After My Death, I Became the Scum Gong's White Moonlight's Back-Spirit - Chapter 8

The rain that day drenched Mo Han through to the bone. Dragging his exhausted body back to the small house his maternal grandfather had left him, he went straight to bed, running a high fever by nightfall.

This high fever broke only to return again, teasing him relentlessly for a full week, after which he spent a solid month recuperating before fully recovering.

Yet Mo Han knew that torrential downpour had never truly stopped; it continued to lash against his heart, dragging him back into that chilly, gloomy rainy night every single time he thought of Duan Cang.

Watching Duan Cang draw closer and closer, every hair on Mo Han’s body stood on end. Stepping forward with a sway, he blocked the path directly in front of the tuxedo cat. “Duan Cang, you…”

Duan Cang could not see him.

Duan Cang walked straight through his spiritual form, then lowered himself, stretching out a hand with the intent of stroking the tuxedo cat’s soft fur.

The tuxedo cat fixed its emerald eyes on Duan Cang, its pupils constricting into thin vertical slits.

Every hair on its body bristled, puffing up into a black-and-white furball as it began to hiss at Duan Cang.

The tuxedo cat did not like Duan Cang.

Bai Ziyan was startled as well. Eccentric though the tuxedo cat usually was, its temper was generally not bad, and he had never seen it display such intense rejection toward anyone.

“Miaomiao?”

Bai Ziyan hurriedly reached out to scoop it up, offering an apology to Duan Cang in the same breath. “I’m sorry, A-Cang. Miaomiao probably hasn’t seen people in too long and got startled.”

Cradled in Bai Ziyan’s arms, the tuxedo cat’s fur gradually smoothed back down under Bai Ziyan’s gentle caresses.

Having lost face in front of the cat, Duan Cang stood awkwardly to the side. Mo Han watched him vigilantly, observing a flicker of gloom flash across those eyes, deep and dark like a sea concealing thunder.

Yet the annoyance in his gaze vanished almost instantly, replaced by awkwardness and apology. The dignified CEO of the Duan family suddenly looked as helpless and flustered as a child who had done something wrong.

“I startled it; I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Duan Cang stepped back slightly, offering the tuxedo cat a sufficient sense of security.

He smiled with a hint of helplessness, his tone seasoned and familiar. “Little ungrateful wretch, I even once made a felted wool doll based on your photos, yet you’re the one who bares your teeth at me the moment you see me.”

Bai Ziyan stroked the tuxedo cat’s spine and chuckled as well. “Hear that, Miaomiao? That little felted wool cat was specially made for you by A-Cang.”

Watching Duan Cang’s tender gaze, Mo Han’s heart suddenly felt like a balloon pricked by a needle, letting all his anger and hatred spill out through that tiny hole.

Turns out Duan Cang was capable of liking cats after all.

Love me, love my dog; hate me, hate my dog.

A tearful sigh he had once overheard suddenly echoed in Mo Han’s mind, laden with layers of misty rain, the damp moisture blurring his brows and eyes—

He simply loathes me.

It was his own fault.

Mo Han closed his eyes. His eyes burned with an unbearable ache, yet he was no longer even capable of shedding tears.

If it weren’t for following him, how could Xiao Hei ever have suffered such hardship?

He could only blame himself for lacking the fortune to win love, failing to recognize his own reality, and stubbornly pressing forward. Believing that his boundless warmth could never cool, and that an unyielding refusal to accept defeat could conquer all, he had braved the frost and wind with his bare body, hoping his own temperature could thaw a glacier that had remained frozen since antiquity.

In the end, ice shards pierced his flesh, blood stained the long street, and his lonely death left him powerless, dragging Xiao Hei down into his own misery before he finally understood: Duan Cang was never a barren ice field devoid of life; it was simply that all that overflowing warmth was never once willing to be displayed for him.

His most desperate yearning was merely someone else’s everyday commonplace.

Under Bai Ziyan’s soothing, the tuxedo cat finally calmed down completely, leaping up onto the gray stone slab to flick its tail.

Duan Cang, who never liked to admit defeat, tentatively reached out a hand once more.

Regrettably, when a cat dislikes someone, dislikes them it truly did, and a cat had a thousand and one ways to ensure the other person could never lay a finger on it.

Just as Duan Cang’s hand drew near, the tuxedo cat went limp as though all the bones had been sucked out of its body, dodging Duan Cang’s hand with exquisite timing before executing a nimble flick of its tail and darting behind Mo Han.

As if it had finally reached a safe sanctuary, the tuxedo cat licked its pink paw pads, craned its neck to peer at Duan Cang, and looked remarkably like it was provoking him.

Observing Miaomiao’s posture, a fleeting trace of strangeness flashed through Bai Ziyan’s mind. Why did the tuxedo cat’s posture and demeanor look precisely as though it had hidden behind something and was peeking out?

Yet there was clearly nothing whatsoever between them and Miaomiao.

Given how many times the tuxedo cat had thrown fits of madness, this thought merely circled through Bai Ziyan’s mind before vanishing entirely. He walked over to pet the tuxedo cat, confirming it had indeed calmed down, before telling Duan Cang, “A-Cang, wait in the living room for a moment. I’m going to clean up a bit before we head out.”

“Alright.”

Bai Ziyan brought Duan Cang into the villa and casually scooped up the tuxedo cat to deposit it inside the cat room.

For reasons unknown, the tuxedo cat harbored an intense aversion toward Duan Cang. Fearing the cat might get startled again or suddenly lash out and injure Duan Cang, Bai Ziyan simply decided to stash the tuxedo cat away in the cat room first.

Snatched abruptly out of its safe hiding spot, the tuxedo cat struggled for a moment, but upon catching a familiar scent, it quieted right down, keeping its eyes fixed on Mo Han with its head tilted at an odd angle.

Mo Han had a lingering sense of playing with someone else’s kid behind the parent’s back.

Having settled the tuxedo cat and watching it obediently sprawl back out under a patch of sunlight, Bai Ziyan finally heaved a sigh of relief and headed upstairs to change his clothes.

Tethered by the invisible force, Mo Han followed along upstairs, casting one final look back at Duan Cang.

Duan Cang was dressed casually, the top two buttons of his custom-tailored casual shirt undone to reveal glimpses of muscle underneath as he stood sideways, gazing at the potted greenery on the table.

Duan Cang had always been exceptionally self-disciplined; his physique ranked among the absolute best within his circle of wealthy peers. Enjoying the sensation of keeping everything firmly within his grasp, he naturally refused to allow his physical body to slip beyond his control.

Correspondingly, he enjoyed sports car racing, bungee jumping, and every form of high-adrenaline thrill. The collision between absolute rationality and absolute stimulation endowed him with two contradictory temperaments: dangerous yet fascinating.

The sound of a door closing echoed. As Bai Ziyan reached down toward the hem of his shirt, Mo Han turned his head away, fixing his eyes on the delicate grain of the wooden door.

When it came to self-discipline, Bai Ziyan was every bit a match for him. No one knew this better than Mo Han, who was tightly bound to Bai Ziyan’s side.

Yet Bai Ziyan was different from Duan Cang. Bai Ziyan’s self-mastery felt more like an expression of refined habit, as natural as breathing itself. Consequently, his emotions remained forever steady, resembling the surface of a lake on a clear day.

Bai Ziyan always reminded Mo Han of the gentle second male leads in various novels—so flawless that their popularity paradoxically fell short of those domineering or morally grey protagonists.

The rustling sounds ceased, and Bai Ziyan strode over. Mo Han stepped aside, watching Bai Ziyan push open the door before being snagged by the familiar pulling force and drifting toward Bai Ziyan’s direction.

Bai Ziyan changed clothes with great speed, but by the time they reached downstairs, Duan Cang had already abandoned the sofa and was now standing before the piano.

“Ziyan.”

Duan Cang turned to look at Bai Ziyan, his hand resting lightly upon the snowy white velvet dust cover.

Seeing him, Bai Ziyan smiled. “Why aren’t you sitting down to rest? Could it be that my family’s sofa doesn’t suit your tastes?”

Duan Cang smiled faintly. “A sofa personally chosen and arranged by you naturally suits my tastes; I wouldn’t dare plead guilty to that charge.”

“I just saw the piano and suddenly remembered I haven’t heard you play in a very long time.”

Bai Ziyan felt a brief wave of nostalgia as well. The last time he had performed in front of Duan Cang was on his own birthday; ever since then, they had been separated by half the globe, making it difficult to meet again.

Bai Ziyan lifted the velvet cover, revealing the pristine white piano lid. Golden sunlight flowed across the milky-white piano stand, evoking memories of snowscapes following a heavy blizzard.

Mo Han’s pupils contracted sharply.

Bai Ziyan seated himself, tilting his head up with a smile. “Then this time, as my sole audience member, I’ll have to trouble you to listen and see if my skills have improved over the years.”

His slender fingers rested lightly upon the keys, and the music flowed forth from his fingertips like a running stream toward all directions.

It was as though the entire world had been reduced to nothing but the sound of music.

[Such beautiful hands, what a pity.]

Mo Han gave a violent shudder, the voice buried deep within his memory crashing over him like a tidal wave, overwhelming him from all directions.

[His fingers are certainly slender, but why is he so clumsy, unable to even finish playing Für Elise? Such poor physical coordination.]

[I see a scar on his right wrist; he must have been injured previously.]

[Stop lamenting. President Duan told us to train him out, and if he doesn’t learn it, we’re the ones who will suffer.]

Mo Han was pinned before the piano, pressing down the keys over and over again until his ten fingers swelled up and turned red.

After listening to him play, the secretary shook her head slowly amidst his expectant gaze, offering a respectful yet apologetic response: “I am sorry, but a level like yours is still not enough to impress President Duan.”

The secretary had told Mo Han that Duan Cang loved listening to piano music and hoped to hear him play a piece in person on June 16th.

And so, the secretary brought back three piano teachers for Mo Han without ever asking for his opinion.

Perhaps in Duan Cang’s mind, asking or not asking was entirely unnecessary; in any case, Mo Han would always do it.

And his assumption was correct.

Mo Han would always fulfill Duan Cang’s wishes.

Even though Mo Han’s right hand had sustained an injury that left behind a chronic ailment, rendering his hand occasionally stiff and unresponsive.

Furthermore June 16th was an exceptionally special date.

And so Mo Han threw himself wholeheartedly into the practice room. His unyielding diligence eventually silenced all three piano teachers, their complaints and dissatisfaction gradually transforming into admiration and regret.

The teachers all thought: If only Mo Han’s hand had never been injured.

Thus, June 16th arrived.

Mo Han had specially changed into a white formal suit—chosen for him by the piano teachers. Through this period of interaction, the teachers had come to genuinely accept this student from the bottom of their hearts, shifting from initial indifference to palpable excitement for Mo Han’s very first performance in front of Duan Cang.

The teachers smiled as they cheered him on, then waved goodbye to leave the space entirely to him.

Mo Han sat before the piano, quietly waiting for Duan Cang to arrive.

The massive villa was undeniably quiet, yet with his heart beating in rapid, steady thuds, Mo Han did not find it desolate in the least.

The two of them hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

When Duan Cang returned to the villa, the moon was already climbing to the treetops.

The living room lights remained unlit, the entire villa plunged in pitch-black darkness. Duan Cang frowned, and just as he was about to call out Mo Han’s name, the instant his gaze fell upon the front, the shout caught firmly in his throat.

Bathed in moonlight, a young man clad in a white formal suit sat before the piano with a spine as straight as a pine or bamboo.

Duan Cang’s gaze grew dazed. He stepped forward in a loss of composure, nearly blurting out a name buried deep within his heart for ages.

The music began to play.

The young man’s playing was practiced and fluid, the notes cascading like a babbling stream.

Duan Cang walked right up beside the piano. Expressionless, standing beneath the moonlight, he looked faintly terrifying.

“Enough!”

A furious roar brutally interrupted Mo Han’s playing. Startled, he raised his head to look at Duan Cang, his hands still resting upon the keys, suspended halfway down like a pair of white butterflies.

Duan Cang didn’t even look at him. He simply grabbed the piano lid, stared fixedly at Mo Han’s hands with a sneer, and slammed it down with brutal force, crashing the heavy wooden lid squarely onto Mo Han’s fingers before he had time to pull them back.

In a fraction of a second, excruciating, bone-deep agony struck Mo Han. All ten fingers were smashed through, and the agonizing pain of ten fingers linked to the heart caused his vision to black out, his head to buzz, and a sheen of cold sweat to instantly coat his forehead.

Through his blurred vision, he caught the dense, suffocating disgust in his lover’s eyes.

“Playing like this is practically an insult to the piano.”

“Do you even deserve it?”

On the anniversary of their first meeting, Mo Han’s hands were bound in plaster, and from that day onward, his hands could never securely hold a tool again.

Whenever rainy days arrived, a lingering, persistent ache would drill straight up through his bone marrow, keeping Mo Han awake for entire nights on end.

It wasn’t until much later that Mo Han learned June 16th was not only the anniversary of their first meeting, but also Bai Ziyan’s birthday.