Chapter 131: Children’s Laughter (10)
After nearly making several mistakes in a row, Zhang Wubing seemed completely deflated, dragging himself down the gilded staircase while mumbling “alpaca, alpaca” under his breath. He was terrified that if he let his thoughts wander again, he’d end up conjuring a ghost.
“Brother Yan! I think I figured out my character’s identity…”
Zhao Zhen, who had been in high spirits and ready to share some good news upon seeing them come down, was the first to notice Zhang Wubing’s odd appearance.
Zhao Zhen: “?”
Had the director finally lost his mind from all the cross-dressing?
Even Chi Yan, who sat to the side looking a bit irritated, couldn’t help but glance curiously at Zhang Wubing, her expression contemplative.
To her, the young director genuinely looked possessed… Could there really be a ghost in this house?
Unconsciously, Chi Yan started recalling all the strange encounters she’d experienced before. A slight panic rose in her as she quickly glanced behind herself and to both sides, as if afraid something might be lurking just out of sight.
“Don’t mind him. Let him have his little episode.”
Yan Shixun had noticed Zhao Zhen’s puzzled look. He cast a casual glance at Zhang Wubing, then walked over to Zhao Zhen. “So, what’s your character?”
“Butler,” Zhao Zhen replied, his tone taking on a more serious note. “I’ve got the invitation on me, addressed to the host family. Based on how they address me, I’m supposed to be the butler of the Jing household.”
“But Brother Yan, because of this, I think I understand what’s going on now.”
Yan Shixun raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Go on.”
Earlier, after Yan Shixun had subtly signaled Zhao Zhen to stall Chi Yan and keep her from interfering with his investigation, Zhao Zhen had faithfully carried out the task, successfully keeping her anchored in the living room.
No matter how many reasons Chi Yan gave—whether it was “I’ve got medicinal wine in my room” or “I’m worried about Mr. Yan and want to check on him”—Zhao Zhen managed to counter every attempt and kept her downstairs.
Zhao Zhen wasn’t someone who talked much. Most of the time, he’d developed a habit of listening more than speaking, a result of his early days as a “nobody” on set. But that also meant he knew many things others didn’t. When he did choose to speak, few dared to ignore him.
He understood the signal Yan Shixun had given him. Though he didn’t know why Yan Shixun was wary of Chi Yan, he was willing to help uncover what was off about her.
So Zhao Zhen started chatting with Chi Yan casually, almost as if making small talk, but subtly bringing up various “rumors.” It didn’t take long for Chi Yan’s expression to change dramatically. Zhao Zhen, meanwhile, pretended not to notice a thing, playing the role of an oblivious newbie who just kept talking.
Even though Chi Yan had been in the industry for years and had won countless domestic and international awards for her acting—her control over facial expressions was usually impeccable—something was different this time.
Whether it was the tension brought on by the blackout or the unease of being in a strange environment, she still couldn’t hide her reaction when Zhao Zhen repeatedly mentioned topics like “pregnancy,” “miscarriage,” and “raising ghost children.”
And Zhao Zhen, watching her closely the whole time, caught every subtle change.
From Chi Yan’s shifting expressions, Zhao Zhen was able to roughly determine which rumors were just gossip and which ones might actually be true.
…For instance, the miscarriages.
Zhao Zhen was quite sure Chi Yan had suffered more than one miscarriage. In fact, her infamous fainting episode on set that had caused such a stir had likely been due to another miscarriage.
But the strange thing was, when he casually brought up how difficult it was to raise children in their line of work, Chi Yan didn’t show a trace of panic. Instead, her expression turned slightly dazed.
As if, to her, that entire topic had become too distant—too blurred to hold meaning.
Despite multiple pregnancies and miscarriages, Chi Yan seemed to have no expectation or hope of ever raising a child. Her demeanor even gave Zhao Zhen the impression that she knew deep down she would never be able to.
It was all just too strange.
Zhao Zhen couldn’t help but wonder what exactly had happened to her that he wasn’t able to piece together.
And when he commented in a casual, almost wistful tone that he’d heard of some famous masters in the industry who specialized in boosting people’s luck—helping them rise to fame—and said he was considering giving it a try, Chi Yan finally snapped. She suddenly stood up from the couch, her face visibly darkened, and made to head upstairs.
But Yan Shixun was upstairs. There was no way Zhao Zhen could let her go up and disturb him.
So, in the next instant, he pretended to have a leg spasm, crying out in pain and dramatically falling off the couch onto the carpet in an awkward heap.
Even though Chi Yan really didn’t want to get involved, under these circumstances, she couldn’t just walk away. She had no choice but to return in her high heels and ask Zhao Zhen what was going on.
A flicker of impatience and anxiety crossed her face, but as soon as Zhao Zhen looked up at her, it changed into gentleness and concern.
Chi Yan thought she had concealed it well—but in front of the camera, the viewers saw everything clearly.
Many viewers who had previously thought highly of Chi Yan now glanced at one another in confusion, suddenly sensing that something felt off.
[Was it just me, or did Chi Yan look really impatient when she looked at Zhao Zhen just now? It was exactly like our class monitor at school who acts all sweet in front of people and then turns two-faced the moment they look away.]
[Isn’t Chi Yan supposed to be friendly? Her fans always rave about her being beautiful and kind, an acting goddess without any airs. They even use that to bash other actors, saying they’ve got no star power but big egos, not even worthy to carry Chi Yan’s shoes. But now, look at this woman nearly rolling her eyes—how is that not a temper?]
[Shit. I’m so confused. I always liked Chi Yan, but this situation feels wrong. Did you guys hear what she and Zhao Zhen were just talking about? Could it be that the industry folks know something we don’t—like she really was pregnant and had a miscarriage? Otherwise, why didn’t she scold him for asking that?]
[Zhao Zhen isn’t exactly decent either, right? Didn’t you hear him say he wanted a master to change his fate? Gross. Why doesn’t he just drop dead? How could he be so disrespectful to ask my precious Yan Yan about a miscarriage like that? Chi Yan’s been honing her craft all these years, she’s pure—she doesn’t even have a boyfriend, okay? Asking a woman about pregnancy and miscarriage like that—disgusting! I’m going to be sick.]
[I’m shocked. Isn’t Chi Yan going to be forty in a few years? If you were a city kid who got married, your kid would be in kindergarten by now. In the countryside, people her age are already grandmas. And her fans still call her a “girl”?]
[…I really worry about that fan’s IQ. Didn’t Zhao Zhen’s question sound like he was trying to get her to say something? Like he was fishing for information? And hasn’t Chi Yan had rumors like that for years? Zhao Zhen hasn’t. All that stuff about raising ghost children—it’s always been about her. If she really was pregnant and had a miscarriage, I’d start believing she actually was raising something.]
[I think Zhao Zhen must’ve heard something from someone. After all, they’re all in the same industry. Isn’t it normal to hear gossip here and there? We might not know, but there’s no such thing as a completely airtight secret. Industry people always have better sources.]
[I’m completely stunned. Director Li is seriously bold! Now I believe what people said about hidden cameras filming everything. If Zhao Zhen knew there were cameras, no way he’d say something like that.]
[I declare Director Li a god among men! That camera work? Legendary.]
Zhao Zhen, in fact, had no idea they were live streaming. Everything he had just said had been broadcast to the viewers in real time.
The audience might have been in the dark, but Zhao Zhen knew very clearly—ever since he’d woken up in the storage room, he had found himself in a strange place, and someone clearly wanted him dead.
Inside the Jing Estate, danger lurked around every corner.
At that moment, Zhao Zhen had thrown himself onto the carpet, using his acting skills to full effect—clutching his leg, groaning in pain. Even the muscles in his face and around his eyes twitched, making it seem like he was in genuine agony.
Chi Yan immediately went to rummage through the medical kit for painkillers, her back turned to Zhao Zhen.
He noticed the shiny surface of the hair clip in her hair glinting—reflecting light for a brief moment.
That light hadn’t been there earlier—it only appeared when Chi Yan turned around.
Zhao Zhen squinted, still moaning in pain to avoid drawing her attention, while carefully tracking where the light had come from. Then he looked down and spotted something under the sofa.
Still lying on the carpet, Zhao Zhen reached out and hooked the object with his fingers. From the feel and shape, it seemed to be an ID badge, just like the one Chi Yan had pulled out of her handbag earlier.
But before he could get a good look, Chi Yan turned back with the ointment.
He quickly stuffed the item up his sleeve—and that’s when he discovered a sealed envelope hidden there too, one he hadn’t noticed before. From the way the letter was addressed, he figured out his identity.
In front of Chi Yan, Zhao Zhen didn’t mention the other ID badge he found, nor anything about her supposed miscarriage. Instead, he kept the conversation focused on the letter. And when he handed the letter to Yan Shixun, he cleverly slid the ID badge underneath it.
Yan Shixun felt something cold touch his fingertips. Without changing expression, he flexed his hand slightly and smoothly palmed the item. Then, with a calm demeanor, he took the letter and leaned back into the sofa as if nothing had happened.
Right under Chi Yan’s nose, the two men had silently completed the handoff.
But Zhao Zhen hadn’t brought up the letter just to cover things up.
It was also because—
“Brother Yan, do you know what kind of story Director Li’s *Binhai Nocturne* is supposed to tell?”
Zhao Zhen’s face was serious—he didn’t look like he was trying to make small talk.
“Due to confidentiality, each of us only got a short character outline before filming. Only Director Li and the screenwriter knew the full script.”
Knowing Yan Shixun wasn’t very familiar with the entertainment industry, Zhao Zhen took the initiative to explain how the filming worked: “Only on the day of shooting a particular scene would we receive that day’s mini script with the corresponding plot.”
“I don’t know the full story, but my character bio…”
Zhao Zhen looked directly at Yan Shixun and said solemnly, “He’s the butler of the Jing Estate, with multiple hidden identities, set in the old Binhai concession period.”
“In the script, the Jing Estate belonged to someone referred to only as ‘Mr. Jing.’ Very few people knew what he actually looked like. As the butler, I was responsible for his safety, managing his work and daily life—but at the same time, I was an undercover agent planted in the estate.”
“Jing?”
Yan Shixun repeated the name, and quickly caught on—Director Li must have used a different character for the name, but it was clearly modeled after Jing Bin.
Otherwise, Li Xuetang wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to reserve the entire concession area or fought so hard to get the permits to film inside the historical buildings.
If that were the case, then it all made sense.
The information Zhao Zhen had just revealed sparked a new theory in Yan Shixun’s mind.
—The entity that brought them here hadn’t just transported them physically. It had brought the story from the script with them as well.
And now, each of them was playing a role, like actors in a film, given specific characters to portray.
Yan Shixun had initially thought he was Jing Bin. But now, he realized it was a play within a play—he was portraying “Mr. Jing,” a character based on Jing Bin.
And the one who was supposed to assassinate him within three days…
With a blank expression, Yan Shixun turned his gaze toward Zhao Zhen.
This man had just openly admitted to being an undercover agent. He might look like a loyal butler, but in reality, he was here to kill “Mr. Jing.”
Since coming downstairs, Ye Li had been sitting quietly on a single high-backed chair not far away. Now, due to Yan Shixun’s reaction, he also turned to look at Zhao Zhen, his gaze laced with danger.
It was as if the moment Zhao Zhen made any move, he would act even faster.
Zhao Zhen felt chills run down his spine under the weight of their stares. He quickly explained, “I didn’t mean to kill Brother Yan! No, I mean, the role I’m playing isn’t meant to kill Mr. Jing.”
“In fact, I only just figured it out.”
He picked up a newspaper from the coffee table—one that had clearly been folded before. Judging by the creases, a specific page had been flipped through many times. When he turned to that page, the editor’s name beneath one of the articles caught Yan Shixun’s attention.
Editor: Lin Ting.
Lin Ting. Lin Ting.
Note: wordplay here the first Ting character is different from the second Ting. Basically he referred that name to the Lin Ting in this story.
Back in that era, the character with the female radical wasn’t widely used. It was mainly debated and studied among scholars, with no clear consensus yet on whether it should be promoted. As new and old scripts clashed, many characters had simplified forms, and many more never spread to the public.
If Lin Ting had wanted to obscure her gender and escape the continued pursuit of those who had killed her father in the capital, then altering the way she wrote her name made perfect sense.
That article had been edited by none other than Lin Ting.
And…
Yan Shixun looked at Zhao Zhen, already grasping what he was trying to say.
As the master of Jing Manor, Mr. Jing—who had studied abroad and lived in the foreign concession during that turbulent clash of old and new—naturally had the habit of reading the morning paper with breakfast. The newspapers he read were likely kept either in his bedroom or on the dining table.
So this copy on the coffee table probably belonged to someone else.
For example, the butler—who assisted Mr. Jing with day-to-day affairs at the manor. In an age where illiteracy was widespread, the butler would certainly be literate.
“I don’t think that no matter how wealthy or prestigious Jing Estate was, all the maids and servants would be able to read—especially since this paper has quite a bit of English in it.”
Zhao Zhen said, giving the newspaper a shake. “So this must’ve been read by the butler I’m playing. If the editor of a story revealing societal truths was right there in front of me, and I couldn’t understand the article, I could’ve just asked. But instead, I kept rereading it.”
“And on that same day, I received an invitation from outside. It called me by name and thanked me.”
Zhao Zhen’s expression turned serious. “The person who sent me here undercover was telling me that my mission target is Lin Ting.”
He turned to look at Chi Yan beside him. “Which means, Sister Chi Yan.”
Now, Zhao Zhen began to doubt what exactly had happened before he lost consciousness.
A high-ranking butler would never personally go to the storage room to tidy up. It was far more likely that he went there to talk to someone—or to hide and wait for an opportunity.
But he’d been knocked out instead.
Now that he knew his identity and mission, Zhao Zhen began to wonder: In the original script, was he supposed to kill Chi Yan—but she discovered it and struck first in self-defense?
After all, when he had woken up, Chi Yan was already awake—and they were both on the first floor.
At that time, Zhang Wubing had been upstairs.
Yan Shixun clearly saw the suspicion Zhao Zhen held toward Chi Yan, but after having searched Lin Ting’s room upstairs, he didn’t fully agree with Zhao Zhen’s suspicion.
Chi Yan… didn’t seem like Lin Ting.
Even if Chi Yan really *was* Lin Ting, based on Lin Ting’s deeply righteous nature, even if she knew someone wanted to kill her, she wouldn’t necessarily choose to strike first and take a life.
The environment she lived in, and the manuscripts on her desk, all pointed to her being someone who championed peace and progress. She wanted a better world—but she was not someone who used force or violence.
Her pen was her sword.
Yan Shixun finally spoke, breaking Zhao Zhen’s line of suspicion.
“Miss Chi, since Zhao Zhen has a role in the script, you should have one too, right?”
He looked directly at Chi Yan and asked, “You’re the female lead of *Binhai Nocturne*. How much do you know about the script?”
His tone didn’t imply doubt—it was a certainty.
He gave Chi Yan no room to deny it and asked her outright.
People instinctively respond to direct questions.
Chi Yan didn’t even notice the subtle shift in tone. She answered naturally, “I don’t know much. Just the character profile and a general overview of the plot that Director Li told me. As for the details, I really don’t know them.”
After she finished speaking, it took her a moment to realize something was off. She suddenly looked up at Yan Shixun in shock, as if asking how he knew that she knew anything about the script.
Yan Shixun chuckled softly, leaving her no chance to back out. “Then please, Miss Chi, share it with us.”
“Since Director Li isn’t here, you’re currently the person who knows the most after him.”
Yan Shixun asked in a light, offhand tone, “Right now, only a few of us have been found. Besides the production crew at the hotel, we can’t rule out that others from the cast or crew might be here too. Surely you won’t just stand by and watch them walk into danger?”
“The sooner we figure out what’s going on, the sooner we can find the others.”
His smile was polite, even professional—but his words pressed in with no room to breathe. “Don’t you want to save them, Miss Chi?”
That was practically putting a moral burden on her shoulders.
Chi Yan’s face darkened. Her carefully made-up features twisted momentarily in the dim light, like overlapping shadows of a ghost.
But she quickly regained her composure, smiling gracefully and nodding. “Of course I want to.”
However, after earlier events—when she had shown visible irritation toward Zhao Zhen, thinking no one had noticed—the audience no longer trusted her so easily.
Once doubt took root in people’s hearts, everything a person did would be reinterpreted, like water nourishing a seed of suspicion, causing it to grow wildly.
[Wait a second, I really have a three-second memory. It wasn’t until Zhao Zhen mentioned it that I remembered—Chi Yan showed an ID badge earlier that had Lin Ting’s name on it. So she’s Lin Ting??? Honestly, if you’d asked me before, I’d have said she was a perfect fit for the role. But after reading through Lin Ting’s manuscripts with Brother Yan, I started seeing her as this noble, idealistic figure. And now I’m not so sure Chi Yan is the right person to play her.]
[The thing is, Director Li said during interviews that Chi Yan was the actress who resembled the heroine most in his mind. He even delayed filming for a long time to wait for her.]
[If Director Li hadn’t said that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so strongly. But because he did, my expectations were sky-high. And after what Chi Yan just did, my impression of her took a huge hit. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel worthy of playing Lin Ting anymore.]
[Uh, wait a minute, Director Li is really playing with layers here. A play within a play within another play? Just how many layers deep is this? The actors think they’re playing someone else, but there’s another script hidden beneath, and we’re watching them act… This montage technique—Director Li is a genius.]
[This joint filming really took effort. See, this way the production crew becomes connected to Director Li’s script, but it’s not the exact script he’s filming. It promotes his movie without revealing too much of the plot. I’m impressed.]
[But Zhao Zhen’s mission being to assassinate Lin Ting? That caught me off guard. Do you guys remember when Zhao Zhen woke up and had an injury on his head? Could it be that Lin Ting did that? Maybe she discovered the butler was trying to kill her, so she struck first. But since she’s a woman and couldn’t move a grown man’s corpse, she lured the butler into the storage room and killed him there. That way, she didn’t need to move the body, and nobody would find it in the storage room for a while.]
[Damn! That sounds so on point. I’m following your theory.]
[…But something doesn’t add up. Lin Ting is a progressive editor from the new school of thought. She regularly writes articles criticizing disregard for human life. How could she kill someone with her own hands”]
[I’m amazed your brains are still working. I’m completely lost already. If Jing Bin is going to be assassinated within three days, but the butler’s mission was to kill Lin Ting, then who’s after Jing Bin? And who tried to kill Jing Xiuwen before? The scene was staged to look like a suicide—that doesn’t feel like the work of an outsider at all.]
[Wait! Guys, I found something in an earlier interview with Director Li. I’ve dropped the video link in the comments for anyone curious. In it, he talks about *Binhai Nocturne* being a suspense film with a slightly eerie vibe, but he didn’t mention anything about ghosts imagined into reality, like what Brother Yan said. Isn’t that weird?]
After seeing a viewer leave this comment, other curious fans quickly followed the trail.
Because Li Xuetang had long been a big name, yet hadn’t released anything in recent years, many media outlets and fans were eager for details on his next film. They often seized even award ceremonies as chances to press him for information.
The interview video in question was from one such award ceremony. After receiving his award, Li Xuetang gave a brief thank-you speech. Amid the excitement, people in the audience urged him to talk about his next movie, and he let slip a few details.
Li Xuetang said it would be a suspense movie adapted from a real story during the old Binhai concession era. In it, eleven people from different backgrounds would be drawn together by a shared message. Each had their own agenda, and they would fight either to protect someone—or to kill.
When the sun rose again, only one person would be left walking the streets of the concession.
After watching the video, the comment section exploded.
“Is that for real? Only one person survives?”
“Wait, that doesn’t line up. Director Li said it’s based on a true story, and now Brother Yan and the others have found the real identities of Jing Bin and Lin Ting. So it’s based on Jing Bin’s story, right? He mentioned assassinations too, which fits the theme perfectly. But historically, Jing Bin, Jing Xiuwen, and Lin Ting all lived through that time period. There’s no way only one survived! Even the daughter didn’t die—how could Jing Xiuwen have?”
“But the director didn’t say Brother Yan and the others were filming the *exact* same story, okay? He was talking about *Binhai Nocturne*, and what we’re watching now is a derivative joint shoot. It’s totally normal for there to be plot differences. Otherwise, why bother going to the cinema to watch the exact same story?”
“And that interview was from a few years back, wasn’t it? Maybe the director only had a rough concept then and changed it later, so that’s why it doesn’t match.”
“So basically, if the story has changed, then we can’t rely on the info from that interview to judge what’s happening to Brother Yan and the others. That’s nerve-wracking. I know it’s all acting, but I’m really worried about Brother Yan getting assassinated. They need to catch the killer, fast!”
On social media, the show’s hashtags shot straight to the top of the trending list.
In the entertainment world, this was practically a milestone event.
The variety show hadn’t even officially aired yet, and it had already sold five million movie tickets, then rocketed to trending status from just one livestream screen. And through it all, there wasn’t a trace of manufactured hype—it was purely driven by viewer enthusiasm.
Many entertainment companies and analysis studios were glued to the production crew’s livestream, documenting every moment and trying to figure out why the show was such a hit. They were hoping to launch similar programs of their own to replicate the success of “Heart-Pounding Journey of Ninety-Nine Days”.
The public opinion monitoring team, which had been following this all along, was now completely swamped.
But if those analysts knew what the monitoring team already did, they’d probably laugh through their tears.
—This was a variety show that could never be recreated by money and capital.
Unless, of course, capital could summon ghosts like Zhang Wubing, and find someone like Yan Shixun to fight ghosts with ghosts, or deliver gods to send off gods.
But the person most anxious was the official in charge, who knew what was really going on.
Because the audience thought this was just a joint filming effort, they assumed it wouldn’t cause any public controversy. So the official gave the green light and allowed the livestream to continue.
But unlike the audience, the official knew the truth: there was no such thing as a joint shoot. Both the production crew and the film crew had completely lost contact after crossing into the concession district on the other side of the river.
And the people appearing in the livestream were those unreachable team members. What they were going through wasn’t a scripted storyline—it was genuine danger. One wrong step could cost lives.
The official even suspected that Yan Shixun and the others had no idea they were being streamed live. Otherwise, why would Zhang Wubing act so outrageously, completely letting himself go?
—Even though the official was filled with anxiety, he had still been stunned for a long moment upon seeing Zhang Wubing’s appearance in the stream.
“It’s not that I won’t let you cross the river—it’s the fog.”
The worker stationed at the roadblock on the bridge helplessly pointed behind him and said to the official, “If I let you guys go through, I’d be endangering you. With these road conditions, how can you cross the river? I’m even worried the car might drive straight into the water.”
The official looked out over the river, feeling a deep sense of urgency rising in his chest.
The thick fog over the river blocked out the sky, and even with searchlights, visibility was less than a meter. The road, the bridge—none of it was visible.
If they insisted on driving across, it could very well end the way the worker feared: a deadly crash.
“But there are people trapped inside. We can’t just sit by and do nothing.”
The official said, “Maybe someone’s waiting for our help right this moment. Every minute we delay, the danger to them grows.”
The worker looked helpless but still tried to persuade the special operations unit to turn back.
At that moment, Daoist Song Yi, who had been silently watching the bridge, finally spoke: “I don’t recommend rushing in recklessly.”
The official in charge was stunned. “Even you, Taoist Song…”
“This fog—it’s not right.”
Taoist Song Yi frowned deeply, but his hands never stopped moving. He immediately pulled a thick stack of yellow talismans from his robe and began distributing them to the official in charge and the rescue team members. For the staff stationed at the bridge, he gave each person two talismans and reminded them to keep them close to their chest.
The bridge staff, receiving something like this for the first time, were bewildered: “?”
What was with these people? First, they insisted on entering in this heavy fog, and now they were acting all mysterious?
The staff didn’t think much of it. They thanked Taoist Song Yi out of respect but either casually slipped the talismans into their pockets or tossed them into their tool bags, clearly not taking them seriously.
As if a piece of paper could really disperse fog?
The official in charge, however, watched Taoist Song Yi’s actions and started realizing that there might be actual danger involved. That had to be why Taoist Song Yi was handing out talismans to everyone.
“This isn’t fog. It’s miasma.”
Taoist Song Yi’s tone turned grave. “This isn’t the kind of fog we usually see, nor is it the naturally formed toxic miasma found in the jungles of the southwest. This is miasma formed from the overflowing ghostly energy of a powerful vengeful spirit. If you enter recklessly, your eyes will be veiled by the ghost, blurring the line between reality and illusion. You won’t be able to distinguish direction and might very well fall into the river.”
“But if it were just a matter of disorientation and dulled senses, cultivators could still manage it. The real problem is that this ghostly energy is also disrupting the Five Elements and the Eight Trigrams. I just tested it—my compass didn’t react. Stranger still, neither the peach wood sword nor the exorcism talismans responded either. It’s as if the vengeful spirit doesn’t even exist here.”
His expression grew darker. “Given this situation, I can only think of one possibility…”
“A vengeful spirit has fully merged with a human body—what we call the ‘evil ghost hidden in human form.’ It uses the human body to shield itself from the perception of Heaven and Earth, making it undetectable as a ghost. As far as Heaven is concerned, that ghost is still a living person.”
This was almost the only loophole in the laws of Heaven and Earth. If it became widespread, then all Taoists would be powerless against evil spirits, and the world would become a living hell overrun by them.
Fortunately, such a condition was incredibly rare. One might not see a single case in a hundred years. And even if it did occur, the individual would rarely live long.
After all, how could someone filled with ghostly energy survive for long?
In all of Taoist Song Yi’s knowledge, he knew of only one person who had survived with such a condition.
—Yan Shixun.
Taoist Song Yi was never one to smile, but now his face looked even grimmer, making his presence feel naturally intimidating. The surrounding rescue team members unconsciously held their breath. In front of someone like him, they didn’t dare to make a sound, fearful of provoking his anger.
The official in charge stood there dumbfounded. He hadn’t expected the truth to be like this.
“Taoist Song, are you saying,” the official’s voice trembled, “that the one behind this… is Mr. Yan?”
But that didn’t make sense!
Mr. Yan was livestreaming the whole time. Even if he had wanted to do something in secret, it was unlikely he’d include himself in the situation.
Besides, the Mr. Yan he knew would never do something like this.
The official felt like his mind was being torn in two directions, splitting him right down the middle.
Taoist Song Yi furrowed his brows even more tightly but gently shook his head. His voice was uncertain, almost dazed. “I don’t know…”
“You’ve dealt with special incidents for years. You already understand the cultivation world to some extent. It’s perhaps the field where talent matters the most. The gap between a genius and an ordinary person is like a chasm.”
He continued calmly, “I’m just an ordinary person. I’ve come this far on the path of cultivation thanks to my master’s guidance and my own tireless effort. But Junior Brother Yan… he’s different.”
“Even my master, when facing that pair of master and disciple, was just an ordinary man—one among the masses. But Hermit Chengyun and Junior Brother Yan… they are people chosen by destiny. Ordinary people may be lucky enough to walk alongside them for a while, but they will never be able to touch their world.”
Though Taoist Song Yi had always accepted and understood his place, even now, he couldn’t help but let out a bitter smile and shake his head. “All I know is that what caused this situation is an evil ghost hidden in human form. As for who exactly it is, or what their motive might be… I can’t see that far.”
“If Junior Brother Yan truly intends to do something, I probably couldn’t stop him—perhaps, to Heaven and Earth, what he’s doing is exactly what the Dao desires.”
Noticing the unease in the official’s face, Taoist Song Yi offered some reassurance. “If my master isn’t currently in deep meditation, he’ll surely sense that something is happening here. He’ll come.”
The official swallowed hard and asked shakily, “And if Taoist Li *is* in meditation?”
Taoist Song Yi replied, “Then pray for good fortune.”
The official gave a strong but fragile smile.
“But still…”
The river breeze lifted the strands of hair around Taoist Song Yi’s face. He looked toward the dim yellow streetlight blurred within the thick fog, eyes resolute.
“I believe in Junior Brother Yan.”
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