The sun had climbed high above Yunjing City by the time Chen Fan and Xia Wanxing slipped into the shadow of the abandoned subway station, the damp, mildewed air clinging to their skin like a second layer of clothing. The narrow alley behind Chen Fan's attic room had been a mad dash—tires screeching, black mist curling around their heels, the owner's cold laughter echoing in their ears—and they'd run until their lungs burned, until the city's skyline blurred into a smudge of concrete and steel, until they'd found the rusted metal gate that led down into the station's forgotten depths. Chen Fan's arm throbbed where the wraith's claws had raked him, the bandage Xia Wanxing had torn from her dress soaked through with faint, dark blood, and the compass around his throat hummed a steady, anxious tune, the golden light dimming and brightening with every step they took, as if it could sense the weight of the symbol etched into the locket in his pocket.
Xia Wanxing had insisted on cleaning his wound before they moved, her fingers steady as she dabbed at the gash with a crumpled pack of tissues she'd pulled from her bag, her face set in a determined line that left no room for argument. She'd traded her torn black dress for a pair of scuffed jeans and a faded flannel shirt she'd found in a dumpster behind a thrift store, her movie star glamour replaced by the rough, practical look of a hunter, and when she'd handed Chen Fan a rusted crowbar she'd fished out of the same dumpster, her eyes had glinted with a fire that made him glad she was on his side.
They'd spent hours poring over the symbol that night, huddled in the corner of the subway station where the flickering fluorescent lights still worked, the locket laid out on a crumpled map of Yunjing City that Chen Fan had kept since he was a kid. The swirling, jagged mark was identical to the ones they'd seen carved into the manor's basement walls, identical to the ones the owner had rambled about when he'd offered Chen Fan power and money and the truth about his parents, and when Chen Fan had pressed the compass against the symbol, the relic had flared to life, the golden light seeping into the locket's metal until the mark glowed like a tiny, burning star. The map had blurred beneath their fingers then, the ink bleeding into a new shape—a hidden vault tucked beneath the city's oldest church, a building that had stood since the days when Chen Fan's ancestors had first laid the seal, a place that time had forgotten.
The church was a skeletal thing, its stained-glass windows shattered, its steeple leaning at a dangerous angle, its doors hanging off their hinges. Vines had wrapped themselves around the stone walls, their leaves a sickly green, and the air around it hummed with a faint, sickly power—the same rot that clung to the owner's men, the same decay that had haunted the manor. Chen Fan's hand tightened around the sword's hilt as they stepped through the doors, the golden light flaring to life, cutting through the dust and darkness, and Xia Wanxing's grip on the crowbar tightened, her knuckles white, her eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.
The vault was hidden beneath the church's altar, a slab of stone that had been carved with the same swirling symbols as the locket and the manor's walls. Chen Fan pressed the locket against the stone, the symbol glowing bright, and the slab rumbled, grinding against the floor as it slid aside to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into the earth. The air grew colder the farther they descended, the hum of power growing louder, and the compass around Chen Fan's throat burned, a searing heat that made him wince, a warning that something terrible waited below.
The vault was a small, circular room, its walls lined with shelves stacked with ancient books and scrolls, its ceiling painted with constellations that no longer matched the sky. In the center of the room stood a stone pedestal, and on top of the pedestal rested a crystal—the seal. It was a thing of terrible beauty, its surface swirling with black and gold, its core pulsing with a faint, sickly light, and as Chen Fan stepped closer, he could hear whispers drifting from it, faint and broken, the voices of his ancestors, the voices of the ghosts that had been trapped by the seal for centuries.
But he wasn't the only one in the room.
Standing beside the pedestal, his back to them, was a figure—a man in a tattered leather jacket, his hair gray at the temples, his shoulders broad and familiar. Chen Fan's breath caught in his throat, his hand freezing on the sword's hilt, his heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears. The figure turned, and Chen Fan felt his world tilt.
It was his father.
Or, at least, it was the ghost of him.
His father's face was the same as the one in the old photograph Chen Fan kept in his attic—his eyes sharp, his jaw set, his smile faint and sad—but there was a darkness in his gaze, a shadow that clung to him like a shroud, and when he spoke, his voice was cold, hollow, nothing like the warm, laughing tone Chen Fan remembered from his childhood.
"Hello, son," he said, the words echoing off the vault's walls.
Xia Wanxing stepped forward, the crowbar raised, her body tensed, but Chen Fan held up a hand, stopping her. His throat felt tight, his eyes burning, and he could barely speak, the shock of seeing his father—even as a ghost—rendering him helpless.
"You're not real," Chen Fan said, his voice rough, unsteady. "The wraith said you were dead. That it killed you."
The ghost of his father smiled, a bitter, cruel thing. "The wraith told you the truth—about the death of my body, at least. But the owner found my soul. He bound it to the seal, made me his prisoner, his weapon. He's been waiting for you, Chen Fan. Waiting for a hunter strong enough to break the seal, to set free the darkness that lies beneath it."
The compass burned, a searing heat, and Chen Fan remembered the owner's words—Join me. Help me break the seal. Help me set it free. And I'll give you everything you've ever wanted. The truth about his parents. The chance to see his father again. But at what cost? The seal held back a darkness that could destroy Yunjing, that could turn the city into a graveyard of ghosts and rot, and the owner wanted to unleash it, to use it to rule the world.
"Why?" Chen Fan said, his voice cracking. "Why would you let him do this? You were a hunter. You swore to protect the seal, to protect the city."
The ghost's smile faded, replaced by a look of pain, and for a moment, Chen Fan saw the man he remembered—the father who had taught him to ride a bike, who had read him stories about hunters and ghosts, who had told him to always do the right thing, no matter the cost.
"I had no choice," his father said, his voice breaking. "The owner has my wife's soul, too. Your mother's. He's been holding her hostage, using her to force me to obey. If the seal is broken, if the darkness is unleashed, he'll set her free. If not…" He trailed off, his gaze falling to the crystal on the pedestal, the black and gold swirling faster, the whispers growing louder.
Xia Wanxing stepped closer, her hand resting on Chen Fan's arm, her voice soft but determined. "He's lying, Chen Fan. The owner doesn't care about your mother's soul. He cares about power. He'll use you to break the seal, then he'll destroy both of them, destroy everything."
The ghost's eyes flashed with anger, the shadow clinging to him growing darker, and he raised a hand, a wave of black mist surging toward them. Chen Fan raised the sword, the golden light flaring bright, cutting through the mist, and the ghost hissed, stepping back, the darkness recoiling from the relic's power.
"You don't understand," the ghost said, his voice rising, desperate. "He'll kill her, Chen Fan. He'll kill your mother if you don't break the seal. Don't you want to see her again? Don't you want to save her?"
Chen Fan's heart ached. He had spent his whole life wondering what had happened to his parents, wondering why they had left him, wondering if he would ever see them again. The chance to save his mother, to bring her back, to have his family whole again—it was a temptation so strong it made his head spin. But he looked at Xia Wanxing, at the fire in her eyes, at the way she stood beside him, unafraid. He thought of the ghosts he'd set free, of the souls he'd saved, of the promise he'd made to himself to never let the darkness win.
He thought of the compass, of the sword, of the legacy that ran in his blood.
He thought of what his father would have wanted him to do.
Chen Fan stepped forward, the sword raised, the golden light glowing bright, and he looked his father's ghost in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice steady, resolute. "But I can't break the seal. I can't let the owner win. I can't let Yunjing burn."
The ghost's face crumpled, the anger fading into despair, and the shadow around him grew thicker, swallowing him almost entirely. "Then she dies," he said, his voice a whisper. "Then we all die."
The vault rumbled, and the crystal on the pedestal flared to life, the black and gold swirling faster, the whispers growing into a roar. The owner's voice echoed through the room, cold and triumphant. "Well done, Chen Fan. You've made your choice. Now let the show begin."
The door to the vault slammed shut, and the room filled with black mist, thick and suffocating, the rot clinging to Chen Fan's skin, making him gag. The ghost of his father screamed, a sound of agony and rage, and he charged, his body transforming into a swirling mass of darkness, his eyes glowing red, his hands reaching for Chen Fan's throat.
Xia Wanxing lunged forward, the crowbar swinging, and she struck the ghost's arm, the metal clanging against the darkness, and the ghost hissed, spinning to face her. Chen Fan raised the sword, the golden light flaring brighter than ever, and he drove the blade into the ghost's chest, the relic's power surging through him, through the darkness, through the soul of his father.
The ghost froze, the red light in his eyes fading, and for a moment, Chen Fan saw his father again—the real father, the man he remembered. He smiled, a faint, sad thing, and he reached out, his hand passing through Chen Fan's shoulder, a touch that was both cold and warm.
"I'm proud of you," he said, his voice soft, full of love. "Tell your mother… tell her I'm sorry."
The ghost dissolved into golden light, the darkness vanishing, the whispers fading, and the light drifted upward, toward the ceiling, toward the sky, toward freedom. Chen Fan watched him go, his eyes burning, his throat tight, and he felt a hand on his shoulder—Xia Wanxing, her fingers warm, her presence a comfort.
The crystal on the pedestal dimmed, the black and gold fading, the hum of power growing quiet, and the vault stopped rumbling. The door creaked open, and the sunlight streamed in, bright and warm, chasing away the last of the mist, the last of the rot.
Chen Fan looked at Xia Wanxing, at her smile, at the way she stood beside him, unbroken, and he felt the compass hum, a soft, steady warmth, a promise that the fight wasn't over. The owner was still out there, still plotting, still waiting, and Chen Fan knew that the war was far from finished.
But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't afraid.
He had his father's approval. He had Xia Wanxing at his side. He had the sword, the compass, the legacy that ran in his blood.
He was a hunter.
And he was ready to fight.
Teaser for Chapter 7
The owner's next move is a strike at the heart of Yunjing— a hospital where the sick and dying are turning into ghosts, where the rot is spreading faster than ever. To stop him, Chen Fan and Xia Wanxing must ally with an unlikely friend: a ghost who knows the owner's darkest secret.