Chapter 47: The Toast

“Oh, you chose this yourself. Don’t regret it.”

“How could I regret it? Never!”

Once, there was a chance to walk away, and he hadn’t taken it.

Now, Tan Wenbin truly regretted that decision.

He had realized: if they wanted Zhou Yong to "speak"—to uncover the truth behind all this—there was no getting out of this drinking session unscathed.

Tan Wenbin glanced over at Li Zhuiyuan, who was tapping his chopsticks lightly against the rim of his bowl, looking every bit like a boy at play.

Then he looked at Runsheng. This time, Runsheng didn’t avoid his gaze but met it directly.

A wave of warmth surged in Tan Wenbin’s chest. After all, they were roommates who’d spent long nights slapping down playing cards together.

Xiaoyuan-ge, Runsheng—if anything happens to me after I drink this, tell my dad I wasn’t a coward.

Bracing himself, Tan Wenbin reached for the bowl of liquor.

But just then, Runsheng stood up and took the bowl away from in front of him.

He held the bowl up to Zhou Yong, gave it a swirl, and knocked it back in one go.

And he didn’t stop there. The other two bowls of liquor in front of Zhou Yong—Runsheng downed them one after another.

Tears welled up in Tan Wenbin’s eyes.

Li Zhuiyuan merely tilted his head to watch, then went back to fiddling with his chopsticks and bowl.

Runsheng’s move didn’t surprise him.

But it was still tough on Runsheng. He knew full well—if given the choice, Runsheng much preferred “properly marinated” cuts of meat.

The food on this table, the liquor in those bowls—dirty, yes, but not dirty enough. To Runsheng, it was like pig or beef offal—edible, but not desirable.

Runsheng’s boldness quickly won Zhou Yong’s favor. He kept refilling Runsheng’s bowl and clinking glasses.

At one point, he gestured at the dishes on the table, reminding Runsheng to eat something to buffer the booze.

Runsheng no longer held back—he grabbed whatever dish was nearest and chewed with loud, crunchy gusto.

Then, with a swipe of his mouth, he lifted the bowl and drank again.

At a drinking table like this, once the liquor flows, the world fades away.

Li Zhuiyuan and Tan Wenbin were left alone, free to sit quietly, playing the role of furniture.

At last, the dishes were picked clean, the liquor mostly gone.

Li Zhuiyuan stuck his chopsticks upright into his rice bowl.

Runsheng set down his bowl and knocked it lightly on the table.

Zhou Yong also lowered his bowl, resuming the posture he had at the very beginning.

Then his mouth began to move rapidly—opening and closing in a rhythm that mimicked the chant of a funeral troupe at a Taoist ceremony. The intonation was there, but the words were garbled.

The sound made Li Zhuiyuan drowsy.

He stifled a yawn, forced the sleepiness away, then shot Zhou Yong a dissatisfied look. He didn’t think Zhou Yong was really trying to communicate.

But when he turned his head, he saw that Runsheng and Tan Wenbin on either side of him had both closed their eyes, their bodies swaying slightly.

They were dreaming.

Clearly, Zhou Yong was already communicating with them.

That sleepiness from earlier—it had been Zhou Yong’s invitation.

And he had instinctively refused it.

Li Zhuiyuan wondered—had he grown resistant to it from too many recent journeys into the realm of the dead?

But sometimes, vicious cycles are impossible to break—like now.

He propped his left elbow on the table, rested his chin in his left hand, half-closed his eyes, and with his right hand picked up a chopstick and tapped it against the edge of the bowl:

Ding!

He slipped into the shade.

But it felt like he hadn’t.

Because in his field of vision, he could see Runsheng, Tan Wenbin, and Zhou Yong talking—but between them and him was a layer of flowing gel.

Li Zhuiyuan tried to reach out. He felt resistance. When he pushed harder, the distorted image inside revealed Runsheng and Tan Wenbin wincing in pain.

Seeing this, he gave up.

Though he was now quite skilled at walking the shade, he didn’t know how to enter someone else’s “dream.”

Ah Li could.

Li Zhuiyuan had assumed he could too—or rather, he hadn’t realized it might be a problem.

That’s the downside of being self-taught.

Still, he didn’t choose to wake up. Since he couldn’t participate, he might as well observe.

He got up from the table. Now it stood alone, sealed by an invisible gel that encased the three of them.

Li Zhuiyuan circled it.

He thought there had to be a specific method to blend himself in.

Like the second step of Wei Zhengdao’s method to control Dead Sinkers: match the frequency of your consciousness waves to the Dead Sinker’s, and you could enter.

But here, it wasn’t just Zhou Yong. There were two living people too—Runsheng and Tan Wenbin. How do you tune to a mix of frequencies?

Or had the three of them already blended into one?

Li Zhuiyuan raised his hand and gently tapped the gel.

Inside the warped image, Runsheng and Tan Wenbin again showed pained expressions.

Forget it—not the time for experiments.

Suddenly, he felt a hand tug at him gently.

He looked down.

It was the girl.

She was squatting, shoulders shaking. She was crying.

When he first entered the room and crossed into the shade, she and her mother had been in the kitchen—not the living room.

Now, in this view, the white rice grains on her body were starting to wriggle.

No—they weren’t rice at all. They were teeming white maggots crawling in and out of her body.

The girl lifted her head and looked at Li Zhuiyuan.

She opened her mouth in a silent scream. The maggots covering her eyes scattered, and from the dark hollows of her sockets, bloody tears began to stream.

She was telling him: she was in agony, she was suffering, she wanted release.

The black cat had once told Li Zhuiyuan: for a Dead Sinker, the more conscious they are, the worse their torment.

Dead Sinkers are clusters of resentment. What sustains them against that torment is even deeper hatred.

But what about those without such hatred, who still remain conscious?

That’s like throwing yourself into a blazing fire and enduring pure, unrelenting torture.

In the girl, the boy felt no resentment—only overwhelming pain.

Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t help turning to look at Zhou Yong inside the gel.

Some things, even without words, are plain to see.

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