“Damn.”
When that “half-person” lunged forward, Ban Xia cursed loudly and clearly.
The man sitting cross-legged flicked his fingers lightly, and a curved blade floating midair froze above Ban Xia’s head. Its soft, luminous glow enveloped her tightly.
Ban Xia stood straight as a ramrod, her expression calm and unflinching, not the least bit frightened.
The “half-person” was baffled. Rolling his nearly all-white eyes, he hissed at Ban Xia, “Why aren’t you scared? Why don’t you scream and run away like everyone else?”
“Damn,” Ban Xia cursed again. “You’re just a ghost who refuses to reincarnate. Why should I be afraid of you?”
The ghost froze, visibly enraged. Blood began to drip from his severed waist, pattering on the ground as he circled Ban Xia. “I’m not a ghost! I’m alive and well! It’s just that my pants are always damp—wet, wet, wet! They never dry!”
“You’re dead. You were executed by waist-severing three years ago,” said the man behind Ban Xia. His voice was gentle, with a subtle, enigmatic undertone.
Ban Xia smirked, mimicking the ghost’s eye-roll. “You hear that? You’ve been dead for three whole years! Honestly, ghosts are always like this—thinking they’re still alive!”
“I told you, I’m not dead!” the ghost shrieked. His ten fingers curled into claws, reaching to strangle Ban Xia. His glassy eyes rolled back unnaturally, spinning in their sockets.
Ban Xia clicked her tongue, glancing at the curved blade beside her face with disdain. “You’d better not come closer. See this blade? Clearly, it’s a divine weapon, and its owner must be a master. Take one more step, and you’ll definitely be reduced to ashes.”
The ghost hesitated, visibly wary of the blade and not daring to advance recklessly.
Time ticked by, but neither the divine weapon nor the master moved to subdue the ghost.
Tentatively, the ghost edged forward, inch by inch, until he finally pressed himself against Ban Xia. His cold, clammy hands clutched her neck.
“I hate when people say I’m dead! That, and my perpetually wet pants—those are the two things I hate most!” he hissed, tightening his grip. Ban Xia could feel sticky blood dripping from his hands onto the cardboard box she held.
At that moment, Ban Xia suddenly had an idea.
“Brother Ghost,” she said softly, fluttering her long lashes. “If I can make your pants stay dry, will you forgive me for saying you’re dead?”
The ghost paused. Ban Xia kept blinking, while he rolled his eyes like spinning marbles.
“Impossible,” he said after a while, shaking his head. “I’ve forced so many people to try and dry them, but nothing works. No method works. My pants can only stay dry for a little while!”
Despite his words, his hands began to loosen, and he looked at Ban Xia with hopeful eyes, his breath damp and heavy.
Ban Xia bent down, placing the box on the ground. Unable to find anything to cut the tape, she grabbed the curved blade hovering midair.
Surprisingly, the so-called divine weapon was quite blunt. It took her a long time to slice through the tape.
“Damn,” she muttered, opening the box. She tore open a package of extra-long overnight pads, unwrapped six of them, and carefully peeled back their adhesive wings. Sticking them together, she fashioned an oversized pad.
The ghost watched curiously, clearly unfamiliar with sanitary products, his glassy eyes swiveling with interest.
The man behind Ban Xia remained cross-legged, his eyes half-closed as if deep in meditation, unperturbed by the scene.
“Done!” Ban Xia exhaled, motioning to the ghost. “Bring your waist over here.”
Obediently, the ghost leaned forward. Ban Xia wrinkled her nose at the stench of blood, sticking the oversized pad over his severed waist. She secured it with tape from the box.
The ghost stopped rolling his eyes. He circled in place, silent, as if testing something.
Time ticked by. No more wetness seeped through his pants. For the first time in three years—a thousand nights—he felt dry!
“It’s dry! My pants are really dry!!!” He shrieked with joy, spinning madly in circles.
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