Chapter Eighty: The Prelude to the Seven Ghost Kings

Damn, Old Ma is at it again, flattering me with his over-the-top compliments. Sure, I might be the top student in our entire senior year right now, but if it weren’t for my identity as a “demon corpse,” I’d probably still be teetering on the academy’s warning list, always one misstep away from being expelled.

Uncle Ma’s house felt like a giant speaker, the noise reverberating so much I was left dizzy and my ears ringing. I couldn’t help but wonder why no one ever complained about the racket. It wasn’t until later that I learned every apartment here was fitted with top-notch soundproof walls and windows; no wonder the property prices were sky-high. I had to admit, the developer really thought of everything.

As we chatted, Uncle Ma suddenly clapped his hands and, in an exaggerated, theatrical voice, declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s eight o’clock—the auspicious hour! Time to cut the cake!” Damn, he actually gave me a start.

Seven or eight beautiful girls immediately gathered around the giant cake, their eyes lighting up at the sight—it was clear these girls were true foodies. But when I looked at that cake, which resembled an oversized pancake, I couldn’t help but wonder which creative baker had made it. It looked just like the thick, round “luomo” flatbread from Shandong, or the giant cake Uncle Pan held in “Chasing Adomaru”—though, thankfully, without the infamous butt-shaped design.

While I watched the girls scrambling for cake, the guys all sat stiffly on the couch closest to the TV, their postures betraying the unmistakable aura of die-hard homebodies—aces in academics, tractors in social life.

Not that I was any more outgoing, but I felt awkward joining the girls’ scrum. Instead, I just stared at the pancake-shaped cake slathered in cream, lost in thought. Besides one person, who else could come up with something like this?

Lost in my reverie, I didn’t notice that the battle had already begun on Uncle Ma’s side. Cake was flying everywhere. If my grandmother were here, she’d have whacked them all with her cane, scolding as she went, “You little rascals, wasting good food! Cake is for eating, not for throwing!”

Just as I wasn’t paying attention, a mysterious object suddenly flew from the fray and smacked me squarely on the forehead. I’d been wondering how to get involved with the rest, and now the opportunity had quite literally landed on me. I plucked the piece of cake from my brow, grinned slyly at the girls and Uncle Ma—who all tried to look innocent and surprised—and launched my own counterattack.

Uncle Ma’s place was the largest in the complex, with three-meter-high ceilings and a living room spacious enough for thirty people. With just over a dozen of us, we had plenty of room to frolic to our hearts’ content.

Cake fragments soared through the air, occasionally splattering onto some unlucky soul. Each beauty inevitably ended up with a pink handprint on her chest, as if some invisible Casanova was playing a cheeky prank on them without their knowledge.

The battle was fierce—who would have thought a single cake could coat over a dozen people head to toe in cream? This was no ordinary cake!

Old Ma and I soon found ourselves overwhelmed by the girls’ coordinated assault, forced into retreat until we were finally pinned to the floor, smeared with cream from head to toe. Honestly, I hadn’t intended to go down, but Old Ma kept dragging me with him, leaving me no choice but to follow.

Only after hitting the floor did I realize Uncle Ma’s true motive. As the saying goes, “Spring’s beauty cannot be contained; a single branch of red apricot slips out of the garden.” The view beneath those skirts was truly a sight to behold!

These gorgeous girls were all campus beauties, each one wearing either sheer black or flesh-toned stockings. The sight made my face flush, though with my face plastered in cream, no one could tell. As for Uncle Ma’s lecherous gaze, sigh… I’d rather not speak of it. His antics were a disgrace to the teaching profession, and he even dragged me down with him—truly a bitter fate!

Long-haired girls, short-skirted girls, stocking-clad girls—each of them still frolicking about, completely unaware that they were exposing themselves.

Just as everyone was fully immersed in the fun, Uncle Ma’s phone suddenly rang. He reluctantly tore his gaze away from the under-skirt scenery, got up, signaled for the group to pause, pulled me to my feet, then fished out his old-school flip phone from his pocket.

He glanced at the screen and, with cream-covered hands, pressed the answer button. I heard Uncle Mao’s voice from the other end and couldn’t help but marvel at Ma’s frugality—or perhaps cluelessness. In this day and age, he was still using a knock-off brick phone, and the call volume was so loud you could hear the conversation a meter away. If he put it on speaker, he could probably host a rap battle on the street.

With a wave of Ma’s hand, the pretty girls retreated, a hint of disappointment on their faces. A few even tried to pull me back, playfully calling, “Senior, come play with us!” That coquettish tone was almost too much for me to handle. In the end, I couldn’t resist and dove back into the group, inhaling the mixture of their various fragrances, feeling an indescribable thrill.

I had no idea what Uncle Mao said to Uncle Ma, but I watched as Ma’s face grew increasingly pale—he was clearly shaken. He hurried back to his bedroom, changed clothes, and emerged to announce, “Everyone, now that we’ve had birthday cake, my celebration is officially over. I have something to take care of—Xiaodong, you keep everyone company. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.” With that, he walked out the door, leaving only the sight of his black trench coat disappearing down the hallway.

The moment Ma left, I thought the mood would drop, but instead, someone pulled out a stash of mountain-and-river beer from a secret spot, set up a big round table, and even the most introverted guys seemed to come alive as if fueled by adrenaline.

A sexy, playful girl planted one leg—clad in a black stocking—on a chair, hands on hips, and called out to everyone, “Let’s play Truth or Dare! Losers drink and wear whatever labels the group writes for them!”

The rest of the group shouted in unison, “Yes, let’s do it!”

Though I honestly hated this game, I had no choice but to join in rather than be labeled a spoilsport.

As soon as it began, the room erupted in chaos. For a while, there seemed to be no distinction between men and women—the girls roared like rowdy boys, and my head spun from the noise.

We played late into the night.

By the end, I was plastered with all sorts of labels, half the empty beer bottles on the floor were mine, and I topped the label ranking—talk about bad luck.

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