Chapter 320

In the blink of an eye, the gathering's time arrived.

The gathering's location was not in Guangdong but in Anhui.

Wealthy families always act this way: whether they have business or not, they love to squander money, inviting a large crowd of friends and classmates to travel, beautifully calling it a gathering, while the true purpose is something else. As the Han dynasty's founding emperor said, "Wealth and honor not returned to one's hometown is like walking at night in fine clothes." Applied to this society, it means: having money but not holding gatherings is like biting into yesterday's chicken leg.

Anyone who was poor in a past life but rich now, or who was born into a wealthy family, generally likes to attend such a lavish gathering. Those who rose from poverty either want to vent frustration and relieve repression, or they enjoy being surrounded by admirers, seeking self‑comfort, telling everyone, "Damn, my old man is rich now—I'm no longer that poor Hu Hansan; who dares look down on me?" In truth, such people lack security most; their wallets are always stuffed with cash, and if the wallet is empty they feel insecure. Doing this is also a way to mask inferiority and vent pressure.

Those born into wealth mostly do it to show off, or because they think they're superior, ordering others around and acting arrogantly. In fact they never consider that everyone is born of a mother, has one nose and two eyes. You're just a bit lucky to be born into a wealthy family. A father's heroism doesn't guarantee the son's valor; a father's wealth doesn't guarantee you can keep the family fortune—thirty years east, thirty years west; who dares say feng shui won't turn, who dares bully the poor youth?

I don't have a good feeling toward Yao Yirong; perhaps I dislike her even more. The reason is simple: she is the aforementioned type—someone who thinks she's born superior, as if the world would stop turning without her, lavishly spending my hard‑earned money to satisfy her vanity.

This time, I don't even know which number gathering this is for her; anyway, Pangzi and I were on the invite list.

In short, the letter said everything was covered—food, lodging, entertainment, round‑trip travel expenses—showing off the host's wealthy style.

The day before departure, Pangzi and I bought train tickets to Anhui, packed some simple daily necessities, took an overnight train, and arrived at Anhui's Chaohu Lake.

However, the gathering was held in Lujiang. It's said that Yao Yirong's father used to do business in Anhui before moving to Guangdong. He rarely returns to Anhui now, and some of his holdings lie idle in Lujiang, including a mansion from the Republican era.

So Pangzi and I had to go by water from Chaohu, taking a ferry to Lujiang.

Upon arriving at the agreed place, I found there were indeed many people—over a dozen in all. Among them was Pangzi's sister, Mengxue.

"Hai Sheng bro, big bro, you guys came too?" Mengxue spotted us two and came over like a little rabbit.

"Come, let me introduce you—this is my good friend Qingqing." Mengxue pulled a girl beside her and said to us.

"Hello," the girl said, raising her head and lightly greeting us.

The moment she raised her head, I froze.

"Meng… are you Xiao Meng?" I grabbed her hand, unable to suppress my excitement, my voice trembling as I spoke.

"What are you doing? You hurt my hand!" Qingqing shouted, "You're crazy!"

"Hai Sheng, what are you doing? Let go of her!" Pangzi yanked my hand away forcefully, pulling me out of my daze.

Mengxue also stared at me in shock, and the girl called Qingqing hid behind him.

After coming to my senses, I inevitably sighed and awkwardly apologized to her.

Meng is gone; she isn't the Meng I dreamed of—the Meng in my heart has long left this world.

Perhaps out of respect for Mengxue's feelings, Qingqing didn't lose her temper with me, but her gaze toward me was always strange, as if she were looking at a lunatic.

She pulled Mengxue away and went to the other side; I could only stand aside, silently lost in my memories.

Pangzi gently pushed me and asked with concern, "Are you okay?"

I shook my head, asked Pangzi for a cigarette, lit it lightly, and didn't answer him because my heart ached terribly; that long‑absent silhouette rose again in my mind.

Everyone's heart holds someone they once deeply loved and could not let go of; even a Daoist plagued by five flaws and three deficiencies is no exception—I will never forget her name. Meng, the dream of a secluded curtain.

I remember the first time I met her—at the orphanage gate. To get a child's balloon, she climbed up that three‑meter‑high wutong tree.

When she fell from the tree, though frail she didn't cry; instead, she immediately thought of the crying child.

She lowered her head and said, "Don't cry, big sister Balloon already got it back for you."

From then on, her figure was etched into my mind.

Perhaps it was fate; she later became my seatmate in high school. She was very frail, not pretty at all, her only distinctive feature being the two deep dimples when she smiled.

Yet I fell for her helplessly. In youth's innocence, one always feels a first, purest emotion. Loving someone isn't about her looks; it's a feeling, a heartache that drains your strength, making you want to devote your life to protecting and cherishing her.

In life's journey, whether from a moment's astonishment or from long‑term affection, one develops a feeling toward the opposite sex called liking, but it's not necessarily love. Many people like and are liked, but only one can make you feel heart‑ache. That person is your lover, though she may not stay with you for life. So‑called love is often shattered by cruel reality.

Meng is the one who makes me feel heart‑ache; she's strong, kind, and every move of hers tugs at my heart. But I know I am a person with five flaws and three deficiencies; I inherited the "solitary" character, and when I love someone I only bring about her death.

So at first I buried this sincere feeling forever.

When I was young I once wrote a very childish poem titled Hidden Dream.

Under the eaves of a blue‑tile pavilion, the hazy longing for your silhouette,

Alas, I can only hide it in my heart.

Meng hides; flowers fall, burying blossoms; the dream is shattered.

Thoughts like a dream, remembering you, I hide the dream.

The days I spent with her felt like I was living in a dream, sensing that excited yet uneasy feeling in my heart. No one knows I harbor a dream in my heart, a dream that belongs only to her.

No one knows how happy I was back then. Every day I'd go early to class, waiting for her arrival, and at that moment I'd pretend to be aloof and greet her: "You've come."

In summer I'd always go from the classroom to the school gate, buy two drinks, then head back. I'd casually toss one to my seatmate her, saying, "I went downstairs to buy drinks and brought you one." Actually, I don't like sweet things at all, let alone drinks.

She took it with a giggle, sipping it daintily. Watching her careful demeanor, I felt deep satisfaction, thinking the greatest happiness in the world is to enjoy her tranquil smile.

Later I still couldn't restrain the agitation in my heart, so I wrote her a love letter—loving someone, I wished she understood my feelings; I wished to protect her forever with my life, to tell everyone she was mine. If she was hurt, I would comfort her; if she cried, only I could lend her my shoulder. I couldn't bear to bully her; no one could touch a single hair of hers.

I thought that if she saw my letter she would despise me, and I would then lose heart.

But what I never expected was that we actually ended up together; she didn't shun my ghostly eyes that keep strangers away. For her I grew long bangs to cover my blind eye, hoping we wouldn't draw idle stares when we walked the streets.

I once thought we'd stay like that until the seas ran dry and the rocks rotted, but a sudden disaster took her forever from this world and shattered my dream.

I will never forget that day—I watched my lover die violently before my eyes; even though I am a peerless ghost‑master disciple of the Yin Mountain Sect, I could not find her soul.

I know her death is my fault—because she fell for a Daoist plagued by five flaws and three deficiencies. This Daoist bears the "solitary" character, destined to be alone all his life; the love ordinary people enjoy is forever out of reach for him.

After her death I was tormented for two months by an indescribable feeling—not pain, not ache, but a spasm a hundred times more agonizing than pain. Perhaps it strikes while you eat, or while you sleep, welling up inexplicably, making you want to cry, making you involuntarily think of her.

Whenever night deepens and all is quiet, you feel a needle‑like pain that spreads point by point across your heart, pulsing with your breath in a rhythmic spasm. As the spasm intensifies, you feel your whole person, soul, and heart become empty.

I spent those two months in guilt, then later I found the driver who hit him.

I took the soil beneath his feet, took his eight characters (birth data), and cast upon him a fierce ghostly yin‑wind spell.

Not long after, the driver couldn't endure the mental torment and killed himself. I used his life to make an offering to my beloved.

And I, too, was harshly punished by QingSongShu for this, confined to bed for three months.

However, the pain of the flesh can never conceal the deficiency of my spirit.

From then on I sealed my heart; I dare not love anyone again, for my love is forever a burial offering of the word "lonely".

I thought my heart had thus become indifferent, but fate let me meet her again; even though I know this girl is called Qingqing and she is not a dream, at this moment guilt surges toward me like a tide, the dust‑sealed memory is awakened again, and I then recall that in my life I once passed a girl named Meng, to whom I owe too much.