Chapter 42.2: The Skin Beneath

Ding Dalin laughed, as if brushing off his earlier slip of the tongue.

Li Zhuiyuan felt a knot twist inside him. Even if that person was from the Southern Chen period, that still meant they lived nearly fifteen hundred years ago.

Did that mean the tomb beneath the fishpond was just as ancient?

He couldn’t tell if the Water Monkeys were lucky or cursed to have stumbled upon such a high-grade water burial tomb.

But it seemed like the unluckier one was him. He had barely picked up the book—was still learning as he went, balancing reading with hands-on practice.

In those popular martial arts novels and action flicks, the protagonist always trained in seclusion before descending the mountain, where the first targets they met were lecherous bullies harassing village girls.

As for him, he hadn’t even made it down the mountain—he’d just nudged open the door at home for a spot of sun and—hey, right across the street was the Eastern Depot.

“Xiaoyuan, you promised Grandpa you’d help me plant those peach trees, remember?”

“Mm, I will.”

“Louder. Grandpa’s ears are no good.”

“Don’t worry, Grandpa.”

“Turn around. Say it to Grandpa’s face.”

Li Zhuiyuan turned around.

What faced him was a face flushed red—because it had no skin!

In the split second of shock and realization, just as he raised a hand and opened his mouth to scream, that skinned face suddenly leaned in close:

“Xiaoyuan, you were a step too slow.”

Li Zhuiyuan froze, his raised hand hanging mid-air, mouth agape, unable to scream.

“Xiaoyuan, just now you were wondering whether you should scream, weren’t you?”

He didn’t know how to respond.

“You silly child, why do you look at me like I’m a stranger?”

Those were nearly the same words Ding Dalin had said that morning during their walk with Taigong.

It—it had seen him and Brother Runsheng on the roof the night before.

“I’ll help you plant the tree.”

“Hehehe…”

Its hand touched the boy’s face, giving it a gentle pat.

“You’re acting so well, I’m starting to wonder—between us, who’s really the one wearing human skin?”

…

“Beep—!”

The burst of static snapped Li Zhuiyuan awake. He looked down at the microphone in his hand.

“Xiaoyuan, turn that off. Grandpa’s ears hurt.”

He shut it off. The static ceased. He turned to look at Ding Dalin.

Ding Dalin had a hot towel covering his face, concealing it completely.

From beneath the towel came his voice:

“Xiaoyuan, did you just learn the local dialect?”

The same question again.

Li Zhuiyuan blinked—had that earlier scene been a hallucination?

“Yeah, just learned it.”

“Where’d you live before?”

“Youzhou.”

“Hehehe…”

Ding Dalin chuckled, lifting the towel to reveal a flushed face—normal, just post-steam redness.

“Smart kid.”

He stepped up to Li Zhuiyuan and cupped his face again.

“Grandpa likes you a lot.”

“I like Grandpa’s red envelopes and gifts, too.”

Ding Dalin’s hand slid down, seizing the boy’s right hand and turning it over.

In his palm were an old burn scar and five scabbed-over scratches.

Ding Dalin ignored the blood scabs, tapping the scar with his fingertip, pretending to be surprised:

“Look at that—nearly burned your skin off?”

“I was playing around and got careless.”

“Be careful now. Once your skin’s broken, it’s hard to patch. Even if you find a replacement, it won’t be as good as the original—don’t you think?”

“Mm. Grandpa’s right.”

Ding Dalin smiled, raising his left hand slowly, forming a fist.

Even Ah Li had seen through that scar as self-inflicted. So how could it not?

But now Li Zhuiyuan had no read on its temperament. He’d already convinced Taigong to promise to plant its tree. This matter should’ve been over.

Yet it clearly wanted more from him.

Li Zhuiyuan found himself envious of Tan Wenbin. Sometimes, knowing too much just makes things harder. It’s easier being in the dark.

Suddenly, pain shot through him.

He looked down to see the scar in his palm tearing open again, flesh splitting.

His heart raced—watching your own flesh split open like that was horrifying.

As if next, the tear would spread, his entire skin slough off, and he’d walk out blood-drenched.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Secretary Jin. She still stood there with the basin, unmoving, gaze averted.

Ding Dalin licked his lips. His eyes flickered with struggle.

Then his neck jerked violently left, then right, face twisting from benevolent to neutral to sinister to ravenous.

At last,

He threw his head back and screamed:

“You beast—you fooled me good.”

…

“Thud!”

The mic dropped.

Li Zhuiyuan swallowed hard, turning to see Ding Dalin washing his face.

He scooped water with both hands, splashed it, scrubbed, then wiped off with a towel.

Third time now.

But this time, Ding Dalin didn’t ask about his accent. He said nothing.

The door banged open—smacked against Secretary Jin’s back.

It bounced shut. She didn’t move.

“Eh?”

Outside, Li Sanjiang’s voice called.

Now Li Zhuiyuan knew—those earlier scenes weren’t hallucinations. Taigong wouldn’t have finished his business that fast. Some time had been… used.

Secretary Jin stepped aside. The door opened. Li Sanjiang said, “My mule’s here. Gonna start loading stuff.”

“Alright.”

He left without calling for Li Zhuiyuan. He’d never make Little Yuanhou do labor.

So once again, Li Zhuiyuan was left in the room.

But—

“Bang!”

The door slammed open again, hard this time. Runsheng stood in the doorway, face taut, holding a shovel.

He was clearly scared—his tight face was armor.

But he’d come. He wanted to help.

“What’re you doing?” Li Sanjiang’s voice scolded. “Move the tables first. Sound system last.”

Runsheng looked at Li Zhuiyuan, waiting for a signal. Just a look, and he’d swing that shovel at either of them.

One way or another, someone’s flesh would tear.

Ding Dalin extended a hand to Li Zhuiyuan. “Come on up. I’ve got some foreign snacks upstairs—all yours.”

There was never really a choice.

Li Zhuiyuan took his hand. They walked past Runsheng, up the stairs.

Downstairs, Li Sanjiang cuffed Runsheng’s head. “What’re you dazing for? Little Yuanhou’s getting his stuff—you work too!”

Runsheng hesitated. But if it was Little Yuanhou’s decision, he’d trust it. He set down the shovel and started moving furniture.

But that burst of courage couldn’t last. The memory of last night replayed in his head. As he worked, his body began to tremble.

Li Sanjiang noticed and rushed over. “Still feeling sick?”

“Huh?”

“Forget it. Sit down and rest. I’ll move the rest.”

Upstairs, Ding Dalin still held his hand. Li Zhuiyuan felt the stickiness, afraid that when he let go, he’d peel off a layer of skin.

And he was right.

When they entered the room and Ding Dalin let go, the skin clung to his hand, stretching tight until—

“Snap!”

It made a loud noise—loud enough to daze him. When he came to, the room was dim. Night had fallen.

The room was intact—except Ding Dalin was gone.

Li Zhuiyuan closed his eyes, searching for that upward-floating sensation. He found it—he was drifting.

He opened his eyes, snapping out of it.

Yes, he had walked the shade. But not of his own will. Ding Dalin had pulled him in.

So to wake up now… would be rude.

He stepped out onto the balcony, hoping to find Ding Dalin. If it had pulled him in, there must be a reason.

The night sky was pitch black, a large moon hanging visibly cratered.

He looked down and blinked hard.

The fishpond, which had returned to normal in the real world, now looked as it had after the Water Monkeys' toil—drained, excavated.

He had a hunch where Ding Dalin would be.

Descending, he passed through the hall where the banquet had ended last night. Everything was still there, untouched.

At the threshold, he paused, then stepped back and looked up.

There she was—Little Oriole, hanging from the hall’s ceiling.

Her long hair obscured her face. Only by standing in a precise spot could you see through the strands.

Her eyes were closed. Expression blank.

Li Zhuiyuan didn’t know if she’d been hiding there since last night or if she was truly here now.

She gave no sign.

He moved on, exiting the hall, heading down to the pond and jumping in.

Only at close range could he grasp the true depth of the pit.

He turned back, looking at the rooftop where he’d hidden the night before.

Bending down, he carefully slid along the slope, descending deep into the earth.

Before him now stood the excavated tip of a tower.

A pitch-black opening yawned in silence.

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