Chapter 1

Late at night, Ling Chen, who was dozing off in the duty room while slacking on the job, was suddenly startled awake by a piercing telephone ring.

He didn’t feel like answering it at first, but the persistent ringing went on for what seemed like forever, irritating him immensely. Begrudgingly, he dragged himself up. Ling Chen glanced at the wall clock while yawning—three in the morning. In ancient times, this was known as the “Yin Hour,” the moment between night and dawn.

Who would call at this ungodly hour?

Ah, must be someone rushing to reincarnate.

The ringing continued in endless loops, echoing through the dimly lit room. The light rain that had pattered down before he dozed off had stopped without him noticing. The window had been pushed open by the night breeze, letting in the damp scent of rotting soil and fallen leaves, which filled every corner of the cramped space.

Through the swaying shadows of the trees outside, only fragments of the broken moonlight could be seen.

“Hello?” Ling Chen finally answered, his tone grumpy. “This is the xx District Funeral Service Center. If this is some kid’s prank, hang up now. We never run out of fuel at the crematorium.”

“It’s me, Xiao Ling.” Surprisingly, it was his director on the other end. “This isn’t a prank—you’re on duty today, right? Good. Grab your tools and come to Body Farewell Room No. 2 immediately.”

“…?” Ling Chen instinctively glanced at the clock again. Yep, definitely 3 a.m. “Now?”

“Yes,” the director’s tone was more serious than Ling Chen had ever heard. “This particular ‘guest’ is special. When you arrive, keep your mouth and eyes in check. Don’t ask questions or look too much. You’ll understand when you get here.”

The director hung up without waiting for a response.

Ling Chen, still confused, knew that his director wasn’t the type to joke around at night. He splashed some cold water on his face to wake himself up and grabbed his heavy makeup kit before heading out of the duty room.

—-

This was the xx District Funeral Service Center, also known by its more common name—crematorium.

Ling Chen was an ordinary yet extraordinary mortuary makeup artist here.

He was notorious in his family for being rebellious.

Since his parents had worked in another province, he was sent to boarding school at a young age and had little emotional connection with them. Later, they had a second child, whom they doted on, leaving Ling Chen neglected, even withholding his living expenses at times.

Ling Chen didn’t care. He applied for student loans in high school, worked odd jobs to pay his tuition, and managed to graduate from university. Then he pursued a civil service exam and successfully got a government position.

As soon as his estranged relatives heard that he’d become a government employee, they flocked to him, talking about family ties and organizing a banquet to celebrate.

At the feast, Ling Chen pulled out his job offer letter from the crematorium, making glasses shatter from shock.

“Huh? Why aren’t you all happy for me? Doesn’t a job at the crematorium count as a government job?” Ling Chen held his glass high, feigning innocence.

His words caused an uproar. Relatives scolded him in turns, and even his bratty little brother flushed with anger, pointing a finger at his nose. “You… You’re working at that kind of unlucky place! If people in the village find out, how will they look at us?”

Funny, Ling Chen had thought he only had one father. Turned out, his whole family was full of fathers—big fathers, little fathers, male and female alike—each trying to teach him a lesson.

“Let them find out, then,” Ling Chen smacked his brother’s hand away, lifting his head proudly with a sly smile. “I may not be able to ensure we have ‘connections up above,’ but I can guarantee ‘someone down below.’ Need cremation? Contact me anytime—I’ll make sure your relatives are turned to ashes faster than anyone else, with the finest powder.”

That family feud sealed his complete break from them. He hadn’t gone home for any holiday since.

Three years had passed, and Ling Chen was now accustomed to life at the crematorium. His workload wasn’t heavy. Apart from handling paperwork, he mainly applied makeup to the deceased. What others saw as a dreary and morbid job, he found peaceful and enjoyable.

He liked solitude, and the job didn’t require much interaction with people. His colleagues were mostly silent types; even in the same office, they rarely chatted.

His longest conversations were about swapping night shifts. Many were too scared to work nights and paid extra for someone else to cover. Ling Chen always agreed eagerly.

He was a staunch materialist. After patrolling the grounds during his night shifts, he would sleep soundly until dawn.

His colleagues envied his supposed “strong fate” and how he never encountered ghosts.

Ling Chen thought, If you believed in materialism too, you’d know ghosts and monsters are just tricks of the mind.

Still, this was his first time being called to work in the middle of the night.

The crematorium had an unspoken rule: no body pickups or cremations before sunrise, to avoid bad omens and superstitions. Naturally, there was no need for makeup work at night either.

So, just how “special” was this guest that the director would break the rules to summon him?

The funeral center was large. Ling Chen zipped through the grounds on his little electric scooter, arriving at Farewell Room No. 2 in no time. As he passed the main building, he noticed a fleet of luxury cars parked out front—enough to host a car show.

Could the “guest” be some kind of billionaire?

Ling Chen parked outside the farewell room, but before he could dismount, four burly men in black suits, all nearly two meters tall, surrounded him.

“Who are you?” one barked harshly, clearly the leader.

Ling Chen thought, Is this a movie set? They even had bodyguards at the door.

He answered, “I’m an employee here. A mortuary makeup artist.”

“Where’s your ID?”

Summoned so suddenly, Ling Chen hadn’t brought it.

The “guest” might have been dead, but their entourage was very much alive and kicking.

Feigning urgency, Ling Chen began patting his pockets.

“Uh, I think I left it in my jacket…”

“Or maybe in my makeup kit?”

“Mind holding this bag while I check my scooter’s storage?”

He took his sweet time, fully aware his ID wasn’t on him. He wasn’t worried—someone else would be.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of stalling, the farewell room door opened abruptly.

“Ling! What took you so long?” The director hurried out, trailed by several strangers.

“Director,” Ling Chen whined, “I forgot my ID, and the security guys wouldn’t let me in.”

The director shot him a knowing glare, exasperated but helpless. Turning to the middle-aged man beside him, he said, “Mr. Wang, he’s really our makeup artist.”

Mr. Wang was a short, fashionably dressed man with an expensive watch and a luxury-brand bag.

His gaze landed on Ling Chen.

Standing just beyond the reach of the streetlights, Ling Chen’s face was half-hidden in shadow, but under the soft fringe of his bangs, his eyes gleamed like stars.

“Is this really your makeup artist? So young?” Mr. Wang asked.

The director quickly responded, “Absolutely true. Xiao Ling has been working with us for over three years. A proper college graduate, he passed the civil service exam to get in.”

Mr. Wang chuckled derisively, seemingly amused by the idea of a “proper college graduate” taking a civil service job at a crematorium.

“Alright then.” Mr. Wang patted the director’s arm, speaking with a slow, authoritative tone. “Just remember, the identity of the person inside must not be leaked. If any reporters sneak in, well…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implied threat was loud and clear to everyone present.

After that, Ling Chen was taken to another room, where he was searched, had his phone confiscated, and was warned not to use any electronic devices. Then a lawyer appeared out of nowhere, making him sign a confidentiality agreement.

By the end of the whole process, Ling Chen was thoroughly annoyed.

He suspected that his “client” might actually be an alien, and these people were from the national security agency, hiring him to disguise the alien as a human—hence all the convoluted security measures.

However, the director whispered to him that since this particular client was of special status, the red envelope would be quite generous—at least five figures—and all of it would be his.

As soon as money-loving Ling Chen heard this, all his complaints evaporated.

Come on, a five-figure red envelope! Forget turning an alien into a human; he’d be willing to turn a human into an alien for that kind of cash!

The small room where the body was kept lay behind the funeral parlor’s farewell chamber. Ling Chen put on a mask, grabbed his makeup kit, and expertly pushed open the rear door.

He’d been here countless times over the past three years. His family thought his job was unlucky, but he believed it was meaningful.

He could help souls walk their last journey beautifully, offering a final touch of comfort to their grieving loved ones.

Before opening the door, Ling Chen had already imagined what his client might look like—perhaps gaunt from illness, bloated from drowning, or mangled in a car accident…

But nothing could have prepared him for the man lying in the icy coffin, looking as though he were merely asleep.

A tall man with broad shoulders and long legs, loosely wrapped in a bathrobe. His hands rested lightly on his abdomen—broad palms, well-defined fingers, neatly trimmed nails.

His jet-black hair framed an exquisitely handsome face, like a character stepping out of a game illustration. His phoenix-shaped eyes were closed, thick lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His eyebrows, sharp as swords, seemed ready to rise in greeting at any moment.

Ling Chen knew who he was—or rather, everyone knew who he was.

He was He Jinzhao, the youngest actor ever to win a grand slam of best actor awards.

Fifteen years ago, he burst onto the silver screen, playing a confused small-town boy. In the film’s final scene, wearing a faded school uniform and rolling up his pants, he ran barefoot down an empty road until his silhouette merged with the rising sun on the horizon. That five-minute, wordless shot—full of raw vitality and silent yearning—moved audiences to tears and became a cinematic classic, studied by critics for years to come.

Throughout his career, He Jinzhao avoided variety shows and rarely gave interviews. His work was scarce but always memorable, each role more iconic than the last.

Adored by fans, praised by critics, and revered by directors as a born actor—

And now, He Jinzhao was Ling Chen’s client.

Lying in an icy coffin.

Under Ling Chen’s hands.

Regardless of how he had died, He Jinzhao was undeniably gone.

In that moment, Ling Chen finally understood the luxury cars parked outside, the heavily armed bodyguards, the ironclad confidentiality agreement, the generous Mr. Wang, and the throng of guarded reporters…

…All of it was for He Jinchao.

Ling Chen, himself a fan, had watched all of He Jinchao’s movies, some more than once, and had shed countless tears over his characters.

He had never imagined that his first meeting with this idol would take place at work.

Standing by the ice coffin, Ling Chen gazed down at the man’s serene face and murmured, “Is this what they mean by chasing your idol all the way to the crematorium?”

Just as he finished speaking, a voice—ethereal and male—sounded behind him.

“Dear fan, this is my first meet-and-greet at a funeral parlor, too.”

Ling Chen’s hand trembled. His makeup kit crashed to the floor, scattering its contents.

He looked up instinctively.

A meter away from the body floated a translucent figure, its features identical to the man lying in the coffin.

Ling Chen: “…”

Without hesitation, he grabbed a pouch of white powder from his kit and hurled it at the apparition.

The spirit flinched, unable to dodge, watching the powder fly toward him—

—only to see it drift harmlessly to the ground.

Ling Chen clicked his tongue in frustration. “Hmph, using setting powder as salt really doesn’t work on ghosts.”