The adage “The provision of an explanation is always an attempt to cover up the truth, and covering up is always the beginning of a mistake” was embodied in this slimy man with the surname Wen.

With one of his wrists caught by Zhou Zishu, his other hand braced on the ground, he was almost half lying on Zhou Zishu. Zhang Chengling was already sleeping like the dead; their breaths and words were as quiet as they could make them, and in the darkness, there was a suggestiveness to them that could not be defined.

Wen Kexing suddenly drew close, took off his outer robe, and wrapped it around Zhou Zishu. He played with a lock of hair at the side of Zhou Zishu’s head, and asked in a low voice, “A-Xu, is ‘Zhou Xu’ your real name?”

Zhou Zishu threw his hand off and shoved him away, and said, confident with justification, “What joke is Wen-xiong cracking? Like ‘Wen Kexing’ is your real name.”

Hearing this, Wen Kexing raised his eyebrows, and asked him in reply with an even softer voice, “So, according to you, what should my name be?”

Zhou Zishu was silent for a while, before he asked in a murmur, “Wen-xiong, is your surname truly Wen? I feel that, your surname should be Rong instead.”

Chapter 33: The Master of the Ghosts

Slowly, Wen Kexing righted himself into a sitting position, looking at him without saying a word. Crossing his legs, fingers tapping against his own knee, he only said in a quiet voice, after half a beat, “My surname isn’t Rong. I’m only bitter that I’ve never met that one surnamed Rong in my life, otherwise, I’ll slaughter him once for every one time I run into him.”

Zhou Zishu’s face was devoid of any surprise. Upon hearing this, he paused, before his speech slowed as he said, “Oh? Looks like I’ve guessed wrongly, then, I thought that...I thought that the current Master of the Ghost Valley is a Rong family descendant.”

In the darkness, only Zhang Chengling’s light snoring could be heard. The distance between the two of them was not far, but was as silent as a graveyard. After a while, a smile slowly formed on Wen Kexing’s face. This smile was different from his usual dumb, squinty-eyed grin; there were no laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his pitch-black irises still as cold as ice, reflecting a weak light. He looked over sharply, slender eyebrow cocked slightly, giving off the impression of a false smile. “Oh?”