Xiè Tíngyuān’s palm faced upward, and the thin red thread was crawling from his wrist to his forearm, as if something was slowly moving under his skin. He didn't move, his breathing suppressed, cold sweat beading on his forehead, his temples throbbing, his ears filled with the sound of water, as if the entire river was pouring into his head.
Cen Wan stared at his hand, then looked up at his face. His complexion was sallow, his lips pale, and a grayish haze clouded his eyes.
“Can you still hold on?” she asked.
Xiè Tíngyuān didn’t answer. He simply raised his left hand, his knuckles taut, his fingernails digging into his palm. Drops of blood slid down from the web of his hand, splattering dark red onto the ground.
Just then, the shadow on the wall flickered.
It wasn’t him who moved, but the shadow itself—its toes shifted forward half an inch, its head turned fifteen degrees, its neck elongated, like a puppet manipulated by invisible strings.
Cen Wan took half a step back, her right hand already reaching for the silver needle pouch at her waist.
Xiè Tíngyuān let out a muffled groan from his throat, his entire body swayed, his knees bent slightly, but he forced himself to stay upright. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed out a few words: “System… is warning me… the physical body can't handle the fate-defying intuition.”
Before he finished speaking, the shadow suddenly detached from the ground, transforming into a cloud of black mist that surged upwards, directly towards Cen Wan’s throat!
She flicked her wrist and threw the hemp rope. The rope passed through the black mist, landing silently. Then she drew her fire axe and blocked horizontally. The axe blade struck the shadow’s shoulder, but it was like chopping into a swamp, with no resistance.The shadow’s ghost claw was only three inches from her neck. Its fingertips condensed into sharp, black spikes.
In a moment of extreme peril, Cen Wan slapped the badge on her chest with her left hand and grabbed Xiè Tíngyuān’s collar with her right, slamming the badge onto his chest!
A golden light exploded.
A shrill scream tore through the air, like rust scraping against glass, painfully piercing eardrums. The mass of black mist contorted violently, instantly shrinking back to Xiè Tíngyuān’s feet, rejoining the shadow’s outline, and becoming motionless.
Xiè Tíngyuān collapsed to the ground, spitting out a mouthful of black blood that splashed onto the broken glass, sizzling and emitting white smoke.
Cen Wan knelt on one knee, supporting his shoulder. She found his body temperature had plummeted, his skin as cold as ice. She reached to check his breathing; it was faint.
“Are you conscious?” she asked in a low voice.
Xiè Tíngyuān’s eyelids fluttered. His right hand still clenched his left arm tightly, his knuckles white. He made a hoarse sound in his throat: “I… won’t live much longer.”
Cen Wan didn’t release her grip, her gaze falling on the badge on his chest. The golden light had faded, but a faint trace of light remained around the edge of the badge, slowly dissipating. She suddenly remembered—the last time she broke a formation at the old middle school, this badge had also lit up. She had thought it was a coincidence then.
Now, it seemed it wasn’t.
She looked down at the black blood he had vomited, quickly tore off the lining of her jacket, used the cloth strips to collect samples, and put them into a sealed bag. The blood was black, viscous, and had a layer of grayish-white flocculent matter floating on the surface, like burnt bone ash mixed with oil.
“You’ve been drinking that medicine for ten years,” she said. “It wasn’t to help you ‘retain your soul,’ it was to transform your body into a channel. Now, the thing from the bottom of the well is beginning to manifest through you.”
Xiè Tíngyuān took a breath, his voice intermittent: “So… the shadow kills people?”
“Not others,” Cen Wan stared at him. “It’s your own shadow, trying to kill you so something else can take over.”
As soon as she spoke, the lights in the funeral home corridor flickered. The fluorescent tubes overhead crackled and went out one by one. The surveillance cameras in their room turned one after another, their lenses glowing dark red as if soaked in blood.
*Beep.*
A soft sound echoed in Xiè Tíngyuān’s mind.
The system interface appeared: [Remaining survival time: 01:59:58]
The numbers ticked down once every second, the sound clear in his mind, like the pendulum of a ticking clock.
Cen Wan heard it. She didn’t know what the system was, but she recognized the oppressive force—this wasn’t a warning, it was a verdict.
“We need to go,” she said, forcefully helping Xiè Tíngyuān up. “It’s not safe here.”
Xiè Tíngyuān leaned on her shoulder, his steps unsteady, each one like walking on knife-edges. The red thread on his left arm had reached his elbow, and a living creature seemed to be lurking and moving beneath his skin.
Passing a filing cabinet, he suddenly stopped.
“Wait a moment,” he panted. “My father… when he was recovered, he was clutching something.”
Cen Wan paused. “What?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.” He closed his eyes. “It was a copper piece, with half a rune inscribed on it. I thought it was a river stone, so I threw it away.”
Cen Wan stared at him. “What did the rune look like?”
Xiè Tíngyuān raised his right hand and slowly drew three broken lines in the air, forming a triangle: “Like… the pattern on a manhole cover.”
Cen Wan’s pupils constricted.
She had seen similar etchings on the Grave Mound behind the hospital, buried under a stone slab at the entrance of an ancient tomb. At the time, she thought it was a remnant of a feng shui formation. Now she realized it was part of a formation—the other half of a vein-guiding array eye.
She didn’t say anything more, just supported him as they continued.
At the end of the corridor was a side door leading to the back alley. The fog outside had not yet dispersed, and the streetlights cast a dim, yellow glow, making the ground appear wet. Uncle Chen’s copper bells should have rung at three in the morning, but it was just past midnight. It was too quiet.
Cen Wan, supporting him with one hand and pressing the badge with the other, scanned their surroundings vigilantly. The red lights of the cameras continued to flicker, accelerating, like some kind of synchronized signal.
Xiè Tíngyuān suddenly grunted, his body sinking.
“What’s wrong?”
“My head… feels like it’s splitting,” he gritted his teeth. “The system… is pushing me back.”
“Back? Back where?”
“To the morgue.” He looked up with difficulty. “Coffin number three… it wants me to touch that coffin.”
Cen Wan frowned. That yin coffin had been sealed long ago and could not be opened according to regulations. But if the system enforced the task, he would lose control.
She quickened her pace. “No. Going there now would be suicide.”
Xiè Tíngyuān didn’t speak, but his steps began to slow, as if two forces within him were pulling him apart. His right hand suddenly released his left arm and grabbed Cen Wan’s wrist instead.
“Listen,” he said, his voice extremely low. “If I… suddenly attack you, don’t hesitate. Use the silver needles to seal my Shānzhōng, Shéntíng, and Fēngfǔ acupoints. It’ll hold me for three seconds.”
Cen Wan looked at him. “You don’t have much time left while you’re lucid.”
“I know,” he managed a wry smile. “That’s why I’m telling you now.”
The two finally reached the side door. Cen Wan swiped her access card, the green light illuminated, and the bolt sprang open. A cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of decaying leaves and soil.
She helped Xiè Tíngyuān step over the threshold.
The moment their feet touched the ground, Xiè Tíngyuān suddenly turned his head.
His shadow detached from his body again, slithering rapidly across the ground and darting through the crack of the archive room door, disappearing.
“It doesn’t want to leave,” Cen Wan said in a low voice.
Xiè Tíngyuān leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. “It recognizes that place. My father… died there.”
Cen Wan didn’t say anything further, just guided him towards the mouth of the alley. Fifty meters ahead was her car, a black SUV with tinted windows. Once inside, they would immediately drive to the safe house.
Xiè Tíngyuān stumbled, and suddenly murmured, “You said… you have the scent of a guardian on you.”
Cen Wan froze. “How do you know that word?”
“The system,” he coughed. “When I failed a mission once, before the punishment descended, a line flashed—‘Guardian bloodline, inviolable’.”
Cen Wan’s heart shuddered.
She had never revealed her true identity to anyone. Even the head of the detective agency only knew her as a “cleaner”; no one knew she came from a guardian family wiped out three hundred years ago.
But the system knew.
And it feared her.
She tightened her grip on the badge, suddenly realizing something—this seemingly ordinary metal plate might not have been issued by the detective agency at all. It might be a relic she took from the Spiritual Management Bureau’s top-secret archives when she faked her death back then.
At the time, she thought it was just a souvenir.
Now, it had saved Xiè Tíngyuān’s life.
The wind was stronger at the alley entrance. The wail of a distant ambulance grew closer, then quickly faded, as if an illusion.
Xiè Tíngyuān leaned on her shoulder, his body temperature still dropping.
“Hold on,” she said. “We’ll call for emergency services once we’re in the car.”
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “A regular hospital… can’t treat this.”
“Then we go to the underground clinic.”
“It’s too late.” He raised his hand, pointing to the top floor of the main funeral home building. “See… the third-floor window.”
Cen Wan followed his finger. Behind the only window without curtains on the third floor, in the morgue, stood a figure. Wearing a white undertaker's coat, silhouetted against the moonlight, tall and slender.
The person slowly raised a hand, making a “please” gesture.
It wasn’t Xiè Tíngyuān.
It was another “him.”
Cen Wan fiercely tightened her grip on his arm. “Who is that?”
Xiè Tíngyuān closed his eyes, his voice barely audible. “It’s my shadow… it’s already learned… to wear clothes.”