He Shu had once lived through legendary experiences that most people wouldn’t encounter in a hundred lifetimes, but these days, he just wanted to be a “salted fish”—living a life of quiet, lazy mediocrity.

That humble wish was shattered on the night of the Ghost Festival.

The Ghost Festival—the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month—is when the gates of hell swing wide. As the saying goes: On the day of Zhongyuan, hungry ghosts swarm from their nests and ten thousand demons howl; let no commoner wander the night.

On that very night, He Shu picked up a strange passenger, encountered an even stranger bird, and had his first real interaction with the eccentric neighbor living across the hall.

Ultimately, he discovered that the strangest thing of all was that neighbor.

Guang Han. The man was as peculiar as his name. He was handsome enough to be a top-tier celebrity, yet he was colder than the frozen depths of Lake Baikal.

He Shu felt a sudden rush of air against his skin—breath as icy as the man himself, yet carrying an indescribable, faint fragrance. It was the haunting scent of incense ash lingering in the air after the embers have died out.

Caught off guard, He Shu could only stand still as the man’s nose brushed against his own, before trailing down his cheek to linger at the curve of his neck. With an overwhelming, commanding presence, Guang Han leaned in and whispered:

“Your death is near.”

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