Chapter 106: Midnight Wind Whispers

Lo Hanya struggled for a long time before finally finding the switch. The light flickered a few times, casting a dim glow that illuminated the room.

He stepped inside cautiously, surveying the space. The room was simple—no unnecessary decorations, just a single light, an old black-and-white television of indeterminate age, a bamboo bed against the inner wall, an antique writing desk, and a dressing table. The ceiling was dull and grimy, the window dilapidated. Raindrops occasionally seeped through the gaps in the window, making the room feel even colder and more desolate. The only redeeming quality was the absence of any insects or rodents. Life seemed utterly extinguished here, replaced by an air of ruin, coldness, and deathly stillness—a place that felt like a ghost’s dwelling.

Lo Hanya shook the bedsheet, and immediately a musty, rotten stench filled the air, as if no one had lived here for centuries. The odor struck his nostrils sharply, making him pinch his nose and stagger backward several steps.

“Cough, cough!” After a long struggle, Lo Hanya managed to clear the air of the foul smell.

Frowning, he lay down on the bed, eyes half-closed. His pupils dilated naturally as he submerged himself in darkness, listening intently to the sounds lurking in the gloom.

“Mother…”

“Mother, are we all dead now?”

It seemed a child’s voice was whispering. The ethereal sound was strikingly clear in the darkness, yet its source was impossible to pinpoint. The voice drifted through the void, omnipresent yet elusive.

[Main Quest Updated: Investigation]

The cold mechanical voice interrupted the child’s murmurs. The task was simply two words, but it weighed heavily on Lo Hanya. He smiled bitterly as he sat up on the bed, shaking his head in resignation. He knew this night would be sleepless.

Pacing around the bed, he recalled Man Luo’s warning: “Don’t open the window, don’t go out at night.” Hesitating, he sighed and chose not to leave immediately. Instead, he approached the window and opened it.

A gust of sea wind mixed with raindrops blew inside. Lo Hanya pressed himself cautiously against the window, inhaling the cool, fresh air. Outside, the storm raged, darkness engulfed everything; he could see nothing but hear the fierce crashing of ocean waves, perhaps the sea battering the hard rocks along the shore.

“There’s nothing here…” Lo Hanya waited a moment, seeing no change. He exhaled deeply, turning to leave and investigate the mysterious voice.

“What is this…fog?” He spun around, only to be dumbfounded. Behind him, no house remained—only a dense fog so thick that he couldn’t see his own hand.

“Mother…”

“Mother, another companion has come! I’m so happy to have someone to play with now.”

The child’s voice sounded again, this time seemingly much closer—so close it felt as if it were right beside him.

If this had been the old Lo Hanya, his scalp would have tingled and his body trembled uncontrollably. But since fusing with Xiye, his senses of fear had been dulled, and he no longer felt the usual terror.

“Hello, can you come out and let your brother see you?”

“Sigh…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to go out too, but Little Feng is sick. Mother won’t let me.”

The tender voice was tinged with sorrow, far deeper than one would expect from a child of that age.

A wave of sadness welled up in Lo Hanya’s heart, causing him sharp pain. He bit his tongue and asked, “Then can brother come to play with you?”

Little Feng was silent for a moment, then asked hesitantly, “Brother, aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Why should I be afraid? What’s there to fear about Little Feng?”

“Sigh… then brother, please come in.”

Everything felt dreamlike. Lo Hanya looked around in confusion, unable to believe what he was seeing. Moments ago, he had been at the window; now, he stood before a room’s door.

“Brother, the door’s not closed. Come on in.”

Lo Hanya gently pushed the door open. Inside were two beds. On one lay a boy about twelve or thirteen years old, his features delicate and refined—he would surely grow into a handsome young man. The only flaw was the lack of color in his face, dressed in white, looking pale and sickly.

“What illness does Little Feng have?”

“Consumption.”

“Ah… no wonder he can’t go out.”

“Brother, will you listen to me recite a poem?”

“Recite a poem?”

“While I still can speak…” Little Feng’s voice grew more sorrowful, like a patient who already knew their days were numbered.

Lo Hanya felt anguish rising in his heart. He knew Little Feng was a ghost, and everything he did could risk his own life. Yet he had no choice but to comply; after all, he was still just an ordinary man.

“Is that alright?”

Little Feng’s voice deepened further. Outside, the ocean waves seemed to surge with growing fury. No one knew what consequences refusal might bring.

“Of course…”

“Brother, you’re so kind. All these years, you’re the only one willing to listen to my poetry.”

A jolt struck Lo Hanya’s heart, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He already understood the price of refusal.

“April is the cruelest month,
Lilacs grow in the wasteland,
Mixing memory and desire,
Urging the sluggish roots to awaken with spring rain.
…
You cannot speak,
Nor guess,
For you only know a heap of broken idols,
Enduring the sun’s harsh whip.
The dead trees offer no shade,
The chirping crickets bring no comfort,
No flowing water sounds through the scorched stones,
Only shadows beneath this red rock.
…
Your arms are full,
Your hair drenched,
I cannot speak,
My eyes cannot see,
Neither alive,
Nor dead,
I know nothing,
Gazing toward the bright center,
There is only silence.
The sea is desolate and empty.
…”

Lo Hanya’s consciousness blurred, as if he were being swallowed by that empty, desolate sea. He slowly closed his eyes, his body swaying before collapsing to the floor. Suddenly, a strange sound pierced his ears—a child struggling to breathe, gasping in fits and starts, unable to speak clearly, followed by hysterical coughing, as if trying to expel all his innards.

The painful coughing was like thunder, shattering the ocean that threatened to engulf Lo Hanya. His closed eyes snapped open; he gasped for breath, utterly drained and powerless, unable even to struggle, collapsing helplessly.

“A white flower blooms in the wasteland—that is my home.”

…