Chapter One: The Backdoor Tavern

Midsummer, Capital City.

The weather in the evening shifted from scorching to stifling. Qian Youshui’s mind was somewhat dazed; he blinked hard and shook his head from time to time, pacing anxiously at the mouth of the alley.

Qian Youshui was a real estate mogul—a textbook wealthy man, nearly forty, with a plump face and ears, thinning hair, dressed head to toe in designer casual wear, a small belly protruding, a genuine leather clutch tucked under his arm, and a Patek Philippe on his wrist. Yet his face was bloodless, and his lips, hands, and body trembled ever so slightly.

He glanced back at the way he’d come. This shaded path was quiet enough to avoid unnecessary trouble. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick stack of diagnoses from various major hospitals, reading through them carefully once more. The results were consistent, yet contradictory.

“Symptoms indicate excessive blood loss; examinations show no abnormalities.”

“Nonsense!”

He crumpled the diagnoses into a ball and threw them away. Finally making up his mind, he strode into the alley.

The meeting had been arranged by a fixer known as “Flower,” who had put him in touch with a reclusive mystic waiting for him at the end of this alley.

Qian Youshui had found the fixer, codenamed “Flower,” through the dark web, and through him had been referred to this so-called expert in treating unexplainable maladies. But Qian had never interacted with anyone from the dark web, with Flower, or with this mystic before—not to mention trusting them. If not for a business partner vouching for the intermediary, and his own strange illness remaining untreatable, Qian would never have risked his life and fortune on such mysterious people.

This alley had no official name. Barely three feet wide but straight as a ruler for over thirty steps, it ended in a turn deeper into the warren of buildings.

To the average person, it was just a narrow passage. But in certain circles, it had a name: Ruler Alley.

By the time Qian Youshui reached the middle of Ruler Alley, he had already shortened his stride. The light ahead and behind was identical, yet the air behind him was stifling, while the further he walked, the cooler it grew, as if there was a distinct temperature gradient between his chest and back.

He looked up and around. There were no high-rises nearby—on the left, a pedestrian street; on the right, a low-rise residential area, all buildings about the same height. With no shade overhead, the coolness couldn’t be from blocked sunlight. He reasoned it must be the shifting angle of the sun.

People, after all, will choose to ignore details and common sense as long as they can find an excuse to deceive themselves.

Of course, Qian Youshui was uneasy. Only when he reached the corner at the end of the alley and turned did his view open up.

To his surprise, the narrow passage ended in a clearing about half the size of a basketball court, surrounded by the backs of various buildings. In the center stood an ancient pagoda tree, so large it would take three people to encircle it.

This old pagoda tree was at least a thousand years old. Its roots, thick as an arm, coiled out of the earth; the trunk was gnarled and majestic, its branches lush and sprawling, casting a dense shade over the entire clearing. Only a few rays of the waning sun filtered through the leaves, barely illuminating the space.

Most striking was a gaping, inverted V-shaped wound near the base of the trunk, charred black inside, wide enough for a child to crawl through.

This wound lent the ancient tree an even more mysterious and uncanny air.

Qian Youshui’s first thought was, “Granny, has this tree attained spirit and been struck by lightning?”

His heart grew more apprehensive, but he also felt some assurance about this mystic—after all, anyone able to occupy such a large space in the heart of the capital, with a protected thousand-year-old tree at the door, could hardly be ordinary. That was what you called presence.

Suddenly—rustle!—the leaves in the tree’s crown shuddered, startling Qian Youshui. Then, a rooster’s crow pierced the air.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

He turned quickly, goosebumps rising, and stepped back.

A splendidly-feathered rooster emerged unhurriedly from the tree’s wound.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

It seemed to sense an intruder in its domain, and after sizing up Qian Youshui with a turn of its head and a roll of its eyes, it crowed again, then began pacing around the ancient tree.

Its second crow seemed almost like a doorbell, summoning its master to receive a guest.

Footsteps sounded—clack, clack, clack—followed by a thump.

Tense, Qian Youshui looked toward the source and saw, hidden in the shadow of a wall, a small double-leaf wooden door. With hurried clogs clattering, someone pushed it open from within.

“Welcome to the Reverse Door Bar, guest, please come inside.”

A little girl, no more than ten, stepped out and bowed deeply, her childish voice crisp as a bell.

Qian Youshui found her appearance novel—a petite girl in a voluminous kimono, her hair tied high in a bun, with two long locks left deliberately loose at her temples, lending her an impish charm despite the lack of hair ornaments.

But when she straightened and revealed the mask on her face, Qian Youshui’s expression froze; his heart twisted uncomfortably at the sight.

She wore a traditional Japanese Noh mask of a young woman—pale to the point of ghastliness, with round black marks at the temples, slender, soulless phoenix eyes lined in black, a delicate nose, and blood-red lips. The features, though simply etched, were strange and unsettling.

Qian Youshui swallowed and nodded awkwardly.

By now, the series of odd sensations from the alley had strung themselves together in his mind, growing ever more bizarre: the oppressively cool alley in the height of summer, the legend-haunted lightning-scarred tree, the mysterious creature lurking in the branches, the contemptuous rooster, and now this adorable yet masked child. Everything and everyone around this mystic exuded peculiarity. It stirred some secret dread deep within him, and with his recent unexplained illness, he could not help but tremble.

At the door, he noticed a black plaque with red, crooked calligraphy: “Reverse Door Bar.”

A man of the world, Qian Youshui didn’t let the bar’s strange name or the poor calligraphy provoke a comment, especially since the little girl’s manner was so deferential, as if afraid of a single word of disapproval.

Inside, just beyond the wooden door, was an inner screen wall, with narrow passages lit by dim yellow lamps on either side.

He paused, straightened his clothes, tucked his clutch firmly under his arm, cleared his throat, and then stepped through to the right of the screen.

At first glance, the bar’s décor caught his attention. The hall was at least four hundred square meters. Past the screen was a semicircular bank of booths; at the far end, directly across from the entrance, was a bar counter that spanned the entire wall, forming a protractor-like shape with the booths. A one-meter aisle separated the two, and in the center of the hall stood a square stage. High above, an iron chandelier hung, and nearly a hundred thick white candles burned throughout, their flames casting a mysterious glow over the solemn interior.

“Hey.”

Lost in thought, Qian Youshui was startled by a voice, his composure instantly crumbling as he looked around in panic.

At the center of the bar, an elderly man in a tailcoat stood behind the counter, head bowed, polishing a wineglass.

Qian Youshui studied him from afar—sparse white hair, a face deeply lined with wrinkles, three age spots under the right eye. He figured the man must be ninety if he was a day. To be tending bar at that age—unless, perhaps, he was the adept himself?

“Hey, over here.”

The voice came again. Qian Youshui, puzzled, lowered his gaze. Beside the old man, someone was sprawled over the bar, only their forehead and one eye visible, staring at him.

The figure raised a hand, beckoning Qian Youshui to come around the bar.

With the layout like a sacred sanctuary, the mysterious and solemn atmosphere, and especially the silent, impassive old man, the whole place had already unnerved Qian Youshui. He obeyed, even breaking into a nervous trot.

As he reached the bar, the figure had sat up, pouring red wine into two goblets—one for himself, one for Qian Youshui.

It was a young man, no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, fair-skinned, but with a wild mop of hair and a scruffy beard. At first glance, his features seemed plain, but on closer inspection, though unkempt, his face was flawless in every aspect. And his hands—long, slender fingers, skin as fair as jade—were like works of art.

Qian Youshui sighed inwardly, “What a waste of such hands on a man.”

The next instant, every hair on his body stood on end, a chill shooting from his feet to his scalp—he nearly fainted on the spot.

The young man, quick as lightning, grasped Qian Youshui’s wrist, pulling him upright as his knees buckled.

The pain at his thumb joint brought him round, but he could only point in horror at a small flowerpot beside the young man, emitting a drawn-out gasp.

In the pot was a green hand, fingers together and palm forward, rising straight from the soil—cleanly severed at the wrist, as if planted there.

At first, Qian Youshui hadn’t noticed from a distance. Up close, he saw it clearly; he could even count the whorls in the fingerprints!

The young man chuckled, “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Qian. This is a Human Hand Cactus—a rare variety from the cactus family. It only looks like a human hand, see? It even has spines.”

He pointed, and indeed, Qian Youshui saw fine, hard spikes. Still, he muttered, “How could a cactus look so much like a human hand…”

The young man handed him a glass of wine, steering the conversation away as he introduced himself, “My name is Li Fusi, proprietor of this music bar.”

Qian Youshui took a sip, edging away from the plant, his heart still pounding. After a moment, he remembered his purpose, “Oh… Qian Youshui. I was referred by ‘Flower.’ Are you the mystic?”

Li Fusi’s lips twitched. The mention of “Flower” and “mystic”—such old-fashioned nicknames—told him exactly who’d sent this “client.” The others in the organization all used grand titles like “Prometheus” or “Paranormal Observer.”

“I’m hardly a mystic,” Li Fusi replied. “I simply apprenticed under a masterful traditional doctor. I treat odd ailments undetectable by modern technology. ‘Flower’ described your symptoms, but it’s best to hear them from you, so I can prescribe accordingly.”

He topped up Qian’s wine and, with casual ease, spun a tale about his origins.

“Yes, yes, I’ll explain in detail. You’re too modest—so young and accomplished, the first traditional doctor of your caliber I’ve met. Truly admirable.”

Still shaken by the plant, Qian’s mind was a blank, but he dared not question Li Fusi’s claim of being a doctor. On the contrary, it made him believe even more firmly in Li Fusi’s mystical identity. After the customary flattery, he swallowed hard, his gaze growing lost.

“I… I don’t know where to begin.”

Li Fusi noticed his odd state and spoke gently, “Let me ask, you answer. Don’t overthink—just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

Qian Youshui did not object, and so began a brief but chilling exchange.

“Tell me simply—what’s been bothering you? What troubles you?”

“Dreams.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Erotic…”

“Erotic and terrifying dreams!”

“What do you dream of?”

“In the dream, someone is kissing me… Her lips are so smooth… soft… wet, like… like jelly!”

Lost in his nightmare, Qian’s face lit with longing.

“But I never see her face. Every time I try to open my eyes, I can’t. My limbs won’t move…”

“Does she only kiss you?”

“No. Later, she starts sucking in my mouth, and I feel my blood draining, being sucked away!”

At this, Qian’s expression shifted to terror. He snapped out of his trance, grasped Li Fusi’s sleeve across the bar, and, blubbering, sobbed, “When I wake, my mouth is full of blood! It’s been half a month. Every doctor says there’s nothing wrong, but I’m growing more and more dazed, lethargic, and fainting suddenly—all signs of blood loss!”

“Mystic, please! Save me! I’ll pay you anything!”

Li Fusi extricated himself, smiling, “Don’t worry, Mr. Qian. I’ll take your money and ward off your disaster. Tonight, I’ll come to your house—just sleep soundly, and I guarantee you’ll have no more nightmares.”

“But… no matter where I go or how I force myself not to sleep, the dream always returns…”

Li Fusi patted his shoulder, “No need to fret. You won’t go home empty-handed today. I have here a ‘Calming Pill.’ Take it, and you’ll sleep peacefully, dreamless tonight. Go on home and rest—I’ll keep watch over you and find the source of your nightmare.”

He handed Qian a small black pill and called toward the door, “Xuanzi, see the guest out.”