Chapter 84: Piercing the Throat

The Li Mansion, buried beneath its guilty secrets, was sinking even deeper into conspiracy.

On this stormy, high-winded midnight, Fang Shenyan moved with quiet steps, shadowing Chen Fu’s figure.

They were in the rear courtyard. Fang had followed him all the way, yet so far Chen Fu seemed only to circle the grounds. From their current position, Fang could tell this was the second time they’d passed through.

All the while he studied Chen Fu’s movements. The man’s wandering didn’t mean he’d noticed his tail; rather, he looked as if evading something—or waiting for someone.

Left with no choice, Fang Shenyan kept after him.

The wind grew harsher, snapping at his clothes, leaves hissing in the trees until their noise nearly masked his own steps. If not for the bell in Chen Fu’s hand, which could control him, Fang would have long since seized the man outright. As it was, however long Chen lingered, Fang was forced to endure.

His frayed nerves made patience difficult, and he almost considered abandoning the chase. Yet Chen Fu’s caution only confirmed there was strangeness ahead.

Fang pressed on, and soon realized Chen was steering toward a path he had never dared enter—a place where the air always felt wrong, the same direction the maid Xiao Lan avoided mentioning.

Chen Fu’s face seemed tense, as though something unseen was driving him forward. At last he gritted his teeth and plunged into a tangle of weeds, vanishing from sight.

Fang Shenyan stepped from the corner, gazing at the fresh prints in the grass. He hesitated, uneasy at the thought of ghosts lying in wait. He didn’t know where this track might lead, only that experience warned him it would not be easy.

Two choices lay before him: press on alone, risking life or death, or retreat to regroup with Yu Guo and the others, waiting for a better chance.

After a moment of thought, Fang bent low and slipped into the thicket. Chen Fu’s venture here promised a great secret; turning back now would waste everything.

Inside, the place felt uncanny. From outside, there had been no entrance—only thickets and grass—but within was a narrow man-made path, running straight as an arrow. Even though Chen Fu’s shadow had vanished, there was no way to stray.

The wind died down, leaving an unnerving stillness that made Fang’s heartbeat quicken. Slowly, he drew the blade from his belt.

There might be ghosts here. The knife wasn’t meant for them, but if they came for him, he could maim himself to break their hold and escape.

Dense foliage closed around him as he walked, the path swallowing all sense of direction. Ahead lay a bend. Fang paused, then continued forward.

Just as he turned left, a dark shape shot out and smashed against the bridge of his nose.

His glasses flew off, pain lancing through nose and eyes. Through the blur he saw a shadow sweep past, then his whole body was hurled backward, crashing into thorny shrubs that tore his clothes.

“The one who should have come hasn’t—but the one who shouldn’t, has.”

Chen Fu’s loathsome face loomed suddenly close.

One foot pinned Fang Shenyan’s chest, driving him from the tangle down to the earth, flattening the grass beneath.

Though scratched across the face, Fang showed no fear. His right hand still clutched the knife, unshaken even by the ambush.

Chen Fu leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Why so impatient? Tomorrow was meant to be your death. But it hardly matters who goes first or last—kill you now, and the count will still be met.”

Fang Shenyan’s gaze held a faint smile.

Because Chen Fu had overestimated himself, he hadn’t immediately used the bell to control Fang Shenyan, leaving an opening for a counterattack.

Fang flicked the knife from his right hand, catching it precisely with his left, and slashed toward Chen Fu’s thigh.

Caught off guard by Fang’s speed, Chen Fu staggered backward.

At the same moment, Fang launched his follow-up. Just as Chen’s foot lifted from his chest, Fang lunged, knife in hand, tackling him to the ground. The two tumbled together, rolling twice.

Chen Fu attempted to draw the bell from the pouch on his back—but the instant he shook it, a tearing pain exploded in his lower back, forcing a scream from his lips.

Meanwhile, Fang Shenyan’s face was streaked with blood, his heart pounding violently, a gnawing pain burning deep, yet his knife hand remained steady, the blade embedded in Chen Fu’s side.

The bell rang. Fang’s body convulsed as if electrified, the knife twisting inside Chen’s flesh.

Both men writhed in excruciating pain.

Then, something else awoke—disturbed by the struggle of these two living beings.

A bitterly cold wind swept toward them, and both froze.

Eyes darted toward another direction.

Fang Shenyan immediately sensed danger: the ghost had arrived.

Strangely, Chen Fu seemed equally terrified, pupils wide. He must have known it was coming—but hadn’t expected it so soon.

Fang clenched his teeth and yanked the knife free. Chen Fu howled, feeling his body dragged across the ground.

Fang resolved to escape with him—partly because Chen held critical information, partly to use him as a decoy if necessary.

But while Fang could manipulate the living, he could not control the ghost governing his fate.

He had taken just two steps back when a wet, powerful hand clamped down on the back of his neck. An irresistible force yanked him backward.

Dragged along, no matter how Fang resisted—even slashing with his knife—it was useless.

The knife was knocked from his grasp. Fang was dragged to a half-height vat of filthy water.

His eyes widened. The vat wasn’t deep, the water shallow, yet it now symbolized death.

In a daze, he saw a figure behind him: a long-haired silhouette clad in deep red.

In the next instant, Fang’s head was forced into the water. No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t break the surface.

The suffocation hit immediately. The more he held his breath, the more his body demanded air.

A scorching heat coursed through him, forcing his mouth open, drawing the filthy water down his throat.

Air dwindled; bubbles rose to the surface. Breathing became a luxury—but instinct drove him to inhale the contaminated water.

Fang’s consciousness began to blur. He was closer to death than ever.

Yet he refused to give in.

The knife was lost, but his hands were still functional. Blindly searching, he felt a pen against his chest.

Then, with desperate precision, he acted.

Using his left hand, he measured along the side of his neck under his chin, uncertain but fast.

Time was too short for perfect judgment.

His right hand removed the pen cap and drove the barrel sharply into the swollen, suffocating flesh of his own neck.