Chapter 313: Ritual Money, Old Capital (40)
The human-shaped statue caused such a stir that countless people were jolted awake in the middle of the night. In a state of panic and fear, they fled or cowered in their homes, shivering and praying desperately for it all to end quickly.
The special department immediately reported all the information they had gathered to the authorities. Meanwhile, within Binhai City, the government dispatched all available personnel, prioritizing the safety of its citizens above all else.
On social media, news and photos of the human-shaped sculpture were going viral, flooding everyone’s feeds.
The public opinion team quickly categorized the help requests and forwarded them to the rescue team. As for other types of information, they carefully guided the discourse to prevent mass panic from spreading.
Real and fake speculations were deliberately released by the public opinion team, who swiftly and skillfully steered the narrative—burying the terrifying truth beneath layers of confusion.
The dominant belief that spread was: “A criminal used extreme methods to retaliate against society, pretending to be supernatural in order to escape capture.”
That explanation became the widely accepted consensus.
Finally, the public opinion team could breathe a sigh of relief.
Some team members, who knew the truth, looked at the fast-updating feed on social media with mixed feelings.
“Leader… can’t we really tell them the truth?”
One member asked, unable to bear the weight of silence. “Would it really be so bad if people knew? I’m sure they’d understand. Watching them not even know what happened tonight, not knowing what endangered them or who to blame… it just makes me feel guilty.”
The team leader had worked through the entire night—coordinating between departments, forwarding updates, receiving new instructions, negotiating and standardizing responses with various platforms. After hours of nonstop talking, his throat was so raw it bled, yet he hadn’t even had a sip of water.
Only now did he finally find a brief moment of peace. With no new calls coming in, he quickly picked up a cup of tea that had long gone cold and took a sip.
The enamel mug’s tea was overly steeped, cold, and bitter.
But to the team leader, it tasted like sweet spring water. He slumped back in his chair, letting out a long, weary sigh.
Then, after spitting out a few tea leaves from his mouth, he sat upright with renewed steadiness, opened his drawer, and took out his treasured comb.
“You really think that?”
He asked, looking calmly at the questioning team member. “Do you really believe people want the truth?”
The team member couldn’t help but retort, his emotions flaring. “Don’t they? Are we really just supposed to treat everyone like fools? Lying to them—do you think that’s fun? Sorry, I find it disgusting.”
His raised voice brought the once-cheerful and busy office to a sudden halt.
Many colleagues turned toward them in shock.
A few long-time staffers even stood up, visibly upset, wanting to argue back.
The team leader noticed, but he simply raised a hand and gestured for them to stay calm, then turned back to the young team member.
“Between truth and happiness, which do you think is more important?”
Sitting firmly in his chair, the leader looked up at the young man with quiet seriousness. “Many people don’t have the courage to face the truth. They prefer kind and gentle lies. Even if it’s a fabricated sense of security, they still yearn for it.”
“Even if knowing the truth means lying awake every night in fear, seeing ghosts the moment they close their eyes, jumping at every shadow, unable to return to a normal, peaceful life… would you still want to tell them?”
He spoke softly, “You might think this is just an old man’s way of thinking, outdated and not in line with your younger ideals. But for many, a peaceful and happy home life means far more than knowing the truth. As we work to protect their physical safety, we must also guard their minds.”
“Happiness and truth rarely coexist. That was the reality I saw clearly the moment I decided to join the public opinion team when I was younger.”
The team member stared at him in a daze, unsure what to say.
The leader took the chance to down another full glass of cold water. It was so icy that he shivered and let out a “Hiss!” before hastily picking up another ringing phone.
“Hello, this is the Public Opinion Division of the Special Department. Yes, yes, thank you for your help with the platform side…”
Seeing the team leader diving back into work, the young member could only turn around and head back to his seat in a daze.
A colleague nearby patted him on the shoulder and sighed. “I just want my wife and child, my aging parents, to live happily. I don’t want to hear my daughter crying that she saw a ghost under the bed or behind the curtains… It’s really that simple.”
The young member pressed his lips together.
When he looked up at his computer screen and saw people happily sharing their safety updates on social media, all those bright smiles free of fear, he felt like… maybe he understood, just a little.
The team leader, noticing a rare moment of peace, glanced at him and smiled. Then, with great care, he used his beloved comb to gently tidy the few remaining strands of hair on his head.
Team Leader: This one’s Hair One, this one’s Hair Two, that’s Hair Three… Huh? Where’s my Hair Twenty-Nine? Did it fall off?
Team Leader: In the end, what matters most is still hair. I really envy you young folks with your thick, full hair. Makes me want to cry.
During this time, the rescue teams and the authorities worked hand in hand to quickly save people and relocate them to safe zones.
Lists of shelters and the phone numbers of rescue personnel stationed in different districts were posted all over social media, and everyone tacitly shared them in hopes that more people in need could see them.
Those who had already been rescued felt deeply comforted by the presence of the authorities. Moved and relieved, they silently prayed for the safety of others, hoping everyone could remain unharmed and that no one else would be hurt.
Haiyun Temple, one of the designated shelters, had already become packed to capacity.
The main hall and back courtyard, which were usually off-limits to visitors, were fully opened to the public. The Taoists’ clothes and bedding were urgently repurposed and distributed to those seeking refuge, so that even on this chilly, blustery winter night, people could still be wrapped in warmth.
While handing out clothes, the young acolyte seemed a little embarrassed. His face flushed red, and he scratched his head as he shyly said he hoped no one would mind the condition of the items.
But what met him were only kind-hearted smiles.
“We’re already so grateful to be safe. Little master, don’t say that.”
“Yes, having Haiyun Temple here is truly a blessing.”
Some elderly individuals, upon noticing torn seams on the robes, even asked the young acolyte for a sewing kit and patiently began mending the garments themselves.
The young acolyte tried to stop them, but the elderly woman gently took his cold hand, chapped by the wind, and patted it kindly. “It’s alright. Think of it as me finding something to do while waiting here. If there’s anything else that needs doing around the temple, just let me know, little master.”
People nearby nodded and chimed in agreement. “That’s right! We’re all strong and able. Just sitting here and letting the Taoists protect us makes us feel uneasy. If there’s anything we can help with, don’t hesitate—just ask.”
“Exactly. At times like this, we have to unite and face the crisis together.”
Inside Haiyun Temple, the atmosphere was full of warmth and laughter.
Although many of them were strangers to each other, on this special night, everyone looked after one another like family or close friends.
The young acolyte stood frozen for a long time. Then, blinking rapidly to push back his tears, he quickly clasped his hands in a respectful bow and offered his thanks. Claiming he had to go consult his master, he turned and dashed off before the tears could fall.
The others, all much older than the young acolyte, could see he had been on the verge of tears, but kindly chose not to say anything.
Someone shook their head and smiled with a sigh. “He looks about the same age as that mischievous monkey back home, but he’s already so composed. Being able to handle all this while the senior taoists are away… that’s truly admirable. He’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, when you think about it, the Taoists have always been protecting Binhai City. But they’re also someone’s children, flesh and blood like the rest of us…”
Around the corner, the young acolyte finally stopped running. Hearing the warm voices drifting from behind him, he couldn’t hold it in anymore—tears gushed from his eyes like a burst dam.
This child, still so young, had experienced more in one day than most of his peers ever had.
He had witnessed the unreasonable behavior of a selfish worshipper and her son—felt anger and sorrow for it—but he had also seen countless kind and gentle hearts. A single word of concern had been enough to break his composure.
The abbot, walking briskly through the temple while on the phone, suddenly heard soft sobbing coming from a nearby grove.
He stopped abruptly and hesitated for a moment.
Could it be… a ghost had broken through the temple’s barriers and snuck in?
He walked over and parted the leaves, only to find the young acolyte hiding there, crying.
The abbot couldn’t help but laugh through his tears. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you to take care of the civilians sheltering in the temple?”
The young acolyte hurriedly wiped his face with his sleeve and sniffled. His tear-streaked face looked like a little muddy kitten as he tried to explain to the abbot in a tearful voice.
Though he had many urgent matters waiting for him, the abbot chose to pause. Seeing the child speak from the heart about all he had witnessed that day, the abbot listened gently and patiently.
He patted the boy’s head and softened his voice. “Remember the warmth you felt today. Strive to become an outstanding Taoist—one who can stand on his own, protect the warmth you felt today. And be wary of the selfishness you saw, but don’t let it weigh on your heart.”
“This is a world worth protecting.”
Looking at the young acolyte, the abbot saw a reflection of his own younger self, of every Taoist in their youth.
They had all once felt the warmth of the world, received the kindness of good people. That warmth had become a seed planted in their hearts.
When they completed their training and left Haiyun Temple, that seed would be nurtured by experience, take root and grow strong like a pine tree that never bowed. It became the belief that carried them through danger and pain, and ultimately became the path they walked.
The abbot bent down and gently wiped the boy’s tears with his sleeve.
He knew that Yan Shixun and the people of Binhai City had already planted a seed in this child’s heart.
Perhaps ten or twenty years from now, this child would be like the Taoists of today, fighting in ghost-infested lands, shielding lives behind him.
Even if it meant death, he would not hesitate.
That… was the legacy of Haiyun Temple’s centuries-long tradition.
The abbot patted the boy’s shoulder with a smile. “Alright, child. Go now. Wash your face and have some water. The people in front still need you.”
“Okay!”
The young acolyte nodded vigorously, bowed to the abbot, and then ran off at full speed.
Watching from a distance, the abbot’s face, which had been tense all night, finally relaxed. A gentle smile crept across his face.
On the other end of the still-connected phone line, the official chuckled. “Looks like Taoist Li and the others succeeded at Baizhi Lake in the southwest. Not only is Binhai’s situation improving, but we just received news that the possessed humanoid statues in the southwest have all returned to normal.”
The abbot tilted his head up and looked at the sky. His eyelashes trembled as tears welled up in his eyes.
Though the officials frequently worked with Haiyun Temple, they did not understand cultivation as deeply as the abbot did. They did not know that the path of the Great Dao always came with the cost of death.
Everyone at Haiyun Temple—and the exorcists who, inspired by Taoist Li’s call, charged into the swarm of ghosts to save people—they had all anticipated the possibility of death before setting out.
They had walked straight into predetermined death.
So when the official said the southwest had been brought under control, the abbot first felt relief… but immediately after, he began to worry about Taoist Li and the other priests of Haiyun Temple.
Taoist Li… the founding master of the entire Haiyun Temple, had risked the danger of losing his life to gain insight into heaven and earth. He had foreseen the birth of the Ghost Dao, which allowed Haiyun Temple and the exorcists time to prepare in advance—thus minimizing casualties as much as possible.
But to the Ghost Dao, he must have been hated to the core.
Now that the Ghost Dao had been suppressed—what about Taoist Li?
Could it be that he had already…
The abbot’s heart sank heavily.
But since there was still no news from the southwest, nothing could be confirmed yet. Holding on to a sliver of hope, the abbot told himself that maybe—just maybe—there was still a chance for Taoist Li to survive.
Thinking of Yan Shixun, the abbot silently reassured himself that it was possible. After all, he possessed the Evil Spirit Bone Transformation—perhaps the last sliver of vitality left between heaven and earth—and that hope resided in Baizhi Lake in the southwest.
Perhaps, a miracle could grow from that hope.
No matter how slim the chance, he refused to give up.
The abbot slowly turned around and looked toward the imposing divine statue in the main hall not far away. He silently recited the scriptures in his heart, praying for all the Taoists of Haiyun Temple, all the exorcists, and all the people.
Meanwhile, beside the mountain gate of Haiyun Temple, Lan Ze stared blankly as the humanoid statues that had just been ramming the gate suddenly collapsed to the ground in the next moment.
Because Haiyun Temple had dispatched all of its Taoists to the southwest’s Baizhi Lake, even the young disciples who had yet to formally graduate were sent to various areas of Binhai City to protect civilians. As a result, the temple had become strangely empty.
Only the abbot and one Taoist remained to oversee and guard the headquarters, with the rest being the young acolytes.
These acolytes were all very young—at an age where they should still be carrying schoolbags and attending classes—but in such a critical moment, they had taken on the responsibility of managing the temple’s affairs. They worked tirelessly to protect the civilians seeking refuge, maintaining order, distributing food and clothing, and doing everything they could.
But because so many civilians had gathered in the temple, the strong aura of the living extended for miles, which in turn attracted numerous malevolent spirits. Those humanoid statues that had been attacking civilians turned their attention toward Haiyun Temple.
Although the temple had a long history spanning hundreds of years, with countless layers of formations left behind by generations of Taoists, along with lingering spiritual power that continued to protect their disciples even in death—creating walls as solid as iron—
Still, those past Taoists could never have anticipated that one day the Ghost Dao would replace the Great Dao, threatening Haiyun Temple itself.
The ghost infant’s resentment had spread throughout Binhai City, and under the suffocating ghostly aura, all the formations and exorcist methods had become useless.
The temple, once tightly protected by layer upon layer of powerful formations, lost all of its defenses in an instant, like a pearl stripped of its shell.
If any vengeful spirits wanted to invade Haiyun Temple now, they could easily take over this ancient Taoist sanctuary that had stood for centuries.
The abbot and the remaining Taoist were deeply worried. Would Haiyun Temple be breached by evil spirits, putting the civilians seeking refuge at risk?
But the manpower left in the temple was limited. If such a situation truly occurred, they might not even be able to save themselves.
So Lan Ze, who had stayed behind, immediately stepped forward and volunteered to guard the mountain gate.
After all, he was also a powerful ghost formed through unimaginable pain—having endured a thousand cuts. His overwhelming resentment could even disturb the path of the underworld.
To ordinary malevolent spirits, Lan Ze was an extremely terrifying existence.
Most importantly, because he had been saved by Yan Shixun and Haiyun Temple, even though he was now a ghost, he still held deep affection and kindness toward the human world. He was grateful for what the Taoists had done for him and wanted to repay them.
Under the influence of the Ghost Dao, Lan Ze’s power had grown significantly. But instead of turning on humans, he had directed all of that power back against the ghosts.
His ghostly energy spread out in thin threads, enveloping the entire mountain along with Haiyun Temple. Replacing the now-useless formations, his power became the temple’s new protective shell.
Any ghost who attempted to approach Haiyun Temple was mercilessly slain by Lan Ze on the spot—reduced to nothing.
The evil ghosts were shocked and angrily demanded why Lan Ze was attacking his own kind. Didn’t he hate the living? Didn’t he want to drag those humans—who had once stood high above and suppressed them—down from their pedestals?
Lan Ze pouted in displeasure and retorted, “Don’t insult me. Who says I’m the same kind as you?”
Standing beside him, Cheng Jing looked at his lover and nodded with a smile. “My Lan Ze is now an unofficial Taoist of Haiyun Temple.”
Upon hearing that, Lan Ze secretly puffed out his chest with a hint of pride.
Thanks to Lan Ze’s protection, Haiyun Temple managed to endure a full night of relentless attacks without harm.
When the humanoid statues suddenly collapsed, appearing lifeless once again, Lan Ze was stunned. For a moment, he didn’t know what had just happened.
It wasn’t until he felt his strength begin to wane, his ghostly energy dissipate, and the surrounding positive energy increase, that he suddenly understood—Binhai City had returned under the influence of the Great Dao. Order was slowly being restored.
Having been on edge the entire night, Lan Ze finally let out a long breath and collapsed onto the steps at the temple gate, utterly exhausted.
“Mr. Yan should be coming back soon,”
Lan Ze looked up and smiled toward the horizon. “I hope everything went well for Mr. Yan.”
Cheng Jing crouched down and slipped his arms under Lan Ze’s armpits, lifting him up steadily and turning to carry him through the gates of Haiyun Temple.
Now that the Great Dao had returned, the temple’s formations had resumed their operation. There was no longer any need for Lan Ze to protect the temple—and in fact, the revived positive energy and formations would now harm him, as a vengeful spirit.
So Cheng Jing didn’t hesitate. He immediately carried the drained Lan Ze back to the burial site within the temple grounds.
“It will,”
Cheng Jing’s voice was firm, carrying unwavering trust in Yan Shixun and all the Taoists of Haiyun Temple: “They are where the people’s will lies, where hope resides. They will definitely succeed.”
Seeing the citizens inside the temple chatting and laughing as they waited for the crisis to pass, Lan Ze finally felt at ease. He closed his eyes and curled up, exhausted, in Chengjing’s arms, falling fast asleep.
When the abbot saw Chengjing, he smiled and gave a small nod. “Thank you,” he said.
Cheng Jing glanced at his lover, fast asleep in his arms, then slowly shook his head at the abbot. “You’re too kind. If it weren’t for Mr. Yan and Haiyun Temple, we would already be wandering souls by now—pitiful ghosts sharing death as our fate. The Taoists helped us. Of course, we must repay this kindness.”
“We only did what we should have done. It’s not worth mentioning.”
The abbot gazed steadily at Cheng Jing’s departing figure. After a long silence, he smiled.
He had been worried that the Ghost Dao would bring a catastrophic disaster. But now, he realized it was his own limited perspective that couldn’t see the boundless vastness of the world.
So what if the Ghost Dao had held the advantage briefly? Even if calamity poured down upon them, everyone still had their own light and warmth to shine. When gathered together, that light could rival the brilliance of the sun and moon.
The Great Dao that carried the will of the people was destined never to fall.
In that moment of understanding, the abbot felt as if the bottleneck that had long constrained him shattered with a sudden *crack*. The path that had previously been blocked suddenly opened wide before him.
The exorcist on the other end of the phone had been waiting for the abbot’s instructions, but all he heard was a long silence followed by a hearty, unrestrained laugh.
Infected by the mood, he also burst out laughing.
They were laughing for the turning of the tide at last.
Though various sects had responded to Haiyun Temple’s call and sent their disciples to help the people, the most dangerous place—Baizhi Lake in the southwest—was guarded by Haiyun Temple itself. They had taken the lead, dispatching many of their own priests to hold the line, while refusing to let others enter.
After all, if all the exorcists were to die there, the line of inheritance would be completely cut off. Haiyun Temple wanted to preserve a spark of hope for the future.
The other sects were moved by this. As a result, they became even more determined to save lives, rushing through the southwest and all corners of Binhai City.
As the Ghost Dao gradually receded, the exorcists remaining in Binhai City also began to realize what had happened. They immediately contacted Haiyun Temple to confirm the situation.
When they received the abbot’s affirmation, the exorcists were so overjoyed they stamped their feet and grinned until their faces turned red.
The situation in Binhai City steadily improved. Those humanoid statues that had been threatening the citizens toppled one by one and lay motionless on the ground.
Even the evil spirits crawling out from dark and filthy places sensed the rapidly rising Yang energy and fled in panic.
If they hesitated even a little, they were reduced to ashes on the spot.
The sky grew pale, morning light breaking gently over the horizon.
Behind the towering skyscrapers, a golden-red sun pierced the darkness and clouds, rising slowly.
In an instant, light radiated in all directions.
The platinum-colored sunlight scattered down, illuminating every dark corner, leaving no shadows behind. The light banished all demons and spirits—there was no place left for them to hide.
People who had spent a sleepless night in fear could finally step outside, push open their windows, and greet the bright new day.
“Is it… safe now?”
Someone stood stunned, unable to believe it. When they saw the officials open the gates and smilingly announce that everyone could go home, they asked in a daze, “Are we really safe now?”
“Yes! It’s safe!”
The official nodded vigorously with a broad smile, unable to hide the joy on his face. “All the criminals have been detained. Everyone is safe now. You can go home!”
One by one, people began to grasp what had happened and broke into tears of joy. “This is wonderful!”
“Mama—sob sob—I was so scared! I thought I was going to die!”
“Thank you! Thank you all so much!”
“Let’s go! Let’s head home! I’ll make breakfast—something good to calm our nerves!”
“Mama, I want to eat your cooking. I thought I’d never get the chance to eat with you again.”
Laughter and weeping mingled together as people hugged each other tightly, overwhelmed with emotion.
Even the officials, moved by the joyous atmosphere, quietly wiped tears from the corners of their eyes.
But while most people rejoiced, there were still some trapped in absolute terror.
In an empty alleyway, a piercing scream echoed, heart-wrenching and shrill.
A young man stumbled around a corner, fleeing in a panic. He nearly tripped over a stone but didn’t even notice—his eyes repeatedly darted back in horror, his face twisted in fear.
Behind him, drops of bright red blood dripped steadily from mid-air, pooling on the moss-covered stone slabs of the alley.
A thick stench of blood spread in the air.
A pair of hands flailed wildly in midair, seemingly begging for help, desperately struggling.
But the vengeful spirit bit down viciously on the woman’s throat and refused to let go. Its bloodshot eyes were filled with hatred and rage.
The woman, her throat torn open, couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, gasping for air, but more air went out than came in. A rasping “huh-huh” sound was all she could manage.
That woman… was none other than the worshipper who had visited Haiyun Temple earlier.
She still strained her neck, trying to look in the direction where her child had escaped. Though glad that her child had managed to run, when she saw how decisively he fled—without a trace of hesitation, even with a look of relief on his face—her feelings grew complex. She didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
She had loved her child deeply, willing to die so he might live. But seeing him abandon her completely, treating her like a mere obstacle to shield himself from danger, it would be a lie to say she didn’t feel heartbroken.
Just moments ago, she had been walking home with her child, chatting and laughing. Along the way, she kept cursing the taoists of Haiyun Temple for refusing to help them, feeling satisfied to finally vent her anger.
But she hadn’t even had time to enjoy that feeling for more than a few minutes before she sensed something was wrong.
This small alley near her home should have only taken a few minutes to walk through.
Now, the alley seemed to stretch endlessly. Even after walking for dozens of minutes, they still hadn’t reached the end.
What frightened her even more were the shifting shadows in the corners and the faint human-like silhouettes peeking out from behind the walls of every house.
They stood so still that they almost blended into the darkness, their silence chilling to the bone.
The woman tugged her child along, desperately trying to run forward.
The young man didn’t understand what was going on and asked his mother what was happening.
Despite her panic, the mother still remembered to lower her voice and whispered to her child that it seemed like a ghost had set its sights on them.
The young man was terrified. Reflexively, he raised his voice and exclaimed, “What! A ghost?!”
That one cry completely startled the lurking ghosts.
The tense silence shattered instantly, and fierce spirits began to attack from all directions.
The mother, drenched in sweat, could only run for her life. But in her panic, she tripped on a stone and fell hard to the ground.
When the young man saw his mother fall, his first reaction wasn’t to turn back and help her up. Instead, he stared in horror at the ferocious ghost that was about to catch up—then turned and bolted without hesitation.
As expected, the mother was quickly caught. The ghost bit through her throat, and both her flesh and soul were devoured in large gulps.
The decline of the Ghost Dao was sensed by every spirit.
They trembled with fear, but also understood that the tides had turned. All they could do now was desperately seek places to hide.
At the same time, they deeply resented the entities responsible for suppressing the Ghost Dao.
—The Evil Spirit Bone Transformation.
And the Lord of Fengdu.
They knew full well they were no match for either of them. The two had crushed the Ghost Dao together—how could mere ghosts like them resist?
To ordinary humans, they were terrifying and powerful beyond measure. But in the eyes of those two… they were nothing more than ants that could be crushed at will.
In a world ruled by strength, the ghosts were self-aware.
However, there was still one more thing that infuriated them.
The ebony statue.
The ebony statue had once guarded against evil and served as another manifestation of the Lord of Fengdu. Any remnants of its power were detested by the ghosts.
In their final days of influence, the ghosts unleashed their fury, destroying every place the statue had guarded or inhabited, smashing them to bits.
Yet, the people protected by the ebony statue were usually handed over to exorcists for continued protection. No matter how furious the ghosts were, they dared not go too far and attract the attention of the Great Dao.
Only one exception existed.
A young man who had secretly run away from Haiyun Temple.
He had spent the entire summer in the same room as the ebony statue. Under its protection, he had narrowly escaped death countless times. One could say he owed the statue a deep karmic debt.
Oblivious to this, the young man laughed and angrily cursed the Taoists at Haiyun Temple, feeling smug and free. But he failed to see the dense aura of the statue that clung to him, making him a glowing target in the darkness—a beacon drawing in every nearby ghost.
They looked at him with hatred and shrieked, vowing to kill him.
Hearing the piercing wails echoing from all directions, the young man was so terrified that he ran even faster.
He could only feel fortunate that his mother’s fall had slowed the ghosts down a little, buying him time to escape.
At that moment, the first place that came to the young man’s mind was still Haiyun Temple.
He ran with all his might toward the end of the alley, hoping to reach the temple and get help.
As the alley entrance drew nearer, a look of wild joy appeared on his face.
But in the next instant—
*Splurt!*
A skeletal claw pierced through his chest.
Blood sprayed.
All he felt was a searing pain in his chest as the warmth and strength drained rapidly from his body. He opened his mouth to call for help, but not a single sound came out.
As he struggled to lower his head and look down, he saw a red, pulsing mass clutched in the charred, skeletal hand—his own heart, still beating, covered in blood that splattered across his body.
Is that… my heart?
The thought came sluggishly to him.
But the searing pain had already overwhelmed his brain. All thought faded into a blank void.
He could only watch, eyes wide, as ghostly figures swayed out from the shadows. Each one stared at him with deep hatred.
They lunged at him, burying him in a writhing swarm. Razor-sharp teeth tore into his flesh, ripping apart his soul and devouring it, turning him into nourishment for the ghosts.
Just before he lost all sense, the young man vaguely heard one of the ghosts utter the word “statue.”
And in that moment, he finally understood the cause of his tragic fate.
The statue. The statue!
His eyes burned with hatred. If he could go back to that summer six months ago, he swore he’d smash that statue into pieces to stop it from ruining his life.
But he forgot—when all his classmates had been slaughtered by evil spirits on that trip, he had been the only survivor, saved by the statue’s protection.
Now, though, the young man no longer cared.
Pain numbed his nerves and drowned out all thought. He could no longer think of anything at all.
The first to notice something was wrong were the residents living next to the alley.
When they smelled blood in the air, they immediately called the rescue team responsible for that area and reported the situation.
When the team members and exorcists rushed over, they were shocked the moment they entered the alley.
—A dense cluster of shadows huddled in the shaded alleyway. Beneath the darkness, they could faintly see limbs that likely belonged to the young man, lying limp on the ground. The sickening sounds of chewing and swallowing echoed from within the mass.
Terrified, the exorcist shouted and charged forward, “What are you doing! Get away from him!”
One of the rescue workers, with sharp eyes, noticed blood flowing over the stone pavement at the corner further ahead. Fearing another incident, he immediately ran over.
A cry rang out.
“Over here, there’s another person!”
The winter sky was especially clear and biting. Wind swept through the quiet alley, but the smell of blood there was drowned out by the cheers and voices of gratitude echoing outside. No one noticed the abnormality within.
Meanwhile, on social media, posts confirming safety were flooding in at lightning speed. Many people, having escaped danger, quickly shared their locations and statuses—not only to offer reference points for others nearby, but also to help authorities assess where to focus rescue efforts.
Even ordinary citizens were trying to do what little they could—offering a bit of help, sharing a bit of concern, weathering the crisis together.
As the sun rose and bright, golden light flooded the earth, the Ghost Dao was thoroughly suppressed by the Great Dao, and the old Fengdu ceased to exist.
Heaven and earth were renewed. The karma accumulated over thousands of years was wiped clean.
The oppressive gloom of the past completely dissipated. Even the air felt sharp and invigorating, carrying with it the refreshing scent of grass and trees.
Many people took deep breaths, feeling as though they had been cleansed. All the pressure and heaviness that had built up inside them was exhaled in long, murky sighs.
A new vitality and energy entered their bodies.
People quickly noticed the change and began sharing their experiences on social media.
So many shared that a trending hashtag emerged: **#Don’tForgetToBreathe**.
Among the top trending topics, several posts were also related to the show “Heart-Pounding Journey of Ninety-Nine Days”.
After all, according to official statements, the southwest region had been one of the first to be attacked by hostile forces.
And that happened to be where this season of the show had been filmed.
The fans of the show, who had been too busy running and hiding to watch the live broadcast, immediately thought of the safety of the cast and crew once they were out of danger and hurriedly opened the stream.
But all they found was a “no signal” screen filled with static.
The show’s viewers were left stunned.
Since no one could confirm the safety of the show’s crew with their own eyes—and considering the program’s long-standing reputation for misfortune that had ironically endeared it to audiences—many began to worry that something serious might have really happened this time.
Concerned viewers hurriedly contacted both the official authorities and the show’s account.
The show’s account didn’t respond, but the official channel quickly issued a reply:
@PeacefulBinhai: “hank you all for your concern. We just called the crew on everyone’s behalf. They said that all the filming and live-streaming equipment was destroyed by criminals, so there’s no way to broadcast for now. As soon as they get new cameras, they’ll resume the live stream to let everyone know they’re safe\~ Please don’t worry.
Seeing this, the audience finally felt a little relieved and began waiting in front of the stream or the account page for the broadcast to return.
While waiting, many hurriedly checked if any familiar usernames had come online. People who recognized each other started exchanging safety updates, and the atmosphere gradually became lighter and more cheerful.
Someone laughed and shared how, before going to sleep, they were still lamenting that the figurines they collected wouldn’t move. Then, after falling into a groggy sleep, they discovered the figurines not only moved—but were wielding giant knives and trying to kill them. It was thrilling, to say the least.
After this casual retelling of a terrifying incident came the sense of reassurance brought by the officials’ timely rescue.
Someone else shared, deeply moved, “As soon as I saw the statue in the park come to life, my first thought was of this show.”
“Same. With how cursed this show always is, I just knew they wouldn’t escape it. Turns out they were actually quite lucky this time.”
“Director Zhang finally pulled through! Congratulations!”
“Everyone! Listen! Brother Yan’s photo! It really works to ward off evil!!”
Someone excitedly shared their personal story.
Originally, she thought Yan Shixun was just too handsome and printed out a screenshot to admire his looks, putting it in a frame at home.
She hadn’t expected that photo to save her life.
In the middle of the night, while she slept soundly, she felt a cold air creeping down her neck. At first, she thought her blanket had slipped. She reached up—only to touch something sticky. Confused, she opened her eyes groggily and saw that the headless plaster statue from her living room had somehow appeared right next to her bed, its knife already slicing into her neck.
She was so terrified she nearly fainted. Desperately, she grabbed whatever was nearby to hurl at the statue, trying to drive it back.
In the process, she threw the photo frame.
That previously invulnerable, pain-immune statue suddenly burst into flames the moment it touched the frame. No matter how violently it struggled, it quickly turned to a pile of ashes.
Still shaking, she picked up the frame and found herself face to face with Yan Shixun’s image—standing atop a giant idol, his gaze cold and commanding.
Indifferent, sharp, but exuding absolute power.
Capable of destroying any evil spirit that harmed others.
She instantly felt at ease, like she had found a reliable protector.
The whole night, her family clutched the photo frame tightly as they hid inside, safe from the chaos and screams outside.
When she shared this story excitedly, many were stunned.
“Oh my god, Brother Yan’s photo can actually do that?!”
“Damn, better than a talisman! Don’t stop me—I’m going to print a bunch to ward off evil spirits at home!”
“I’m putting Brother Yan’s photo in a necklace locket—like a peace charm.”
“I had a similar experience… I used to think Brother Yan was just really good-looking, but now? Master! Master, please!!”
“Hahaha Brother Yan’s fame is now beyond his control.”
“Yan Mai are speechless. I always supported Brother Yan’s career, but I never imagined this would be his path to fame. Everyone else’s idol doesn’t get famous like this… Why is it like this for ours?”
Just as the discussions were heating up, the live-streaming platform finally posted an update: the stream would be back online soon.
Sure enough, the once signal-less feed came to life with a spinning, dizzying shot of someone’s hand and a close-up face flashing past the screen—likely the crew adjusting the camera.
Once stabilized, the feed showed the crew busily packing up their gear.
Voices of the guests could be heard not far away.
The viewers anxiously searched the screen for familiar faces.
An Nanyuan, Song Ci, Bai Shuang… One by one, they appeared, and the audience gradually felt reassured.
But neither Yan Shixun nor Lu Xingxing showed up.
More observant viewers even noticed that Zhang Wubing—normally the most dedicated to the show—was also missing.
Just as people were beginning to wonder, a magnetic, smiling voice came from off-camera:
“Yan Shixun, you should let the viewers know you’re safe too. A lot of people want to see you.”
Some found the voice strange—it sounded like Director Zhang Wubing, but with subtle differences they couldn’t quite describe.
It wasn’t the usual dopey but warm tone of Zhang Wubing. Instead, it was clear and deep, like still waters hiding an immense, unfathomable history beneath the calm surface.
Many voice-lovers practically swooned: Mom, I’m in love!
Who is this guy?! That voice! So good!
But others noticed something odd.
Everyone else referred to Yan Shixun as “Mr. Yan” or “Brother Yan,” and the Taoists called him “Fellow Taoist Yan.” No one ever used his full name so directly.
So—who was this man?
As everyone wondered, a pair of slender, pale hands reached into the frame, adjusting the camera angle.
The next moment, Yan Shixun’s figure appeared in the shaky feed.
Amid the busy movements of staff and rescue team members, he stood silently, as if detached from the world.
His dark hair hung loose, shadowing his eyes and making his expression unreadable.
His coat was torn and scratched in many places, blood seeping from wounds that had yet to be bandaged.
The audience stared at the screen in worry. Some asked, distressed, “Why does it look like Brother Yan has been crying? What on earth happened?”
That calm, magnetic voice chuckled and gently asked Yan Shixun, “Someone said it looks like you cried, Yan Shixun.”
Yan Shixun’s long lashes trembled, like the wings of an eagle drenched by a storm.
“Cried…?”
He murmured softly.
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