The morning sun blazed over Yunjing City's Grand Racetrack, turning the asphalt into a shimmering sheet of gold that blinded anyone who dared to stare too long. The crowd was thinner than it had been the day before—mostly die-hard racing fans and a smattering of reporters who'd caught wind of the "ghostly crash" that had almost taken Su Qingyan's life. Chen Fan's electric scooter whirred to a stop at the back entrance, his delivery box crammed with a dozen paper cups of iced coffee, a last-minute order from the track's maintenance crew. The compass around his throat hummed a low, insistent warning—louder than it had in the alley, softer than it had been when he'd driven the peachwood sword through the racing spirit's chest. Its golden light flickered every time his eyes drifted toward the VIP stands, where a man in a gaudy silk robe stood surrounded by a cluster of reporters, his long hair tied back with a red ribbon that fluttered in the breeze like a flag of arrogance.
Xuan Jizi. The fake master who'd scammed Qin Shuran out of half a million yuan, who'd waved a handful of cheap paper talismans and claimed he could "purify" the hospital's evil energy before vanishing into thin air with the cash. Chen Fan had heard the rumors—Zhao Tianlei had tracked him down, had given him a suitcase full of money and a simple order: expose Chen Fan as a fraud, discredit his ghost-hunting stunts, and clear the way for Zhao Tianlei's sinister plans to break the seal. The man in the silk robe was putting on a show, that much was clear. He waved a talismans in the air, his voice booming through a megaphone as he shouted about "false prophets" and "con men in delivery jackets" who preyed on the weak and the desperate.
Chen Fan adjusted his helmet, his fingers brushing the hilt of the peachwood sword tucked into the back of his jacket. He'd had no intention of sticking around—his job was to deliver the coffee, collect his money, and get back to his rooftop cubicle before the compass led him to another spirit—but the sound of Xuan Jizi's voice made his jaw tighten. The fake master was pointing directly at him now, his face twisted into a sneer that was meant to look righteous but came off as petty and cruel. "There he is!" Xuan Jizi shouted, his voice echoing across the empty track. "The so-called ghost hunter who claims he saved the racing queen! A fraud! A charlatan! He uses cheap tricks and glowing toys to fool you all, but I— I am a master of true spiritual power! I will prove today that his so-called purification is nothing but a lie!"
The reporters perked up, their cameras clicking like mad as they swarmed toward Chen Fan, their microphones thrust into his face like weapons. "Chen Fan! Do you have a response to Master Xuan's accusations?" "Is it true you used a fake sword to trick Su Qingyan?" "Are you working with someone to stage these ghostly incidents?" Chen Fan said nothing, his eyes locked on Xuan Jizi as the fake master pushed through the crowd, a smug smile on his face. He was holding a small wooden box, its surface carved with the same swirling symbol that Chen Fan had seen on the manor's walls, on the hospital's rooftop tank, on the metal box hidden in the racing team's garage. The symbol of Zhao Tianlei's sinister ritual.
Xuan Jizi stopped a few feet away from Chen Fan, his nose wrinkling like he'd smelled something rotten. "You think you can fool everyone with your little glowing stick?" he scoffed, nodding at the bulge of the peachwood sword under Chen Fan's jacket. "You think you can pretend to be a guardian of the seal? Let me show you what real power looks like." He opened the wooden box, and the compass around Chen Fan's throat erupted in a blaze of crimson light, the Body Protection Alert screaming in his mind like a siren. Inside the box was a cluster of black stones, each one pulsing with a sickly purple energy that made the air thick and cloying, that made the reporters gag and step back. The stones reeked of rot and despair, of the residual evil energy that clung to every place Zhao Tianlei had touched. They were a trap, Chen Fan realized. A way to lure out a spirit, to force Chen Fan to reveal his sword, and then to claim that he'd summoned the ghost himself.
Sure enough, the purple energy from the stones seeped into the asphalt, into the cracks where the racing spirit's golden sparks had vanished the day before. The ground rumbled, and a low, guttural growl echoed across the track as a wisp of black mist curled out of the cracks, coalescing into the form of the racing spirit—his face twisted in rage, his eyes glowing with the same purple energy as the stones. The spirit was weaker than he'd been the day before, his form flickering like a dying candle, but he was angry. Furious. The stones were torturing him, binding him to Xuan Jizi's will. "See?" Xuan Jizi shouted, his voice triumphant as he waved a talisman at the spirit, making it howl in pain. "This is the evil energy he claims to have purified! He let it linger! He is the one who is feeding it! Now watch as I destroy it with true spiritual power!"
He raised a hand, a talismans clamped between his fingers, and shouted a string of gibberish that sounded like it had been pulled from a cheap martial arts novel. The talismans fluttered to the ground, useless and unlit. The spirit roared, breaking free of the purple energy's hold for a split second before it coiled around him again, tighter this time, making him scream. The reporters exchanged confused looks, their cameras still rolling as Xuan Jizi's smug smile faded into a look of panic. He pulled another talismans from his robe, another and another, tossing them at the spirit like confetti, but none of them worked. None of them could touch the spirit's pain, none of them could purify the evil energy that clung to him like a second skin.
Chen Fan sighed, setting down his delivery box on the pavement. He pulled the peachwood sword from his jacket, the blade glowing with a warm, steady red light that cut through the purple mist like a knife through butter. The compass around his throat flared bright, the Evil Aura Scan and Demon Slash skill activating with a silent hum as it locked onto the spirit's weak point—the same swirling symbol that had been carved into his chest, the same symbol that marked every one of Zhao Tianlei's victims. "You're not a master," Chen Fan said, his voice calm and clear, loud enough to cut through the spirit's howls and the reporters' murmurs. "You're just a thief. A thief who steals money from people who are scared, who steals power from people who are dead."
Xuan Jizi's face turned red with rage. "Shut up! You don't know what you're talking about! This is a trick! He's using a trick to make the talismans useless!" He lunged forward, grabbing a nearby reporter's camera and swinging it at Chen Fan's head, but Chen Fan didn't flinch. He stepped forward, the peachwood sword moving faster than the eye could follow, and drove the blade into the air between himself and the spirit—not to harm the ghost, but to purify the purple energy that bound him. The red light exploded in a burst of warmth, washing over the spirit like a wave of sunlight. The purple mist shrieked, dissolving into nothingness as the black stones in Xuan Jizi's box cracked and crumbled into dust. The racing spirit's form softened, his rage fading into relief as the last of the evil energy burned away. He looked at Chen Fan, his eyes no longer glowing, and nodded once, a silent thank-you, before dissolving into golden sparks that drifted upward toward the sun, finally free.
The crowd fell silent. The reporters stared, their cameras forgotten in their hands as they looked from the crumbling dust of the black stones to the glowing peachwood sword in Chen Fan's hand, to Xuan Jizi's red, furious face. The fake master stumbled back, his silk robe slipping off his shoulder to reveal a hidden microphone— a wire that led straight to a small device in his pocket, a device that Zhao Tianlei had no doubt given him to record the "exposure." "This is a setup!" Xuan Jizi screamed, his voice cracking as he pointed at Chen Fan. "He cheated! He used magic! He's a monster!"
But no one was listening. The reporters were already typing furiously on their phones, their headlines writing themselves: Fake Master Exposed, Delivery Boy Ghost Hunter Saves Spirit Again. Su Qingyan pushed through the crowd, her red racing suit still stained with the dust from the day before, and stood beside Chen Fan, her chin held high as she stared at Xuan Jizi. "I saw what you did," she said, her voice cold. "I saw you torture that spirit. I saw you try to frame an innocent man. Zhao Tianlei's money can't buy you respect, and it can't buy you power."
Xuan Jizi paled. He looked around, at the crowd that was now booing and jeering, at the reporters who were snapping photos of his crumpled talismans and the dust of the black stones, and turned to run. But two uniformed police officers stepped into his path, their faces stern as they grabbed his arms—Qin Shuran had filed a fraud complaint against him the day before, Chen Fan realized, a small smile tugging at his lips. The fake master shouted and struggled, but it was no use. The officers dragged him away, his silk robe flapping in the wind as he screamed about "Zhao Tianlei's wrath" and "secrets that would destroy them all."
Chen Fan sheathed the peachwood sword, tucking it back into his jacket as the reporters swarmed him again, their questions now eager and respectful instead of hostile. But he didn't answer. He grabbed his delivery box, climbed onto his electric scooter, and whirred away before they could corner him. The compass around his throat hummed softly, its golden light dimming to a warm glow as he drove through the streets of Yunjing City. But it didn't stop. It was still searching—for the next spirit, for the next trap, for Zhao Tianlei himself.
Somewhere in his glass-walled penthouse, Zhao Tianlei watched the live feed of Xuan Jizi being dragged away by the police, his face a mask of cold, quiet rage. He crushed the empty scotch glass in his hand, the shards cutting into his palm, but he didn't flinch. He stared at the screen, at Chen Fan's retreating figure on the electric scooter, and whispered a single name, his voice dripping with venom. "Chen Fan."
The game was far from over. And Zhao Tianlei was just getting started.
Teaser for Chapter 11
Chen Fan's compass leads him to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city, where a group of Zhao Tianlei's goons are performing a ritual to awaken a ancient, powerful spirit—one that even Chen Fan's peachwood sword might not be able to purify.