Chapter 4 The Embers of the Mortal World
Yan Luo pushed open the wooden door of the Wangchuan Tea Pharmacy. The sound of the bell was like an extremely light sigh, stretched long, slowly breaking off behind him.
He stepped into the Taipei alley after the rain. The hem of his black long trench coat swept across the damp, cold stone slabs, stirring up fine sprays of water.
At that moment, he suddenly felt ridiculous— the mighty King of Hell, sneaking out of the underworld like a deserter, just to catch a few more glimpses of that woman.
The night breeze carried the sweet, metallic scent of osmanthus and earth, clinging stickily to his skin like a layer of old sweat that could never be shaken off.
He did not return to the underworld immediately.
Tonight, he wanted to be a thorough mortal.
He walked out along the alley. The streetlights stretched his shadow long and thin, like a sheet of冥 paper about to be torn apart by the night wind.
For thousands of years, he had been accustomed to overlooking life and death as a god, but since A Meng descended to the mortal realm, he began to slip into the human world frequently, like an addict unable to quit, searching through crowds for the faint trace of her lingering scent.
Tonight, he walked into a bar hidden in the crevice between skyscrapers in the Xinyi District.
The shop was called “Embers.” The neon sign trembled slightly in the rainy night. At the entrance, a girl in black stockings lowered her head to smoke, the smoke between her fingers like a thin thread of fate slowly burning out.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, smoke swirled. Jazz music flowed low and stickily, like souls trapped in bottles slowly, desperately gasping.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of alcohol, perfume, and human bodily fluids, almost suffocating him.
Yan Luo found the most secluded booth and sat down, ordering a glass of straight whiskey.
The liquid swayed in the glass, reflecting his deep, weary brows and eyes.
He took a sip. The spicy liquid burned like fire down his throat into his chest, making his heart—which had been numb for thousands of years—ache faintly.
“Lord Yan…” he mocked himself inwardly. “Now you’ve even learned how to drink.”
People in the bar conversed, laughed, and touched one another under the dim lights.
He saw a girl silently weeping at the bar, her phone screen showing her ex-boyfriend’s last message; a suited man downing his fifth drink, emptiness looming in his eyes; a couple tightly entwined on the dance floor, as if trying to embed each other into their very bones and blood.
Those scenes were so vivid, yet so fragile. Each person was entwined with faint threads of fate—red, black, gray—some already broken, some still barely holding on.
He suddenly felt a tightness in his chest.
That human warmth, desire, and pain—he could never truly possess them.
He took another large gulp. The alcohol warmed his deathly aura slightly.
Closing his eyes, he still saw A Meng sitting in the rattan chair tonight—that clear, beautiful face of a twenty-five or twenty-six-year-old, yet her eyes cold as stones at the bottom of a well.
When she looked at him, it was as if gazing at an insignificant wisp of mist. That distance made the golden flame deep in his heart burn faintly once more.
He remembered that night a thousand years ago.
By the Yellow Springs Road, red spider lilies bloomed like a field of fresh blood.
A Meng, wearing an old, faded cyan robe, stood at the head of the Bridge of Helplessness ladling soup for each soul.
Her movements had grown more mechanical. With every ladle, her wrist trembled slightly.
Thousands upon thousands of souls lined up before her like a dragon. After drinking the soup, their faces showed relieved emptiness, yet they also lost some of the brightest, most painful, most “themselves” parts—some forgot their mother’s last embrace, some forgot the unfinished lovemaking of their first love, some forgot why they had lived.
That night, Yan Luo hid among the red spider lilies by the bridge and watched A Meng pour the last bowl of soup slowly into the Wangchuan River when no one was around.
The black soup merged with the river water. She murmured softly:
“How wonderful it would be if those things could be dug out while they were still alive…”
In that moment, something inside him snapped completely.
He had loved her in secret for too long.
So long that even he could no longer remember when it began.
That feeling was like a golden flame pressed tightly at the very bottom—burning, enduring, yet forever unreachable.
She was Meng Po; he was the King of Hell who ruled life and death. Between them lay the entire Wangchuan River, countless reincarnations, and the desire he could never voice.
So he granted her request.
He gave her a portion of his power, allowing her to open a shop in the mortal world that appeared only for the desperate.
He told himself it was to ease her burden, so she would no longer have to watch souls forced to let go only after death.
But only he knew—he also wanted her farther away from him.
Because every time he saw her standing by the Bridge of Helplessness, the torment of wanting to pull her into his arms yet never being able to touch her was driving him mad.
And now?
She was in the mortal world, bottling others’ pain one by one, while also slowly sealing herself into another, larger, invisible bottle.
And he could only do this tonight—secretly come to the human world, sit in this bar called “Embers,” drink a mortal’s drink, and pretend he too was just an ordinary man who could feel heartache, loneliness, and longing.
The jazz music changed to an even slower, stickier tune.
A couple embraced tightly in the center of the dance floor. The girl buried her face in the man’s shoulder, as if trying to melt her entire being into his flesh and blood.
Yan Luo watched them and suddenly felt his throat tighten.
That human warmth, the sticky sensation of body heat mingling—he could never experience it.
He remembered many years ago, on a long, dark night in the underworld, he had secretly visited A Meng’s residence.
It was a tiny stone room, containing only a stone bed and an ever-burning oil lamp.
When she slept, her brows were always gently furrowed, as if she were still ladling soup for souls even in her dreams.
He stood at the doorway for a long time, finally leaving only a single red spider lily before departing silently.
The next day, that flower had withered.
Because Meng Po never accepted anything from anyone.
Yan Luo smiled bitterly and ordered another double whiskey.
Staring at the swaying liquid in the glass, he suddenly raised a finger and lightly traced a line in the air.
A thin golden thread appeared—that was A Meng’s thread of fate. It was longer and tougher than a mortal’s, yet also dimmer, marked with scars from countless extractions.
“A Meng…” he called softly in his heart, his voice carrying thousands of years of suppressed, almost painful tenderness. “When I let you come down, was it truly for you, or… simply because I could no longer bear seeing you yet never being able to approach?”
Even he could not clearly answer.
The smoke in the bar grew thicker, like a thick, cold layer of gray mold slowly covering everything.
He paid with not cash, but a small wisp of black mist torn from his sleeve.
The mist transformed into an ancient coin in the bar girl’s palm. She paused, but asked nothing.
Mortals always easily accept unreasonable things, as long as they appear somewhat reasonable.
Stepping out of the bar, the Taipei night breeze carried a chill, yet also a hint of human warmth.
Yan Luo stood by the roadside, watching the passing car lights like flowing rivers of fate about to break.
He suddenly wanted to return to the Wangchuan Tea Pharmacy to see if A Meng was still sitting in that rattan chair.
But he knew she would not sleep.
She would simply sit there quietly, like a stone statue that would never fall, already numb.
In the end, he did not go back.
He walked beneath the arcades of Zhongxiao East Road, passed a 24-hour convenience store, and bought a pack of cigarettes and a can of beer.
Like an ordinary, sleepless office worker.
He leaned against a pillar, lit a cigarette. The smoke rose, mingled with his deathly aura, forming a faint red spider lily shape in the air before quickly dissipating.
“If one day you truly grow tired…” he whispered to the night sky, “even if I must defy the heavenly laws, I will bring you back.”
The cigarette burned to the end and scorched his fingertip.
Yet he did not let go, letting that burning sensation remind him again and again—that at this moment, he was at least like a mortal: capable of pain, longing, and sleepless nights for someone he could never have.
In the distance, the high-rise lights blazed like countless tiny glowing bottles.
Each one contained a memory no one wanted to remember, yet could not bear to discard.
Yan Luo finished the beer, tossed the empty can into a trash bin, and turned into the deeper night.
His silhouette gradually merged with Taipei’s neon and darkness, as if he had never been there.
And on the deepest shelf of the Wangchuan Tea Pharmacy, that extremely faint golden little bottle—belonging to A Meng herself—suddenly trembled gently.
The smoke inside slowly swirled, as if responding to a distant, thousands-of-years-suppressed call.
(End of Chapter 4)