Chapter 11: The Warehouse Ritual and the Bound Ancient Spirit
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, painting Yunjing City's industrial district in streaks of dull gold and shadow when Chen Fan's electric scooter trundled to a stop at the entrance of an abandoned warehouse. The compass around his throat thrummed violently, its golden light blazing crimson—brighter than it had been at the racetrack, sharper than it had been during the rooftop brawl—its needle locked onto the warehouse's rusted iron doors like a magnet to steel. The air reeked of rust and mildew, but beneath that, a thick, cloying stench of pure evil energy curled through the cracks in the walls, heavy enough to make Chen Fan's lungs burn. He'd followed the compass's pull for twenty minutes, abandoning three delivery orders along the way; this was no minor spirit haunting, no petty trap. This was something ancient, something hungry, something that made the racing spirit's rage feel like a flicker compared to a wildfire.
Chen Fan adjusted his helmet, his fingers brushing the hilt of the peachwood sword tucked into the back of his delivery jacket. The warehouse loomed before him, its windows shattered, its walls covered in graffiti and the same swirling symbol that marked every corner of Zhao Tianlei's sinister plans. The Body Protection Alert hummed in his mind, a low, insistent warning that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn't need the compass to know what was inside—Zhao Tianlei's goons, a ritual, a spirit bound by dark magic to serve their master's twisted goal of breaking the ancient seal.
He slipped off the scooter, his boots crunching on the gravel and broken glass that littered the ground, and crept toward the warehouse, pressing his ear to the cold metal of the door. Inside, he heard the murmur of voices—deep, guttural chants that made his skin crawl—mixed with the crackle of burning candles and the faint, distant wail of a spirit in agony. He pulled the door open just a crack, peering inside, and his blood ran cold.
The warehouse's vast, empty space had been transformed into a ritual circle. Dozens of black candles lined the floor, their flames burning with a sickly purple light that cast long, twisted shadows across the walls. At the center of the circle stood five men in tailored black suits—Zhao Tianlei's elite goons, the same ones who'd ambushed him and Xia Wanxing at the old manor—each holding a dagger carved with the swirling symbol, their faces blank with fanatical devotion. And above the circle, suspended in mid-air by thick, black chains wreathed in purple mist, hung the spirit.
It was unlike any spirit Chen Fan had ever seen. Its form was tall and gaunt, its body translucent yet solid, its eyes glowing with a deep, ancient sorrow that cut through the evil energy clinging to it. Its hands were bound by the chains, its mouth gagged with a strip of cloth that dripped with purple mist, and every time the goons chanted, a jolt of energy shot through the chains, making the spirit scream—a sound so terrible, so full of pain, that Chen Fan had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. This was no vengeful racer, no restless hospital ghost. This was a guardian spirit, Chen Fan realized, his jaw tightening— a spirit that had been tasked with protecting the seal centuries ago, captured and tortured by Zhao Tianlei's men to weaken the seal's defenses.
The compass in his hand flared brighter, the Evil Aura Scan and Demon Slash skill activating with a silent hum, mapping the energy in the room: the thick, black aura of the goons, the sickly purple aura of the ritual, the faint, golden aura of the guardian spirit, fighting to break free of its bonds. The spirit's weak point was clear—the swirling symbol carved into the center of the chains, the source of the dark magic binding it. But to reach it, Chen Fan would have to fight through the goons, and the ritual's energy was so strong, it might weaken his sword's power.
He didn't hesitate. He pushed the door open all the way, stepping into the warehouse, his boots crunching on the candle wax that littered the floor. The goons snapped their heads toward him, their blank faces twisting into snarls as they reached for their daggers. "The delivery boy ghost hunter," one of them sneered, his voice cold and flat. "Zhao Tianlei knew you'd follow the compass. He wanted you to see this—to see the power you're up against."
Chen Fan said nothing, his hand closing around the hilt of the peachwood sword. He pulled the sword free, its blade glowing with a warm, steady red light that cut through the purple mist like a knife through butter. The goons flinched, their snarls fading into looks of fear as the red light washed over them, burning away the edges of their black auras. "You think your little glowing stick can stop us?" another goon shouted, charging forward, his dagger raised. "You think you can save this spirit? It's already bound to the ritual! It's going to break the seal for us!"
Chen Fan moved. He dodged the dagger's swing, his sword's hilt slamming into the goon's ribs with a satisfying crack that made the man crumple to the ground, gasping for air. He spun around, his blade nicking the wrist of another goon, making him drop his dagger with a scream. The red light of the sword burned away the purple mist that tried to coil around his ankles, the Evil Aura Scan guiding his movements, letting him see the goons' auras, their weak points, their fear.
The remaining three goons charged at him together, their daggers glinting in the purple light, but Chen Fan was faster. He ducked under their swings, his sword moving in a blur of red light, striking their wrists, their ribs, their shoulders—non-lethal hits, but hits that made them scream, that burned away their dark auras, that left them staggering back, clutching their wounds. He didn't kill them. He didn't have to. The sword's power was enough to break their fanatical devotion, to make them see the evil they were serving.
But as he fought, the goons' chants grew louder, more frantic. The purple light of the candles flared brighter, and the guardian spirit's scream echoed through the warehouse, louder, more pained than before. The chains binding it glowed with the same purple light, and the swirling symbol at their center pulsed, sending waves of evil energy rippling through the room. The seal, Chen Fan realized, was weakening—every scream from the spirit, every pulse of the symbol, was chipping away at the barrier that held the unspeakable evil beneath it.
He had to end this. Now.
He broke free of the goons, charging toward the center of the ritual circle, his sword held high. The goons screamed, trying to grab him, but he was too fast, his body moving like water, the Body Protection Alert shielding him from the purple mist that tried to burn his skin. He reached the center of the circle, the guardian spirit's eyes locking onto his, its sorrowful gaze pleading for mercy, for release. Chen Fan raised the peachwood sword, the Evil Aura Scan locking onto the swirling symbol on the chains, the Demon Slash skill humming in his mind, gathering power.
"Your pain ends now," he whispered, his voice calm and clear, cutting through the goons' chants.
He drove the sword straight into the swirling symbol.
The red light exploded. It washed over the warehouse, a wave of pure, golden energy that burned away the purple mist, the black auras, the evil energy clinging to every corner. The chains binding the guardian spirit shrieked, cracking apart like glass, and the spirit's form floated downward, its body glowing with a warm, golden light, its mouth no longer gagged, its hands no longer bound. The candles' flames flickered and died, the goons collapsing to the ground, their faces pale with terror, their fanatical devotion gone, replaced by fear.
The guardian spirit looked at Chen Fan, its eyes no longer full of sorrow, but of gratitude. It nodded once, a silent thank-you, and then its form dissolved into golden sparks that drifted upward toward the ceiling, vanishing into the sunlight streaming through the shattered windows—finally free, finally at peace.
The compass around Chen Fan's throat hummed softly, its crimson light dimming to a warm, steady glow. The evil energy was gone, the ritual broken, the guardian spirit saved. But as he sheathed the peachwood sword, his eyes scanning the warehouse, he saw it—a piece of paper, fluttering to the ground from one of the goons' pockets, covered in the swirling symbol, with a single name scrawled at the bottom: Zhao Tianlei. And beneath the name, an address—the location of the seal.
Chen Fan picked up the paper, his fingers brushing the symbol, his jaw tightening. The final fight was coming. The seal was the key, and Zhao Tianlei would stop at nothing to break it.
He turned to leave, the goons' whimpers fading behind him, his electric scooter waiting for him outside the warehouse. The compass around his throat didn't stop humming. It was still searching—for Zhao Tianlei, for the seal, for the final battle that would decide the fate of Yunjing City.
Somewhere in his glass-walled penthouse, Zhao Tianlei stared at his phone, a notification popping up on the screen: Ritual Failed. Guardian Spirit Freed. Chen Fan Involved. He smiled, a cold, cruel smile that didn't reach his eyes, and picked up a phone, dialing a number. "It's time," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Bring the final piece of the ritual. We're going to the seal. And this time, Chen Fan won't be able to stop us."
The game was about to end. And Zhao Tianlei was ready to win.
Teaser for Chapter 12
Chen Fan races to the seal's location—a hidden temple beneath Yunjing City's ancient mountain—only to find Zhao Tianlei waiting for him, the final piece of the ritual in hand, ready to break the seal and unleash the unspeakable evil trapped beneath it. The final battle begins, and Chen Fan will have to use every skill, every weapon, every ounce of his power to save the city.