At that moment, the large rat that had just fled suddenly doubled back.

Approaching the storage room, it seemed to sense something. It halted, refused to go farther, and slowly began retreating.

But the instant it turned—*whoosh*—a tentacle shot from the darkness and seized it.

Squeak… squeak…

Letting out a terrified shriek, the rat was yanked into the shadows and vanished. The sound cut off abruptly.

Through the sunbeam slicing through the small window, dust swirled inside—then quickly settled.

Dust to dust. Earth to earth. Silence returned, as if nothing had ever happened.

Not far away, in the courtyard,

Zhong Cheng sat with his grandparents, the three of them sharing a fragrant lunch.

Grandma, a skilled cook, had prepared extra dishes—all mountain village specialties.

Father must have called ahead to say Zhong Cheng was coming; that’s why she went all out.

Steamed crucian carp, stir-fried bamboo shoots, stir-fried bok choy, mushroom-braised rabbit, wild boar stew, silver ear and papaya soup.

All-natural ingredients, no additives—bursting with the fresh sweetness of the wild.

Even the rice, with its crispy scorched crust, looked mouthwatering.

A true taste of mountain life.

Starving, Zhong Cheng couldn’t resist. Chopsticks in hand, he dug in.

He ate with relish: a bite of tender rabbit, a crunch of scorched rice—*crunch!*

“Let’s share a few cups, grandson,” Grandpa said.

He brought out his treasured millet wine, ready to toast.

“You old devil!” Grandma scolded. “Smoke and drink yourself all you want—don’t drag our grandson into it too!”

“So annoying,” Grandpa grumbled.

“Grandpa, just two cups is fine. I’m not used to drinking—more would be a waste,” Zhong Cheng said gently, not wanting to spoil Grandpa’s mood.

“See? Just two cups, old woman. No problem,” Grandpa added.

This time, Grandma stayed silent.

Grandpa poured the wine himself.

Zhong Cheng sipped, smacked his lips. Sweet, mellow, surprisingly smooth—very beginner-friendly.

At first, nothing. Then—a warm dizziness crept into his head.

This millet wine packed a punch.

Good thing he’d only had two cups. Any more, and he’d have made a fool of himself.

Twenty minutes later, belly full and content, Zhong Cheng patted his stomach, let out a soft burp, and sighed happily.

He’d eaten his fill.

He offered to clear the table, but Grandma waved him off.

Grandpa was already rummaging through the yard, searching high and low for his bamboo water pipe—a post-meal ritual.

But Grandma had hidden it well. No luck.

Seeing both elders occupied, Zhong Cheng slipped out for a stroll to digest.

Clear streams, green hills, open skies, clouds racing overhead—he felt light, peaceful.

It stirred a quiet longing for poetry and distant roads.

A deep breath of crisp mountain air left him refreshed.

“Zhong Cheng.”

He turned.

A sturdy, sun-darkened young man strode over, grinning wide.

Zhong Cheng’s face lit up too.

Zeng Ziniu—nicknamed Iron Bull—one of his childhood village playmates.

They hadn’t met in years. Had Iron Bull not called his name, Zhong Cheng might not have recognized him.

Taller now, broad-shouldered, truly bull-like. A faint beard, weathered features—less an eighteen-year-old, more a thirty-something laborer.

“Hear you were back. Came to see you. Long time,” Iron Bull smiled.

“Just visiting Grandpa and Grandma,” Zhong Cheng replied.

“Right. After seeing the big world… who’d choose this poor, backward village?” Iron Bull sighed.

“You stayed? Never thought of leaving?”

“Tried city life. Too fast. No diploma, just muscle. Couldn’t land good work. Village’s quieter. Familiar. Comfortable.”

Zhong Cheng nodded softly, saying no more to spare his friend’s pride.

Unlike Zhong’s family, Iron Bull’s had always struggled—clothes worn thin, school fees out of reach. He’d dropped out after junior high.

His torn T-shirt, faded jeans, messy hair and beard spoke volumes.

Life here was peaceful, but stagnant. No future. Hard for a young man. Harder still to find a wife.

Even if he had a girlfriend, would she ever agree to move to Bao Hua Village?

Year by year, villagers left. None returned.

Like a leaking vat—emptying slowly. The village fading.

Zhong Cheng felt a quiet pang, but kept it to himself.

Without a word, they clapped each other’s shoulders, walked to the familiar hillside, and sat watching the golden rice fields stretch into the distance.

The place hadn’t changed. Only they had.

“Heard about the ghost marriage?” Iron Bull asked.

“Yeah. Who came up with that nonsense? I’ll smash their head in!” Zhong Cheng growled.

“Easy. Just a formality—to ease minds. You’re educated. Don’t take it seriously.”

“You’ve done Bao Hua Village a great service. They’ll remember your kindness.”

“Kindness? Since I stepped in, everyone hides like I’m the enemy sweeping through the village. That’s gratitude?”

“Calm down, calm down.”

“Just knowing my groom portrait’s still in the Ancient Shrine… it sits wrong.”

“Don’t feel cheated. Legend says the Ghost Emperor’s a beauty—never wed, a true maiden. Not a bad match.”

“*Legend?* Might as well believe the Chinese national football team’ll win the World Cup.”

“And if it’s so great—why didn’t *you* volunteer? Betrothed me without asking. Act first, explain later. What’s that?”

“Ahem… I *wanted* to,” Iron Bull said, voice dropping, “but I’ve got a girlfriend already. And… I’m not handsome. Not educated. The Ghost Emperor wouldn’t want me.”

“Wait.” Zhong Cheng froze. “Did you just say… you have a *girlfriend*?!”