Chapter 184: No Way Back on This Journey (34)
What first raised Yan Shixun’s suspicion was the man waving for help at the scene of the car accident.
What first made the official in charge realize something was wrong was the disappearance of both the car and the man from the accident scene.
Now, that vanished crash site had reappeared on the highway.
Rescue team members cried out in alarm and rushed over.
The vehicle, already dilapidated to the point of being nearly scrapped, had been completely deformed by the rollover and was now mangled beyond recognition. The front end had been crushed into something resembling a metal pancake, though the backseat was still relatively intact.
The rescuers had originally hoped to check whether anyone inside still needed help, but upon approaching and seeing the condition of the car, they already had a grim sense of what to expect.
With such a violent impact, there was no way the driver could still be alive.
And sure enough, that was the case.
A rescue team member peered through the shattered window and saw a mangled mess of flesh and blood in the driver’s seat. A pair of large, rough hands—clearly from years of manual labor—hung limp over the steering wheel, still stretched forward as if trying to flee even in the final moments before death.
The rescuer straightened up and shook his head regretfully at the people behind him.
His colleague understood the signal: there were no signs of life. With a sigh, he prepared to use more forceful and efficient methods to pry open the vehicle and remove the body.
But no matter how hard the team tried, the door wouldn’t budge an inch.
“That’s strange,”
One of them muttered. “Is the latch jammed or deformed?”
Just as he was about to tell his colleague to get the tools, members of the investigation team came running over in a hurry.
“This…”
One investigator took a glance and, despite the blurred details, instantly recognized the person inside.
—The down jacket the driver was wearing matched exactly what the missing university student had been wearing when he disappeared.
Though the coat was now stained with blood and dirt beyond recognition, the cut and fabric clearly indicated it was expensive—definitely not the kind of clothing someone driving a junk car would wear.
“We can’t get the door open.”
“Wait, hang on! I think there’s something in the backseat! I saw a hand!”
“There’s someone in the backseat? But didn’t the earlier surveillance footage show only one person?”
“Open the door first!”
While the rescuers were scratching their heads for a solution, not far away, Lan Ze nervously walked over hand-in-hand with Cheng Jing.
And the moment Lan Ze approached the car, the door—previously impossible to open even with professional tools—suddenly swung open with ease.
“Whoosh!”
The moment the rescue worker pulled the door open, all the blood and flesh trapped inside the vehicle burst out like a clogged pipe suddenly cleared. It gushed forward, drenching the rescuer from head to toe, soaking his entire pant leg in blood.
Immediately, a thick, nauseating stench filled the air, like rotting meat fermenting in a sealed space throughout a whole summer. It was so overpowering that it could rival chemical weapons, making everyone nearby turn pale and gag reflexively.
Two younger investigators clamped their bulging cheeks tightly with their hands and quickly turned to run aside.
Sounds of vomiting soon followed.
Now, everyone could see the interior of the vehicle clearly.
The man in the driver’s seat had a rugged, weather-beaten face, full of lines from years of hard labor and exposure. His fierce, rough features were the type that would instinctively make people avoid him in a crowd.
But now, that face had turned stiff and blackened. His eye sockets were so widened in terror that they looked cracked open, with bright red blood flowing from the corners of his eyes, staining his entire face.
His pupils had contracted so much that his eyeballs looked almost completely white. It was as if he had seen something terrifying right before dying—and that fear had been frozen on his face by death, becoming his final impression of the human world.
The down jacket, slightly too small for his middle-aged frame, hung open, revealing an inner layer that had been washed so many times it was pilled and faded. That garment was now soaked in blood, oxidized into a black-red color.
The team leader of the investigation unit covered his nose and mouth and stepped forward with a frown to take a closer look. After a moment, he noticed something off.
“Isn’t his posture kind of strange?”
He said, puzzled, “It’s like every bone in his body is broken, and…”
How could there be so much blood?
The vehicle was an old model, already decommissioned, with no airbags. Yet the posture of the driver after the crash didn’t match any known case from experience.
The driver hadn’t been flung forward by inertia, crashing through the windshield. Instead, it was as if some force had locked him tightly to the seat.
What’s more, a visual inspection showed that there were no visible wounds on the exposed skin of the driver.
So where did all that blood come from? And what could have caused such injuries?
The investigation team put on gloves and stepped forward to begin their work.
But the moment they lifted the driver’s shirt, they felt something slick and slippery slide out from underneath the blood-soaked, heavy clothing, falling with a thud onto the road.
One team member looked down and saw a chunk of meat—something that looked like pork—lying by his foot.
Then, as if a cork that had been plugging an opening had suddenly been removed, everything the shirt had barely been holding together slid out in a cascade, splattering all over the highway.
In the morning light, everyone could clearly see what those red pieces actually were.
They were all bits of flesh, chunks of shredded organs—what should have been the full contents of a human torso was now a bloody, scattered heap on the ground.
The liver still bore claw marks, as if it had been raked by talons, torn apart in a grotesque, chaotic mess that looked horrifying.
And the team member who had lifted the shirt could only stare, wide-eyed, as the once-chubby and sturdy middle-aged man rapidly “shrunk” before his eyes, no longer able to fill out his loose, oversized clothes.
All that remained under the fabric was a bright red skeleton.
The team member’s face turned pale on the spot.
It was exactly like how a butcher slaughtered a pig—cutting away meat chunk by chunk, stripping bone from tendon.
But the team leader, though briefly shaken, quickly regained his composure. He crouched down and began inspecting the flesh, roughly reconstructing the original anatomy.
“We’re missing the heart,” the leader said, raising his head. “Check under the shirt—see if it’s stuck behind the ribs.”
Had the ribs blocked it from falling out?
Or had the one who killed the driver allowed him to remain conscious until the end, letting him watch his own flesh being torn away piece by piece, finally bleeding out only when the heart remained?
Just like that college student who was found dead in a previous missing person’s case.
The team leader furrowed his brows, quickly trying to piece together the scene from what was left.
“The heart isn’t there.”
Before any team member could respond, a calm, clear young voice answered him.
The leader instinctively turned toward the voice, his eyes first catching a pair of long legs—and the empty ground beneath them, where no shadow should’ve been.
His eyes narrowed, and with growing seriousness and caution, he slowly looked up.
He found himself staring into the face of a handsome young man, a faint, gentle smile resting on his lips.
Lan Ze lowered his gaze with a smile and said sincerely to the team leader, “His heart is in his stomach.”
“Since he had no conscience, I decided to put his heart back where it belonged—into his belly.”
Lan Ze’s voice remained calm, not the slightest bit hesitant to let the team leader know that he had been the one who killed the man.
“He didn’t want to eat it at first, but that’s fine. I just had to feed it to him. The other ghosts were more than happy to help.”
Lan Ze smiled. “His soul has already followed those ghosts. Since Mr. Yan has returned the underworld to its rightful place, he’s probably been eaten by those evil spirits by now. I’m sorry, but you likely won’t be able to find him.”
Lan Ze, once a resentful ghost consumed by death and pain, now calmly spoke these cruel words. It was only then that the nearby rescue workers began to realize—
This handsome young man… was no longer human.
He was a vengeful spirit strong enough to shake the Yin path.
Lan Ze’s gaze fell calmly upon the driver’s body, now stripped of flesh and organs, reduced to little more than a skeleton.
The one who killed him had held a butcher’s knife in a dim, shadowy room, face twisted in glee at the slaughter. No matter how he begged, the killer showed no mercy, smiling with joy as the man passed out again and again from the pain.
So Lan Ze returned that “joy” to the killer in full.
The middle-aged man was dragged into hell by evil ghosts. His flesh was torn off piece by piece. His pleas for mercy were heartrending, but the ghosts ignored his cries, devouring his soul at will, relishing his despair and suffering as he slowly died—as if savoring a drawn-out execution.
He had no heart. So Lan Ze personally removed it, stuffed it into his mouth, and made him feel where it should have been.
Lan Ze remembered clearly: at that moment, the middle-aged man looked at him in horror, eyes pleading for mercy, hoping to be spared.
But…
No one had ever spared him.
Lan Ze thought this as he trembled with helplessness and despair, once having pleaded for a sliver of mercy, yet the butcher’s blade had still fallen without hesitation.
So now, with what right are you begging me?
Without a trace of hesitation, Lan Ze pushed the middle-aged man into the sea of blood. Amidst the churning hell of evil spirits, the man’s soul was utterly obliterated, with no chance of reincarnation.
Perhaps, by now, the man’s soul—heavy with sin—had already become sustenance for other malevolent ghosts.
And precisely because of that, even the area where his corpse had lain became fused with the blood sea. That was why, when the investigation team opened the car door, a flood of blood and shredded flesh gushed out.
Lan Ze thought absentmindedly to himself, then gave the team leader an apologetic smile. “Did I just interrupt your work?”
Silence fell over the scene.
Everyone in the investigation team looked up at Lan Ze, stunned and speechless.
For a moment, they were all overwhelmed by a complicated mix of emotions, unsure of how to react.
If it had been anyone else standing there saying such things, they would have already taken action.
But the one who had “cruelly” killed the driver was the very same victim the driver had once murdered. And the manner of the driver’s death was identical to the way he had killed his own victims.
No matter how one looked at it, it could only be described as retribution—karma coming full circle. There was simply no reason to blame Lan Ze.
What was even more important was this: if a vengeful ghost committed a killing, how did one define crime in the human world? There was no known law that addressed a situation like this.
One team member murmured dazedly, “So ghosts really do exist… The head of the special department lied to me. He even told me to believe in science.”
The team leader was the first to snap out of it.
He stood up, removed his bloodstained gloves, and extended a hand toward Lan Ze. “Hello, Student Lan. I’m the officer in charge of your case.”
But as soon as he spoke, the team leader felt something off.
In his entire career, this was the first time he was face-to-face with a deceased victim. No matter how he thought about it, something just didn’t feel right.
Lan Ze smiled and nodded politely, but did not take his hand. “Thank you. I saw how hard you’ve all been working on my case. I’m really grateful for your concern. But there’s no need to shake hands.”
“I’m already dead. My yin energy might affect your health.”
The team members were momentarily dazed.
Ah… this ghost is so polite. Things were only getting stranger!
The team leader then asked Lan Ze a series of questions—about where the murder weapon had been discarded, and about the specific details of what had happened that day.
Every obstacle they had encountered during the investigation was now easily resolved, because one of the key persons involved was standing right in front of them.
The team leader gave Lan Ze a solemn nod. “Don’t worry. Even though the murderer is dead and you’ve taken revenge in your own way, we will still ensure that justice is served. The killer will receive the infamy and judgment he deserves in the human world.”
Lan Ze was deeply moved. “Thank you.”
While the team leader was conversing with Lan Ze, Cheng Jing’s eyes shifted to the backseat of the car.
The severe crash hadn’t damaged the rear seats. He could faintly see a pale hand bone dangling weakly over the edge of the seat, its bloodless joints tinged red.
On that skeletal arm was a once-white shirt now soaked in blood.
Cheng Jing felt a wave of dizziness. The world around him swayed.
He remembered how he had sent his lover off from the university and watched him get into the car. He’d worn a clean white shirt under his puffer jacket, and when Cheng Jing had leaned in close, he could still smell the fresh scent of soap—bringing to mind sunshine and cleanliness.
His lover had once smiled so brightly at him, swinging his arms and waving goodbye, telling him not to stand in the cold wind too long, to go back quickly so he wouldn’t catch a cold.
But now…
Even though Cheng Jing already knew the truth—that Lan Ze was dead, that the one standing beside him was his spirit—seeing his lover’s remains with his own eyes was an entirely different shock.
He realized he was far less prepared than he thought. The impact of that sight shattered him.
Trembling, Cheng Jing stepped forward. His frozen hand barely managed to grip the car door.
He bent down and saw clearly the state of the corpse lying across the cramped, dim backseat.
Tears burst from his eyes. An overwhelming flood of sorrow and pain consumed him. He was drowning in it—no rescue, no air, no escape. His cries of grief became uncontrollable.
His Lan Ze…!
Cheng Jing stretched out his shaking hand—shaking so hard it barely obeyed him—and gently yet firmly pulled the bloodied skeleton, whose very face had been gouged of flesh, into his embrace.
Tears splashed onto the skull’s face and slowly trailed down its cheeks.
As if the bloodied skull itself was weeping.
The moment Cheng Jing drew close to that skeleton, all of Lan Ze’s sealed memories of his death came surging into Cheng Jing’s mind.
His vision spun wildly—and then, he was in the mountains, wearing a backpack, facing a middle-aged man with a brutish, fleshy face.
Then came a dim little cabin, the stench of blood, the butcher’s knife with dried stains and a cold gleam…
Pain coursed through Cheng Jing’s muscles and bones. In that moment, he was Lan Ze—his soul bound to his lover’s—and he endured everything Lan Ze had suffered before death, feeling every inch of his pain and despair.
Cheng Jing looked like a wounded animal, sobbing and whimpering, overwhelmed with despair and agony over the death of his lover. He curled into himself, trembling, clutching the remains in his arms.
Lan Ze seemed to sense something and suddenly turned his head.
When he saw Cheng Jing’s actions, a trace of panic flickered across his face, shattering the calm he had shown earlier in front of the investigation team leader.
Lan Ze instinctively reached out, wanting to pull Cheng Jing away from his own ruined remains, not wanting him to keep staring at his grotesque and hideous appearance.
But then he froze.
What if… Cheng Jing had already grown afraid of him because of this? What if he no longer wanted to be with him?
Lan Ze shrank back, afraid to go forward, silently praying in his heart.
But then, a cool hand rested on his shoulder and gave him a firm, undeniable push—pushing him toward Cheng Jing.
Before Lan Ze could react, he was already in Cheng Jing’s arms.
And before Lan Ze, flustered and unsure, could straighten up, Cheng Jing had already turned and wrapped him tightly in an embrace.
Ye Li stood impassively at the scene of the car accident, watching the two lovers—separated by life and death—embrace once again, tearfully confessing their love.
Yan Shixun, whose wrist was still held by Ye Li, clearly hadn’t recovered from the shock. His once sharp and handsome face looked dazed and lost.
Ye Li glanced sideways and saw Yan Shixun’s expression.
He looked just like a large, stunned feline—claws withdrawn, hesitantly reaching forward with soft paws, unsure what to do.
Ye Li found it so adorable that his heart melted completely.
With a smile, he lifted his hand and, while Yan Shixun was still out of it, gently placed it on the top of his head. His fingers trailed through the cool strands of hair, eventually settling on the curve of Yan Shixun’s ear, where he gave it a small, discreet rub—satisfying a secret impulse.
Utterly pleased.
The investigation team leader had initially recognized Yan Shixun and intended to ask him about ghosts and spirits.
After all, he had believed in science for so many years, and suddenly seeing something so far beyond logic had shaken him. Most importantly, he didn’t even think the ghost—once a victim—had done anything wrong. He was worried. What if a powerful master like Yan Shixun did something to Lan Ze? He had wanted to plead on Lan Ze’s behalf.
—But the team leader didn’t understand Yan Shixun or this whole supernatural field. All he could do was try to recall what he’d seen in movies about masters and act based on that, hoping to protect Lan Ze.
However, after just a few steps, he was caught completely off guard by what he saw between Ye Li and Yan Shixun.
Team Leader: Ah…………
He silently looked at the two lovers embracing and crying, then glanced at the clearly close interaction between the two “masters.” With keen awareness, he wisely stepped back a few paces to give them space.
Team Leader: Blocking someone’s romance brings bad luck. Besides, from the master’s attitude, it didn’t look like he was going to do anything to Lan Ze, right? After all, the master himself had a lover—he should understand Lan Ze.
So the team leader decided to simply observe from the sidelines—and took his team members with him.
Now with only a few people remaining at the scene, Lan Ze and Cheng Jing faced each other, laughing and crying, and finally wiping away each other’s tears with tearful smiles.
Cheng Jing took off his coat and draped it over the blood-stained remains, giving his lover a momentary sense of peace.
With sorrowful eyes, he gazed at the bones for a long time before he finally came back to himself and slowly stood up, reaching for Lan Ze’s hand.
Lan Ze looked at him with worry, afraid that such a horrifying sight had still left a lasting impact. But Cheng Jing gave him a reassuring smile.
“It’s alright, Xiao Ze.” Cheng Jing’s eyes were red and wet. As he smiled, tears once again fell from his eyes.
“From this day forward, we will never be apart.”
Lan Ze choked up and slowly nodded. “Okay.”
A ghost and a living person had made the deepest vow.
Yan Shixun stood completely frozen. His mind buzzed with white noise.
His eyes kept drifting between Lan Ze and Cheng Jing, filled with suspicion and uncertainty, as the possibility he had tried to suppress slowly surfaced, taking root and beginning to grow.
Lan Ze offered Yan Shixun an apologetic smile. “Mr. Yan, I know you’re only thinking of what’s best for me, but I’m sorry… I want to be with Cheng Jing forever.”
Yan Shixun blinked slowly and said, “Even if you’ve absorbed some ghost energy and become stronger, if you stay in the human world too long, you’ll eventually dissipate completely…”
He turned his gaze to Cheng Jing. “And your ghostly energy will corrode him. His health will suffer. Maybe next month, maybe next year—or perhaps one night without warning—his vital energy will dry up, and he’ll die suddenly.”
But Cheng Jing wasn’t shaken by the terrifying way his death was described. He continued to smile, calm and fearless.
“If I can die with Xiao Ze, then that would be the best outcome,” Cheng Jing said frankly. “That’s the ending I’ve always dreamed of.”
Lan Ze also smiled with slightly flushed cheeks because of Cheng Jing’s words.
“Mr. Yan.”
Lan Ze called out, “If I can choose to stay with Cheng Jing despite criticism and doubt, then I don’t fear death or the separation between life and death. If Cheng Jing isn’t afraid, then what is there for me to worry about?”
“Death and the barrier between the living and the dead should not be the reason that separates us.”
Yan Shixun stood there, dazed, listening to Lan Ze’s words. He wanted to say more, but Ye Li stopped him.
“To them, this is already the best ending.”
Ye Li lowered his raven-feather-like lashes and gazed intently at Yan Shixun. “Shixun, there’s no need to try persuading them anymore.”
Yan Shixun muttered in confusion, “But… if he remains in the human world, the only end waiting for him is either being reduced to ashes or being consumed by ghostly energy. Why not just reincarnate now? That would be the most rational and correct choice.”
“Even if there’s unfinished karma or fate between them, as long as it hasn’t ended, they’ll still meet again in their next life.”
“So why cling to this fleeting moment?”
Ye Li sighed and tightened his grip on Yan Shixun’s wrist.
He said, “Shixun, humans will beg for anything—good or bad. Sometimes, it might look like hell to others, but to the person themselves, it feels like a blessing from the gods.”
The cries of people praying to deities had never ceased. Though Ye Li never responded, he always knew what mortals longed for.
He had once walked the human world, heard all the wailing and pleading, yet had never been moved by those emotions.
But now, as Ye Li held Yan Shixun’s hand and looked at the pair of lovers, he suddenly let out a sigh.
Because of the exorcist he loved, even a god of ghosts had been touched.
“If there is love, how could one bear to be apart for decades, separated by life and death?”
Ye Li’s deep voice echoed beside Yan Shixun’s ear. “Because he loves him… Because he loves him so deeply that he can’t bear to spend even a second without him. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment of his life. He wants to always be by his side.”
“Shixun, look.”
Ye Li lowered his gaze and seriously met Yan Shixun’s eyes. “Everything in the human world changes—oceans turn into mulberry fields, dynasties rise and fall. There are so few things we can truly hold onto. The only thing that never changes, the only thing we can cling to…”
“Is deep, heartfelt emotion.”
“Is the love spoken between lovers.”
“Just like right now…”
There was a hint of a smile in Ye Li’s eyes. His bloodless lips slowly mouthed soft, blurry words filled with longing: “I love you.”
Yan Shixun’s eyes slowly widened.
Suddenly, he realized what had been bothering him all along.
—The bond between Cheng Jing and Lan Ze had already gone beyond the boundaries of mere friendship.
That was clearly… romantic love.
Yan Shixun finally understood, the realization dawning on him like a bolt of lightning.
After a long moment, he blinked and returned to his senses.
“I didn’t expect you, a god of ghosts who’s been away from the mortal world for so long, to understand human emotions better than I do.”
Yan Shixun gave Ye Li a half-smile and a sideways glance. There was no discomfort in his expression—only genuine gratitude.
If Ye Li hadn’t reminded him, he would never have figured it out on his own.
For a moment, Yan Shixun felt a wave of emotion.
It seemed that the path of cultivation truly had no end. Just when he thought he understood the world and its emotions well enough, he discovered there was still more to explore.
The road ahead was still long…
Yan Shixun thought: It must have been hard for Ye Li to say those words just to enlighten me. But I accept the lesson he gave.
Ye Li could read Yan Shixun’s thoughts from his face. His tall frame stiffened gradually.
Ye Li thought: …Sigh.
Let’s take it slowly.
The once all-powerful god of ghosts let out a silent, melancholy sigh.
Yan Shixun didn’t know what Ye Li was going through inside. He turned toward the anxious Lan Ze and Cheng Jing, a smile on his face.
“Looks like we’ll have to think of a way to help them avoid the worst possible ending.”
That smile softened Yan Shixun’s sharp features. He raised an eyebrow and joked, “Why are you looking at me like that? Do I look like the Queen Mother of the West here to break up lovers?”
Lan Ze burst into laughter.
He and Cheng Jing exchanged a glance, their uneasy hearts finally settling down.
Their fingers interlaced, never to be parted again.
…..
What had happened at Binhai University had already been concluded and was made public.
According to the official statement, the Chemistry Department at Binhai University had lost a dangerous reagent. Security personnel discovered it was the work of a group, so they reported it in time, evacuated nearby residents, and sealed off the roads leading to the university to prevent any harm to innocent citizens. They also kept students in their dorms for centralized protection.
To evade capture, the criminal group resorted to superstition and theatrics, trying to scare off the authorities. Their behavior was described as extremely malicious.
During their escape, the group accidentally spilled the reagent, causing an explosion and contamination.
As a result, there were violent tremors and loud noises on campus, and even the experimental building of the Chemistry Department collapsed in the blast.
The authorities strongly condemned these actions and released a series of clear photos.
Images showed the burning chemistry building, masked individuals in terrifying disguises outside windows, and security personnel moving through campus—all of which supported the official version of events.
People who had initially suspected ghosts due to the livestream and Binhai students’ comments in the bullet chats were now confused, caught between belief and doubt.
“Then why were there Taoists over there?”
“Hasn’t there always been a rumor about a coffin lecture hall at Binhai? Maybe something really came out from under it?”
“Didn’t some students in the bullet chats earlier say the place was haunted?”
“What was the livestream all about?”
As people began to question it, the public opinion team—who had been waiting for this moment—calmly stepped in to steer the narrative.
“The Taoistss were probably heading to a hotel nearby for a meeting. It’s on Haiyun Temple’s bulletin; they weren’t planning to go to Binhai University. They just happened to pass by and lent a hand when they saw what was happening.”
“Makes sense. I mean, Taoists practice alchemy, so they probably know a thing or two about chemistry, haha.”
“The ‘Coffin Lecture Hall’ looks the way it does because the designer was a foreigner trying to go for a Chinese style but ended up creating a weird mess. Ugh, so ugly.”
“Didn’t someone say the crime syndicate was faking supernatural stuff? Maybe that’s what the students saw.”
“Fake human-skin suits are super realistic nowadays. Last Halloween, I bought a ghost mask that scared my friend so badly, they beat me up.”
“Brother Yan must have gone there to help. Hard to believe it’s been years since he graduated, and he still cares so much about his alma mater.”
…
Everyone: “???”
Some of the comments seemed a little off, but the more people read, the more convincing they sounded.
A lie repeated by enough people started to feel like the truth—especially when it came from the mainstream narrative. It made people second-guess themselves.
Even though some still didn’t buy the official explanation, public opinion eventually stabilized. As far as the authorities were concerned, that was enough to define the event.
The rest could be left to time and forgetting.
There were always endless new things happening online. What seemed important today would be forgotten tomorrow. New stories replaced old ones, and time blurred the details.
By the time future audiences revisited this incident, all they’d see would be the finalized news reports—never the heated discussion happening now.
Luckily, “Heart-Pounding Journey of Ninety-Nine Days” was a livestream show. After receiving the official notice, the video platform disabled all screen recording and screenshot functions, removed playback, and combed the internet for short clips—immediately taking down any recordings they found.
This minimized the impact of the livestream as much as possible.
Mainstream opinion, mixed with fabricated stories planted by the public opinion team, began to muddle everything. Over time, even the viewers themselves started doubting their own memories—wondering if maybe they had remembered things wrong.
After all, they had no way of watching the replay to verify anything.
The public opinion leader looked at the screen, now filled with mainstream voices, nodded with satisfaction, patted his shiny, bald head like a lightbulb, and calmly opened a drawer to pull out a wig.
Public Opinion Leader: The winter wind is so cold. Only this wig offers a bit of warmth.
With several forces working together, online narratives quickly unified. The hype started dying down.
More and more people shifted their attention to the show’s guests and the program itself.
The production team released an official statement, saying the crew had encountered a car accident on the highway, got lost due to unfamiliar terrain and darkness, and then ran into a funeral procession that frightened some guests. They offered sincere apologies.
They also assured fans that the guests had been sent to the hospital right away for check-ups, thanked everyone for their concern, and promised to take good care of the guests. The next episode would be recorded once everyone was fully recovered.
Long-time viewers had grown used to this kind of scripted statement.
Even if they didn’t buy the “funeral procession” explanation—since what Lu Xingxing and the others saw in the livestream was far scarier—they still nodded along silently, saying nothing to refute the official narrative.
Long-time viewers: I get it. It’s all for censorship approval. The production team worked hard!
Some confused new viewers still wanted to question things, but any comment they posted with sensitive keywords was flagged with the message: “Reject superstition, believe in science.”
Seasoned viewers subtly hinted at the truth to the newbies, while public opinion continued shaping their judgments.
Gradually, the main focus shifted to the female guest’s withdrawal from the show.
Since the car accident had happened on the way to filming, she hadn’t recorded even a single episode before quitting. Fans couldn’t understand why.
Her studio stated that she was in poor health and needed rest due to the trauma.
But long-time fans and insiders knew the truth—she had tried to gamble for fame, hoping this would be her breakout moment. She never expected to actually encounter a ghost. She lost the bet—and got seriously spooked.
Unlike variety show celebrity and Zhao Zhen who had to rely entirely on themselves, this female guest came from an entertainment family and didn’t need to take such risks to climb the ranks. So her decision to quit didn’t surprise the other guests.
The production team gave her plenty of face, apologizing sincerely for failing to provide her with a relaxing and enjoyable journey. They emphasized that the program would always be her friend and welcomed her back any time.
No matter how loudly she screamed inside—“I’m never coming back, damn it!!!”—she still played the part gracefully on social media, interacting with the show’s account and maintaining a dignified public exit.
After seeing the discussions on the internet gradually die down, Zhang Wubing let out a long sigh of relief and collapsed heavily onto the soft carpet in Yan Shixun’s house, pretending to be dead and not wanting to move a muscle.
Even though the sound of Jing Xiaobao’s tearful wailing could still be heard outside the window—pitifully crying, “Yan, I know I was wrong!”—Zhang Wubing had no energy left to go out and mock him.
Ever since returning from the highway, Zhang Wubing hadn’t rested for even a moment. He had been working non-stop with the authorities to help calm public opinion, to the point of nearly falling apart from exhaustion.
At that moment, Zhang Wubing truly wished he could just lie there forever, buried in the soft carpet and warmed by the heater… never to be separated from them again.
Yan Shixun came out of his room adjusting his cuffs, and was speechless for a moment when he saw Zhang Wubing lying on the carpet, squinting blissfully like an idiot.
This silly guy…
“Da Bing, I’m heading out for a bit. Remember to check Jing Xiaobao’s homework later.”
Yan Shixun said as he took his coat off the rack, gave it a sharp shake before draping it over his shoulders, then straightened the collar in front of the mirror like he was heading to a formal appointment.
Zhang Wubing was startled by his words. Still sprawled on the floor in a totally ungraceful pose, he looked up at Yan Shixun in horror and asked, “You want me to check that brat’s homework?!”
Because one of the members from the public opinion group who had been monitoring the split-screen livestream of the female guests had revealed part of Jing Xiaobao’s actions, Yan Shixun had managed to piece together what the kid had done that night. As soon as they got back, he had picked Jing Xiaobao up and, ignoring the child’s crying pleas for mercy, gave him a good spanking. The little ghost’s entire demeanor had wilted like a floppy-eared bunny—he looked absolutely pitiful.
Zhang Wubing thought, Isn’t this the perfect chance to mock him?
So he had smugly walked over and bragged about how Brother Yan treated him so well, never even once hitting him.
In return, he got a glare from Jing Xiaobao—eyes red like a rabbit.
And then, Zhang Wubing’s bad luck began.
—As long as Yan Shixun wasn’t around, Jing Xiaobao would grin eerily and send out malicious ghosts to mess with Zhang Wubing.
Those ghosts, though intimidated by the thick evil ghost aura permeating the courtyard, were just as afraid of Jing Xiaobao’s own terrifying presence. Left with no choice, they had to go scare Zhang Wubing, though they were also constantly on edge, afraid that either of those two terrifying figures might suddenly return.
As a result, both the ghosts and Zhang Wubing were equally frightened.
Meanwhile, Jing Xiaobao would just clutch his rubber ball and laugh gleefully nearby, his eyes squinting in amusement.
Then, he was caught red-handed by the returning Yan Shixun and dragged off to study the Three Character Classic.
Jing Xiaobao: Memorizing stuff is the worst, QAQ.
Zhang Wubing: I don’t want to grade a vengeful ghost’s homework!!! I still want to live a few more years!
As Yan Shixun turned around, he caught sight of Zhang Wubing’s horrified expression.
He raised his eyebrows knowingly and casually pointed to the side. “Relax. Ye Li is staying here with you two. Xiao Bao won’t dare do anything.”
Zhang Wubing turned his head—and immediately locked eyes with Ye Li’s dark, sullen face.
Because Yan Shixun hadn’t planned to bring him along, Ye Li had been in a foul mood since early that morning. Even his aura had turned gloomy.
If a Taoist were to visit Yan Shixun now, he’d be shocked to find not a single trace of ghostly energy around the courtyard—cleaner than a polished mirror.
—All the ghostly presence had been scared away by Ye Li’s suffocating low pressure.
“Shixun… you really don’t plan on taking me with you?”
Ye Li asked in a low, melancholic tone. “I don’t think the people at Haiyun Temple would mind.”
Yan Shixun replied half-heartedly with two hums, clearly not intending to change his mind. He simply said he’d be back late and told them not to wait for him for dinner.
Ye Li: …Are we going to be apart for that long?
And with that, Ye Li’s aura became even heavier.
Zhang Wubing: …Now I’m even more scared!!!
Despite the tearful sounds and sorrowful gazes behind him, Yan Shixun still stepped out alone.
He was heading to Haiyun Temple.
The matter regarding Lan Ze… was far from over.
Even if Lan Ze insisted on his decision, Yan Shixun didn’t want to see the couple end up in such a tragic outcome. He wanted to do something about it.
In the early winter chill, Yan Shixun recalled what Lan Ze had said back then, and for a moment, he found himself dazed in thought.
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