After My Death, I Became the Scum Gong's White Moonlight's Back-Spirit - Chapter 3

The speed and rhythm with which Deep Blue served its dishes were exceptional, and the taste entirely matched its price tag, fully justifying Duan Cang’s high-tier membership card.

Soon, Duan Cang and Bai Ziyan completely forgot about him this unpleasant piece of clingy plaster—and began a relaxed and pleasant conversation.

Mo Han sat in the corner, watching the two people before him.

Fairly speaking, they were a great match.

At least far more compatible than he and Duan Cang had ever been.

Duan Cang was the sole heir of the Duan family, while Bai Ziyan was the second young master of the Bai family. The two possessed evenly matched family backgrounds and comparable appearances. What made it even more precious was that they were also childhood sweethearts who had accompanied each other from a young age and shared everything without reservation.

Their intimacy was truly impossible for an outsider like him to insert themselves into.

Mo Han withdrew his gaze.

Yet how he felt about it no longer mattered at all.

After all, he was already dead.

“Ziyan, how is it? In all these years you’ve been abroad, does the steak at Deep Blue taste the same as the one in your memory?”

Duan Cang asked with a smile.

Bai Ziyan nodded, his attractive eyes curving upward. He had always been gentle and refined, yet at this moment he carried a trace of youthful playfulness. “Indeed, the most wonderful thing in the world is when things remain the same and the people do too.”

Duan Cang understood this tongue-twister-like statement. He chuckled along, his brows and eyes carrying an unextinguishable tenderness. Mo Han had never seen him look like this before, as if all the smiles from their past seven years had been stored up just for this moment, rushing forth together toward Bai Ziyan.

“Speaking of which, our very first meeting was right here. You thought the steak here was delicious, but back then, I certainly didn’t think so.”

Bai Ziyan burst into hearty laughter. Curiously, even when laughing heartily, he never gave the impression of lacking manners; instead, it felt as though cool moonlight was finally shining down on the earth, infecting everyone around and making them curve the corners of their mouths in unison.

“You actually still remember that! I swear I really didn’t mean it back then! If you mind, the steak for the next meal, and the meal after that, I’ll treat them all.”

Back then, five-year-old Bai Ziyan and Duan Cang had met for the very first time at a business banquet.

At that time, Bai Ziyan was locked in a battle of wits and will with a piece of steak.

The steaks at Deep Blue had always been tender and juicy, but unfortunately, among the guests that day was someone who specifically favored well-done steak and had even given special instructions to the kitchen, hoping to let his teeth experience the joy of wrestling with a leather belt.

Since a guest had made a request, the kitchen naturally did its utmost, but a minor glitch occurred that day: this special steak was served at Bai Ziyan’s table.

Although he was only five years old and had been studying etiquette since childhood, tackling a steak was no challenge for him. Confidently, he picked up his knife and fork, only to be surprised by the unexpectedly robust elasticity of the steak.

Bai Ziyan’s fighting spirit was ignited; he was determined to slice off a piece. Putting his full strength into it, he didn’t expect his hand to slip, causing the entire piece of steak to fly through the air and land squarely on the head of a passing Duan Cang.

Duan Cang’s eyes instantly turned red.

Panic-stricken, Bai Ziyan hopped down from his chair and wanted to apologize, but Duan Cang struck back with a punch.

At the time, Bai Ziyan was in the tooth-loss stage, and one of his teeth was already loose. Getting hit like that actually knocked the tooth clean out.

Bai Ziyan spat out a grain-sized tooth, the pain making his eyes turn red as well. Since he was only five years old and possessed a strong childish temper, how could someone who got hit not retaliate? The two little milk-beans immediately rolled into a ball, and in the end, their respective adults had to step forward and apologize.

Later on, they got to know each other through this clash, eventually becoming the best of friends.

Recalling these amusing childhood anecdotes, even the normally stern Duan Cang seemed to regress back into a child.

Mo Han looked at Duan Cang and closed his eyes.

What a clean first encounter.

What had his own encounter with him been like back then?

He remembered it had been winter.

That year, he had just been brought back to the Mo family as an illegitimate son, feeling out of place with everything.

The Mo family originally had two legitimate children—the eldest sister, Mo Qin, and the younger brother, Mo Shengshan. Toward the arrival of an illegitimate son like him, the sister was indifferent, while the younger brother was intensely hostile.

Mo Han could fully understand their feelings. Nothing challenges family harmony more than the existence of an illegitimate son. If his biological father hadn’t lost his mind and brought him over through semi-coercive means while promising to cover the high cost of his maternal grandfather’s medical expenses, he would never have come to the Mo family either.

Therefore, whether Mo Shengshan deliberately locked him outside on a stormy day and had the driver leave early so he would arrive late at the banquet, or intentionally sprinkled peanut shards which he was allergic to—into his food, he simply handled all the aftermath quietly and even covered for Mo Shengshan in front of Father Mo.

He couldn’t clearly define his own feelings. Perhaps it was because one night during a violent thunderstorm, awakened by the thunder and wanting to go grab a cup of water, he had heard crying drifting out from Mo Shengshan’s room.

That weeping was filled with utmost grievance, interspersed with cries of “Mom!”

“Mom, don’t leave!”

“Mom, don’t leave me behind!”

Mo Shengshan was trapped deep within a nightmare, and his crying seemed as though it wanted to drag Mo Han, standing out in the hallway, into the darkness right along with him.

Mo Han remembered the night his mother committed suicide. Before cutting her carotid artery with the carving knife Father Mo had given her, she looked at him and spoke word by word:

“I hate you.”

Fresh blood spurted onto his face, warm.

He was only seven years old at the time.

From then on, his mother’s eyes—laden with spite and hatred before her death—became the nightmare that haunted him night after night.

He would often wake up crying out for mom from his nightmares, no more daring to fall asleep, waiting for dawn in the endless long night.

Mo Shengshan bore a similar hatred to his own; having struggled countless times in his own nightmares, he always felt an urge to give this teenager a helping hand.

That night, he gently patted Mo Shengshan’s back, letting the half-awake Mo Shengshan clutch his pajama hem, mistaking him for the mother in his dream, crying until his pajamas were soaked through.

Mo Han always had to spare a little extra attention for him.

So when Mo Shengshan acted somewhat awkwardly one day and asked if he wanted to go to a gathering together, he agreed.

And so, gullible as he was, he was naturally drugged by Mo Shengshan and left behind in a bar.

A famous gay bar in City A, a mixed bag of individuals. Inside it, Mo Han practically looked like a most enticing little dessert, with greedy gazes, both overt and covert, landing upon him.

Finally, someone reached out a hand toward him.

Back then, Mo Han didn’t even like men; being touched ambiguously by a man only made him feel sick. This “unappreciative” attitude of his provoked the hunter’s temper, leading him to call over his friends so they could “teach him a lesson together.”

Mo Han actually wasn’t weak in strength, but perhaps due to the effects of the alcohol, his entire body felt limp and drained of power, his stomach burning as if a torch had been shoved inside, making him nauseous wave after wave.

He forcefully shoved away the arms that reached out attempting to defile him, while the men surrounding him toyed with him like a cat playing with a mouse.

Everyone was watching with zest at his disheveled state. Some were even consumed by lust and couldn’t hold back, kissing strangers right beside them. Ambiguous tension rose, the heat of the entire bar baking people into a restless state only Mo Han in the middle felt as though he were about to freeze.

Those men seemed to finally finish playing and prepared to enjoy their dinner, reaching out to grab him.

Right at that moment, the turbid air was torn open, and a slightly chilly cedar scent forcefully enveloped him in an embrace. Everyone around froze in place, allowing the newcomer to pull him straight out of the bar.

The moment Mo Han stepped out of the bar, he threw up. He vomited tears and snot, practically puking up his gallbladder.

The man stood quietly beside him, promptly handing over a handkerchief and an unopened bottle of water.

Due to exhaustion, Mo Han’s hands were still trembling slightly. He took the handkerchief and water, cleaning himself up.

After finishing this round of vomiting and being chilled by the cold wind outside, he recovered a bit and thanked the newcomer.

The man wore a long black trench coat with a grey turtleneck sweater layered underneath, featuring a sharp jawline.

He carried an elegant demeanor with calm brows and eyes. Although he shouldn’t have been considered very old, he already possessed the oppressive aura belonging to someone in a position of authority.

Mo Han knew his current appearance was truly far from presentable, and he wondered whether his disheveled state had frightened his benefactor. Unfortunately, having no other alternatives, he could only smile as best as he could to express his gratitude.

The man looked down at him, his previously casual gaze locking onto his face.

The man’s features naturally carried an oppressive quality, resembling a saber tempered through a thousand trials, yet the gaze he directed toward him was gentle to the extreme—as if that saber were gently slicing through the stem of a flower, placing the delicate blossom upon the blade’s surface and presenting it toward him.

“Just passing by. Are you alright?”

“I’m much better.”

The man nodded, his gaze lingering on his brows and eyes. “It’s hard to catch a taxi around here. You can’t just stay here like this, I’ll drive you.”

Mo Han couldn’t decline. Considering that the Mo family driver probably wouldn’t come pick him up and that he genuinely couldn’t continue staying here, he accepted the man’s kindness.

Hesitating for a moment, he gave the address of the Mo family residence.

The man’s face showed no sign of disgust. The two remained silent all the way until they reached the Mo family.

Snowflakes began to drift from the sky; stretching out a hand outside, a layer of white would settle upon one’s sleeves. Mo Han thanked him once more. Just as he closed the car door, he noticed the man had stepped out of the car as well.

Tall with long legs, the man reached his side in a few strides, holding an umbrella over his head.

The umbrella was too small to cover more than one person; in the blink of an eye, snowflakes blanketed the man’s shoulders.

“You just drank alcohol; you shouldn’t catch a chill.”

The street lamps illuminated the drifting snow, as well as the person standing before him.

Fine snow rested on the man’s hair and shoulders, reflecting a subtle, warm glow beneath the light.

“You…”

The man curved his eyes, his brows and eyes softened by a smile, carrying a gentleness reminiscent of melting ice and snow.

“Go on.”

His back was gently nudged, and Mo Han subconsciously walked forward. As he walked, he turned back to look at the man adorned by snow and light.

Leaning against the car, the man smiled and said, “I am Duan Cang. Cang as in the vast sea.”

This was how they had first met.

Even many years later, whenever Mo Han closed his eyes, he could still recall Duan Cang’s slightly curved eyes that night, brimming with tenderness and pity, making Mo Han willingly drown in them.

Regrettably, it wasn’t until much later that Mo Han learned this tenderness was never meant for him, nor was the pity.

Everything Duan Cang gave him was nothing more than bitterness that grew harsher with each passing year.