behind his back. He turned slowly, watching the woman running desperately toward him, clutching the child.

When Fang Ai saw him blocking her way ahead, her legs buckled and she fell to her knees.

“Let Yin’er go, he is your own son!”

“I will find a way to save Yin’er. But you know too much.”

As Dong Zhanchu strangled her throat with a rope, his hands exerting cruel force while his voice, full of regret, counted out his apologies with deep affection: “In truth, I never tried to save my father… The Zhou family’s treasures were not stolen goods… it was just a ruse… but my feelings for you were real… but you knew too many things you should never have known… Take these secrets with you, and rest in peace…”

Each word cut her heart like a blade. How could she rest in peace?

After burying Fang Ai’s body beneath a thin layer of soil in the wilderness, Dong Zhanchu hurried away with Yin’er in his arms.

He believed he had strangled Fang Ai to death, but hatred became her strongest will to live. She drew a breath of sandy air into her throat and, bursting from the thin layer of earth, reached out to grab the ankle of a passerby.

This person pulled her out of the soil.

Fang Ai lay on the ground, coughing and gasping. When she finally caught her breath and wiped the sand from her eyes, she glanced beside her—she knew that suddenly grabbing someone from the earth like a corpse come to life would have frightened him terribly, so she hurried to apologize first.

Unexpectedly, she saw an old man sitting three feet away, his face showing no fear, only a keen interest as he watched her.

Fang Ai spat out the dirt, and with her bruised and bloodied throat managed to say, “Old sir, thank you for saving my life. Did I startle you?”

The old man shook his head. “No, I’m not easily scared. But, young lady, why were you buried alive in the wilderness?”

At his question, she felt as if a knife were twisting in her chest. She gave a bitter smile; tears ran down her dirt-stained cheeks, leaving two streaks. She shook her head, unable to speak of it.

The old man asked, “Judging by your hatred, you must have suffered a deep and bitter enmity.”

“Deep hatred… bitter enmity,” Fang Ai echoed in a hoarse voice, her gaze frozen and despairing. “My only regret is my own powerlessness. If dying could turn me into a vengeful spirit, I would rather die at once and take their lives.”

The old man’s gray brows drew together. He squinted at her and asked, “Unable to avenge yourself? Is your enemy so powerful? Is his family wealthy?”

“It’s the Prefect of Jiaozhou’s household. Of course, they have money and influence.”

The old man’s eyes flashed, and he clicked his tongue. “Young lady, do you wish to take revenge?”

Fang Ai gritted her teeth. “Of course I do!”

“If it meant perishing together with your enemies, would you accept it?”

“I would!” Tears in her eyes suddenly blazed with fire as she looked at the old man before her. Only now did she notice that, though he was withered, there was a sharp cunning in his gaze.

The old man let out a strange, cackling laugh. “Young lady, let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?” Fang Ai asked, surprised. “I have nothing—what can I offer in exchange?”

A greedy glint shone in the old man’s eyes. “If I help you succeed in your revenge, all their wealth will be yours.”

Though Fang Ai found it unbelievable, hope flickered in her heart. She said softly, “Their household is just father and son. If I could have their lives, all their riches would be yours for the taking. But how can you help me with my revenge?”

The old man replied slowly, “Did you not say that to avenge yourself, you would rather become a vengeful ghost? Then let me make you such a ghost, to claim their lives.”

By now, night had fully fallen, and in the darkness, his eyes shone with a faint green light.

Yet Fang Ai felt no fear; only hatred surged in her heart. She did not care whether he was ghost, demon, or devil. She did not care to know. So long as she could have her revenge, nothing else mattered.

In the wilds, the old man conjured a mass of blue-green flames, as tall as a man.

“This is the fire of purgatory. With hatred in your heart, you will pass through these flames and become a dire curse,” he said to Fang Ai.

A chill ran down her spine. “What is a dire curse?”

“Something neither living nor dead, neither human nor ghost, created solely to claim the lives of your enemies. I do not force unwilling bargains. If you regret this now, it is not too late.”

Fang Ai shook her head, closed her eyes, and stepped resolutely into the flames.

Her clothes turned instantly to ash, her skin crackled and sizzled as it burned, flesh and bone blackened and split open.

In agony beyond imagining, she screamed—soon even her voice was gone, her body charred, withered, reduced to ashes.

This was more excruciating than being burned alive, for death would have brought oblivion, but the fire of purgatory burned only her body, never her consciousness. All the agony persisted to the very end.

When even the ashes had vanished, the old man waved his hand, and the blue-green flames died away, leaving a single clump of black smoke.

He spoke to the smoke, “Young lady, rise.”

The smoke writhed, stretching, gradually taking on human form. The figure looked down at herself, a look of shock appearing on her blurred face.