Chapter 186: No Way Back on This Journey (36)
The buzz surrounding Binhai University on social media hadn’t died down.
After all, it stood alongside Capital University as one of the top universities in the country. Any small disturbance would attract public attention—let alone something this serious.
Some Binhai students, feeling dissatisfied, posted harsh opinions about the recent incident on social media, reigniting discussions.
Some complained about the exams, saying Binhai should’ve postponed the schedule—otherwise, they wouldn’t have failed.
Others criticized the university for lacking transparency in handling the incident, accusing it of once again hiding the truth, just like the previous case involving stolen postgraduate recommendation quotas. Many expressed deep disappointment.
Since the missing student case had now been resolved, the authorities had released relevant information confirming that Lan Ze, a student of Binhai University, had been murdered. The perpetrator had died in a car accident. As a result, during this period, many people spontaneously visited Binhai and left white flowers and candles in front of the university gate as a symbol of mourning. Some also left greeting cards, wishing Lan Ze peace in the next life.
From the public’s perspective, it was a tragic loss—a brilliant Binhai student had met an unfortunate end, evoking sorrow and regret.
Many students at Binhai, upon hearing the news, sighed deeply. They felt it was a real pity to lose someone with Lan Ze’s talent and academic promise.
However, because the exam week hadn’t fully ended, most students could only spare a little attention to the situation. They didn’t even have time to be afraid of the crisis that had happened on campus—they quickly returned to cramming and reviewing.
—After all, Binhai may have been open and liberal in many ways, but when it came to academics, it was cold and ruthless.
The professors were highly capable, but they had no patience for students who didn’t study.
Initially, Binhai’s leadership had considered delaying exams, but the professors had simply rolled their eyes and said, “If you want to study, study. If not, transfer to another department or school. I don’t care.”
After saying that, they unceremoniously kicked the leadership out of their offices.
Scenes like that played out in multiple departments.
One of the university leaders rubbed what little hair he had left, feeling that he shouldn’t be the only one going bald. So with a wave of his hand, he decided—no delays for anyone. Exams would proceed as usual!
As a result, students who had just gotten into watching the livestream program and thought it was pretty interesting, immediately scattered like startled birds. All across Binhai, students rushed around clutching textbooks, their faces pale and haggard, looking like they’d reviewed themselves into a daze.
Who had time for gossip anymore? First, they needed to make sure they didn’t get crushed by the merciless professors!
But in the eyes of some students, Lan Ze had deserved what happened to him. They believed he got what was coming to him for stealing, and his death brought a sense of justice.
Because of that, this group strongly disapproved of people coming to leave flowers for Lan Ze.
Old grudges mixed with fresh resentment, and someone grumbled, “So I guess Lan Ze had god-level connections, huh? Having a powerful dad really is everything. He stole the top-tier postgraduate recommendation spot, and now even in death, people are mourning him? Hah, what a joke.”
Because the discussion surrounding the murdered Binhai student was at a peak in recent days, many gathered when they saw someone speaking like they had insider information, eager to hear more.
That person, seeing how quickly their comment gained likes and traction, got carried away and launched into a tirade, calling Lan Ze a shameless thief.
But soon after, a well-known science influencer specializing in chemistry posted a rebuttal.
This influencer was a long-time student at Binhai’s Chemistry Department, doing a combined undergraduate, master’s, and doctoral program. Known for his witty and engaging science content, he had a large following and was considered by many to be a representative voice of Binhai’s attitude.
He countered the claims: “Lan Ze was an exceptionally talented scientific researcher. Given his abilities, it’s easy to foresee that, had it not been for the accident, he would’ve become a leading figure in the field of chemistry. Though only an undergrad, his research capability was already comparable to mine—and I’m a doctoral student. I truly believe Lan Ze would have been a pioneer in this field!”
“It was just such a pity—he was a rare talent the heavens couldn’t tolerate.”
Because of his deep regret, the influencer grew even more furious at those slandering Lan Ze, and immediately posted a series of screenshots, determined to clear his name.
At first, many netizens who didn’t know the full story were misled. But after seeing the influencer’s carefully organized timeline and solid evidence, they finally realized that the truth was completely different from what that Binhai University student had previously claimed.
The influencer also happened to be from the chemistry department, and Lan Ze’s research group was led by the influencer’s own doctoral advisor. That meant the influencer had a good understanding of Lan Ze and was able to provide screenshots showing Lan Ze’s participation in the group chat and the advisor’s praise.
Since the influencer didn’t have to consider any official stance, the evidence he presented was much more relatable and convincing than Binhai University’s previous cold and bureaucratic statements.
Lan Ze had performed outstandingly in the research group. His advisor had even asked if he wanted to pursue graduate studies under him, but Lan Ze had politely declined. He believed the research direction of the Capital University’s institute aligned better with his vision, which left the advisor with deep regret.
During his time in the group, everything Lan Ze accomplished and all the recognition he received from his advisor were strong, legitimate reasons why he fully deserved the guaranteed graduate recommendation.
All the previous accusations—that he had stolen Cheng Jing’s recommendation spot—fell apart without needing further rebuttal.
Moreover, the influencer laid out a detailed timeline showing that even after Binhai University officially clarified the matter, and Cheng Jing himself issued a public statement affirming that Lan Ze was more qualified for the recommendation and absolutely deserved it, urging people to stop attacking him online, there were still those who continued to harass and defame him in campus forums and chat groups.
That included the very student who had previously posted insults about Lan Ze.
The influencer was furious: “During that time, not only did Lan Ze suffer reputational damage, but he also had to endure verbal abuse from some people. I even saw someone deliberately curse loudly right in front of him once. It was outrageous!”
“I originally thought that since Lan Ze had passed, I shouldn’t disturb his peace any further. But I never expected some people to still refuse to let it go—even disturbing the peace he should have had after death! I couldn’t stand it anymore. That’s why I decided to speak up.”
Among the evidence the influencer posted was a photo of Lan Ze in a white lab coat, conducting an experiment in the lab.
Sunlight streamed through the clear glass apparatus, falling across his pale, slender fingers. A simple silver ring caught the light as his refined features, serious and focused, reflected a pure and untainted presence. He was fully absorbed in the glassware in his hands, completely unaware that someone was taking a photo.
Many who looked at the photo were filled with sorrow.
Such a promising young scholar, and so strikingly handsome—just that photo alone could have made Lan Ze the campus heartthrob of Binhai University. But in the end…
“Sigh… this hurts so much. Lan Ze was truly exceptional.”
“If it were the chemistry research institute at Capital University, they’re focused on new materials. If Lan Ze had gone there, he might’ve discovered better materials, helping future scientific research take a huge leap forward, even leading the world… What a waste.”
“I’m actually from the chemistry research institute at Capital University… Lan Ze was supposed to be my junior. When our advisor heard what happened to him, he nearly fainted from crying.”
“Someone even called Lan Ze a thief before. Hah, I think that person’s the real thief.”
“Apologize? Why the hell should he?”
“Wuwu… Brother Lan Ze was so handsome, and now it’s just so tragic.”
“Instead of being jealous of others’ achievements, why not work harder yourself? Like maybe try not failing your classes this time. Others are aiming for the future, and you’re out here blaming the professor for your own failure. Pathetic.”
Someone traced the social media account of the person who started all this and discovered that his posts were full of rants about Binhai University.
He’d ranted that Binhai’s exams were too hard, that his roommates were too competitive for studying, and that the school was unfair because only he failed his courses.
When he realized people had found out about his true character, the Binhai student panicked and went offline, his heart pounding wildly.
But just a few minutes later, as soon as he started feeling safe and began yelling in the dorm about how netizens were uncivilized and didn’t support him, there was a loud *BANG BANG BANG!* at the door.
“Open up! You bastard, open the damn door!”
Someone shouted from outside, swearing, “You think just yanking your internet cable makes this all go away? You moron, did you forget how many photos you posted on your social account? The dorm number, even your textbooks were in the background—do you really think you can fool your grandpa here? Open the damn door!!”
The guy outside sounded absolutely furious and started violently kicking at the door.
The student inside hadn’t even locked it when he returned earlier, so with one strong kick, the door burst open.
Startled, he took a moment to gather himself and then realized—he actually knew the person storming in. It was Cheng Jing’s roommate!
The roommate, usually lazy and laid-back, now cracked his knuckles with a loud *crack* sound. His eyes were red, and as he cursed, he broke down, gritting his teeth and crying.
“You dared to curse my sister-in-law? It’s trash like you that caused God Cheng to drop out and even refuse his guaranteed graduate placement!”
The roommate trembled with rage. Ever since Cheng Jing came back to the dorm to pack up, calmly explained everything with a smile, and said goodbye, he’d been bottling up his fury. Now, finally, he had an outlet.
“You think you’re some righteous hero? You think people should thank you for ‘speaking out for justice’?”
The roommate growled, “You’re just a giant asshole who cyberbullied someone to death!!!”
“Give me back God Cheng! Give Lan Ze back! Give him his life back!”
The accused student was stunned, trying to yell back, but was too scared by the roommate’s ferocity and retreated backward.
“You’re crazy! It’s not like I killed Lan Ze!”
He blurted without thinking, “Wasn’t it karma for him to die? He deserved it!”
The roommate let out a cold laugh. “No, *you* getting beaten up now—that’s *your* karma. You damn idiot who failed a class and now wants to ruin someone else’s future!”
The dorm room door slammed shut again. Sounds of punches landing and agonized screams followed.
A few other angry students had been on their way there too, but when they got close and heard the chaos, they paused, then smiled and stayed by the door.
Some passersby glanced over and hesitantly advised, “Hey guys, maybe ease up a bit. No need to take it too far, yeah?”
The guys at the door exchanged smiles. Though they didn’t know each other before, in front of this shared idiocy, they were like brothers.
“Don’t worry,” one of them grinned. “The guy inside was just fooling around earlier, so we’re just playing with him too.”
He added, “But unlike him, we don’t lower our moral standards to the level of animals. So no need to worry.”
He smiled cheerfully, “He’ll definitely still be breathing.”
Passerby: …uh, what?
On social media, after a major influencer posted hard evidence, onlookers suddenly saw the whole situation clearly.
But when they tried to track down the original poster who slandered Lan Ze, they discovered he had gone completely silent—completely out of character for someone usually so aggressive online.
Everyone: ???
What they didn’t know was that the “offline confrontation” they’d been itching for, fists clenched in rage, had already been carried out—by Cheng Jing’s grieving roommate.
—And if several others hadn’t lived too far and showed up too late, that guy might’ve gotten the full “group beatdown” treatment.
After this one clear-cut case of someone being exposed and physically dealt with, the others who had been harboring resentment and wanted to keep dragging Lan Ze’s name through the mud all fell silent and retreated.
The influencer’s hands were shaking from anger. Since news of Lan Ze’s death came out, he had been devastated, mourning the loss of such a brilliant younger student, unable to sleep.
Now that the main instigator had shut up, the guilt in his heart finally lessened just a little.
Meanwhile, Binhai University students didn’t talk much about ghosts or spirits. When netizens asked, they just mentioned the ghost rumors around the “Coffin Lecture Hall”—after all, the students had been thoroughly protected during the incident. Most were only frightened but didn’t actually know what had happened outside the dorms.
At the mention of the Coffin Lecture Hall, the once-excited netizens felt like they’d been doused in cold water, deflated and disappointed.
“Boring. Disperse, disperse. I thought we were getting some juicy insider info. This is it?”
“…The Coffin Lecture Hall thing? That’s old news. Is there *anyone* who hasn’t heard about it by now?”
“Even Binhai University makes fun of this joke themselves, so can you all stop digging it up again? If there’s nothing more interesting, I’m leaving.”
“Wasn’t it said that the Coffin Lecture Hall used to be a mass grave? We’ve been hearing that for years. Tch.”
This part of the Binhai University students, who were eager to rant, looked confused.
They *had* heard rumors of the Coffin Lecture Hall being haunted. Some students who stayed late at the library had even said they saw something terrifying near that area.
So how did it become such a dull story in someone else’s mouth?
Some viewers of “Heart-Pounding Journey of Ninety-Nine Days” also came across the topic through the trending tag. They were originally curious—wasn’t this incident already over? Why was it being discussed again?
But the moment they clicked in, they realized…
Oh. It was one of those old stories that’s been passed around so often it’s basically turned into an urban legend.
Deadpan faces all around.
Especially the long-time viewers of the show, who immediately felt disappointed: “Hah, I thought it was going to be something thrilling. Turns out it’s just *that*. I heard it back when I was a kid.”
“Read it. Next.”
“Hmm… Have you guys never seen Brother Yan’s show? Watch that and *then* look at this Coffin Lecture Hall thing—it’ll feel like a fairytale in comparison.”
“So when is the show coming back on air? Without it, I don’t even have a variety show to watch.”
“Don’t listen to the nonsense up there. Our show’s always been very proper. No spooky stuff, no ghosts or spirits. We believe in science!”
The Binhai University students were utterly baffled.
But some people didn’t want to back down and kept trying to argue: “Don’t believe pseudoscience, okay? That Brother Yan or whoever—where did he even come from? Just another pseudoscientist fooling you all.”
What started as a relatively civil debate quickly descended into chaos, thanks to the intervention of water army and marketing accounts.
Because the discussion involved Yan Shixun, many of his fans—“Yan Mai”—clicked in curiously when they saw the tags, wondering if there was any new info about him.
They didn’t expect to come in excited, only to end up furiously typing back in rebuttal.
Yan Shixun had always refused to sign with any entertainment company. Previously, he even clashed with entertainment journalists over an incident involving a girl group member, Chi Xiao’ai. Because of that, many companies and studios held grudges against him, all waiting for a chance to teach him a lesson—they wouldn’t be satisfied until he fell from grace.
Unfortunately for them, Yan Shixun’s reputation only kept improving. He even partnered with local governments in the southern regions, and this time, Binhai’s own officials publicly recognized him, thanking “Mr. Yan, the enthusiastic citizen.” His fanbase grew rapidly, with over 50 million people checking in under the hashtag daily to claim their badges.
So, the entertainment companies—already uneasy about his “spooky fortune-telling skills”—didn’t dare act rashly. They feared ending up like that entertainment reporter who previously crossed him and met a miserable end.
But this minor dispute, triggered by a few students at Binhai, gave those entertainment companies a perfect opening.
Delighted, they orchestrated a storm—sending in water army and marketing accounts pretending to be Binhai students or people close to Yan Shixun.
They unleashed a barrage of smoke bombs—some saying Yan Shixun never went to school at all and was illiterate, others claiming he dropped out and didn’t know how to read a single character.
With so many conflicting rumors, they actually managed to fool a lot of people at first.
But some Yan Mai started hesitating: “Didn’t someone say before that Brother Yan was a Binhai student?”
The water army replied: “That’s just a lie to fool you gullible fans. It’s all part of building a high-education image. Think about it—Binhai is *that* hard to get into. Even top scorers have failed. How could someone from the entertainment industry possibly make it in?”
Another one added: “Haven’t you realized how low the average education level is in this industry? Like Lu Xingxing—he’s said to be totally uneducated.”
Someone from Binhai expressed confusion: “That can’t be right. Yan Shixun *is* from Binhai. Just a few days ago during exams, my professor was proudly pointing at his news article, saying he’s our senior.”
Water Army: “How much do you think Yan Shixun pays his water army? Fifty cents per post? (delete parentheses)”
Water Army: “Quick, send the group link! If there’s money in it, let’s all earn together!”
These entertainment companies might be bad at everything else, but when it came to stirring the pot and manipulating public opinion, this was their expertise.
After several waves of chaos, mixed truths and lies, fake loyalty turning into sudden betrayal—it wasn’t long before onlookers got so dizzy they didn’t know what to believe anymore.
Even some Yan Mai began to waver: “Really? Brother Yan’s uneducated? Can’t read?”
The water army egged them on: “Think about it. Has *any* official source come forward to say that Yan Shixun really is from Binhai? No, right?”
They jeered: “If he *is* from Binhai, then let Binhai University post an official statement proving he’s a student. Ha! Can’t say anything now, can you?”
The fans managing the tag were so angry they wanted to cuss: “Pfft! Everyone knows Binhai’s official account is always aloof. They’re a top-tier institution—they don’t bother with online rumors!”
“Last time, a tech CEO wanted Binhai to make a post proving he was an alumnus. Binhai didn’t even look at him!”
Even though those Yan Mai truly liked Yan Shixun, deep down they didn’t believe he could compare with a corporate CEO.
But the water army saw this and burst into laughter.
They were inwardly thrilled—of course they knew this! Why else would they dare say what they said? Were they waiting to be slapped in the face by Binhai’s official account?
Ha! They weren’t that stupid.
Binhai’s aloofness was well-known. Unless it was about scientific research or academics, Binhai had no interest in getting involved.
Their official posts were almost entirely school-wide announcements: statements, power outages, library closures… or things like “Welcome Professor XXX for a lecture exchange,” “Welcome Dr. XXX to our campus,” “Congratulations to XXX on publication…”
Many people even viewed Binhai as a bunch of science nerds.
Despite having a finance department—one of the four hardest majors to get into—Binhai as an institution had little enthusiasm for money.
Binhai: Money? What money? Can it push society forward? Can it advance scientific research? No? Then who even are you?
Many of the Yan Mai, arguing endlessly, just felt exhausted.
After all, Yan Shixun hadn’t even officially debuted. Nearly 50 million fans, and not a single proper manager. Everything was maintained by the fans’ own efforts.
In this kind of situation, there was no detailed strategy, no guidance. The fans were anxious but didn’t know what to do.
Especially when it came to the education topic—they really didn’t dare speak too confidently.
Someone had said before that Yan Shixun was from Binhai, but it was all hearsay, with no solid proof. If they wanted to shut down the other side completely, they just didn’t have the evidence.
They watched the other side become increasingly smug, taking advantage of the situation to call Yan Shixun illiterate, and they were so angry they were on the verge of tears.
Meanwhile, the Binhai students—now pushed out of the center of the discussion—looked completely lost: Huh? Was this even the thing we were arguing about in the first place?
Weren’t we talking about Lan Ze?? How did this become all about Yan Shixun??
Water Army: Successfully stirred the pot, heh heh.
But unexpectedly, just as both sides were arguing fiercely, many Yan Mai suddenly went silent and started to withdraw.
The water army felt quite pleased with themselves.
The next moment—
“Stop freaking arguing!!! Binhai University just released an official statement!!!”
The confused entertainment company rushed to check, only to find that Binhai University’s official account had really posted an update.
@Binhai Little Bookworm: Welcome back to our outstanding alumnus, Mr. Yan Shixun! Thank you, Mr. Yan, for your contributions to Binhai University over the years. No matter how long it’s been since graduation, alma mater and her little bookworms will always be family.
The post included a photo of Yan Shixun standing in front of the university’s Coffin Lecture Hall.
However, the photo looked a bit odd.
Yan Shixun’s handsome face appeared gloomy, and the oppressive aura seemed to spill out of the picture.
Even stranger, he wore a well-tailored dark green overcoat with a camel-colored scarf, giving off an intimidating presence—yet he was holding a brightly colored bag of candy, completely clashing with his vibe.
Next to him, the bald principal was clinging to Yan Shixun’s arm, grinning ear to ear, even throwing up a peace sign for the camera.
The whole photo told a different story—Outstanding Alumnus Yan Shixun had returned to campus to find someone and had just casually started unwrapping a piece of candy when the principal caught him in the act. The principal then eagerly dragged him off to express gratitude for past contributions and insisted on taking a photo.
The outstanding alumnus wanted to curse, but faced with the principal’s cheerful smile, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Especially when the principal solemnly straightened his checkered shirt, smoothed out his corduroy blazer, and combed the few remaining strands of hair over his bald head, pretending he still had a full head of hair.
Yan Shixun: “………”
Tsk… Forget it. Just take the picture.
Sunlight filtered through the bare branches, scattering like fine diamonds over Yan Shixun’s hair, making him look dazzling—so captivating that one glance would steal your breath.
At the edge of the photo, in front of the lecture hall, squatted a grotesque stone statue with deer antlers and a beast-like face, adding an eerie touch to the scene.
But thanks to the setting, many who had been to Binhai immediately recognized it—this was the Coffin Lecture Hall in this season.
The photo had just been taken! Yan Shixun was currently at Binhai University!
The Yan Mai looked at the photo, with the stark contrast between the two people’s expressions, and felt utterly dazed. They didn’t know where they were, what they were doing, or even who the person in the photo was anymore.
The water army, who’d been celebrating just a moment ago, were now stunned.
The entertainment company was also dumbfounded.
Even the bystanders who had joined in mocking the entertainment industry as full of uneducated people were now bewildered.
Wait—bro, weren’t you supposed to play by the rules? Weren’t you supposed to be a dropout?
Someone lit a cigarette with a sigh: “If a finance major from Binhai counts as illiterate, then I must’ve been illiterate in my past life too.”
“I said earlier that Yan Shixun graduated from Binhai, and none of you believed me… Satisfied now? Binhai itself came out to confirm it. Doesn’t your face hurt?”
“I’m losing it—this is *Binhai*! The famously aloof university that never responds to public opinion! Who the hell is Yan Shixun, and why would Binhai vouch for him?”
“Could it be a fake official account? Maybe he hired actors for the photo? People do that—posing in front of luxury cars or mansions pretending they own them. Maybe he took the photo at a university gate to fake his credentials.”
Binhai University’s official account was managed by the student council.
Coincidentally, the student in charge of the account was the one Taoist Song Yi had saved from death in front of the lecture hall.
Ever since being saved, that student had wanted to express his gratitude. But Taoist Song Yi, breaking from his usual seriousness, had just smiled and waved it off, saying that his junior was a Binhai student too, so technically they were all brothers. No need to thank him.
The student had been shocked.
When he got back, he searched the alumni directory and actually found a photo of Yan Shixun from his freshman year.
That same student had sharp eyes today and had spotted Yan Shixun walking through campus. He rushed over excitedly, which caught the attention of the principal.
Now, seeing people doubt Yan Shixun’s background, the student eagerly jumped in: “Hello, fellow fan! That checkered shirt really is the Binhai principal! You can confirm it on the Binhai website.”
“Also, there’s a photo from when Mr. Yan enrolled. He was definitely in the finance department.”
Soon, an image was uploaded.
Clicking on it, many viewers were practically blinded by the bold, golden words: “Finance Department – Freshman Enrollment Photo.”
In the group photo, Yan Shixun clearly looked much younger. His features were sharper, his eyes cold and bright like blades—one glance felt like it could cut you.
Everyone: “……………”
Meanwhile, the student who now admired Yan Shixun thanks to Taoist Song Yi’s heroic act, enthusiastically pulled out more proof—certificates of honor, records of academic competitions, awards Yan Shixun had won as a student…
Water Army: Please stop! Please stop! Our faces are already swollen from the slaps!
Water Army: Binhai was supposed to be aloof! Damn it, we got scammed by our employer! Raise the pay! Raise it!!!
The entertainment company never expected things to turn out like this.
They had originally intended to smear Yan Shixun’s image, make others dislike him. Instead, Binhai University itself came forward and publicly smacked them in the face.
And the publicity that they had paid the water army to generate—the hype meant to brand Yan Shixun as an illiterate—had now completely backfired and turned into traffic for *Yan Shixun* himself!
Onlookers: Wow, this guy is handsome *and* a top student at Binhai? Followed!
Onlookers: His name is Yan Shixun? And he’s in a reality show? Following to check it out.
The entertainment company watched helplessly as the number of people claiming the “Yan Mai Badge” soared past 50 million in the blink of an eye, their hearts bleeding.
Meanwhile, as Yan Mai proudly celebrated, they also felt a tiny bit of guilt.
Yan Mai 1: Other fandoms have fans charging into battle. Ours has the actual idol coming out to personally slap faces. We didn’t even get a chance to shine… sigh.
Yan Mai 2: I saved up money to spend on Brother Yan, and all we got so far is one five-yuan poster! Five yuan! He’s so pure and unpretentious, and I even felt like I got the better deal—it came with free shipping and a movie ticket from a famous director.
Yan Mai 3: Before becoming a fan of Brother Yan, I never imagined even hardship could appear so fresh and elegant. This kind of idol-chasing totally overturned my understanding of being a fan.
Yan Mai 4: Sigh… forget it, sis. Let’s just donate to the Wild Wolf Peak reconstruction project. I just donated again.
The person in charge of the Wild Wolf Peak Reconstruction Project was stunned, staring blankly at the sudden surge in donations.
No need to check—it was definitely because Mr. Yan made the news again.
Nowadays, even fan club bonding activities among Mr. Yan’s fans had turned into volunteer work and donations to environmental reconstruction efforts.
They had practically become a wild, untamed force in the entertainment circle…
But Yan Shixun remained completely unaware of what was happening on social media.
He hadn’t even installed any social apps on his phone and didn’t have the habit of constantly checking it, so how could he possibly notice the battles and trends raging online?
Aside from the overly enthusiastic student responsible for taking pictures—and the equally enthusiastic principal—getting too close made Yan Shixun feel a little uncomfortable, but he still paid no attention to the constant clicking of phones by the students.
“I’m going to find someone, I’ll go on ahead.”
Yan Shixun nodded to the principal and prepared to leave.
But the principal smiled and asked, “Student Yan, you’re from Haiyun Temple too, right? Take a look at this coffin-shaped lecture hall…”
Yan Shixun glanced over.
Right then, the antlered beast-faced stone sculpture in front of the hall took advantage of a moment when no one was looking and winked one of its large bronze bell-like eyes at Yan Shixun. Though its appearance was fierce and monstrous, it was deliberately trying to act cute.
The sight nearly made Yan Shixun burst out laughing.
He remembered that Ye Li had previously helped suppress the malevolent spirit beneath the lecture hall, channeling his own power into the tomb-guarding beast to restore its ability to guard the dead.
Judging from the current situation, Ye Li might have accidentally left behind some of his strength inside the guardian beast, giving it a touch of life.
Yan Shixun adjusted his expression, pretending to inspect the surroundings as he walked up, and when no one was paying attention, he patted the stone sculpture’s head and quietly said, “Don’t scare people.”
If a student walked past the hall after night classes and saw the statue bouncing around playfully, they’d probably get scared out of their wits.
The stone beast affectionately nudged Yan Shixun’s palm with its head, displaying a fond and cuddly attitude.
Smiling, Yan Shixun patted the beast’s head again and turned to the principal to confirm that the lecture hall would no longer be a problem.
—With a sliver of divine power still present, what evil force could possibly break through the tomb guardian’s protection?
Hearing that the malevolent spirit under the hall no longer posed a threat to students, the principal finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Yan Shixun took the opportunity to leave.
When he arrived at the dorm building, he ran straight into one of Cheng Jing’s roommates, who was muttering curses under his breath.
“Brother Yan!”
The roommate froze for two seconds, then shouted joyfully, “Why are you here!”
“Looking for Cheng Jing? Too bad, God Cheng already left. You’re late, Brother Yan.”
As soon as he mentioned Cheng Jing, the roommate looked like he was about to cry. “I didn’t expect that God Cheng’s little boyfriend was actually the missing university student, the one who’d been criticized all along—Lan Ze. No wonder God Cheng was feeling so down. I didn’t even realize… I’m such an idiot…”
“Cheng Jing made the choice that would bring him happiness.”
said Yan Shixun. “If he knew you cared about him this much, he’d definitely be glad to have a friend like you.”
The roommate, originally downcast, was comforted by these words and cheered up a bit.
When he looked down and saw the candy in Yan Shixun’s hand, he grinned foolishly and reached out. “Brother Yan, you didn’t have to bring a gift. Just coming is more than enough—this is too much.”
Yan Shixun looked at his own empty hand, then at the roommate holding the candy and grinning like a silly puppy, and felt a vein throb at his temple.
But the roommate quickly began chattering on about what he had been doing earlier, while also expressing how lost he felt without Cheng Jing.
Yan Shixun: …
He silently loosened the fist he had unconsciously clenched.
“Brother Yan, how can some people be so foul-mouthed?” the roommate said, looking gloomy. “People like me, I either lie flat and give up on everything or cling to someone powerful and call them daddy to get what I want. But even I know, honors that don’t belong to me will never belong to me. Even if I drag down the rightful winner, it still won’t be mine.”
“What they did hurt two people… My God Cheng, sob sob sob, and his little boyfriend, so tragic, sob sob… Ah, this candy is so sweet… sob sob, my teeth hurt…”
Crying while eating candy, the grown man sobbed uncontrollably right in front of the busy dorm building.
All the pain and sadness that had built up since Cheng Jing left was finally released in full.
Even the roommate didn’t know exactly why he was crying—was it over Lan Ze’s death, the anger toward those who indirectly pushed Lan Ze to his fate, or the sorrow of losing his closest friend, Cheng Jing?
Yan Shixun stood silent for a while. When he looked up again, his eyes were calm and cold.
The karma born from careless words would follow people forever. That was why there was a saying about practicing “silence meditation.”
Those who used their words as weapons had ended a life, and that sin would remain with them until the malicious spirits consumed them—only then would the cycle be complete.
Yan Shixun had originally just come to compensate Cheng Jing’s roommate for a broken tablet, but he didn’t expect to be delayed for so long. By the time the roommate finally stopped crying and reluctantly waved goodbye, the sky had already gone dark.
Winter nights came early.
The street lamps around campus lit up one by one, casting a warm glow.
As Yan Shixun looked up, fine, wispy mist drifted down and made him instinctively flutter his long eyelashes.
The scene felt strangely familiar, making him a little dazed.
Truth be told, he didn’t like Binhai University. Ever since graduating, he had never returned.
Back in freshman year, during early spring when cherry blossoms stretched across the branches in full bloom, the brightest sunlight had delivered the darkest news that sent him plummeting into winter.
His counselor, face full of worry and sorrow, had tearfully told him that Li Chengyun had been found dead in another city.
At the time, Yan Shixun was still too young.
Though he had witnessed many partings and deaths, when it came to the loss of the only person close to him, he couldn’t accept it.
He became numb, like a statue.
Zhang Wubing had skipped class and rushed back the moment he heard the news. As soon as he saw the stunned, dazed Yan Shixun, he pulled him into a bear hug and said, “Don’t worry, Brother Yan. We’ll get through this together for Master.”
Back then, Binhai University allowed students to change majors once during freshman year, and Zhang Wubing had been trying hard to switch to the directing program he loved instead of continuing with economics as his father demanded.
Mr. Zhang had been so angry he refused to speak to his son.
Zhang Wubing, who had never been independent, had no idea how to bring Li Chengyun’s remains back from so far away for burial.
Gritting his teeth, he called his father and gave in: “Dad, I won’t change majors. Please help me. Brother Yan only has me now. I have to take care of him.”
All the necessary manpower, resources, and money were provided by Mr. Zhang, who put his company’s business on hold, brought over a dozen assistants, and did everything with great care.
At Li Chengyun’s memorial hall, Mr. Zhang solemnly bowed, lit incense, and then turned to the then-unknown Yan Shixun and said seriously, “If you ever need help, come find me.”
Yan Shixun was Zhang Wubing’s only friend, and also the one who had protected him for so long—so naturally, the Zhang family was willing to help Yan Shixun.
As for Zhang Wubing, he clung to Yan Shixun and wailed like a grieving husky, crying so hard his eyes swelled larger than walnuts.
Yan Shixun didn’t shed a single tear. The news of Li Chengyun’s death had come too suddenly for him to process. He felt completely numb, drifting like a soul without a body.
Zhang Wubing had cried all the tears for him. He stayed by his side, supporting him, taking on the role of a friend and handling all the necessary matters.
But when Yan Shixun finally came back to his senses and returned to normal, Zhang Wubing never brought up any of it again. It was as if he hadn’t been the one who gave his time, energy, and money so wholeheartedly to help him.
Zhang Wubing also never mentioned the director’s program again. He still bought the latest movie magazines every day, studied Li Xuetang’s films frame by frame, and happily clung to Yan Shixun’s thigh like a loyal pendant to a big boss.
Yan Shixun often found himself laughing in frustration at his stupidity, but when he remembered the debt he owed him after Li Chengyun’s death, he simply endured it.
Eventually, he got used to the constant chatter around him and silently accepted the “friend” role that Zhang Wubing had assigned himself.
When Zhang Wubing finally had the chance to chase his dream—to shoot a variety show—but lacked the manpower, he called him in tears. That moment brought Yan Shixun back to their freshman year, when Zhang Wubing failed to transfer into the directing department.
…Forget it.
Yan Shixun let out a sigh and agreed to help.
Now, as he looked at the familiar scene before him, his heart no longer felt as cold and lost as it once did.
He remembered that in the world built by ghostly energy, Ye Li had always walked beside him, as if he would always be there, visible with just a turn of the head.
And he could trust Ye Li with his back, unafraid of ghosts or spirits launching an attack from behind.
He wasn’t alone anymore.
The cold sharpness at the corners of Yan Shixun’s eyes began to soften.
He had a friend, a ghost child at home who had been spanked until he bawled, and a mysterious ghost deity waiting for him to uncover its secrets.
…
Before Yan Shixun could even raise his hand to push open the small courtyard door, Zhang Wubing came blasting out like a cannonball.
“Brother Yan! Aaaahhh!!” Zhang Wubing was crying, his face covered in snot and tears, still visibly shaken. “Help me!!”
Yan Shixun: ???
Wasn’t Ye Li at home? Wasn’t Jing Xiaobao there too? With you looking like this, I’m starting to suspect hell might’ve exploded again.
But the next moment, Jing Xiaobao also launched out like a cannonball, flying straight into Yan Shixun’s arms and clinging tightly to his arm.
“Yan Yan! That person is so scary!”
Jing Xiaobao sobbed. “His cooking is terrible—even ghosts can’t eat it!”
Baffled, Yan Shixun looked up, only to see Ye Li standing tall under the light, one hand on the doorframe.
Ye Li was smiling. “Shixun.”
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