Chapter 140: Children’s Laughter (19)
Having held a high position for many years and given the sensitivity of his work, Old Master Jing had long developed the habit of not carrying any electronic devices.
However, this time, he broke his own rule. He held onto a tablet and watched a livestream the entire way, never once putting it down.
Old Master Jing stared blankly at the scenes of the Jing Estate shown in the livestream. Memories from his childhood, long buried and nearly forgotten, came rushing back, blurring his vision with misty tears.
He still remembered how he used to run down those corridors with quick, tapping footsteps, and how he mischievously hid behind the folding screens, eavesdropping as his father negotiated with blonde-haired, blue-eyed foreigners.
He had spent a carefree childhood in that house. Every corner captured by the livestream vividly awakened a different piece of his memory.
Old Master Jing was well aware that, according to official records, he was a person who technically did not exist.
Because his mother, Lin Ting, carried immense guilt, she had always refused to accept the title of Old Master Jing’s father’s wife, believing that the title rightfully belonged to Jingshi Wanxiu. As a result, even the children she bore were considered fatherless in the eyes of the world.
Even Old Master Jing’s own wife once complained that, if not for Lin Ting’s stubbornness back then, he should have been written into history books and enjoyed the glory inherited from both his parents.
Yet Old Master Jing had always been grateful to his mother.
He understood her intentions: to shield him from the dangers that had surrounded his parents, to keep him from being crushed under the shadow of their towering reputations. She had wanted him to live freely, to do as he pleased without constraints. He was born into freedom.
His mother had always believed that his older brother’s death was, at least in part, caused by the many enemies they had made. No one knew who had ultimately harmed the fragile child. Therefore, all the guilt she bore was poured into him. The freedom their generation had never enjoyed, they entrusted to him.
“My son, just be a simple, carefree man of wealth.”
His father, too, had once patted him affectionately on the head and told him: “I chose this path, but you should enjoy the peace of a flourishing era — your mother and I, along with countless others, have fought so that you can walk the streets freely without ever worrying about bombs whistling overhead.”
When his father was dying, he clutched Old Master Jing’s hand and said, “May the sun never fall from the sky above your head.”
After his father’s death, although his mother grieved deeply, she continued to fight in her own way. She wielded her pen like a sword, denouncing traitors and safeguarding a tiny flame of hope through those harsh times.
But having witnessed his parents’ perseverance firsthand, how could Old Master Jing ever allow himself to simply indulge in pleasures?
— Even though he certainly had the means to do so?
Thus, after learning about his father’s life from his father’s comrades, the young Old Master Jing made a decision — to go to the very place where his father had fought, to continue the unfinished cause!
While my parents are alive, I shall not travel far.
If I must travel, it must be for a righteous cause.
He explained his intentions to his mother, then resolutely left home — a departure from which he would never return.
Even after ten years, when his mother passed away at the Jing Estate, he had still been unable to make it back in time to see her one last time.
Her image in his mind had grown more and more blurred over the years.
Now, he could only vaguely recall her elegant cheongsam and the diamond bracelet that always dangled from her wrist, and the faint scent of roses that lingered when she walked past.
Old Master Jing had thought he had forgotten it all.
Yet now, the livestream dredged every memory back up.
“The director of this film is named Li Xuetang, isn’t he?” Old Master Jing remarked with a sigh, nodding approvingly. “He’s put real effort into it. The recreation of the Jing Estate is spot-on.”
Even if he himself had been in charge, it would not have been done any better.
But after he spoke, Old Master Jing suddenly realized something.
His face, previously softened by nostalgia, slowly grew serious. His gaze toward the livestream became sharp and piercing.
The sheer authority in Old Master Jing’s eyes immediately made the surrounding group of secretaries straighten up. They secretly shook their heads, thinking that Li Xuetang had made a misstep.
Even though shooting a film about the legendary diplomat Jing Bin could draw the attention — and perhaps even the favor — of the Jing family, those who had served by Old Master Jing’s side for years knew: the memories of that old Binhai era were his most treasured possessions, not to be touched lightly.
If the film didn’t do it justice, or if Old Master Jing found any detail unsatisfactory, then Li Xuetang would be in serious trouble.
And now, it seemed trouble had come.
The secretaries thought perhaps Old Master Jing had seen a scene he disapproved of, or that some decor inside the Jing Residence had been inaccurately recreated, and that was why he was growing angry.
However, Old Master Jing continued staring at the livestream for a long while, then murmured hesitantly, “The degree of restoration at the Jing Residence…”
Was it even possible?
Old Master Jing considered himself someone not completely out of touch with the digital age. Yet as he watched the screen showing a Jing Estate identical to the one in his memories, he was shaken.
This could no longer be explained by meticulous set design or cutting-edge technology — it felt like the actual Jing Estate from a century ago had been transported directly into the camera’s frame.
He even saw, when the camera panned across a section of wallpaper, faint crooked scratches — the very marks he had made himself as a child, when he was just learning to write. His father had discovered them, laughed heartily, and said, “What a clever boy I have!
The foreign diplomats present had laughed along, and young him, not understanding much, had laughed too, purely out of joy.
It was one of the rare moments when his always-busy, always-serious father had let down his guard, and it had left a deep impression.
Old Master Jing already knew that Li Xuetang had rented out the entire concession area for filming — the secretaries had reported it earlier. Still, he did not believe that the scratch on the wallpaper was a coincidence caused by filming on-site.
After surviving countless brushes with death, Old Master Jing had returned to the Jing Estate while still a young man, desperate to see his mother, only to find that he had arrived too late.
In those bitter days that followed, he had searched every crack in the Jing Estate’s bricks, hoping to pry loose some lingering warmth from the walls to comfort his heart, which had been left cold and empty by the loss of his family.
Later, as the country prospered, Old Master Jing had personally led the effort to donate the Jing Estate, turning it into a cultural landmark and a personal museum commemorating Jing Bin.
He knew very well that the passage of time and the upheavals of history had battered the Jing Estate; the traces of his childhood had long been erased, covered over by newer scars. He had long given up hope of ever truly recapturing those days spent with his parents.
And yet now—
Old Master Jing’s heart thudded violently as a wild, impossible thought occurred to him: “This is the Jing Estate from a hundred years ago!”
Not a restoration. Not a modern site shoot. It was the original, in the old Binhai, a century ago!
The secretaries around him looked up in astonishment.
But the more Old Master Jing thought about it, the more it made sense.
Chi Yan was currently there, and his brother had apparently done plenty to terrify her. If that was the case, then his brother must also be there!
His brother, whose soul was practically a demon’s — who possessed abnormalities science could not explain — whom all other spirits feared.
If it was his brother involved, then traveling back to the Binhai of a hundred years ago no longer seemed impossible…
Almost as if to confirm his theory, the next moment, the camera captured a small boy.
He was dressed in a tiny suit and suspenders, looking spirited and adorable. He bounced a rubber ball against the ground, happily playing by himself.
The moment the little boy appeared, Old Master Jing felt as though his mind had gone completely blank.
He stared at the lively child in the livestream, and tears welled up in his eyes, a faint sob escaping his throat.
A middle-aged man next to him jumped in fright and quickly glanced at the screen, sensing that the boy looked oddly familiar.
After a few moments, realization struck him — that child was the very same one from the treasured old photo Old Master Jing’s father had kept!
Which meant—
“Uncle?!”
The middle-aged man cried out in astonishment.
Old Master Jing extended a wrinkled hand, slowly tracing the screen as if, by doing so, he could pierce through time itself and speak to his brother, who had died so young — to see if he had grown thinner, to see if he was doing well.
He was now an old man at the end of his life, yet his brother had never grown up.
A suppressed sob broke from Old Master Jing’s throat. His once straight and dignified frame suddenly crumpled as if crushed by the weight of grief.
His reaction made everything clear.
The middle-aged man stared at the screen in disbelief, then, slowly, realization dawned upon him—— “Chi Yan!”
He ground out the name through gritted teeth.
“They’re at the concession area now, right? Prepare immediately. I’m going into the concession.”
Even as Old Master Jing forced himself to suppress his overwhelming emotions, and although his eyes remained red, when he issued orders to his secretaries, he was once again calm, dignified, and commanding.
“I’m sorry, I just got off a call with the people over there, but the situation doesn’t look good. I’m afraid there will be resistance.”
The secretary said, feeling guilty for not having done his job well. “We can’t get in touch with Li Xuetang or the program director Zhang Wubing. The bridge crossing the river into the concession area has been closed due to heavy fog. The special incident handling department that took over has already sent someone into the area, but we’ve lost contact with them.”
He had already done everything he could, but the situation remained unresolved.
Old Master Jing did not blame him.
The secretary wasn’t aware that the Jing family had a child who bore the features of Evil Spirit Bone Transformation. Even though his rank was high enough to know about the special department, he would never think in that direction. However, he vaguely suspected that all of this might somehow be related to the old master’s brother.
When their plane landed at Binhai Airport, Old Master Jing decisively refused to meet with the officials who had come to receive him and headed straight to the concession area.
And then, he was dutifully stopped outside the cordon by the official rescue team.
“It’s too dangerous.”
The rescue team leader said, shaking his head and rejecting Old Master Jing’s request. “Since sunset, the fog has been getting thicker. Visibility is now less than half a meter. Moreover, Taoist Song Yi that we called for help said that this isn’t ordinary fog—it’s a miasma. Anyone who enters will even lose their sense of direction.”
“Even if you force your way in, you probably won’t even make it across the bridge—you’ll just lose your bearings and plunge straight into the river.”
No matter how hard the secretary negotiated, the rescue team leader stuck to one answer: “We can’t let you knowingly walk to your deaths.”
“If there were a way in, we would’ve already gone.”
The team leader said with a bitter smile, glancing worriedly at his phone screen, where every call still showed as unreachable. “Our own official in charge and a Taoist from Haiyun Temple went inside together. We haven’t heard a single word from them. We don’t even know what’s happening in there. And you don’t even have a professional with you. There’s absolutely no way we can let you go in.”
The rescue team’s attitude was very clear—and very firm.
Someone was already in danger. They could not risk adding to that number.
However, Old Master Jing, leaning on his cane, stepped out of the bulletproof car.
The cold river wind gently lifted his silver hair. He pressed his lips tightly together and looked toward the thick fog over the river.
Though he was old, time had left him with something else—an undeniable authority and presence.
When he faced people seriously, no one dared to oppose him outright.
“I don’t need a professional,” Old Master Jing said solemnly, though his eyes held a tender smile. “My family is there. I believe that just as I miss him, he misses me.”
“He will let me come to him,” Old Master Jing said, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling, making him seem kind and approachable.
Though he had already waited a long time, he suddenly couldn’t bear to wait another minute. He only wanted to see his brother immediately.
His urgency made him seem unlike the diplomat who had once made foreign nations wary of him. Instead, he looked like the baby from decades ago, whose tiny hand had once been held by his elder brother.
The rescue team leader listened, completely baffled, and deeply sympathized with how difficult the official in charge’s job must be. For a moment, he even wished he could just dive into the river to escape the headache.
Yet no matter how much the team leader resisted, he could not stop Old Master Jing once he insisted on going and took full responsibility for his own safety.
Alone and bringing no one else, Old Master Jing crossed the cordon and walked onto the bridge.
And then, something happened that left everyone completely stunned—
As Old Master Jing walked forward, the thick, blinding fog actually began to part, step by step.
Just like Moses parting the Red Sea, a clear path through the fog opened up, leading straight across the bridge.
The rescue team stood frozen in shock, then immediately reacted, grabbing their first-aid kits and charging after Old Master Jing.
Though they didn’t understand what was happening, that didn’t stop them from wanting to sneak across by following him.
However, every time Old Master Jing took a step, the fog behind him closed back in, covering the path once more.
It was as if the fog itself was silently refusing them entry.
The middle-aged man grew frantic, terrified that the old master might run into danger.
But Old Master Jing wore a smile, his joy barely contained. He even seemed a little nervous, tugging at the sleeves of his coat in an attempt to make himself look his best for his meeting with his brother.
Seeing the strange behavior of the fog only made him more certain—his brother was waiting for him beyond the mist.
—
Meanwhile, at the Jing residence, a child who had been chasing a ball up the stairs suddenly stopped.
He picked up his beloved ball and turned to look behind him.
It was the direction of the bridge.
The child’s eyes curved into a smile. He rocked his chubby little body back and forth, radiating a joyful anticipation.
—
At the same time, Yan Shixun was unaware of what was happening elsewhere.
The moment he realized that Chi Yan might have been running past the hallway, he shoved aside the others and dashed toward the corridor.
But strangely, even though the sound of high heels still echoed, Chi Yan was nowhere to be seen.
Yan Shixun froze for a moment, his fierce momentum halting as he hesitated, unsure where to go.
And not just that—the sound of high heels hadn’t faded away. It kept clattering around the first floor chaotically.
Yet no matter where he looked, Chi Yan was nowhere to be found.
Yan Shixun forcefully suppressed his confusion and irritation, calming himself to listen carefully.
But the sound didn’t seem to come from a specific place. Instead, it echoed all around the living room, surrounding him like some kind of three-dimensional sound illusion, making it impossible to pinpoint a direction.
Lowering his eyelashes slightly, Yan Shixun slowly and calmly scanned the scene in front of him.
Suddenly, he caught a flash of red in a mirror decorating the living room wall.
Chi Yan’s qipao had large red floral patterns!
Reacting instantly, Yan Shixun darted toward the mirror with swift, agile movements.
When he reached the mirror, because he had moved so quickly, the reflection hadn’t fully shifted yet.
Thus, when he faced the mirror, he saw—besides his own reflection—Chi Yan’s!
In the mirror, she stood behind him to the side, her expression panicked, her hair disheveled. The expensive hair ornaments she had worn had been lost during her desperate flight, along with her earrings and necklace.
Without those glamorous adornments, Chi Yan looked much dimmer—no longer the dazzling beauty she had appeared to be at first glance, a symbol of Binhai’s extravagant luxury.
It was like a mountain hen that had stolen phoenix feathers; once stripped of the beautiful decorations, only its shabby, ugly true form remained.
But Chi Yan had no time to worry about her appearance.
She was looking around in terror, her thin shoulders trembling violently, as if she were fleeing from some deadly pursuer. She knew whatever was chasing her intended to kill her, and so, even with her muscles screaming in pain, she dared not stop running.
Yan Shixun’s heart tightened. Using his peripheral vision, he glanced behind himself without fully turning, careful not to startle Chi Yan and make her run out of the mirror’s range.
As he had suspected, there was no sign of Chi Yan behind him.
She could not be seen by the naked eye—only through the mirror.
And yet, even though Chi Yan was standing still, the sound of high heels continued, circling the empty Jing residence.
Yan Shixun’s eyes flickered. He was beginning to guess the nature of Chi Yan’s current predicament.
At that moment, Chi Yan seemed to notice Yan Shixun’s presence as well.
After a moment of stunned surprise, her face lit up with joy, as if she had seen her last hope. She rushed toward Yan Shixun, eager and desperate.
There was no trace left of the arrogance and disdain she had shown earlier when she had berated him in the dressing room.
All the hatred and contempt she had felt for Yan Shixun had now turned into pleas for help, terrified he might refuse to save her again.
Yan Shixun immediately saw through her intentions. He frowned, clearly displeased, but he did not move to stop her.
After all, if he hadn’t seen her, it would be another matter. But now that she was right in front of him, he couldn’t simply turn a blind eye.
Most importantly—this was a matter of life and death.
However, Yan Shixun didn’t even need to make a decision against his will.
Before Chi Yan could reach him, a shadow suddenly leapt out from the side and lunged straight at her.
Chi Yan, who had just relaxed thinking she was saved, immediately became terrified again.
In order to evade the figure chasing her, she was forced to abruptly change direction, running quickly in the opposite direction of Yan Shixun. Her once graceful silhouette was now reduced to a desperate, disheveled escape.
At that same moment, Yan Shixun also caught a clear glimpse of the figure that had flashed past in the mirror.
—It was the master who had already died, the very one who had just appeared briefly before him and then immediately vanished again.
But that wasn’t all. In that instant, through the reflection in the mirror, Yan Shixun suddenly saw how truly crowded the seemingly empty Jing Estate actually was.
Ghosts were swarming around Chi Yan.
When she ran past the sofa, a severed hand reached out from underneath and grabbed her ankle, causing her to stumble a few steps and nearly fall to the ground.
When she tried to turn the corner, a ghost appeared directly in her path. Before she could react, she crashed straight into it, her speed faltering instantly, almost allowing the hand reaching from behind to grab her hair.
Up above, black mist shaped vaguely like human figures clung to the ceiling, staring intently at Chi Yan. They seemed delighted by her pitiful state, letting out sharp “giggle giggle giggle” sounds.
The childlike laughter echoed throughout the old mansion, now crammed full of wandering spirits, creating a chilling and terrifying atmosphere.
Yan Shixun didn’t waste a second. He immediately shifted positions, viewing Chi Yan’s reflection in the mirror from different angles.
He saw Chi Yan frantically fleeing through the Jing Estate, racing up the stairs before disappearing beyond the mirror’s reflected range.
Yan Shixun lost track of Chi Yan’s current whereabouts.
However, the screams that rang out again just as Chi Yan was fleeing clearly indicated that she was far from safe.
Following the camera movements alongside Yan Shixun, the audience watching all felt a suffocating, shared sense of tension.
[Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap! Is this some kind of escape game? I just realized I nearly suffocated myself because I forgot to breathe!]
[I don’t even like Chi Yan, but seriously, I have to say — this is brutal. Forget that she’s a woman; even I, who usually think of myself as pretty brave, almost had my heart jump out of my chest just now.]
[Damn it! She’s completely surrounded by ghosts! Can Chi Yan even survive this? No, wait — can any normal person even make it out of this alive?]
[Whatever boss villain this script has, I’m sure he has some serious grudge against Chi Yan… this is clearly a setup to kill her off!]
[But hey, did anyone notice Brother Yan’s movements? Chi Yan literally ran right past him, but he just stood there stunned for ages before finally rushing toward the mirror. Weird, right? Could it be that he couldn’t see Chi Yan at all?]
[The mirror! Guys, look at the mirror!!! You can see Chi Yan’s reflection in it. Could it be that Brother Yan can’t see her with the naked eye and can only spot her through the mirror? Otherwise, why would he keep adjusting his position like that?]
[The way Brother Yan moved just now reminded me of how I adjust the field of view when using a microscope. I think that theory makes a lot of sense — remember earlier too? That little ghost child stood right next to Brother Yan, and he didn’t even notice.]
[Exactly! With Brother Yan’s style, there’s no way he would just ignore it.]
[Wait, doesn’t something feel off to you guys? Everyone was able to see Chi Yan earlier, right? But now, it’s not just Brother Yan — even the others huddled at the guest room doorway look completely confused, like none of them can see her anymore!]
[Damn, you’re right! Things got weird ever since Chi Yan got separated. Remember? The first scream happened right after she ended up alone. Everyone else was crowding around Bai Shuang, and she was the only one outside. Plus, the camera followed her into the cloakroom, so only she knew what happened then.]
[If we take that moment as the turning point, everything changed… I have a bad feeling about this.]
[Me too…]
[Could it be that… Chi Yan already died? How else would you explain why no one can see her anymore?]
[!!! Why are you guys still debating this? If you were actually at the scene, with your level of alertness, you’d be dead in under five minutes! Haven’t you noticed there’s someone standing just outside the living room door, staring at Brother Yan?]
[Aaaaaah, I see it! He—he only has half a face! Damn, even his shoulder is missing half — I can see the muscle and blood vessels around his heart, like he got half his body blown off. Ugh!]
[It’s not just one! Look closer!!!]
In front of their screens, the viewers were scared out of their wits, desperately wishing they could reach out and shake Yan Shixun, warning him that he was surrounded by ghosts.
But no matter how anxious they were, Yan Shixun couldn’t receive their messages.
His long fingers, hanging loosely at his side, absentmindedly rubbed against each other. Instead of rushing after Chi Yan, he stared deeply at the mirror in front of him.
Since he couldn’t see Chi Yan with his naked eyes, chasing after her would likely be pointless.
There weren’t mirrors all over the Jing Estate, and he hadn’t yet figured out whether any reflective surface would work or if only actual mirrors could serve as a medium. If he rushed forward recklessly, he wouldn’t even know where Chi Yan was or what was happening, let alone save her.
Moreover, from what he had just seen in the mirror, Chi Yan couldn’t even touch him — her hand had passed right through his arm like she was a ghost. If he worked backward from that, even if he tried, there was no guarantee he could touch or save her.
Yan Shixun was certain that he himself was alive.
Which meant that Chi Yan, who couldn’t touch him…
His gaze darkened as he mentally prepared for the strong possibility that Chi Yan was already dead.
Through the mirror’s reflection, Yan Shixun quickly reasoned his way toward the truth, step by step.
Meanwhile, the others, who remained huddled behind him, couldn’t see any of this due to their angle. They could only hear Chi Yan’s screams and the clacking of her high heels.
An Nanyuan shivered uncontrollably, feeling a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry… and to pee.
After all, when people got scared, they secreted adrenaline like crazy to help their muscles escape danger.
But when the brain issued such commands, there were often side effects — like triggering the release of antidiuretic hormones.
“Brother—Brother Yan.”
An Nanyuan whimpered, wanting to tell Yan Shixun that he needed to go to the bathroom, but too terrified to actually say it aloud.
A thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind. He wanted to ask what had just happened, why there were screams, and whether Chi Yan was alright.
He also wanted to know where Chi Yan was now, and why Yan Shixun just stood there staring at the mirror — was something wrong?
But after all the thoughts whirled past, only one became stronger and stronger — **he really needed to use the bathroom**, a thought that gradually drowned out everything else.
Even Brother Yan’s usual scolding of “you alpaca” would have had some effect on others, but against An Nanyuan’s wildly vivid imagination, it was like pouring a cup of water into a burning house — utterly useless.
At that moment, due to an urgent need to pee, An Nanyuan’s mind automatically began replaying scenes from movies he had watched.
In one film, a teammate in a creepy villa went to the bathroom and never returned. When others went looking for him, they found him dead in the restroom, his body grotesquely mutilated, his stomach slashed open, intestines spilled across the floor.
In another scene, as a man happily hummed a tune while relieving himself, he remained oblivious to the fact that right outside the nearby window, a face was pressed tightly against the glass, distorted and monstrous, staring dead-on at his back.
Or there was the one where, in a pitch-black school restroom, a drowsy student got up in the middle of the night, pushed open a stall door, and was greeted by a pair of unblinking eyes staring straight at him from the darkness.
The next second, a blood-curdling scream rang out.
Right as An Nanyuan’s mind was spiraling with these terrifying images, Chi Yan’s scream pierced the air—blurring the line between illusion and reality.
Startled, An Nanyuan sucked in a huge breath, holding it until his face turned a ghastly shade of blue.
He made up his mind instantly: even if he died holding it in, he was not going to the bathroom!
He had seen enough horror movies to know the rules—never split up, never go to the restroom!
Standing nearby, Li Xuetang threw several puzzled glances at An Nanyuan, wondering if this idol had a screw loose—why else would his face be turning blue?
Moved by a senior’s protective instinct toward his junior, Li Xuetang’s guard loosened a little. Normally stern, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity.
He immediately reached out and patted An Nanyuan on the back, comforting him, “Don’t be scared. With so many people here, nothing’s going to happen to Chi Yan.”
An Nanyuan trembled at the touch, awkwardly clamping his legs together, his face flushing red and blue.
Fortunately, thanks to the strict discipline he maintained as an idol, he reacted quickly enough to regain control.
Even so, cold sweat soaked his body.
The intense emotional shock left him utterly drained and limp.
An Nanyuan thought: *Director Li Xuetang, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.*
Meanwhile, everyone else was too focused on Yan Shixun to notice the interaction between An Nanyuan and Li Xuetang.
“Brother Yan, is Chi Yan okay?”
Zhao Zhen asked anxiously. After a brief hesitation, he added, “If saving Chi Yan would put us in danger, maybe… maybe we can afford to overlook her.”
Zhao Zhen wasn’t a cruel person—he was usually steady and reliable. But he was still human, with his own likes, dislikes, and priorities.
After hearing Chi Yan openly admit to raising ghost children through malicious methods—and feeling no remorse over trying to kill Bai Shuang—Zhao Zhen’s opinion of her had completely bottomed out.
Right now, to him, loyalty lay with the teammates who had braved life and death together on the show.
If saving Chi Yan meant putting the rest of them at risk, Zhao Zhen was willing to bear the burden of being the “bad guy” and abandon her.
However, Zhao Zhen didn’t know Yan Shixun well enough.
If it had been Zhang Wubing, he might have understood: Yan Shixun was a cold man, but beneath that coldness lay a deep, rare tenderness.
Yet Yan Shixun reserved that tenderness only for those he deemed worthy.
In Yan Shixun’s eyes, after Chi Yan confessed her intent to kill Bai Shuang, the black mist that had always clung to her body fully engulfed her, covering even the crown of her head.
The karmic force of evil had utterly devoured her. From that moment on, heaven rejected her, and the nether world judged her.
As long as Chi Yan didn’t die right before his eyes, Yan Shixun couldn’t care less what happened to her.
And when it came to decision-making, Yan Shixun was always decisive. In a place as treacherous as this, he would naturally prioritize those untainted by karmic evil—like the members of the crew and Li Xuetang.
Still, for Zhao Zhen, saying such a thing required immense courage.
He had braced himself for rebuke before speaking.
Yet, to his surprise, the others all subtly or openly agreed.
—Chi Yan had been willing to harm even her own fan. How could they trust she wouldn’t turn on them too?
The worst kind of danger was betrayal from a teammate, impossible to guard against.
“But honestly, there’s something far more important right now than Chi Yan.”
“—How are we going to get upstairs and leave this living room?”
Yan Shixun raised his eyes, looking at the staircase Chi Yan had fled up in the mirror. Under his calm gaze, turbulent currents stirred.
*Go upstairs? What’s so hard about that?*
Puzzled, the others followed Yan Shixun’s gaze—and then realized something was terribly wrong.
The walls of the living room, which had been several meters high and decorated with tasteful oil paintings and luxurious, era-rare photographs, now seemed… different.
The figures in the paintings and photos were moving, faces twisting into various grotesque expressions, as if they had come alive.
Everyone gasped sharply, the chill piercing straight into their guts.
“My god… what the hell is this?!”
“I have two explanations. First, it could be the work of that ghost child. Judging from what he said to me earlier, he’s likely also has a Evil Spirit Bone Transformation.”
Yan Shixun said coolly. “Since I’m the same kind of entity, I know exactly what he’s capable of—especially given that he was fed with the flesh, blood, and souls of unborn children.”
“And second…”
Yan Shixun’s gaze swept over everyone, frowning. “Have you guys thought about alpacas lately?”
Everyone: “?”
The terrified livestream audience: [???]
“I realize I never told you the full truth before. But now, there’s no point in hiding it anymore.”
Yan Shixun glanced at the enormous European-style floor-to-ceiling window beside him. Handprints were smeared all over the glass, as if something was crawling along it toward the ceiling.
Through the window, he could see that at some unknown time, a well had appeared in the courtyard where previously only a fountain stood. A woman in white was dragging her long hair as she slowly crawled out of it.
Inside the living room, the mirrors banged violently, as if something was trying to break free and crawl out.
Everyone was bewildered by the sudden increase in strange noises, but they still hadn’t grasped the situation.
Except for An Nanyuan. Already struggling not to wet himself, his red-and-blue face turned completely black with terror.
Only now did he dimly recall—when they were racing away from the newspaper building, Lu Xingxing had warned him: *Don’t imagine random things. They might come true.*
Oh no.
An Nanyuan froze.
He suddenly remembered that earlier, out of sheer fear, he had unwittingly recalled countless horror movie scenes—
From many famous films.
No way… right?
Tears welled up in An Nanyuan’s eyes as he clung to a last shred of hope. Maybe… maybe it’s not my fault?
But Yan Shixun’s next words crushed that hope completely.
Under everyone’s curious gaze, Yan Shixun spoke coldly: “I told you to think of alpacas because, at least, they won’t kill you.”
“This mansion—no, the entire concession district—is now shrouded in ghostly energy. Here, anything you imagine becomes reality. Meaning: if you believe there are ghosts, then there *are* ghosts.”
“And just now—someone imagined a parade of ten thousand ghosts.”
“And now…”
He curled his lips into a faint, chilling smile. “Welcome to hell mode: the Ten Thousand Ghosts’ Hunt.”
Everyone: “!!!”
The audience: [Holy shit!!!]
As the words fell, the floor-to-ceiling window shattered with a deafening crash.
The cold late autumn wind surged into the room.
And along with it came countless ghosts—spider-like, crawling in through the broken glass, floating through the windows, grinning monstrously as they emerged from every corner.
Everyone: “……”
Everyone: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
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