Fusheng awoke to a blinding white light. He squinted, instinctively raising a hand to shield his eyes, only to realize he was lying in a bed, his body swollen and uncomfortable.
White light, a body, lying down.
This wasn't right. It was very wrong.
If he were human, this would all be perfectly normal. But he was a ghost. How could he possibly have a body to lie in?
Had his reincarnation finally arrived? It was about time! Damn that King of Hell—did he have his eyes stuck in his backside?
He didn't have the energy to curse the King of Hell right now, though; otherwise, he would have pointed at the ground and spent the entire night insulting the King’s entire family without stopping.
With trepidation, he opened his eyes. Beyond the wild ecstasy, his gaze held an indelible, sinister malevolence. His eyes fell upon the fair, slender hand resting across his forehead. He was satisfied—it had warmth.
He knew something was off, but that didn't matter. It was just a bit faster than reincarnation, and the hand was a bit large, like a young man’s. But these things could be ignored. It was all quite reasonable, he told himself. He was a two-hundred-year-old vengeful spirit; it was reasonable, very reasonable!
It was as if a pie from heaven had suddenly slammed into his head; he maintained his posture, stunned by the impact.
Suddenly, wild joy surged within him. He did a kip-up, sat bolt upright, and kicked the quilt off his body. A frantic smile spread across his face, his features twisting slightly, while a dark, eerie cackle poured from his throat.
The air in the room seemed torn apart by this sudden, bizarre laughter, turning ominous and dangerous.
The harsh hospital light hit Fusheng’s pale face, making his twisted smile look even more grotesque, like a terrifying scene from a horror film.
If his underlings were here, they would surely offer sycophantic, envious praise: "As expected of a vengeful spirit who hasn't reincarnated in two hundred years—magnificent!"
Fusheng would have merely glanced at them coldly and uttered a single word: "Scram."
Fusheng sat on the bed, laughing and gasping for air. When he grew tired of laughing, he raised his satisfying hands, clamped them firmly around his own throat, and hissed, "Damn it, I can only laugh for five minutes? When have I ever been this short-lived?"
When he was a ghost, he could laugh for an entire night without needing a breath. Ah, how vexing. Being human really was something.
After this brief reflection, he tugged at the corners of his mouth again, his eyes filled with a mixture of madness and obsession.
He lifted his arm, stretching his smile even wider, then began to kiss his fair hand wildly. The warm sensation against his lips was truly marvelous—it was so warm that even his corpse spots seemed to fade a little.
Once he had his fill, Fusheng stuck out his tongue and lightly licked his pink fingertips, only then satisfied enough to rein in his insane grin.
He squinted, bowing his head to sniff his hand with obsession. It smelled good; it smelled like a human.
Fusheng turned his head with mechanical stiffness and fixed his gaze on a small corner of the ward.
A tall figure was huddled there—a little white-haired thing, and a "non-mainstream" one at that.
Silver hair, long past the shoulders, flowed smoothly and rested against the person’s chest. The face was soft, the features exquisite, especially those beautiful, clear blue eyes. They were like a lake reflecting moonlight, moist and glittering, much like a young deer leaping through a mountain stream.
Something seemed to have frightened this little white deer. It was looking up at him, round almond eyes wide and unmoving, looking completely stunned.
Fusheng only gave the little white-haired one a cold look before his attention was firmly captured by something else.
"The sunshine outside the window is wonderful!"
He scrambled out of bed, running eagerly to the window without even putting on shoes.
He stopped just beside the light cast by the sun, gazing at the scorching heat before him, hesitating and afraid to step forward.
Even standing in the shadows, Fusheng could feel the intense heat of the orange beams cast by the sun—it felt as though it might burn him.
Unlike the cold moonlight of countless nights or the howling winds of the mountains, this warmth made him feel delirious.
Fusheng smiled excitedly, licking his slightly pale lips, the madness in his eyes growing more intense. He slowly reached out to touch the orange beams.
His articulated fingers and fair skin turned translucent pink in the sunlight; the sight of his own pink flesh and bone made his blood boil.
His bare feet stepped into the light cast by the sun. The scorching heat traveled from the floor to the soles of his feet, and he felt the warmth rush up to his crown, a sensation so intense it made his scalp tingle with pleasure.
He let out a few soft, comfortable sighs, then poked his head out the window. He opened his eyes wide, staring directly at the brilliant sun.
He stretched his hand out the window, as if wanting to touch the unreachable, tilted his head slightly, and remarked, "Truly blinding."
Though he called it blinding, his gaze didn't waver in the slightest. He strained to keep his eyes open, locked onto the two brilliant white orbs. It had been two hundred years since he last saw the sun; it was truly a long-awaited reunion.
Two of them? That seemed reasonable, too. These two suns were his due; they had best take turns shifts for him day and night.
He was no longer satisfied with just this bit of sunlight on his hands. After two hundred years of hiding from the day and coming out at night, never seeing the sun, Fusheng felt as though his soul was rotting and festering from within.
Now that the sunlight was right before him, so scorching and dazzling, he had absolutely no resistance.
He braced his palms against the hot windowsill and leaned his torso out of the window. Before he could exert any force, someone grabbed his legs tightly from behind.
Fusheng turned his head, his eyes casting a cold, downward glance. He looked at the little white-haired one hugging his leg with a smiling expression, though his eyes were filled with rage. He gritted his teeth and said, "You’d better have a good reason."
"Lord husband, it’s dangerous." Alvano gazed up at Fusheng, swallowing nervously, his fear evident, yet his grip did not loosen.
Dangerous? What was dangerous about it? He looked down at the third floor; he was confident he would be fine. Even if he broke his legs, wasn't he in a hospital? They could just pick him up and fix him. Looking at the arms wrapped around his lower legs, he knit his brows tightly, a layer of frost rising in his eyes.
Fusheng gritted his teeth, released his grip on the windowsill, and brushed the non-existent dust off his hands. He leaned down, pinched the little white-haired one's chin, and patted his fair cheek with his other hand, forcing the boy to look him in the eye. With undisguised malice and a dark tone, he said, "Scram. If you don't listen, you'll be eaten by me."
Sure enough, the little white-haired one trembled slightly in fear.
Seeing this, he smiled with satisfaction.
Fusheng pulled his hand back and wiped it on his clothes in disgust.
The damnable little white-haired one didn't let go; instead, he hugged even tighter. Fusheng stopped wiping his hand.
He tried to struggle to pull his legs free, only to realize that despite the little one’s delicate appearance, he had quite a bit of strength; his two arms were like they had been welded together.
"Is Lord husband uncomfortable? Don't worry, I've called the doctor." Alvano held onto Fusheng tightly, his eyes full of concern.
"Who are you calling 'Lord'? What is our relationship? Stay out of my business." He looked at the little white-haired one, feeling a chill from the boy's look of concern. He didn't know any little white-haired thing; stop trying to claim a connection. He declined; he might leave a spot for him as an underling, though.
Dense, noisy footsteps sounded at the door. It seemed to be the doctor the little one had mentioned.
Fusheng frowned; he was truly losing patience.
Threats weren't working. Fusheng was so angry he laughed, glaring deeply at the little one. It seemed he would have to crush this little white flower; he’d be careful to kick all its leaves off.
A little deer should be smart enough to fearfully hide back in the mountains; otherwise, it would be eaten by a vengeful spirit.
Fusheng braced his arms against the window again, used the leverage to pull his legs free, and kicked the little white-haired one away.
He turned his head. The little one looked visibly startled. Fusheng sat on the window ledge, tilting his head back with a triumphant, satisfied smile, clapping his hands and laughing out loud.
Alvano moved quickly, scrambling up from the floor and rushing over to hug Fusheng’s waist, shouting, "Lord husband, don't jump! The doctor is coming!"
As soon as the little one finished speaking, the door to the ward was indeed pushed open.
A group of people with different hair colors, all wearing white coats and carrying various strange items, rushed in with nervous expressions.
Non-mainstream outfits paired with white coats, standing in a hospital ward—it was truly ridiculous. Fusheng laughed out loud at the incongruity.
Could doctors be this "non-mainstream" too? He had never even dyed his hair; he really wanted to pluck these guys bald. Wasn't black hair better for everyone? It was truly a disfigurement to the ghost's eyes.
"Brown, blue, red, purple..." Fusheng pointed at the doctors with great interest, ignoring everyone’s stares as he counted them earnestly.
He wanted all these colors. He couldn't imagine how sunny and cheerful he would look if these colors appeared on his own head.
Just the thought made the corners of Fusheng’s mouth lift, and he couldn't rein in his smile at all.
Watching Fusheng’s sudden actions, everyone stood there with complex expressions, not daring to move, playing along with the young lord’s game.
Fusheng’s voice echoed in their ears, accompanied by several outbursts of uncontrollable, manic laughter.
The scene was bizarre. Everyone was so quiet they didn't dare make a sound or move a muscle.
Fusheng sat on the windowsill, hugging his arms and watching them, letting out strange laughs from time to time. The orange sunlight from outside the window hit Fusheng from behind, and the intense light of the two suns dispersed into a colorful halo behind him, looking both mysterious and eerie.
Finally, Fusheng lowered his eyes, his fingertip pointing at the little white-haired one: "And this one. Silver-white—that's my favorite."