Song Qian trailed behind Liu Changsheng, watching wide-eyed as she charged straight into a thick wall of mist. She came to a halt, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
Where had all this fog come from?
Sensing something was wrong, Song Qian whipped her head around, scanning her surroundings. The fog had swallowed everything—no sign of anyone else.
“Master!”
“Lin Qing!”
The next name hovered on the tip of her tongue, but Song Qian forced it back down.
It felt like she had stumbled into another world entirely. There were always a few neighboring houses right outside Grandma’s place; it could never be this desolate and empty.
“Little girl, looks like you’re all on your own now.”
Song Qian peered through the haze and saw a tall, gaunt man emerging from it—the same bastard whose teeth she had kicked out the day before. Standing beside him was a middle-aged woman draped in a loose black robe, her adornments marking her as the shaman.
Emboldened by the woman’s presence, the man raked his eyes over Song Qian without shame, a sickening chuckle bubbling from his lips. “Didn’t notice it yesterday, but you’re a real beauty.”
“Here’s how it goes: stick with me, and we forget all about this. Whatever you want, big brother will hook you up.”
Song Qian spat on the ground, her gaze sharp as knives, wishing she could carve him up. “How does scum like you even deserve to breathe?”
The man’s grin froze on his face. His sunken, hollow cheeks twisted into a savage snarl. “You bitch—don’t make me slap that pretty face.”
With that, he yanked a short knife from behind his waist. The blade was honed to a razor edge, glinting coldly under the moonlight.
Song Qian wasn’t afraid of trading blows up close, but that edged knife sent a chill through her.
He bellowed and lunged, swinging wildly with no finesse—just brute force behind every slash.
She dodged by a hair’s breadth each time, but the final swing grazed her shoulder.
A searing pain exploded through her, making her scalp prickle and her limbs tremble. The man spotted the blood on his blade, wiped it off casually, and licked it from his palm right in front of her.
“Just as I thought—blood from a pretty girl is sweet. Same as that Yang Mei.”
Song Qian had been on the verge of retching at the sight of him slurping up the blood, but his words snapped her attention to the knife.
Aunt Mei—that was his doing. The blade matched the gashes on her face perfectly. It all lined up.
“Aren’t you afraid of karma catching up to you?”
The man stalked toward her, scoffing dismissively at her question. “Karma? What karma? Go ahead, send her ghost after me.”
“If she doesn’t mind her soul scattering into oblivion.”
He threw his head back in hysterical laughter, his whole body shaking with it.
Song Qian’s left arm was going numb. A quick glance showed her shoulder soaked through.
“So, how do you want to join her? A few slashes across the face before getting dumped down a well? Or…” He let out a lewd cackle. “Let me have my fun first. I might even let you die with that pretty face intact.”
His words turned her stomach. Song Qian retreated step by step, her hands empty—no weapon, nothing to strike back with. Talisman paper was useless against ordinary people.
He pressed forward relentlessly, the knife tip aimed straight at her face.
“Pick one. Or should I?”
“Which leg did you kick me with yesterday? Want me to hack it off?”
His face darkened at the memory of his humiliation, and he swung the blade down without mercy.
Song Qian’s back hit a solid wall. No escape.
In the instant the knife tip descended, she lunged straight at him. The hilt crashed into her back, drawing a muffled grunt from her lips.
The man hadn’t seen it coming. She bowled him over, his head cracking hard against the ground. Stars exploded in his vision.
Song Qian wasn’t faring much better. The sudden movement had torn open her shoulder wound, and blood loss left her legs wobbly and weak.
As he clutched his throbbing skull, she lunged for the knife. But he was stronger, and with her injury sapping her strength, he snapped out of it, flung her aside, hauled himself up, and drove a vicious kick into her side.
Her body skidded uncontrollably across the ground. Gasping for breath, she watched him advance, knife in hand.
“Still after my knife?”
He loomed over her, eyeing the gash on her shoulder with a twisted grin, then slammed his foot down on it.
“Urgh…”
Sweat beaded instantly on Song Qian’s forehead. She clawed at his leg, trying to shove it away, but it was no use.
He drank in her pale face and the pained groans escaping her lips, savoring every moment.
“Truth is, I didn’t want to kill you. What a waste to ruin a face like that.”
He raised the knife high, his gaze feral as he stared down at the writhing figure beneath him.
“Blame yourself for messing with the wrong people.”
The cold gleam of the blade dazzled her eyes. As it plunged down, she squeezed her eyes shut in resignation.
They said that in your final moments, you’d see the person or memory that defined your life. For Song Qian, it was Ji Wuxin—those cold, emotionless eyes fixed on her, lips parting slightly.
“Mediocre.”
Song Qian clenched her fists. If she came back as a ghost, she swore she’d corner Ji Wuxin and demand answers: mediocre where? How was she mediocre?!
Clang!
The heavy thud of metal hitting the ground jolted her. The crushing weight on her shoulder vanished. She cracked her eyes open to see the man sprawled in a heap, the short knife flung far away.
“You okay?” Lin Qing asked softly, steadying her uninjured shoulder.
Song Qian gave a faint shake of her head. “I’m good.”
“Song Sensen!”
A white figure hurtled toward her—Ji Wuxin, her face etched with anxiety.
Song Qian’s eyelashes fluttered. Leaning on Lin Qing, she staggered to her feet and brushed the dirt from her clothes.
Ji Wuxin had been right behind Song Qian, but in the few seconds she’d turned away, her charge had vanished. Running into Lin Qing and Liu Changsheng on the way back, neither had seen her. Panic surged through Ji Wuxin when she realized she could no longer sense the jade—or Song Qian.
Thankfully, Liu Changsheng’s experience paid off. She pinpointed the barrier trapping Song Qian. They burst in just as the knife hovered inches from striking home.
“Song Sensen.” Ji Wuxin’s heart twisted at the sight of the blood on her hands. She reached out to wipe it clean.
But before her fingertips could make contact, Song Qian deftly sidestepped, bypassing her entirely to join Liu Changsheng with Lin Qing’s support.
Ji Wuxin’s outstretched hand balled into a tight fist. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the man scrabbling for the knife. In a blur, she was there, her foot slamming down on his left shoulder. The air filled with the sickening crack of shattering bone, followed by his agonized howls.
The man hadn’t seen a thing—just a gust of wind before an immense force crushed his shoulder. He heard his own bones splinter, but the pressure didn’t relent, grinding it toward pulp.
“Ji Wuxin.”
Song Qian couldn’t stomach the sight of his mangled shoulder and called out.
Ji Wuxin turned, a smile playing on her lips, but it faded under Song Qian’s warning glare.
“He tried to kill you.”
“You can’t kill him.”
Their eyes locked. Ji Wuxin broke first, her face icing over as she stalked to the side, ignoring everyone.
Song Qian let out a quiet breath of relief. She had been terrified Ji Wuxin might crush him in a fit of rage. She didn’t want her dragged into this mess’s karmic backlash—for killing a stranger on her account, who knew what retribution might follow.
The shaman who had been holding the formation in place from the rear had dissolved into a puff of smoke the moment they entered. Not even her real body.
Song Qian’s shoulder wound wasn’t deep, but it had bled profusely and needed disinfecting and bandaging.
“Lin Qing, you and the Special Investigation Group handle this guy. I’ll take my little disciple to the hospital.”
“Got it.”
In the hospital, Liu Changsheng regarded Song Qian’s pallid face with guilt. “I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself this time.”
The mere mention of Ming Wenjun always unraveled her control, leaving her open to exploitation.
Song Qian sat with only her undergarment on top, her back to Liu Changsheng, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“No apologies needed, Master.”
The doctor worked on disinfecting the wound nearby, the metal tray brimming with blood-soaked cotton balls.
Ji Wuxin watched with a stony expression. Every flicker of pain on Song Qian’s face drew a sharp command from her to go easier.
No matter how loudly she barked, the doctor couldn’t hear. In the end, Liu Changsheng had to relay the message.
Lin Qing picked them up on the way back in a car he’d borrowed from the local Special Investigation Group. Liu Changsheng sat in the passenger seat, while Song Qian and Ji Wuxin sat silently in the back.
Song Qian stared out the window, watching the roadside trees whip past in a blur. The cushion beside her dipped slightly, and she flicked her gaze over. Someone had settled in next to her.
“Does it hurt?”
Ji Wuxin gazed carefully at Song Qian’s still-pale face, her voice softening as if afraid of accidentally displeasing her again.
She might not truly understand the sensation of pain herself, but from Song Qian’s occasional furrowed brows and ragged breathing, she could tell her companion was deeply uncomfortable.
Song Qian closed her eyes, with no intention of responding.
Ji Wuxin’s eyes dimmed, her fingers fidgeting anxiously against the seat. She had no idea what she’d done wrong this time. She couldn’t even show concern for Song Sensen, nor could she discipline that man—whatever she did, it seemed to leave Song Sensen unhappy.
The car fell into a heavy silence. Up front, Liu Changsheng glanced at the pair in the rearview mirror. Ji Wuxin’s utterly dejected expression nearly made her laugh. This Jade Spirit was truly something—who had raised such a fool?
Lin Qing drove slowly and steadily, lulling Song Qian into drowsiness.
She dreamed once more.
This time, she found herself back in the 404 Rental Apartment, drifting hazily into her bedroom.
The room was dimly lit. Song Qian glanced down at herself; she wore her pajamas and bore no injuries.
Her gaze froze. There, on her bed, sat a woman—a woman dressed in the most scandalously revealing manner. She was draped in nothing but a sheer red veil. From behind, the elegant, alluring curve of her back was on full display. Facing her head-on would likely leave nothing to the imagination.
Song Qian’s mind flashed instantly to that woman called Jiao Niang from before. Gripping the doorframe, she felt a surge of tension.
What did she want this time?
“Song Sensen.”
The woman spoke Song Qian’s name and turned slowly.
Song Qian’s eyes widened gradually. Stunned for a couple of seconds, she suddenly threw up a hand to shield her gaze, her face flushing hot enough to steam.
“Ji Wuxin! What are you doing!?”
