Dusk painted Yunjing City's old town in streaks of burnt orange and smoky gray when Chen Fan trundled back to his rooftop cubicle, his electric scooter sputtering and wheezing like an old man on its last legs. The compass around his throat hummed a low, steady warning—softer than it had blared at the racetrack, but sharp enough to cut through the cloying smell of stir-fried chestnuts and rotting garbage drifting up from the narrow alley below. He'd just pocketed a crumpled 200-yuan note for a late delivery to a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop, his stomach growling with the memory of the cold fried chicken he'd left forgotten in Su Qingyan's lavish VIP box. The peachwood sword leaned against the splintered doorframe of his cubicle—a tiny, windowless space barely big enough for a sagging mattress, a broken oscillating fan, and a tower of instant noodle cups that threatened to topple over every time the wind picked up. Chen Fan kicked off his scuffed white sneakers, wincing as his sore knees and bruised shins protested the day's chaos: the rooftop water tank climb at Starcrest Hospital, the death-defying leap onto Su Qingyan's speeding supercar, the endless rounds of delivery runs that had stretched from dawn to dusk. He'd barely collapsed onto the mattress, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, when a loud, angry shout echoed up from the alley, rough and unpolished as gravel.
"Chen Fan! You little delivery rat! Get your ass down here right now!"
The compass burned hot against his throat, a sudden, searing warmth that jolted him awake in an instant. Body Protection Alert. Chen Fan's lips curled into a dry, humorless smile. He recognized the voice—Wang Kun. The slimy, suit-clad goon who'd been lurking in the racetrack crowd, filming every second of Chen Fan's ghost-purifying stunt with a phone held tight in his grubby hand. The same man who'd once smashed Chen Fan's delivery box to pieces and threatened to break his legs over two weeks of overdue rent, back when Chen Fan's compass had been just a dusty trinket and the peachwood sword a forgotten family heirloom.
Chen Fan rolled to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest, and grabbed the peachwood sword from the doorframe, tucking it discreetly into the back of his faded blue delivery jacket. He climbed down the rickety metal stairs that clung to the side of the building, each step groaning under his weight like it might give way at any moment. The sight that greeted him when he hit the alley floor made the compass in his hand pulse faster, its golden light flaring bright enough to cast tiny shadows on the damp brick walls. Wang Kun stood at the head of a group of five burly thugs, all of them clad in leather jackets and scuffed combat boots, their faces twisted into sneers that promised violence. A rusted crowbar lay discarded on the ground at Wang Kun's feet, and the alley's dented metal garbage cans had been kicked over, their contents—rotten vegetables, crumpled plastic bags, half-eaten buns—spilling across the cracked pavement to form a stinking, slippery mess.
Wang Kun's eyes lit up like he'd just struck gold when he saw Chen Fan. He smirked, adjusting the knot of his expensive silk tie—the same gaudy red tie he'd worn at the racetrack—with a gesture that reeked of self-importance. "There he is! The little ghost hunter who thinks he's hot shit. You embarrassed me today, delivery boy. Filming you climbing onto that race queen's car like some kind of hero? Please. Everyone's gonna laugh their asses off when they see how I beat your scrawny ass into the ground."
The thugs snickered in unison, cracking their knuckles loudly enough to echo off the alley walls. One of them, a brute with a tattoo of a serpent coiled around his neck, lunged forward without warning, grabbing Chen Fan's delivery jacket by the collar and shoving him hard against the brick wall. The rough texture of the brick dug into Chen Fan's back, sending a sharp pain shooting up his spine, but he didn't flinch. His dark eyes stayed locked on Wang Kun's, his voice calm and steady, unshaken by the thug's iron grip.
"You followed me all the way from the racetrack. Why bother? You could've just called."
Wang Kun laughed, a loud, cruel sound that made the thugs snicker even harder. He stepped forward, his polished leather shoes crunching on a discarded cabbage leaf, and pressed a finger into Chen Fan's chest, hard enough to leave a red mark. "Why? Because you're a pest. A nobody, a gutter rat in a delivery jacket who thinks he can mess with people like me. Zhao Tianlei's not gonna be happy when he hears you're sticking your nose into his business—the manor, the hospital, the racetrack… all of it's his playground. And you? You're just a bug he's gonna squish under his shoe before breakfast tomorrow."
The name sent a jolt through Chen Fan, sharp and electric. Zhao Tianlei—the top-tier tycoon heir, the reclusive billionaire who owned half of Yunjing's real estate, the man behind the squad of black-suited goons who'd ambushed him and Xia Wanxing at the old manor weeks ago. The man who wanted to break the ancient seal his family had guarded for centuries, to unleash the unspeakable evil trapped beneath it for his own twisted gain. So Wang Kun was his lapdog. That explained the black-suited men loitering at the racetrack back entrance. That explained the fragment of the racing spirit's memory—the man in the tailored black suit, the thick envelope stuffed with cash, the swirling symbol carved into a metal box hidden in the team's garage. All of it, a thread in Zhao Tianlei's sinister web.
The thug with the serpent tattoo tightened his grip on Chen Fan's collar, yanking Chen Fan's head back until his neck strained. "Wang's gonna teach you a lesson you'll never forget, delivery boy. You're gonna beg for mercy before we're done with you. You're gonna cry for your mommy."
Chen Fan didn't beg. He didn't cry. He moved.
In one fluid, lightning-fast motion, he slammed his elbow into the thug's ribs—hard, precise, right where the bone was softest. The man gasped, a ragged, pained sound, and his grip on Chen Fan's collar slackened instantly. Chen Fan spun around, his hand closing around the hilt of the peachwood sword hidden in his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the smooth, cool wood like it was an extension of his own arm. The compass in his hand flared bright crimson, the Evil Aura Scan and Demon Slash skill activating with a silent hum—not for a ghost, not for a vengeful spirit, but for the faint, sickly black aura clinging to Wang Kun and his thugs like a second skin. The aura of greed, of cruelty, of the residual evil energy they'd absorbed from running Zhao Tianlei's dirty errands—from binding spirits to cars, from tampering with ancient seals, from hurting anyone who got in their boss's way.
The sword's blade glowed with a faint, pulsating red light as Chen Fan drew it, holding it loosely at his side, the tip just brushing the ground. The thugs froze mid-snicker, their faces draining of color. Even Wang Kun's cocky smirk faded, his eyes widening into saucers as he stared at the glowing blade, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"What the hell is that thing?" Wang Kun muttered, taking a small but noticeable step back, his confidence wavering for the first time.
"Just a stick," Chen Fan said, his voice still calm, still steady. He didn't wait for them to recover from their shock. He charged forward, the peachwood sword moving faster than the eye could follow, a blur of red light and polished wood.
He dodged a wild punch from the serpent-tattooed thug, the sword's hilt slamming into the man's jaw with a satisfying crack that made him crumple to the ground, clutching his face and whimpering. He sidestepped a crowbar swing from another thug—one who'd grabbed the rusted weapon from the ground— the blade nicking the man's wrist just enough to make him drop the crowbar with a scream, blood welling up from the tiny cut. The red light of the sword burned away the faint black aura clinging to the thugs as they lunged, making them stagger back, clutching their heads like they'd been doused in scalding water, their eyes rolling back in their sockets from the searing pain of the purified energy.
Wang Kun screamed, a high-pitched, panicked sound that was a far cry from his earlier bravado, and grabbed a dented garbage can lid from the ground, swinging it at Chen Fan's head with all his might. "Kill him! Just kill him, you idiots! What are you waiting for?!"
Chen Fan didn't kill. He humiliated. That was the point. To show them, to show Wang Kun, to show Zhao Tianlei watching from his penthouse, that he wasn't just a delivery boy. That he wasn't just a ghost hunter. That he was the last line of defense against the evil they wanted to unleash.
He ducked under the garbage can lid, his body moving like water, and the sword's blade tapped Wang Kun's wrist—light, precise, a feather's touch that sent a jolt of searing pain up the goon's arm. Wang Kun yelped, dropping the lid with a clang that echoed through the alley, and stared at his wrist in horror, as if he couldn't believe he'd been hurt by a "stick." Before he could react, Chen Fan grabbed the front of his expensive suit jacket, yanking the goon forward and slamming his face into the brick wall with a sickening crunch. The sound of a nose breaking echoed through the alley, loud and clear, and blood started streaming down Wang Kun's face, soaking his silk tie and staining his crisp white shirt.
Wang Kun howled, a gurgling, pained sound, his hands flying up to clutch his broken nose. "You bastard! You're dead! Zhao Tianlei's gonna hunt you down! He's gonna—he's gonna skin you alive!"
Chen Fan cut him off, pressing the peachwood sword's glowing blade against Wang Kun's throat, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make the goon freeze, his eyes wide with terror. The red light of the sword glowed brighter, casting a crimson hue over Wang Kun's bloodied face, and the faint black aura around him burned away completely, leaving the man trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, his knees knocking together so hard they sounded like they might crack.
"Tell Zhao Tianlei this," Chen Fan said, his voice cold enough to make Wang Kun shiver, cold enough to cut through the goon's blustering threats like a knife through butter. "The seal isn't his to break. The spirits aren't his to control. The city isn't his to burn. And if he sends another one of his lapdogs after me—another one of you pathetic, greedy little pests—I won't be this nice next time. Next time, I won't hold back."
He released his grip on Wang Kun's suit jacket, letting the goon collapse to the ground in a whimpering heap, his face buried in the stinking garbage, blood smearing across the pavement. The other thugs stared at Chen Fan, their faces white as sheets, their eyes wide with terror. They didn't move. They didn't dare. They just stood there, frozen, as if they were afraid that even breathing too loud would make Chen Fan turn his sword on them next.
Chen Fan glanced at his phone, noting the time—he had a delivery to a 24-hour convenience store on the other side of the old town in ten minutes, and he was already running late. He sheathed the peachwood sword, tucking it back into his delivery jacket, and wiped a smudge of garbage off his sleeve with a grimace. He turned to leave, his boots crunching on the discarded cabbage leaves and plastic bags, when Wang Kun's muffled voice stopped him.
"Wait!" Wang Kun shouted, his voice thick with blood and tears, his face still buried in the garbage. "You can't just leave! I'm—I'm Zhao Tianlei's man! You can't disrespect him like this!"
Chen Fan paused at the bottom of the metal stairs, his hand resting on the rusted railing, and looked back at Wang Kun and his terrified thugs, at the broken nose, the crumpled bodies, the stinking mess of the alley. He smiled, a cold, sharp smile that made Wang Kun whimper.
"I can," Chen Fan said. "And I just did. Tell your boss one more thing, for me. The next time I see him? It won't be in a dirty alley full of garbage and thugs. It'll be where it matters. Where the seal is. And when we meet, he'll regret ever being born. He'll regret ever laying a finger on my family's legacy."
He turned and climbed the stairs, his boots thudding against the metal steps, leaving Wang Kun and his thugs sprawled in the garbage-strewn alley, the sound of their whimpers and sniffles fading behind him. The compass around his throat hummed softly, its golden light dimming to a warm, steady glow, but it didn't stop. It was still searching—for Zhao Tianlei, for the seal, for the final fight that was coming, the fight that would decide the fate of Yunjing City.
And somewhere in a glass-walled luxury penthouse in Yunjing's glittering CBD, a man named Zhao Tianlei stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, watching the city's lights twinkle below. He held a phone in his hand, the screen playing a loop of Wang Kun's racetrack video—Chen Fan leaping onto the red supercar, the peachwood sword glowing red, the ghost dissolving into golden sparks. A glass of scotch sat on the table beside him, untouched, and his face was cold, his eyes dark with rage. He'd just received a call from Wang Kun, the goon's voice gurgling and incoherent, full of tears and pleas for help. He'd hung up without a word, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt.
"Chen Fan," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous, the name a curse on his lips. He drained the scotch in one gulp, the burn of the alcohol doing nothing to soothe the fire in his chest. "You're gonna regret ever being born. You're gonna regret ever sticking your nose into my business. I'm gonna break you. I'm gonna break your precious seal. And then I'm gonna watch this city burn."
He tossed the empty glass aside, the sound of it shattering against the marble floor echoing through the penthouse. Outside, the moon rose over Yunjing City, a pale, cold disk in the night sky. The game had just begun. And Zhao Tianlei was ready to play.
Teaser for Chapter 10
Xuan Jizi, the fake master who scammed Qin Shuran out of half a million yuan, arrives at the racetrack with a suitcase full of Zhao Tianlei's cash and a bag of fake talismans. He's ready to expose Chen Fan as a fraud to the world— but he's about to learn that fake magic can't beat real power, and that messing with a guardian of the seal is a death wish.