The grip on my wrist was ironclad.
"Go!"the man urged, his voice strained with urgency.
Before I could respond, a deafening crack split the air, followed by the thunderous collapse of the wall behind us. Dust and shattered masonry exploded outward, and through the choking cloud, I saw them—countless Yin soldiers in ancient armor, their spectral forms emerging from the cracks in reality itself.
Their eyes burned with a ghostly blue fire, and their bronze spears, tipped with something far more chilling than steel, gleamed with a cold, deathly radiance.
My companion barely had time to curse before an arrow whistled past my ear, so close I felt the bite of displaced air. Without thinking, I reacted—my hand flicking outward, sending the celadon teacup flying.
Midair, the tea exploded.
The Blood Bodhi within the cup unraveled into a swirling crimson mist, its rich scent laced with something dark, something beyond the realm of mortals. The Yin soldiers recoiled, their ghostly bodies halting for just an instant, their forms flickering like candle flames against a sudden gust.
The man seized the opportunity, yanking me by the arm and pulling me toward the inner hall. Behind us, the Yin soldiers howled in rage, their guttural roars rattling the very bones of the teahouse.
The wooden beams above groaned as if in protest, the ancient structure shifting under the weight of restless spirits.
We stumbled through the threshold, past a sandalwood screen, and deeper into the teahouse's hidden chambers. The moment we crossed into the inner sanctum, a strange stillness fell over the space, as if we had stepped into a pocket of time untouched by the chaos outside.
The scent of old parchment and aged wood filled my nose.
My fingers brushed against something—a loose masonry stone embedded in the wall.
I hesitated, then pressed against it. The stone shifted, revealing a small hidden compartment. Nestled inside, wrapped in layers of brittle silk, was an aged, yellowing booklet.
Emblazoned across its cover in dark cinnabar ink were three chilling words:
"Hundred Ghosts Record."
A shiver crawled down my spine.
With careful fingers, I flipped open the brittle first page. The ink had faded but remained legible:
"Blood Bodhi must be guided by obsession. The drinker will be trapped in their own obsession forever."
A weight settled in my chest.
So that was it.
Before I could fully process the words, a hand clamped around my throat.
I choked, my back slamming against the wooden frame of the screen. The booklet slipped from my grasp and fluttered to the floor.
The man who had been my supposed ally was now my attacker.
His grip was unyielding, his fingers tightening around my neck with a strength that spoke of something inhuman. His eyes—once sharp and calculating—were now burning red, the bloodlust within them thick enough to suffocate.
"You knew."His voice was hoarse, almost trembling with fury."You knew all along."
I struggled against his hold, my fingernails digging into his wrist.
"You led me into this trap deliberately!"
Even as I fought for breath, I couldn't help but chuckle.
A bitter, knowing chuckle.
Because at that moment, I finally understood.
Last night, in the flickering lantern glow of the Temple Street market, I had found an old jade pendant, its surface etched with an unfamiliar incantation. The vendor had called it a forgotten relic, but I recognized it now—it was a tool of the Descending Masters.
The very same ritualistic practitioners who specialized in the refinement of Blood Bodhi.
And the man in front of me—the one who now held me by the throat, his form trembling as the curse took hold—
He was the one behind it all.
He had orchestrated this.
He had planned to use my teahouse as an altar.
Realization dawned like a blade between my ribs.
I met his bloodshot gaze, and I smiled.
"Did you really think,"I rasped, my voice barely above a whisper,"that you were the only one laying a trap tonight?"
His eyes widened—just for a fraction of a second—before I shoved the remaining Blood Bodhi tea into his mouth.
The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his body convulsed.
The curse took effect instantly.
Red tendrils of energy erupted from his skin, searing through his veins like molten fire. His pupils dilated before turning completely scarlet, the whites of his eyes vanishing as an unnatural calm overtook him.
The grip on my throat slackened.
His breathing slowed.
And then, in a voice that was barely his own, he rasped,"Who…are you?"
I reached up and grasped the edge of his hood, tearing it away with one swift motion.
The moment the cloth fell, the man's pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
His breath hitched.
"You…"His voice cracked, filled with something raw. Something bordering on terror.
"You are…"
I tilted my head.
And then, slowly, deliberately, I allowed my glamour to slip.
My skin grew paler—too pale. Translucent.
The delicate outlines of spectral veins shimmered beneath the surface.
My left eye turned from its usual dark hue to something far more chilling—a hollow, luminescent silver, like moonlight reflecting off a blade.
Half of my face…was no longer human.
I watched as the man trembled.
His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
Outside, the Yin soldiers had begun to stir once more. The teahouse shuddered, its very foundation groaning beneath the weight of restless spirits.
The curse was spreading.
And yet, in the face of all that, the man before me had only one question on his lips—
"…What are you?"
I smiled.
And in the dim glow of the flickering lanterns, my voice was barely more than a whisper as I answered:
"I am the real master of this teahouse."