The SEIU Central Headquarters was supposed to be the nerve center of national spiritual affairs—a place of clarity and judgment above factional squabbles. But the meeting convened that afternoon, following the news about the Spirit-Gathering Fortune Dolls, made it clear that power, fear, and politics had taken root here too.
Zhao Huoyan watched the remote session in silence as another senior officer pulled up a detailed financial record.
"I just had someone pull Master Song's account data," the man announced. "Her account has received over 8.04 million contribution points in transfers. That's at least 264 Spirit-Gathering Fortune Dolls sold. Only 100 of those were officially listed in the Strategic Spirit Item Treasury. That leaves 164 private sales. Are we prepared to declare this a breach of the elite master contract?"
A low hum of tension passed through the room.
Zhao Huoyan understood then what Song Miaozhu meant during their last conversation: secrecy invited suspicion, but strength—open and undeniable—invited caution. Deterrence was the real shield. If you showed them your blade, they might hesitate to reach for your throat.
But in this room, deterrence was not enough. The leadership shuffle had changed faces, not instincts. Many who once spoke of merit and fairness were now quiet, while others openly circled like hawks.
"The contract allows private sales," one of the legal review officers responded, tone clipped. "She's in the clear. The Xiezhi Spirit Seal would have activated if she breached the terms. And those transfers? Pull the list—they're nearly all from within the SEIU. I personally sent her over 200,000 points. Are you saying my transaction with her was a violation?"
His voice rose slightly.
"We wanted the dolls. She made them available. She answered every request made directly to her by SEIU staff, especially those with verified field credentials. Now you want to twist that into a case against her?"
Another officer scowled. "It's not about the transaction—it's the implication. That she's sitting on strategic resources we can't regulate. That she's acting on her own timetable, outside the system."
"So what would you prefer? That she didn't release those 164 dolls at all? That she hoarded her work like a true rogue?"
Silence.
Zhao Huoyan finally spoke, calm but sharp. "You all talk about patriotism. But when have any of you truly given something of your own? We're funded, equipped, protected. We work within walls built by state resources. And we want to demand 'sacrifice' from someone who owes us nothing, yet has done more than any of us?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"She hasn't joined the SEIU because she doesn't trust us. Because when she looks at this table, she sees men and women waiting to exploit her gifts. And honestly? She isn't wrong."
No one interrupted.
"Let me ask you outright. If she signed a formal contract tomorrow, how long would it take before someone here demanded she manufacture a thousand Spirit-Gathering Dolls? A week? A day? Would you even give her time to breathe before burying her in quotas?"
Zhao Huoyan's words hit their mark. Several faces darkened. A few looked away.
"Her spiritual power has surpassed 1.8 million units. She's cultivated green energy—something none of us have even documented properly. She quelled three national-level ghost disasters. And yes, she possesses at least one unregistered dangerous spiritual item."
He let that settle.
"You want to know why she waited to go public? Because now she's strong enough to show her cards. She's not hiding behind our regulations. She's telling us, openly, 'I can protect myself.' If we keep pushing her, she won't come crawling to us. She'll disappear. Or worse, she'll sell her work overseas."
Zhao Huoyan wasn't bluffing, and everyone knew it.
He turned to the man who had opened the financial discussion. "And what was your follow-up concern? That she transferred funds into something called 'Tiandi Bank'?"
The man nodded, visibly frustrated. "We traced her RMB conversion. The money was sent to a ghost account. No banking records, no national registry. We can't even freeze it. If I'm being generous, I'd say our agency and country simply don't hold enough appeal for her. If I'm being honest, this could be a serious case of capital outflow!
I suggest we launch a full investigation into her financial activity. For all we know, she's already been compromised by foreign forces."
Zhao's voice dropped. "Tiandi Bank is not a ghost account. It's an underworld account, connected to the afterlife. Don't you know that? Master Song's ancestors used that account regularly to send her money. Now she's making her own money and sending some back to honor them. What's wrong with that?"
He added pointedly, "Do you intend to freeze the assets of the dead? Issue a sanction against the afterlife?"
The man turned pale.
Although he had only taken office recently and hadn't been part of the last major crisis involving the Underworld Project, he knew well enough—messing with the underworld was a death sentence. It would mark you for grave sin, and you'd fear even dying.
Zhao Huoyan didn't let him off that easily.
"Master Song's family is wealthy and influential in the afterlife. Even if you could force her hand, what would stop her from simply choosing death?
Death might be terrifying for ordinary people—but for her, it might not mean the end."
The man looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole.
If only he had kept his mouth shut.
No one else dared speak ill of Master Song after that.
Zhao Huoyan didn't let up. "You keep talking like she needs our approval. That she owes us answers. But she's not the one who should be nervous. We are. Because she's shown that she doesn't need us—but we still need her."
When Zhao Huoyan finally calmed down. The director finally spoke.
"Let me make this clear. If any of you act against Master Song, you will answer to me directly. If she is harmed, or driven to leave the country, or decides she no longer trusts the SEIU, then this entire bureau will be at fault. And I will not protect those responsible."
The room froze.
It was clear whose side the bureau chief was on.
Everyone understood the weight of those words. The ones who had spoken boldly now looked cornered. The ones who had stayed quiet exhaled slowly, grateful they had not joined the attack.
They had suspected the chief was baiting them all along, waiting to see who would take the bait. Thankfully, they'd held back.
After the meeting, the director privately contacted his son.
"The ones who spoke are easy to monitor," he said. "It's the silent ones I worry about. Keep a close watch on Master Song. Do not let anything happen to her. She may be the most advanced cultivator in the world right now—our greatest strategic asset."
Although he held considerable power, the director had been appointed mid-term. Not everyone in the agency listened to him, and he couldn't guarantee compliance across the board.
Sometimes, a single misstep could cause an irreparable disaster. These old schemers had all kinds of underhanded tricks.
"I understand," Zhao Huoyan said.
After ending the call, he immediately contacted Master Song.
"Master Song, please be careful. I still suspect someone might try to seize your spirit item resources. Maybe not from Lingcheng, but from outside."
Her voice was calm as ever. "I know."
She had anticipated this the moment she chose to step into the open. But as Zhao ended the call, he found himself unsettled. There had been something strange in her voice—not tension. Not anger.
A flicker of anticipation.
Zhao shook his head. That couldn't be right. Who would look forward to being targeted?
Still uneasy, he contacted Lingcheng's police department and gave an urgent order: increase security at all transit points. Airport, train station, bus terminal—he wanted records of all incoming cultivators.
He could keep local cultivators under control—Lingcheng had benefited greatly from Master Song's presence, after all.
If anyone from SEIU headquarters was going to make a move, it would likely be someone from outside.
Even cultivators needed transportation.