"I don't know what you want to ask. It was clearly a good story—why did it end up tasting so bitter in the end?"
As I spoke, The Wraithlord smiled and immediately continued.
"Let me tell you another story. Take your time to feel it."
I let out a sigh, glanced around. There was nothing to do anyway—listening to a story was better than anything else. I found a relatively flat spot and sat down. The Wraithlord began his second tale.
In a certain era, there was The Storyteller. Every day, he would rent a spot in the town market, set up a table and chair, and begin to tell his stories.
The Storyteller's business was thriving. He was clever; every book he told, he would study thoroughly several times, then analyze the rhythm and details. Some parts he would retell in his own way, and his words often strung together like pearls, captivating his audience. The applause and coins came naturally.
For every story, The Storyteller controlled the pacing daily, always measured and skillful. He would end each day just as the story reached its climax, then stop, leaving the crowd hanging and eager for more the next day. He was truly a sharp mind.
The Storyteller lived in a county town, large for its time, but still full of people who struggled to make ends meet. His business naturally flourished—many couldn't afford the pleasures of the teahouse or the risks of gambling, and could only find amusement in listening to stories.
One day, someone unusual appeared at The Storyteller's booth. What made this person special was that he never paid a single coin, not even after a week of listening.
Most listeners would tip a little every few days. If someone came for long without paying, The Storyteller would seize the chance to tease them, getting the crowd to join in until the non-payer, shamed, would slink away.
On the seventh day, The Storyteller borrowed a reference from a classic and began to mock the man who never paid, teasing him repeatedly. But this time, no one in the crowd joined in. The Storyteller was visibly shaken, and even the audience seemed confused about his intentions. When asked, people nearby claimed there was no such person, and wondered why The Storyteller wasn't sticking to his tale, instead rambling about old stories.
That day, The Storyteller lost his passion, his face showing fear. The non-paying man in the crowd smiled at him. The Storyteller packed up early and went home, growing increasingly disturbed. Was that man some wandering ghost?
The Storyteller also told strange and eerie tales, but only at night. For evening performances, he charged for hot tea and lamp oil.
Those who craved horror and excitement flocked to the nighttime sessions. Many of the bizarre stories were unheard of—frightening, yet fascinating. At night, The Storyteller would even mix in tales of forbidden desires.
It left many itching with desire, and after the story, they would rush to the brothel. From time to time, the brothel would reward The Storyteller for his effect.
But the more The Storyteller thought about it, the stranger it seemed. He still had to host the nighttime show, so he tried it again, but the man did not return. The night passed slowly. The Storyteller blamed exhaustion. Yet the next day, at the daytime session, he saw the man again, sitting in the same spot.
This time, The Storyteller feigned calm and waited until the crowd left before approaching the man. But the man just smiled and told The Storyteller, "I'm a ghost."
The Storyteller was terrified, begging the ghost not to haunt him. The ghost replied he simply liked listening to stories. The Storyteller asked why he never came at night.
The ghost told The Storyteller, "I'm a ghost. Those ghost stories you tell aren't strange enough for me." Suddenly, a fierce wind howled as the ghost grabbed The Storyteller and dragged him away. The Storyteller was terrified, but powerless to resist.
As the sun was about to set, the ghost dragged The Storyteller to a desolate burial ground. "Take a good look at real ghosts," he said. "The things you talk about would make us laugh ourselves to death."
The Storyteller dared not resist, only begging the ghost not to harm him. The ghost promised—it only wanted him to see.
Following the ghost's instructions, The Storyteller hid atop a tree heavy with yin energy, making it hard for the ghosts to spot him. As night fell, the place suddenly transformed into a bustling market, packed with people. The Storyteller crouched in the tree, barely daring to breathe—beneath him, the crowd was all ghosts, many bearing the marks of violent death. He shut his eyes tight, nearly paralyzed by fear.
But the ghost who dragged The Storyteller here insisted he keep his eyes open and watch closely.
"What a strange ghost," I muttered.
The Wraithlord shot me a displeased look. I just smiled.
All night long, The Storyteller didn't close his eyes—he didn't dare. By morning, exhausted, he staggered back to the county town and collapsed into sleep.
In his dreams, The Storyteller was visited by the ghost, who grabbed him in a rage and beat him severely. He woke in terror—only to see the ghost standing before him, declaring it would live in his home until he figured things out.
From then on, The Storyteller sought out every skilled practitioner he could find, hoping for help. But the ghost was terrifyingly powerful—several experts tried and failed, all warning him the only solution was to fulfill the ghost's wish.
The Storyteller asked the ghost what it wanted, but it only smiled, saying nothing, forcing The Storyteller to figure it out himself.
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With the ghost living in his home, The Storyteller lived in constant fear. He shut down his bookstall and fled during broad daylight, but hadn't gone far before the ghost caught up and dragged him back.
The Storyteller suffered terribly under the ghost's torment, but dared not complain. Then one day, the ghost announced it was leaving, telling The Storyteller to take care of himself.
Just like that, The Storyteller was freed from the ghost's haunting. Overjoyed, he prepared to reopen his bookstall. But when he did, he found the place deserted—none of his old listeners returned.
Confused, The Storyteller asked a few regulars. They told him his stories were always the same, and that the new storyteller at the nearby tavern was much better—plus, there were chairs and free tea.
Stunned, The Storyteller rushed to the new bookstall that had opened while he was away—only to find the ghost. The new storyteller was the ghost, dressed as a scholar.
Once again, The Storyteller could only swallow his anger, unable to understand what he'd done to offend the ghost so deeply. Watching the ghost tell stories, he realized the ghost was no worse than himself. When recounting history, the ghost spoke with authority, unlike The Storyteller, who faked his way through the parts he didn't know. The audience praised the ghost, while The Storyteller's clever words only got a few laughs.
When the ghost finished, The Storyteller approached, hoping for answers. But the ghost ignored him, claiming not to know him.
Day by day, The Storyteller's fortunes worsened—he struggled even to survive. His nighttime shows drew few people, until finally, no one came at all. Meanwhile, the ghost's bookstall was packed, busier than The Storyteller's ever was.
Finally, one day, The Storyteller couldn't take it anymore. He confronted the ghost, but the ghost still denied knowing him, mocking him with every word. Driven past his limit, The Storyteller grabbed a fruit knife and stabbed the ghost.
But as the blade struck, the ghost gave a cold, chilling smile. "You still haven't remembered," it said. "Now I'm going to take everything."
The Storyteller snapped back to reality, surrounded by a crowd shouting about murder. Only then did he realize he'd stabbed an older man, not the ghost. The Storyteller was arrested and sentenced to death by beheading.
Desperate, The Storyteller insisted it was the ghost's fault, but everyone thought he was mad. No one listened.
The more I listened, the more confused I became—I had no idea what The Wraithlord's story was really about.
"Did The Storyteller promise the ghost something in the past? And then forget?"
The Wraithlord shook his head.
"Think again, Rachel Lan."
"I don't feel like thinking about it."
The Wraithlord stood, gazing into the distance, then sighed.
"Why do ghosts harm the living?"
After thinking it over, I replied.
"Of course, it's because they want to eat people, or steal their yang energy, or use them for something..."
"Nonsense."
The Wraithlord burst out laughing.
"Let me tell you then—why ghosts harm the living."
I swallowed hard. The Wraithlord's eyes were terrifying, sending chills down my spine. He sat back down and continued.
Soon after, The Storyteller was to be executed. He was in utter despair, never understanding what he'd done to provoke the ghost's wrath.
On the day of execution, The Storyteller saw the ghost standing in the crowd, smiling at him with a cold, chilling grin.