Chapter Five: Knocking at Midnight

The house was settled, and the old man quickly gathered a group of people to clean it. They spent an entire afternoon, leaving the residence spotless, as if it were brand new.

Before leaving, the old man looked at Feng Yuan with a stern warning: "Remember this tonight—no matter who knocks, don’t open the door. Ignore any sounds you hear. Don’t go to the back part of the house. As long as you do this, you’ll be fine. I’ll come check on you in the morning!"

With those words, the old man departed. Watching him go, Fat Zhang muttered to Feng Yuan, "Why do I have such an eerie feeling about this?"

"That’s because you’re timid," Feng Yuan replied, glancing at him. "Come on, it’s getting dark. Let’s go find something to eat!"

"Now that’s more like it!" Fat Zhang cheered, hurrying out.

...

It was past nine by the time they returned from dinner. Feng Yuan unlocked the door and stepped inside. The entire house was pitch black, the only faint outlines of the interior visible by moonlight.

In this era, there were no electric lights—only candles. Guided by the moon, Feng Yuan found his way inside and located both candles and a source of fire, placed conveniently on the main hall table by the old man. Not only had the old man arranged for the house to be cleaned, he had also furnished Feng Yuan with all the daily necessities—a rare gesture of generosity, making it feel almost like staying in a hotel.

He lit several candles, which brought some light into the house, though it was still dim—nothing like modern electric lighting.

Sitting at the table, Feng Yuan poured himself a cup of water, drank, and leaned back to rest. He had eaten too much with Fat Zhang earlier and now felt both overfull and drowsy, but he hadn’t bathed yet.

Feng Yuan disliked sleeping without washing up, so he decided to rest a bit and then take a bath.

After about half an hour, he felt ready and headed out into the courtyard. This was ancient times—no water heaters or showers. Feng Yuan didn’t feel like boiling water, either. It was summer, and a cold bath would be perfect.

There was a well in the yard for washing clothes, cooking, and drinking. Feng Yuan walked over, undressed, and lowered a wooden bucket into the well, drawing up water for his bath.

The weather was stifling, the well water icy cold—a delightful sensation as it splashed over his body.

"This feels amazing," he thought as he washed, his gaze wandering absentmindedly to the second compound. Suddenly, he froze. There, in the back compound, he saw a flicker of reddish firelight—not bright, but visible.

"Why is there firelight? No one lives there," he thought, peering more closely. But the firelight vanished.

"Am I seeing things?" he wondered, rubbing his eyes. Looking again, there was nothing at all.

He didn’t dwell on it—his mind was preoccupied with writing his novel. He hurried through his bath, intent on getting to work.

Soon finished, Feng Yuan returned to his room. The heat made him disinclined to dress; he donned only a pair of shorts and sat at his desk. After lighting several candles for better illumination, he laid out his writing materials—ink, brush, paper. With practiced hands, he ground the ink, dipped his brush, and began to write.

Though in his past life Feng Yuan had been a street hoodlum, he was unlike most. Forced into that life, he was, at heart, a man of culture—fond of libraries, of reading and painting at home. He wasn’t especially talented, but neither was he inept. So, picking up a brush felt natural, and he wrote with ease.

"Since cultivation fantasy novels are so popular here, I’ll just copy down an immensely successful one—let’s do 'Shrouding the Heavens,'" Feng Yuan mused, and began to write.

"Shrouding the Heavens" was one of his favorite online novels, its opening scene—the nine dragons drawing a coffin up Mount Tai—still vivid and awe-inspiring to him, especially the first two million words. He’d read it several times. The only regret was that the later parts lost their luster, but all in all, it was still a masterpiece.

Lost in thought, Feng Yuan wrote, not word for word, but recalling the main plotlines accurately enough.

He became completely absorbed, losing track of time. Only when he ran out of paper did he realize he’d written a thick stack—at least twenty thousand characters.

"Exhausting," he muttered, satisfied as he reviewed his manuscript. Setting down his brush, he stood and stretched. Sitting so long had left his shoulders, neck, and waist aching; a massage would have been perfect right then.

"I wonder if the brothel is open by now?" he mused, a lascivious smile crossing his face. But a glance at his meager stash of a few hundred coins reminded him he couldn’t even afford the entrance fee.

"Forget it. Sleep first, make money later. My goal is to take over the entire brothel one day!" he muttered with a smirk, turning to go to bed. He hadn’t written in the study, but right here in his bedroom, so when he turned around, the bed was right behind him.

Suddenly, he started violently. On his bed, two small red orbs floated like little lanterns—startling him so much he stumbled backward into his chair.

But when he looked again, the red balls had vanished. Nothing remained.

"Was I seeing things?" he wondered, frowning as he inspected the bed. There was nothing there but two candles, burning on either side of the bed, their flames red and bright—exactly like the little red orbs he’d just seen.

He understood at once—he’d simply been dazzled by the candlelight. The bright flames had left afterimages in his vision, so when he looked elsewhere, the red orbs appeared, only to fade quickly. That explained their sudden disappearance.

"Dead tired. Time to sleep," he yawned, collapsing onto the bed and closing his eyes. Drowsiness flooded over him, and his consciousness quickly faded.

Just before sleep claimed him entirely, a thought crossed his mind: this place was rumored to be haunted, and he’d planned to explore the back courtyard. But he was too tired now—he’d go tomorrow night.

Very soon, he was fast asleep, lost in deep slumber.

He had no idea how long he’d slept, when suddenly—a faint, clear knocking sounded at the door.

Knock, knock.

Knock, knock.

It sounded like someone rapping on wood with the knuckle of their middle finger. In bed, Feng Yuan was deep in a muddled sleep, barely registering the sound, and continued to snore, hugging his pillow.

"Feng Yuan, are you asleep?"

Just then, a gentle woman’s voice drifted in from the doorway…