Pushing open the paulownia-wood door, the heavy scent of sandalwood mixed with old timber pressed down like a weight.
The Yunding Teahouse occupied the third floor, built right along the cliffside. Afternoon light filtered through the paper windows, softening into a warm haze that fell across the roomful of expensive fabrics and jewelry, each piece silently appraising the others. Jiang Mian stepped inside in an off-white qipao, her hair loosely pinned up, exposing a stretch of snow-pale neck. She wore almost no jewelry today—only an old, plain silver ring on the pinky of her left hand.
All whispers stopped.
Like a flock of peacocks suddenly folding their tails, leaving only assessing gazes that brushed over her body as lightly as feathers. Shen Yanxin sat on the main low couch, her moon-white qipao embroidered with pale purple orchids. Seeing Jiang Mian enter, the curve of her lips lifted by neither too much nor too little.
“Sister Jiang Mian,” she said softly, her voice sweet enough to drip. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“If I agree to something, I show up,” Jiang Mian replied, walking over and seating herself on the cushion opposite her.
On the rosewood tea table, white porcelain cups held a clear amber brew. Tender tea buds stood upright in the liquid like a quiet forest beneath water.
【Profiler’s Eye Lv.2 — silently activated】
Fine annotations surfaced at the edge of her vision:
Pin-hole cameras. Directional microphones.
Jiang Mian lifted her teacup, fingertips feeling the warm, smooth porcelain. The first sip was lightly bitter, followed by a spreading sweetness.
“Today’s first elegant curiosity,” Shen Yanxin said, clapping her hands lightly, “I’d like Sister Jiang to help appraise it.”
An attendant brought over a rosewood tray covered in deep red velvet.
The velvet was lifted, revealing a white jade Guanyin reclining quietly within.
The jade was lustrous and translucent. Guanyin’s eyes were lowered, fingers pinching a lotus just about to bloom. Light fell upon the jade as if warmth itself flowed across its surface.
Soft murmurs of admiration rippled through the room.
Shen Yanxin smiled gently, but her gaze was sharp as a needle. “This Guanyin is quite special. Legend says it was carved from spirit jade nurtured by the mind of a high monk of the previous dynasty. To the kind-hearted, it feels warm to the touch; to those with impure hearts, cold.”
She paused, looking at Jiang Mian.
“Sister Jiang, why don’t you try?”
The air froze.
Every gaze locked onto Jiang Mian.
If the jade felt warm, Shen Yanxin would say, As expected, she’s kind-hearted—yet for a so-called ‘vicious supporting character’ to be praised as kind would itself be mockery.
If it felt cold, it would publicly brand Jiang Mian as “impure-hearted.”
Refuse, and it would look like guilt.
No way forward. No way back.
A flash of satisfaction crossed Shen Yanxin’s eyes. Behind her, Chen Yuan—Chen Manli’s niece—already covered her mouth in a quiet laugh.
Jiang Mian set down her teacup. Porcelain tapped rosewood with a crisp sound.
She didn’t stand. She merely leaned forward slightly, examining the Guanyin.
Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
Then she looked up, voice calm.
“Miss Shen, did this Guanyin come with an authentication certificate?”
“Of course.” Shen Yanxin pulled out a document from beneath the table and slid it over. “Christie’s spring auction certificate, jointly authenticated by three authorities. Confirmed as an authentic Ming dynasty Lu Zigang piece.”
Jiang Mian didn’t look at the certificate. Her gaze returned to the statue, stopping at Guanyin’s right sleeve cuff, where an extremely faint incised line almost blended into the folds.
“When Lu Zigang carved jade,” she said, her voice quiet but carrying through the room, “he had a little-known habit. On every piece, in the most inconspicuous place, he would carve the small-seal character ‘岡’ using you-si mao-diao—floating-silk hair carving. The lines are as fine as spider silk, yet unbroken in spirit, the blade moving like a dragon.”
She paused, her finger hovering near the cuff.
“This Guanyin does have a ‘岡’ here. But—”
She lifted her eyes to Shen Yanxin.
“Lu Zigang carved by hand, one stroke through, never broken. Yet the third stroke of this ‘岡’ cuts off halfway. When it resumes, there’s a 0.3-millimeter lateral shift in the blade line—exactly the kind of mark left when an electric carving tool changes bits.”
Her voice was steady.
“Tell me—where did electricity come from in the Ming dynasty?”
The curve of Shen Yanxin’s smile stiffened.
“And as for the jade’s ‘spiritual response,’” Jiang Mian continued, her words falling like beads, “you say it warms for the virtuous and chills for the impure. Coincidentally, I happen to know a material called thermochromic jade powder resin. At low temperatures it appears white; when warmed by body heat, it slowly changes color, creating a ‘warm luster.’ If part of it is pre-treated with a cooling agent, then upon contact it will feel ‘icy.’”
Her gaze flicked to the barely visible condensation at the tray’s edge.
“There’s probably a micro cooling plate hidden under this tray, isn’t there? Which hand did you want me to try, Miss Shen? Left hand on the warm zone, right hand on the cold one—so you can tell everyone that Jiang Mian is half-good, half-evil, her heart impossible to read?”
Shen Yanxin’s face drained of color inch by inch.
She clenched the hem of her qipao, knuckles whitening. Zhou Jian, the man in the gray suit, finally fixed his gaze fully on Jiang Mian—like someone examining a precision instrument that had suddenly begun making unexpected noise.
【High-Dimensional Live Stream · Viewers Online: 13,857】
【Melon-Eater No Seeds】: Holy sh*t, I’ve got goosebumps!
【Logic Cat Online】: Deducing electric tools from blade marks, cooling plates from condensation—this observation skill is insane.
【Did-the-Scumbag-Cremate-Today】: YES! White lotus Shen’s face is green!
【Observer-01】 tipped “Starfall Curtain” ×1, note: Breaking the deadlock like unraveling linked rings—brilliant.
Jiang Mian leaned back, lifted her teacup, and took another sip. As if she had merely commented on a tea pastry.
Silence filled the room.
Several older ladies exchanged glances, their looks toward Shen Yanxin now edged with scrutiny. Mrs. Lin, in a champagne-colored suit, set down her teacup.
“Yanxin… is this Guanyin really like that?”
Shen Yanxin’s lips trembled. “Aunt Lin, don’t listen to Sister Jiang joking… this really was bought from Christie’s…”
“Then it’s simple,” Jiang Mian said. “Every auction item has a unique number and high-definition detail archive. Let’s connect the projector and compare it on the spot—see whether the third stroke of that ‘岡’ in the catalog is broken or not.”
She looked at Shen Yanxin, her tone gentle.
“Or you could contact Christie’s right now and ask them to pull the file. With the Shen family’s influence, that shouldn’t be difficult.”
Shen Yanxin sat frozen, fingertips digging into her palm.
She couldn’t do it.
Because the Guanyin wasn’t from Christie’s at all.
“Seems Miss Shen isn’t available,” Jiang Mian smiled. “Then I’ll make another suggestion. Since this Guanyin is so ‘responsive,’ why don’t we all try it? Aunt Lin, would you like to go first?”
Mrs. Lin gave Shen Yanxin a long look and waved her hand. “No need. The tea’s gone cold—change the pot.”
A light, casual sentence—yet it was the equivalent of a public slap.
Shen Yanxin’s face turned deathly pale. She stared down at her teacup, fingers trembling.
Round one: total victory.
The tea party continued—tea whisking, flower arranging, incense appreciation—but the atmosphere had shifted. The ladies’ gazes toward Jiang Mian carried curiosity now, while those toward Shen Yanxin held faint amusement.
Jiang Mian excused herself to the restroom. Passing through the corridor, she noticed the third private room’s door was ajar. She pushed it open.
A study, walls lined with books. She went to the third shelf. Just as her fingers touched the dark blue Appreciation of Ming Dynasty Jade—
“Miss Jiang.”
A voice came from behind—low, steady, metallic.
Jiang Mian didn’t turn.
Footsteps stopped three paces behind her.
“Mr. Zhou,” she said.
Zhou Jian chuckled. “How did you recognize me?”
“Out of everyone here,” Jiang Mian turned to face him, “you’re the only one who leaves a finger-width gap between your spine and the chair back when you sit. That’s a habit of people who stay alert and ready to spring at any moment.”
A trace of admiration crossed Zhou Jian’s eyes. He walked behind the desk and sat down, pulling out a military-style metal cigarette case. He took one cigarette, held it between his lips, but didn’t light it.
“Smoking’s forbidden here,” Jiang Mian said.
“I know.” Zhou Jian spun the lighter in his fingers. “Just satisfying the craving.”
He set the cigarette on the table. “Miss Shen asked me to pass along a message. She’s young, acted without thinking today. She hopes you won’t take it to heart.”
Jiang Mian waited.
Zhou Jian leaned forward, elbows on the desk, forming a posture of pressure. “The Shen family has always admired your father’s research. It’s a pity fate cut him short… but letting those results be buried would be a loss to academia.”
He lowered his voice.
“Old Master Shen believes those materials are just keepsakes in your hands. Hand them to a professional institution to continue the research—that would be the best tribute to Professor Jiang. The Shen family can establish a special fund in his name. You’d serve as honorary consultant.”
Beautifully packaged terms.
Jiang Mian smiled—without warmth. “Mr. Zhou, does the Shen family really think I’d be moved by an empty check like this?”
Zhou Jian narrowed his eyes.
“My father’s things,” Jiang Mian said slowly, “how they’re handled is my business. The Shen family needn’t trouble themselves.”
Zhou Jian fell silent for a long while.
Then he leaned back, the pressure dissipating. A trace of weariness crossed his face as his fingers rubbed the edge of the cigarette case.
“Jiang Mingyuan’s daughter,” he said quietly. “Just like him—hard-boned.”
He took out a worn kraft-paper envelope from his inner pocket, unsealed.
“This is for you.”
Jiang Mian didn’t take it. “Conditions?”
“No conditions.” Zhou Jian slid it to the edge of the desk. “Consider it… a personal gesture.”
Jiang Mian studied him. There was something heavy in his eyes.
She picked up the envelope—thin, likely two or three sheets.
“The seventh book on the shelf,” Zhou Jian said as he walked to the door. “Inside is the ‘gift’ Miss Shen prepared for you. Keep it safe.”
Before leaving, he turned back.
“And one more thing—Fu Chenye… he’s deep-minded. Be careful.”
The door closed.
Jiang Mian pulled out Appreciation of Ming Dynasty Jade. The pages had been hollowed out, holding a flat metal case. Inside was a black memory card and a folded, yellowed note.
On the note, written in fountain pen, the ink blurred with age:
“Mianmian, the key is in the eye. Father.”
The key… in the eye?
Jiang Mian thought of the silver key Fu Chenye had given her, the eye engraved on its handle. And the plain silver ring on her pinky—left by the original owner’s mother, Song Yun—with a tiny eye engraved on the inside.
So… they were connected?
She slipped the memory card into the inner pocket of her handbag. Just as she zipped it closed, quick, deliberate footsteps sounded outside.
The door was pushed open.
Chen Yuan stood there, holding a royal-blue velvet jewelry box, its lid wide open—empty. Her face wore exaggerated panic.
“My brooch is gone! Van Cleef’s Midnight Butterfly! My aunt brought it back from Paris!”
She strode in, pointing straight at Jiang Mian.
“You were the only one not in the main hall just now! Jiang Mian—did you take it?!”
【Comments explode】
【Frontline Melon】: Again?! Framing addiction much?
【Logic Cat Online】: This套路 is ancient.
Jiang Mian waited for her to finish yelling before speaking calmly.
“You say the brooch is missing. When did you last see it?”
“Before the tea party! I put it in myself!”
“And after that? For over two hours, you never checked?”
“I—I forgot!”
“Forgot?” Jiang Mian raised an eyebrow. “A million-yuan, limited-edition brooch your aunt personally brought from Paris—you toss it in a bag and ignore it for two hours?”
She turned to the ladies at the door. “If it were you, would you be that careless?”
The ladies exchanged looks, suspicion rising. Mrs. Lin said coldly, “Miss Chen, that’s quite a big heart you have.”
Chen Yuan flushed red. Shen Yanxin stepped out from the crowd, wearing the perfect expression of concern.
“Yuanyuan, don’t accuse people recklessly. How could Sister Jiang—”
“How couldn’t she?” Chen Yuan snapped, emboldened. “She’s dared to hurt people—what’s stealing a brooch?”
The temperature plunged.
Jiang Mian looked at them—and suddenly smiled. She took out her phone, opened the recorder, and pressed play.
Clear dialogue poured out:
“Miss Shen asked me to pass along a message…”
“The Shen family has always admired Professor Jiang’s research…”
Zhou Jian’s voice.
Shen Yanxin’s face turned ghost-white. “You… recorded it?”
“Courtesy returned,” Jiang Mian said, pocketing her phone. “Miss Shen installed more than one camera in this room. Carrying a recorder seems fair.”
She looked at everyone.
“You’ve all heard it. The Shen family is very interested in my father’s belongings and has repeatedly tried to ‘safekeep’ them. Today’s tea party—from the fake jade Guanyin trap to the ‘lost’ brooch—was a play prepared specifically for me.”
An uproar broke out.
Shen Yanxin shook violently. “No… that recording is fake! Jiang Mian, you’re framing me!”
“Whether it’s fake can be determined by voiceprint analysis,” Jiang Mian replied calmly. “Or we can call the police and let them check how many things in this teahouse shouldn’t be here.”
She actually raised her phone to dial.
“Wait!” Shen Yanxin screamed, tears spilling over. She rushed forward, grabbing Jiang Mian’s hand. “Sister Jiang… I’m sorry, it was my fault… the brooch isn’t missing, Yuanyuan remembered wrong… I’ll apologize, publicly apologize…”
Jiang Mian withdrew her hand. “Miss Shen, apologies are for those willing to accept them.”
Shen Yanxin froze.
“However,” Jiang Mian continued, “since there are so many elders present today, I’ll give you two options.”
She raised two fingers.
“One: Chen Yuan publicly admits to false accusation, and you personally write a statement admitting today’s arrangements were all your doing. The original stays with me.”
“Two—” she paused. “I want a board seat in your Yanxin Art Foundation.”
Shen Yanxin’s eyes flew open. “Are you insane?! That’s impossible!”
“Then we call the police.”
The air stretched taut, ready to snap.
Three seconds. Five.
Shen Yanxin closed her eyes, took a deep breath. When she opened them again, only hollow defeat remained.
“…I… agree.”
Jiang Mian nodded.
“Wise.”
She didn’t look back. She walked through the silent crowd toward the end of the corridor. Her heels sank soundlessly into the thick carpet, but every step crushed the mask Shen Yanxin had maintained for over twenty years.
【Commentary frenzy】
【Did-the-Scumbag-Cremate-Today】: She won! A board seat!
【Observer-01】 tipped “Starfall Curtain” ×3, note: Brilliant break. Precise pricing. True chessmaster style.
Jiang Mian couldn’t see the comments, but the system vibrated.
System notification:
【User “Observer-01” tipped “Starfall Curtain” ×3. Points +1500. Note: Brilliant break. Precise pricing. True chessmaster style.】
Again, him.
The reward was unusually generous, the comment longer. Chessmaster style—a precise term.
Jiang Mian rubbed the edge of her phone, an unfamiliar feeling growing clearer. This Observer-01 seemed to be truly watching her—not for spectacle, but like watching a game unfold.
She remembered watching her father play chess as a child. He used to say: When you meet a worthy opponent, place your piece without regret.
If Observer-01 was truly a “spectator of the board,” then in his eyes—what was she? A piece? Or… a player?
The thought tightened her fingers.
She suppressed it. Now wasn’t the time.
The downhill path was a winding stone trail, bamboo shadows swaying, the mountain breeze turning cool.
At a pavilion halfway down, she stopped and took out the envelope Zhou Jian had given her. Inside was a single sheet—a photocopy of bank transfer records. The account name was blacked out, but the dates were clear: September to November 2010. Six overseas transfers in three months, each for 500,000 USD. Memo: Technical consulting fee.
The timing perfectly overlapped with the period before her father’s lab accident.
Jiang Mian looked at the paper, expression unreadable.
As a transmigrator, she didn’t share deep blood ties with Jiang Mingyuan and Song Yun. But having taken this body, with clues laid before her, uncovering the truth behind their deaths became a responsibility—like a detective taking on a cold case, driven not by emotion but by truth.
She folded the paper away and continued down.
Near the foot of the mountain, steady footsteps sounded behind her.
Fu Chenye emerged from another path, briefcase in hand, suit jacket draped over his arm, like he had just finished a business meeting and happened to pass by.
“Mr. Fu,” Jiang Mian nodded.
“The tea party was impressive,” Fu Chenye said as they walked side by side. “That board seat from the Shen family won’t be easy to hold. Careful—it’s hot.”
“I know.”
“Zhou Jian spoke to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he give you?”
Jiang Mian didn’t hide it. “Bank records. Autumn 2010.”
Fu Chenye slowed slightly, his expression darkening. “As expected… they reached that step too.”
“They?”
“The Shen family.” His voice lowered. “Six months before your father’s accident, Shen Huaishan’s people were already contacting him frequently. Buyouts, joint development—the offers grew richer and more urgent each time.”
He looked at her.
“Your father refused them all. At the last negotiation, Shen’s executives slammed the table. Less than two months later… the lab incident happened.”
Jiang Mian fell silent. Wind rushed through the bamboo grove.
“That transfer record,” Fu Chenye continued, “I have it too. Though the recipient account was layered with cover, I traced it. The funds eventually flowed to an overseas laboratory’s research grant. And that lab… has long-term cooperation with SkyEye Tech, a company Shen’s family has invested in.”
He stopped walking.
“Jiang Mian, this path is dangerous. You can still pull out. I can send you abroad—new identity, new life.”
Jiang Mian smiled, weary yet burning.
“Mr. Fu, from the moment I sat in that interrogation room, there was no way back.”
Fu Chenye looked at her for a long time, then sighed. He took out a thick document folder.
“Background files on everyone in your father’s lab—including those who ‘resigned’ under mysterious circumstances. One researcher, Li Wei, quit abruptly a week before the accident and emigrated with his family. I found that his son’s U.S. account received a huge unexplained transfer last year.”
Jiang Mian accepted the folder. Heavy.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No need.” Fu Chenye shook his head. “It’s what I should do.”
When the car entered the city, dusk had already fallen. Streetlights flickered on.
Jiang Mian leaned against the car window, watching the flowing lights outside. Her phone vibrated. She took it out.
It was Gu Xingye.
“I’m downstairs at your apartment. Let’s meet.”
She didn’t reply. A few minutes later, another message came in:
“I heard about what happened at the tea party today. Let’s talk.”
Jiang Mian stared at the line of text, turned off the screen, and said to Fu Chenye, “Mr. Fu, please stop at the convenience store ahead. I need to buy something.”
The car pulled over. Jiang Mian got out, went into the convenience store, and bought a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes. While paying, she glanced through the glass window to the other side of the street—Gu Xingye’s car was indeed parked downstairs at her apartment. He leaned against the car door, a pinpoint of red glowing between his fingers.
She paid, walked out, and stood for a moment under the convenience store’s awning.
The night wind blew over—cold.
“Girls shouldn’t be out alone.”
The voice came from nearby. Jiang Mian turned her head and saw Zhou Jian standing in the shadows at the corner of the store. He had changed into black casual clothes, a convenience-store plastic bag in hand, beer and boxed meals inside.
“Mr. Zhou.” Jiang Mian stubbed out the cigarette. “What a coincidence.”
“Not a coincidence.” Zhou Jian walked over and placed the plastic bag into the basket of a shared bicycle beside them. “I was waiting for you.”
Jiang Mian looked at him.
“Shen Yanxin went home and spiked a high fever. She’s still lying in the hospital,” Zhou Jian said, his tone emotionless. “Madam Gu called three times. Her words weren’t pleasant.”
“So?” Jiang Mian asked.
“So I came to find you.” Zhou Jian took something out of his pocket and handed it over. It was a very small silver USB drive, completely unmarked. “This is the ‘answer’ you wanted.”
Jiang Mian didn’t take it. “The conditions?”
“No conditions.” Zhou Jian pressed the USB drive into her hand. “Consider it… an investment.”
He paused, his voice dropping lower.
“The Shen family’s ship has already started leaking. Smart people should look for a lifeboat early.”
With that, he picked up the plastic bag, turned around, and disappeared into the night, quickly vanishing into the depths of the alley.
Jiang Mian stood there for a while, gripping the icy-cold USB drive in her palm, before crossing the street.
When Gu Xingye saw her, he straightened up and crushed out his cigarette.
They faced each other from a distance of three or four steps. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin.
“Jiang Mian,” he spoke first, his voice hoarse.
“Mhm.”
“About the tea party…” He rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry. Yanxin… she went too far.”
Jiang Mian said nothing.
Gu Xingye took a step forward. The streetlight fell across his face, illuminating the bloodshot whites of his eyes and the turmoil within them. “I checked the teahouse surveillance. Most of it was deleted, but I had people recover part of it. She set you up—more than once.”
He took a deep breath, as if making a difficult decision.
“And before that… Zhang Qiang’s case. The police have new progress. Zhang Qiang talked—he identified Yanxin as the one who instructed him to silence people. She’s still denying it, but…”
He stopped, looking at Jiang Mian, pain and struggle mingled in his gaze.
“Jiang Mian, these past ten-plus years… have I been wrong about you all along? And wrong about her, too?”
The night wind swept fallen leaves along the ground.
Jiang Mian looked at him for a long time. Then she spoke, her voice light but unmistakably clear:
“Gu Xingye, you don’t need to apologize to me. What you need to think through is what you actually want.”
She walked past him toward the apartment entrance.
“Jiang Mian!” he called from behind.
She stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“If…” Gu Xingye’s voice caught. “If I hadn’t believed her back then, hadn’t treated you that way… would we have—”
“No.”
Jiang Mian cut him off, her voice as calm as a frozen lake.
“There is no ‘if.’ Gu Xingye, between us, it ended long ago—back when you chose to believe her again and again, and again and again asked me to be ‘understanding,’ to ‘endure.’”
She pushed open the glass door and went inside. The sensor light turned on, then off again.
The elevator rose slowly.
Jiang Mian leaned against the elevator wall and closed her eyes. She was exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that seeped out from her bones.
Back in the apartment, she locked the door, drew all the curtains, turned on the desk lamp, and spread out everything she had obtained today across the desk.
She plugged Zhou Jian’s USB drive into the computer. Inside was only one folder, named “Iris Key.”
She opened it. Inside were scanned documents: fragments of her father’s handwritten lab journals, complex iris charts, and several encrypted communication records. The last file was a photograph.
In the photo, her father stood in a laboratory, holding a transparent cylindrical container. Inside, suspended in pale blue liquid, was an… eyeball.
A complete, living human eyeball.
Around the pupil was an extremely fine ring of golden markings.
On the back of the photo, in her father’s handwriting:
“Sample γ-7. Activity stable. Key carrier verification passed.”
Jiang Mian stared at the photo, her stomach tightening slightly.
The key is in the eye.
Was this what her father meant by “the key”? Was this γ-7 eyeball sample the real “Iris Key”?
She thought of the silver key Fu Chenye had given her, the tail ring, and the words “the key is in the eye.”
So… the silver key was merely for opening some container? And the true “key” was that eyeball?
Her phone suddenly vibrated.
An unfamiliar number. She answered. The other side said nothing—only heavy breathing. After a few seconds, the call hung up.
Almost simultaneously, a piercing screech of sudden braking came from downstairs, followed by chaotic footsteps.
Jiang Mian rushed to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain.
Three black SUVs blocked the entrance of the apartment building. Seven or eight people in black tactical gear and hoods jumped out, spreading out quickly. Two of them headed straight for the apartment entrance.
Her heartbeat spiked.
There was no time to think. She grabbed the USB drive, memory cards, and documents from the desk, stuffed them into her small bag, and rushed toward the door. Just as she pulled it open, a loud crash echoed from downstairs—the unit door being forced open.
Footsteps thundered up the stairwell, rapidly closing in.
Jiang Mian slammed the door shut and locked it, then sprinted to the balcony. It was an old building; outside the balcony was a rusted iron fire escape. She climbed over the railing and stepped onto the creaking metal plates, descending one level at a time.
When she reached the third floor, a violent crash sounded above—her apartment door had been broken open.
She sped up. Reaching the second-floor landing, she froze—the ladder ended there. The bottom two meters of the iron ladder had been removed, leaving only empty rust marks.
Below was hard concrete.
Above her, the pursuers had already reached the balcony.
Jiang Mian clenched her teeth, fixed her gaze on the protruding awning of the security window on the first floor, and leapt.
Bang!
Her body slammed onto the metal awning with a deafening sound. Sharp pain exploded in her left shoulder. She stifled a groan, rolled off, and hit the ground, twisting her ankle in the process.
Ignoring the pain, she got up and limped into the alley behind the building.
Footsteps followed close behind, drawing nearer.
The alley was dark and narrow, cluttered with debris. Relying on memory, Jiang Mian ran forward. Pain from her shoulder and ankle made her vision blur.
As she neared the alley exit, blinding headlights suddenly flared on ahead.
A black sedan was parked sideways, blocking the way completely.
It’s over.
Jiang Mian stopped, her back against the cold, damp brick wall, breathing hard. People in front, people behind—no escape.
The headlights went out. The driver’s door opened, and someone stepped out.
In the shadows, only a tall silhouette was visible.
He took two steps forward, entering the dim halo of the streetlamp at the alley entrance.
It was Zhou Jian.
He had changed into a black tactical jacket, the zipper pulled up to his chin. Car keys dangled from his hand. His expression was flat.
“Get in,” he said.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried unquestionable authority.
Jiang Mian looked at him, unmoving.
The pursuing footsteps had already reached the middle of the alley.
Zhou Jian wasted no words. He stepped forward, grabbed her wrist, and dragged her toward the back seat. He pulled open the door, practically shoved her inside, then got in after her and barked to the driver, “Go!”
The black sedan shot forward. Tires screeched against the ground as the alley vanished behind them.
The car sped through the night. Jiang Mian slumped against the seat, clutching her left shoulder, her face pale.
Zhou Jian took out a compact medical kit, handed her a bottle of water and a blister pack of painkillers. “Take one first.”
She didn’t take them. She stared at him. “Why help me?”
Zhou Jian didn’t look at her. He was checking his phone, the screen light reflecting off his impassive profile. “Shen Yanxin fainted from crying three times in the hospital. Madam Gu smashed up the study.” His voice was flat. “The old master of the Shen family lost his temper—said they’d embarrassed themselves into outer space.”
He put the phone away and looked at Jiang Mian.
“It was the Shen family’s second branch who made the move. That board seat of yours hit tens of millions in their annual cash flow. They panicked.”
Jiang Mian tightened her grip on her bag.
The car turned onto a quiet, tree-lined road and stopped in front of an unremarkable gray building. Zhou Jian got out and opened the door for her. “It’s safe here. Stay a few days.”
Jiang Mian got out of the car.
The building was quiet. Only one room at the end of the corridor was lit. A young doctor in a white coat waited there, examined her shoulder and ankle, applied medicine, and bandaged them.
“Soft tissue contusions. No bone damage. Rest for a few days—don’t strain it,” the doctor advised. He glanced at Zhou Jian and tactfully left.
Only the two of them remained.
Zhou Jian took a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to her, then leaned against the window. “Stay here tonight. I’ll arrange a new place for you tomorrow.”
“No need.” Jiang Mian shook her head. “I can handle it myself.”
Zhou Jian laughed softly, coldly. “Miss Jiang, do you know who those people were just now?”
Jiang Mian looked at him.
“People raised by SkyEye Tech—specialized in handling ‘technical disputes,’” Zhou Jian said, word by word. “When they take a job, they never leave survivors. If you’d fallen into their hands today, tomorrow there’d be an unidentified female corpse at the bottom of the city moat.”
Cold sweat broke out along Jiang Mian’s back.
“Does Fu Chenye know about this?” she asked suddenly.
Zhou Jian’s gaze deepened. “He knows more than I do. But he won’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because some truths—the less you know, the longer you live.” Zhou Jian walked up to her and leaned down, both hands braced on the armrests of the chair, forming a posture of pressure. “Jiang Mian, what your father left behind is a Pandora’s box. Once opened, no one knows what will come out.”
His voice dropped even lower.
“The Shen family wants it. SkyEye Tech wants it. And even… people at a higher level are watching. You alone can’t bear it.”
Jiang Mian lifted her head and met his eyes.
“So what? I hand everything over? Or, like Fu Chenye said, run overseas and pretend nothing ever happened?”
“My father is dead. My mother is dead too.” Her voice was steady, pure statement of fact. “They died without truth or justice. Fourteen years—no one ever gave them an explanation. Now the clues are right in front of me, and you want me to let go? To run?”
She took a deep breath.
“Zhou Jian, some things in this world can’t be avoided just by hiding. Some debts must be collected.”
Zhou Jian looked at her for a long time.
Then he straightened, the oppressive presence dissipating. He walked to the door, hand on the knob, without turning back.
“Second floor, first room on the left. It’s been prepared for you. Rest early.”
The door closed softly.
Jiang Mian sat there for a long time without moving. Waves of pain pulsed through her left shoulder.
She took out her phone. The screen lit up—several unread messages.
Fu Chenye: “I heard something happened at your apartment. Do you need help?”
Gu Xingye: “Jiang Mian, where are you? I heard people went to your apartment. Are you okay?”
And one system notification:
[User “Observer-01” tipped “Shield” ×1, Points +300. Note: Danger approaching. Stay safe.]
Jiang Mian stared at the message, her fingertip hovering over the screen.
“Danger approaching, stay safe”—was this sent before she was in danger, or while she was jumping out the window to escape?
The possibility sent a chill down her spine—but strangely, it wasn’t fear. It was something complex and indescribable—like walking alone at night and suddenly realizing someone in the darkness has lit a lamp for you. You don’t know who lit it, but the light is real, and so is the warmth.
She thought of the silver key her father left behind, the eye engraved inside the ring, and the words “the key is in the eye.”
Now there was another pair of “eyes”—Observer-01’s eyes. Watching her, across an unknown distance of space and time.
Jiang Mian turned off her phone and clenched the plain silver ring. Cool metal seeped into her skin.
Who exactly was this Observer-01?
Why keep watching her?
And those precise messages and tips that always appeared at critical moments—what did they really mean?
The questions spun into a fine web in her mind. She had no answers, but for the first time, she began to seriously consider the existence of this message sender.
Maybe, once the immediate trouble passed, she should find a way to… speak to Observer-01.
Even if it was just to ask one question:
Who are you?
She walked to the window. Outside, the night was deep, the distant city lights like a fallen river of stars.
And she knew that today’s tea party—that seemingly elegant victory—had only torn open a corner of the curtain on the war.
The real storm was gathering quietly, somewhere unseen.
[High-Dimensional Observation Space]
On the screen before Pei Yuyan, Jiang Mian stood by the window, her profile pale and weary in the dim lamplight. Her shoulder was bandaged, yet her eyes burned with startling brightness.
In the corner of the screen, the data representing world stability jumped:
71.3% → 68.9% → 65.4%.
It had already dropped below the safety threshold.
According to protocol, he should submit an anomaly report and initiate the correction procedure.
His fingers hovered over the red Forced Intervention button.
On-screen, Jiang Mian suddenly turned, walked to the desk, picked up the plain silver tail ring, and examined it carefully under the light. Her gaze was focused, stubborn.
Then Pei Yuyan saw her pick up her phone and stare at the message he had just sent for a long time.
Her fingertip paused on the screen. Her brow furrowed slightly—not fear, but inquiry.
She was thinking about him.
That realization made Pei Yuyan’s fingers freeze in midair for 0.3 seconds.
He pulled up the operation log and found the record from three days earlier, when he had injected 200 points of energy. In the reason field, he had written at the time:
“Sample behavior shows anomalous mutation. Temporarily suspend handling. Continue observation.”
Now, the mutation was even more pronounced.
Should he correct it?
Restore everything to the “original story” track—turn her back into that crying, manipulable, vicious supporting character, let her play a pitiful footnote in Gu Xingye and Shen Yanxin’s love story, and then die quietly?
Pei Yuyan looked at the woman on the screen.
She was bent over a notebook, writing something, brows knit, occasionally biting the end of her pen—a habitual gesture Jiang Huaying made when thinking.
A soul from another world, trapped in a body destined for tragedy, yet like wild grass, pushing out new shoots again and again from the cracks of despair.
Suddenly, he didn’t want her to “return to the proper track.”
He wanted to see how far this different Jiang Mian—this calm, stubborn woman struggling to stay lucid in a swamp of lies and schemes—could go.
How many predetermined fates she could overturn.
How many destined endings she could change.
Pei Yuyan withdrew his hand and closed the forced intervention interface.
He opened another panel—the observer’s private resource library. Inside were non-official auxiliary tools used for “special observation samples.”
He selected one:
“Localized Time Flow Adjustment (Micro).”
Effect: Within a very small spatial range, slow time flow to 0.5× normal speed for 10 seconds. Cooldown: 24 hours.
Cost: Consume 50 units of observer’s personal energy reserve.
He dragged the option, overlaying it onto the area of the screen where Jiang Mian’s room was located.
Confirm.
Energy was allocated. The command took effect.
On the screen, Jiang Mian’s writing seemed to slow slightly; the trajectory of falling leaves outside the window stretched longer. Of course, the change was so subtle that she herself couldn’t possibly notice.
But it was enough.
Those 10 seconds of “slowed time” would give her an extra 5 seconds of reaction time if danger suddenly struck.
After finishing, Pei Yuyan leaned back into his chair.
Before him, tens of thousands of light screens still flickered, but he turned them all off—
Leaving only the one at the center.
The glow illuminated his sharply defined face and his pale gray eyes, thinly iced over.
He watched the woman under the dim light, enduring pain, biting her pen, patiently sorting through clues in her notebook.
Then he opened the message interface. His fingers hovered over the virtual keyboard for a moment.
He first typed “Get some rest,” then deleted it. Then “Be careful,” and found it unsuitable.
In the end, he entered three words and pressed send:
“Watching.”
No subject. No object. Just a statement of fact.
He wanted to see if she would understand.
Like a watcher of the long night, who, in endless darkness, for the first time stopped walking—for a star that refused to go out.
He wanted to see how long that star could shine.