Zhou Jian’s safe house was in the northern part of the city, tucked inside an old residential neighborhood—so quiet it felt like a forgotten corner the city had left behind.
Jiang Mian stayed there for three days.
The injuries to her shoulder and ankle weren’t serious. The young doctor was skilled; after applying medication and wrapping bandages, the pain dulled into a constant, muted ache—just enough to remind her that what happened that night hadn’t been a dream.
During the day, she organized the materials her father had left behind. The files on the USB drive, the photos on the memory card, the bank transaction records Zhou Jian had given her, and the thick document envelope from Fu Cheny i—she spread everything across the table, like trying to piece together a puzzle missing its most crucial fragment.
At night, she kept rereading that system notification.
【User “Observer-01” left a message: “Watching.”】
Three words. No punctuation.
She stared at the line of text, trying to imagine the person on the other side of the screen. A man or a woman? Young or old? Why were they “watching” her? And how?
For the first time, she felt an intense curiosity toward this unseen “observer”—even stronger than her vigilance toward the Shen family’s schemes. An enemy’s malice was clear and concrete, but this distant, calm gaze felt different. It was like the only light in a vast, midnight wilderness: you didn’t know where it came from, but its existence alone was a strange kind of comfort.
She had once tried speaking into the empty air, asking, “Who are you?”
Naturally, there was no response.
The system interface was crude, like something from the last century—only a one-way flow of information.
On the afternoon of the third day, Zhou Jian arrived, carrying a bag of fresh clothes and daily necessities.
“The Shen family has gone quiet for now,” he said, setting the bag by the door. “Gu Xingye is investigating what happened that night. He had a big fight with his mother. You can go back.”
He paused, watching her remove the bandage from her shoulder, her movements still a little stiff.
“Need a ride?”
“No,” Jiang Mian replied. “I can manage.”
And she did go back on her own.
At dusk, the sunset dyed the street a warm gold, like an ordinary moment of returning home. There were no suspicious cars downstairs, no unusual sounds in the stairwell. She unlocked the door, locked it again, and checked every corner—no signs of intrusion, only dust floating in the sunlight.
She took a hot shower and changed back into her own clothes. Under the hot water, her injured left shoulder flared with fresh pain, but it was mostly a release. Standing in the steamy bathroom, she looked at her reflection—still a little pale.
She hadn’t been in this world long, but the chessboard was already laid out.
Her phone rang. It was Fu Cheny i.
She answered, listened to him say, “Tomorrow afternoon, Yunding Teahouse,” and hung up.
She stood in the dark living room, night seeping in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. That sentence—Tomorrow afternoon, Yunding Teahouse—still echoed in her ears, the low trailing tone sounding like an unspoken warning.
Her phone screen lit up in the darkness—not a call, but a system vibration. A translucent prompt floated before her eyes:
【Points Balance: 3471】
【New message: Observer-01: The night is deep. Remember to lock your door.】
Jiang Mian’s fingers paused.
This wasn’t the first time. Since the night of the tea party, Observer-01’s messages always appeared at critical moments—reminding her to rest when she was exhausted, warning her to be careful when she was on guard. No extra words, just one or two lines each time, like a cup of warm water passed through an invisible curtain.
She had never replied, because she didn’t know how. The system had no input box—only permission to receive messages.
This time, though, she spoke softly to the air:
“Who are you?”
No response.
Only passing headlights outside, casting a drifting streak of light across the ceiling.
She placed the keys and the pinky ring side by side on the coffee table, then turned back to the bathroom. As the hot water poured down, she closed her eyes, letting the spray pound against her shoulder blades. This body was too slender; the neck and shoulders tensed easily, aching after only a little sitting. But her own memories were still there—the muscle memory of police academy training, carrying logs on three-kilometer runs; the sharp nerves that stayed alert through nights of interrogation without sleep.
The two sets of memories slowly merged under the hot water.
While drying her hair, her phone vibrated again. This time, it was Gu Xingye.
She watched his name jump on the screen, waiting until the eighth ring before answering.
“Hello.”
“Jiang Mian.” His voice came through the line, with wind in the background and a faint trace of tobacco. “I’m downstairs.”
She walked to the window and lifted the curtain a little.
In the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlight, a black Bentley sat silently. Gu Xingye leaned against the car, his white shirt collar loose, suit jacket draped over his arm. A red ember flickered between his fingers—a rare display of fatigue he seldom showed in public.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice flat.
“Come down for a bit.” He paused. “Or I can come up.”
Jiang Mian hung up.
Five minutes later, she pushed open the building door and stopped on the third step. The night wind rushed past her from behind, lifting her half-dried hair. Her smoke-gray loungewear glowed softly under the streetlight—completely at odds with the look in her eyes.
Gu Xingye stubbed out his cigarette, the movement slow, almost cinematic. The butt traced an arc through the air and landed precisely in a trash bin three meters away. Then he turned and retrieved a dark blue velvet box from the car.
“For you,” he said, holding it out.
Jiang Mian didn’t take it. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
The box felt heavy in her hand. She lifted the lid; the hinge made a faint click.
Inside lay a bronze key.
Its design was ancient, the handle carved with intricate cloud patterns, a small seal-script character “Gu” engraved at the center. Dark patina filled the grooves, polished smooth by time, glowing gently under the streetlight.
“The key to the Gu family ancestral residence’s library,” Gu Xingye said, his voice unusually clear in the night wind. “Back then… your father had some old ties with my father. After your parents’ accident and when you were taken into the Gu family, my father kept some of your father’s manuscripts and belongings.”
Her heart sank slightly.
Her expression didn’t change. “So now it’s time to return them?”
“Yes.” He looked at her, moonlight catching the bloodshot veins in his eyes. “The old residence is empty now—just an elderly caretaker. I’ve spoken to him. You can go anytime.”
“And the conditions?” she asked.
“There are none.”
Jiang Mian laughed—soft, but edged with ice.
“Young Master Gu, we’ve known each other for fourteen years. Every ‘no-strings-attached’ thing you’ve given me over those fourteen years ended with me paying it back double.”
Gu Xingye fell silent.
The night wind stirred fallen leaves, their rustling filling the gap between them.
“I know,” he finally said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper. “I know words mean nothing now. I’m not asking you to trust me, and I’m not asking for forgiveness. This key… take it as the Gu family repaying a bit of old debt to your father.”
He paused, as if steeling himself.
“Jiang Mian, there are things I’ve only started to understand recently. Like why my mother was so guarded against you when you first entered the Gu family. Why my father, before he died, kept telling me to ‘take good care of Jiang Mian.’ And why, the moment Shen Yanxin appeared, my mother rushed to push us together…”
He lifted his head, his gaze pinning her in place.
“I’m not stupid. The day you secured that board seat at the tea party, the Shen family’s second branch went to see my mother that very afternoon. I don’t know what they talked about, but that night she smashed her favorite tea set in the study.”
Jiang Mian listened quietly, her fingers tracing the velvet texture of the box.
“This key,” Gu Xingye continued, “I found it this afternoon in a hidden compartment in my mother’s study. Tucked inside the cover of a Bible. She hid it for fourteen years.”
He stepped forward onto the first stair.
The distance shrank to less than a meter.
Jiang Mian could smell a faint scent of disinfectant on him, mixed with tobacco—and convenience-store rice balls. The smell was like a rusty key turning in an old lock, prying open a dusty drawer of memories—
Years ago, when he was fourteen, he would sometimes sneak out and buy two rice balls from the small convenience store behind the school. Then he’d lean in the shadows of the bike shed and give one to her.
One of the few moments in the original owner’s memories that could be called “warm.”
“Jiang Mian,” Gu Xingye’s voice pulled her back to the present. “I know I have no right to say this now. But I still want to tell you—be careful of my mother. After she came back from the tea party today, she wrecked half the living room. She won’t let this go.”
Jiang Mian looked up at him. “When has she ever let me go?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. In the end, he said nothing—just opened the car door. His movement paused for half a second.
“I’ve sent you the address of the old residence. When you go… avoid Tuesdays and Thursdays. The caretaker’s off on those days.”
The door closed. The red taillights shrank to a point at the end of the street, then vanished.
Jiang Mian stood there, holding the velvet box, unmoving for a long time.
The bronze key was cold against her fingers.
【High-Dimensional Live Room Online Viewers: 18,922】
【“Has the scumbag been cremated today?”】: “Gu dog delivering warmth at midnight? Feels like a weasel paying respects to a chicken.”
【“Push-and-pull squad”】: “He sounds so tired though… like he’s genuinely struggling.”
【“Logic Cat online”】: “The key is real, the old residence is real. But that ‘old debt’ talk… needs verification.”
【“Melon-eating no-spit”】: “Place your bets! Is this key a trap or sincerity?”
【Observer-01】 tipped “Starry Sky Rain Curtain” ×1, with a note:
“A midnight gift of a key—new moves on the board. But be careful: gifts are sometimes fishhooks.”
Jiang Mian frowned slightly at the last golden message.
A fishhook.
She returned to the apartment and placed the bronze key, the silver key, and the pinky ring side by side on the desk. Three objects, three materials—yet they all shared one thing in common: an eye motif.
She turned on the computer and searched Gu family ancestral residence.
Several old photos popped up: a red-brick villa, ivy covering half its exterior walls, two tall plane trees at the gate. The address was in the western Wutong District, an old villa area built in the 1920s.
She checked the time—9:40 p.m.
Too late to go now. There was a foundation board meeting tomorrow morning.
She locked the three items in a drawer. Then she opened her phone and looked at the address Gu Xingye had sent. There was an extra message attached:
“The caretaker’s surname is Zhao—hard of hearing, but a good man. Just tell him I sent you. Also, there’s an apartment in Lanting Garden under my name. If you need a place to stay, you can go anytime. The key’s with property management.”
Jiang Mian read it and deleted the message.
She didn’t need Gu Xingye’s apartment, or his guilt.
But she needed what was in that library.
Her father’s manuscripts. Her mother’s belongings. These might be the only tangible clues she could grasp in this world. As a transmigrator, she didn’t share blood-bound affection with Jiang Mingyuan and Song Yun—but since she was using this body, and since the clues were right in front of her, uncovering the truth had become a kind of contractual obligation.
Like a cold case taken over by a detective—no personal feelings, just the need for the truth to surface.
The system vibrated again.
[New Mission Released: Go to the Gu Family Old Residence to Obtain Key Clues]
[Reward: 500 points, 1 skill upgrade opportunity]
[Danger Level: Medium]
[Suggestion: Bring self-defense tools]
Jiang Mian closed the prompt, took a can of pepper spray from the drawer, and tucked it into the compartment of her handbag.
Then she opened her wardrobe and began selecting clothes for tomorrow’s board meeting.
[Live chat keeps scrolling]
[Newbie]: “The streamer’s going to the old residence! Excited! Will there be a secret room puzzle?”
[Ancient Art Collector]: “The patina on that bronze key looks genuine—at least fifty years old.”
[I’m the Prophet]: “I bet fifty cents, there’s definitely a trap in that old house!”
[Observer-01]: “Pay attention to the mirror at the end of the hallway.”
Jiang Mian paused mid-selection of shirts.
Mirror?
She filed that detail carefully in her mind.
Wednesday, 10:00 AM — Monthly Board Meeting of the Yanxin Art Foundation.
The conference room was on the 27th floor of the Shen Group Building, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls on all sides. Outside, the city skyline was gray and hazy. Jiang Mian arrived ten minutes early, but was the last to take a seat.
The main chair at the head of the table was empty—reserved for Shen Yanxin. Five other members were already seated. All eyes turned to her as she entered—a mix of scrutiny, measurement, and the collective silence of insiders observing an intruder.
“Director Jiang, welcome.” The man seated to the left of the head of the table rose. He appeared around fifty, and his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses were as sharp as an accountant’s. “I’m Li Weian, Secretary-General of the Foundation.”
He introduced each member in turn.
With each introduction, the person nodded slightly, smiling in a way that looked lifted from the same etiquette manual. But the eyes were uniform: distant, detached.
Jiang Mian took the seat at the far end of the long table.
The chair was three centimeters lower than the others, with a slightly harder seat. She showed no sign of discomfort, only adjusting her posture and straightening her back.
“Chairwoman Shen has an urgent matter today, so I’ll preside over the meeting,” Li Weian said, adjusting his glasses. “First, we welcome Director Jiang to the board.”
Applause trickled out like the last cicadas of autumn.
[Profile Viewer Lv.2 Activated]
Faint golden annotations appeared at the edge of her vision:
Jiang Mian absorbed these details, her face carrying a polite smile.
“Today, we will discuss two topics,” Li Weian said, projecting onto the screen. “First, preparations for the year-end charity gala; second, next year’s key project—the ‘Young Artists Support Program’ evaluation.”
He looked at Jiang Mian, smile deepening:
“Director Jiang is new and may not be familiar with Foundation operations. Let’s start with the basics—planning the guest list and sending invitations for the year-end gala, which I’ll assign to you. How does that sound?”
The room’s air subtly froze for a moment.
Director Wang sipped her bone china cup, holding it at her lips 0.5 seconds longer than normal. Director Chen adjusted his cuffs, silk brushing faintly against itself.
Jiang Mian instantly read the trap behind this “simple task.”
Drafting the guest list—balancing relationships; one slip could offend someone. Sending invitations—call by call; purely laborious, easy to make mistakes. Mistakes = her responsibility.
[Live viewers: 19,450]
[Workplace Survival Handbook]: “Classic rookie test! Throw the tedious, blame-prone work to the newcomer!”
[Gossip Channel]: “I can smell the tea through the screen from Li’s smile.”
[Logic Cat Online]: “Watch Director Wang and Chen’s microexpressions—they’re observing.”
[Observer-01] tipped “Calm Aura” ×1 with the note: “Testing the waters, stabilize your stance.”
Jiang Mian smiled: “Sure. But I’m not familiar with the art circle network, so I might need previous years’ guest lists for reference.”
“Of course.” Li Weian handed over a three-centimeter-thick folder. “Here’s the past five years’ guest records. But this year is special—some guests may require… adjustments.”
He paused, his smile carrying a subtle undertone:
“For example, Mr. Fu Chenyu, usually a VIP guest. Director Jiang, do you think we should still invite him this year?”
A loaded question.
Fu Chenyu was a commercial rival of the Gu family and had a delicate relationship with the Shen family. Inviting him = slap in the face to Shen Yanxin; not inviting him = shows the Foundation is petty.
All eyes fixed on Jiang Mian again.
She opened the folder, fingers tracing the pages slowly. The room was so quiet she could hear the faint airflow from the central AC vent.
Thirty seconds later, she looked up:
“Mr. Fu is a major domestic art sponsor, ranking third in donations to the Foundation last year. Not inviting him would be improper, both ethically and strategically.”
“But…” Li Weian looked troubled, “Chairwoman Shen might have opinions…”
“Since she assigned this task to me,” Jiang Mian closed the folder, “she should trust my professional judgment. If every decision needs approval, this board seat might as well come with a remote control.”
Her words cut through the pretense like a scalpel.
Li Weian’s face shifted slightly but was quickly masked with a deeper smile: “Director Jiang misunderstood, that’s not what I meant…”
“Good,” Jiang Mian placed the folder before her. “I’ll draft the guest list for your review tomorrow. As for sending invitations—this is Foundation work; the board shouldn’t do it personally. Secretary-General Li, perhaps your office can coordinate?”
She turned to the other directors:
“What do you all think? Should the board divide responsibilities?”
Director Wang—the one who owned three galleries in the capital—was the first to put down her teacup:
“Director Jiang is right. Sending invitations should be the office’s duty. Why should board members call individually?”
Some quietly agreed.
Li Weian’s forehead glistened with sweat: “Yes, yes, I’ll arrange it properly.”
First round, Jiang Mian avoided the trap.
[Live chat exploded]
[Workplace Survival Handbook]: “Nice counterattack! She kicked the ball back!”
[Secretary Office Worker]: “I know this type too well—always pick on newbies!”
[Logic Cat Online]: “Watch Director Wang’s microexpression; she’s starting to take interest.”
[Observer-01] tipped “Calm Aura” ×1: “First round won by measuring carefully. The real test is ahead.”
Jiang Mian read the last comment, her fingers subtly clenched under the table.
Li Weian adjusted his breathing, red laser dot on the projection screen: “Young Artists Support Program—annual evaluation.”
“This is the Foundation’s key project this year, total budget five million,” he said. “We must select five out of 147 applicants, each receiving one million.”
Voting rules: seven board members, each with one vote, choose five from twenty shortlisted candidates.
The twenty candidates flashed on the screen.
Jiang Mian scanned quickly.
Fifteen had clear “labels”: apprentice of a famous master, relative of a director, gallery-signed artist.
Only five were true grassroots.
Five million only covers five winners.
If voted by “inside rules,” the grassroots would be completely eliminated.
“Let’s start voting.” Li Weian handed out gilded ballots. “Choose five, rank by preference.”
Jiang Mian took hers but didn’t mark it immediately.
She was observing—the other directors selected almost instantly, barely thinking. The scratch of pens across paper was rhythmic.
The choices had clearly been predetermined.
Half an hour later, votes were counted.
Top three, no surprises:
The remaining four were tied, requiring a second round to decide the last two.
Among these four, three had connections; only one was true grassroots—Lin Xiaoyu, 26, after graduating from art school, rented a ten-square-meter tin studio in a northern city village. Her work was installation art themed “Survival Wrinkles on the Urban Edge.”
Jiang Mian carefully reviewed photos of her work:
Using discarded plastic bottles, old newspapers, rusty tin, she assembled a three-meter-tall human face. Each wrinkle was a bend of wire; the eyes were broken car mirror fragments.
The piece was simply titled “Alive.”
A work with genuine vitality.
But the other directors clearly disapproved—installation art takes space, hard to transport, difficult to sell. Theme too “gloomy.”
Before the second round, Li Weian cleared his throat:
“Reminder: part of the project funding comes from a directed donation by the Shen Group. Chairman Shen—Mr. Yanxin’s father, Shen Huaishan—hopes for works that ‘showcase the era’s beauty.’”
He looked at Jiang Mian:
“Director Jiang, as a young person, you understand the tastes of your peers. What do you think?”
Pressure—direct, unmasked.
Jiang Mian put down her pen.
The sound of the pen touching the table was faint, yet piercing in the silent room.
Her gaze slowly swept across everyone.
[Live chat exploded]
[Art World Insider]: “Here it comes! Moral leverage! Using the patron to pressure people!”
[Struggling Artist]: “Lin Xiaoyu’s chances are gone, theme too heavy.”
[Logic Cat]: “Watch how the streamer breaks this—harder than the guest list.”
[Observer-01]: “Balance principle and reality. Remember the rules.”
Then she spoke:
“Secretary-General Li, I have a question.”
“Please go ahead.”
“The Foundation’s charter,” Jiang Mian opened the meeting manual, “regarding the ‘Evaluation Criteria for Art Support Projects’—the first item is ‘Artistic Value and Innovation,’ the second is ‘Artist Growth Potential,’ the third is ‘Social Significance of the Work.’ Correct?”
Li Weian nodded: “Correct.”
“Then where is the standard of ‘showcasing the beauty of the era’ written in the charter?” Jiang Mian looked up. “Which article, which clause? Or… is this Mr. Shen Huaishan’s personal preference, meant to override the Foundation’s charter?”
The conference room instantly froze.
Li Weian’s smile stiffened. Director Wang’s hand holding the teacup paused mid-air.
Jiang Mian continued:
“If it’s Mr. Shen’s personal opinion, I respect that. But as a director, my voting rights should be based on the charter’s criteria, not any individual’s aesthetic preference. Otherwise—”
She paused deliberately:
“Otherwise, what’s the point of us sitting here? We might as well split the five million into seven portions and each take it for ourselves. Saves us a meeting.”
Li Weian’s face turned red, then pale.
“Of course,” Jiang Mian shifted tone smoothly, “Mr. Shen’s opinions are still worth considering. So I propose—can we add a ‘special consideration’ slot? That way, we select truly valuable works according to the charter, while reserving one spot to respect the donor’s wishes.”
She looked around the room:
“For example, this round we select four according to the charter, then add one ‘special consideration’ slot. This maintains the Foundation’s professionalism while addressing the donor’s concerns.”
A clever proposal.
It carved a path between principle and reality.
Li Weian visibly relaxed: “This… this proposal is constructive. Thoughts?”
Director Wang was the first to nod: “I think it’s feasible.”
Others quietly agreed one by one.
“Then it’s settled.” Li Weian’s voice steadied. “Second-round voting, choose two people.”
Voting resumed.
Jiang Mian wrote two names on her gilded ballot: Lin Xiaoyu, and a young artist named Zhang Yuan—his work was traditional landscape painting, fully aligning with the “positive energy” criterion.
Vote counting: Zhang Yuan won by a wide margin; Lin Xiaoyu lost by a single vote.
That one vote was Jiang Mian’s.
Yet after the results were announced, Jiang Mian spoke again:
“Secretary-General Li, I have another proposal.”
“Go ahead.” Li Weian’s eye twitched involuntarily at hearing her speak.
“Since Lin Xiaoyu’s work focuses on urban marginal communities, with strong social significance but may not align with the ‘positive energy’ direction…” Jiang Mian said, “I propose allocating twenty thousand from my personal director’s budget as a ‘personal encouragement grant’ for her. This money will not go through the Foundation’s accounts; it’s personally from me.”
The conference room fell silent for the third time.
All eyes were on Jiang Mian again, now with far more complex expressions.
Li Weian hesitated: “This… isn’t standard procedure?”
“Directors personally supporting artists—what rule does that violate?” Jiang Mian smiled. “Chapter 4, Article 7 of the charter clearly states: directors may support the arts in their personal capacity.”
She paused:
“Of course, if the board majority believes my action inappropriate, I can withdraw the proposal.”
“No need to withdraw.” Director Wang suddenly spoke, looking at Jiang Mian, her eyes showing genuine interest for the first time. “It’s commendable that Director Jiang wants to support newcomers. I support it.”
Others murmured agreement.
Li Weian exhaled deeply, finally nodding: “Then… let’s proceed according to Director Jiang’s plan.”
Second round, Jiang Mian had again broken through.
[Live chat exploded]
[Art World Insider]: “The streamer just shut them down perfectly! Those connections must be fuming!”
[Struggling Artist]: “So many artists like Lin Xiaoyu, talented but without connections, never get a chance.”
[Workplace Expert]: “Brilliant move! Upholds principles, helps someone, and builds personal prestige.”
[Observer-01] tipped “Inspiration Burst” ×2: “Protecting truth is sharp. But too much exposure can attract hidden arrows.”
Jiang Mian read the comment, her inner nerve taut.
The meeting ended at 2 PM.
She walked out of the building; the autumn sun was glaring. As she was about to retrieve her car, her phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
Answering, a young female voice stammered nervously: “J-Jiang Miss… I’m Lin Xiaoyu… from today’s evaluation meeting… I didn’t get selected. I heard from the secretary’s office that you want to personally support me…”
Her voice trembled genuinely.
Jiang Mian thought a moment: “Tomorrow at 4 PM, ‘Zhiyan’ Café, South City—does that work?”
“Yes, yes! Thank you, Miss Jiang!” Lin Xiaoyu said eagerly.
After hanging up, Jiang Mian sat in the car but didn’t start the engine immediately.
She looked at her phone: two unread messages.
One from Gu Xingye: “The butler is at the old residence today. You can go now if you want.”
Another from an anonymous number: “Shen Yanxin will meet you tomorrow. Be careful.”
Jiang Mian stared at the second message for several seconds, replying: “Who are you?”
No response.
This “nameless person,” who had warned her before the tea gathering to “watch the lamp,” now warned her to “watch Shen Yanxin”—appearing at critical points each time. Unknown identity, unknown motive.
But at least so far, the information had been accurate.
Jiang Mian put away her phone and started the car.
First stop: the old residence.
West City, Wutong District — Gu Family Old Residence.
The red-brick mansion looked solemn under the autumn sun. Yellowing ivy crawled halfway up the exterior walls, rustling like countless dry hands scratching against the bricks when the wind blew.
The white-haired butler trembled as he opened the door: “Miss Jiang? The young master instructed, please come in.”
Inside, the lighting was dim, filled with the scent of aged wood and old books. The butler carried an antique kerosene lamp, guiding her down the long corridor.
Portraits lined the walls on either side, from Gu ancestors to recent generations. The lamp’s light flickered over the faces, eyes glimmering in shadow, as if constantly watching.
Jiang Mian remembered Observer-01’s comment: “Pay attention to the mirror at the end of the hallway.”
She reached the end and saw a full-length mirror. Its surface was slightly foggy, mercury peeling, reflecting her distorted silhouette. But the frame was exquisite—rosewood carving with small colored glass inlays along the edges.
She stopped and examined the mirror.
The butler glanced back: “Is something wrong, Miss Jiang?”
“This mirror… has it always been here?”
“Oh, that,” the old man smiled, showing sparse teeth. “It was the old lady’s dowry from when she was young—almost a hundred years. The young master loved looking in it as a child, said he could see different things.”
Jiang Mian stepped closer and touched the frame.
Her fingers barely touched the rosewood—
[System Prompt: Encrypted information carrier detected. Consume 500 points for basic decoding?]
Her pupils contracted.
She immediately chose “Yes.”
Points were deducted. The next second, the colored glass along the frame began to glow—not reflected light, the glass itself emitted light! Tiny points of light converged and flowed across the mirror, finally forming a line of text:
“The third key is in the mirror. But the first two keys must simultaneously touch the mirror surface.”
The writing lasted only three seconds before vanishing.
Jiang Mian withdrew her hand, palm slightly sweaty.
The butler looked puzzled: “Miss Jiang?”
“Nothing.” She turned. “Let’s continue.”
In the backyard library, the old man pushed open a heavy oak door: “Third floor, the rosewood cabinet in the far corner. You have the keys, right?”
Jiang Mian nodded.
The wooden stairs creaked under her steps, each raising a cloud of dust that floated in the kerosene lamp’s light.
The third floor was an attic space, filled with stacks of wooden boxes and bookshelves. In the farthest corner stood a rosewood cabinet.
She took out the bronze key and inserted it into the lock.
Click.
The cabinet door opened.
Three layers inside: the first held several hardcover notebooks, the second scattered manuscripts, the third a dark gray metal box.
Jiang Mian picked up the notebooks on top first.
Flipping them open, she saw her father’s handwriting. The first pages were experimental data. But in the middle, the content changed:
“…Breakthrough in the ‘iris’ experiment… but the attention it attracts worries me.”
“Shen Huaishan’s brother, Shen Zhiheng, came again today. Brought a ‘cooperation proposal’ from Tianyan Technology. I refused. Too dangerous, cannot hand over to any commercial company.”
“The lab has been off lately. Security logs show abnormal access, but I cannot trace the source. Possibly someone inside has been bribed.”
“I backed up the core data in a way… they would never guess.”
“Last time I saw Chen Yi, I gave him the backup key. Told him, if I’m gone, wait until Xiao Mian grows up to hand it to her.”
Jiang Mian flipped through the pages, fingertips brushing the yellowed paper.
Her father’s handwriting was neat and firm at first, but became increasingly hurried. The last few pages were messy, as if written in haste.
She put the notebook down and picked up the second layer of manuscripts. One sheet was particularly unusual—almost transparent. Held against the kerosene light, fine fiber textures could be seen.
On the paper was a three-dimensional cross-sectional drawing of a key, with temperature parameters written beside it: 37 ± 0.5 °C.
Exactly the precise temperature combination of the tail ring and silver key.
In the lower right corner of the drawing, a line of small text read:
“Iris Key, begins at the sleep eye, ends at 107. When the three keys gather, the truth appears.”
B‑107.
Jiang Mian’s heart sank slightly.
She opened the dark gray metal box on the third layer.
Inside were only three items:
Jiang Mian carefully opened the letter.
The paper was brittle, the ink slightly smeared:
*”Dear Xiao Mian,
By the time you read this, Dad may no longer be here. Don’t cry. The proudest thing in my life is having a daughter as smart as you.
There are things I must tell you.
The ‘Iris Project’ is not an ordinary scientific project. Its origins trace back to a very early top-secret study. It took me a long time to make it feasible science.
But some people want to use it for other purposes.
Behind the Shen family is Tianyan Technology, and there are other hidden forces… all seeking the core data of the ‘Iris.’ This technology is not only useful in information security but could be applied elsewhere—places I do not want it used.
I hid the true core data in three locations:
First, in your eyes. (Don’t worry, not literally. Once you gather all the keys, you will understand.)
Second, in cabinet number ‘107.’
Third… (the corner of the paper is burned off, missing)
Remember, trust no one easily. Including Fu Chenyi, the Gu family, or anyone who seems to be helping you.
But do not be afraid. I left you a way.
When you collect all three keys and open the three secrets, you will see the whole truth. Then you can choose—continue forward, or destroy everything and leave completely.
No matter what you choose, I support you.
Lastly: live well. Only by living can there be hope.
Forever loving you,
Dad
Jiang Mingyuan”*
The letter ended there.
The date was one week before her father’s accident.
Jiang Mian stood in place, the kerosene lamp flickering in her hand.
She carefully folded the letter, returned it to its envelope, and stored it along with the pocket watch and photo in her handbag.
Descending the stairs, the old butler handed her a kraft paper bag: “Miss Jiang, this is from the young master for you.”
She took it and opened it.
Inside was a property certificate—an apartment in “Lanting Court,” East City, with the owner listed as “Jiang Mian.” There was also a note in Gu Xingye’s handwriting:
*”This house was bought with my own savings after working, unrelated to my mother or the Gu Group. If you need it, you can live here. Consider it… a small compensation.
—Gu Xingye”*
Jiang Mian stared at the certificate for a long time.
Then she handed the bag back: “Please tell Young Master Gu, I don’t need it.”
Not out of stubbornness, but principle.
The butler didn’t take it: “The young master expected you might refuse. He said, then consider it… temporarily kept for Mr. Jiang. The key is with the property management; you can change your mind anytime.”
Jiang Mian paused, then accepted the bag: “Thank you.”
She left the old residence; the autumn sunlight was piercing.
Her phone vibrated. It was Fu Chenyi.
“Jiang Mian, I just heard Shen Yanxin plans to see you tomorrow,” his voice slightly more urgent than usual. “Be careful. She didn’t get what she wanted from Li Weian today; she’ll be more ruthless tomorrow.”
“I know,” Jiang Mian said. “Mr. Fu, I have a question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“The key my father gave you back then—besides you, who else knows about it?”
Silence on the other end.
Five seconds later, Fu Chenyi said: “Besides me and your father, probably no one. But… I can’t be 100% sure. In the period before your father’s accident, his lab and personal life were heavily infiltrated.”
“Including the people around you?”
Fu Chenyi fell silent again, longer this time.
“Jiang Mian,” he finally spoke, voice weary, “let’s talk in person tomorrow. Some things can’t be explained safely over the phone.”
The call ended.
Jiang Mian stood beneath the wutong tree, watching leaves swirl to the ground.
Now she had three items in her hands: the silver key, the tail ring, and the bronze key.
And clues from her father’s letter: the key is in the eyes, cabinet 107, the truth appears when the three keys gather.
And the hint from the mirror frame glass: the third key is in the mirror.
She needed to find “107,” and she needed to find that “mirror.”
More urgent, however, was the meeting tomorrow at 3 PM, at Yunding Tea House.
The invitation from Shen Yanxin.
By 6 PM, Jiang Mian returned to her apartment.
She first hid her father’s relics in a secret compartment, then opened her computer and created an encrypted folder.
Halfway through organizing the documents, her phone rang.
It was Shen Yanxin, calling directly.
Jiang Mian waited for the fifth ring before answering.
“Jiang Mian,” Shen Yanxin’s voice was saccharine sweet, almost cloying, “tomorrow at 3 PM, Yunding Tea House, let’s have a proper chat. Just the two of us.”
“Okay,” Jiang Mian said.
“Oh,” Shen Yanxin laughed lightly, “remember to dress nicely. I invited the editor-in-chief of Fengshang magazine. She’s been wanting to do a feature on ‘Independent Women of the New Era.’ I think… you’re perfect for it.”
The trap was laid, wrapped in velvet.
Jiang Mian’s tone didn’t change: “I’ll be on time.”
The call ended.
She walked to the balcony; the night wind was cold.
City lights in the distance hung like inverted stars.
Her father’s words echoed in her ears: “Trust no one.”
Gu Xingye’s night visit, Fu Chenyi’s hesitant warnings on the phone, Shen Yanxin’s saccharine invitation, the mysterious nameless warning, Li Weian’s fake smile, Lin Xiaoyu’s trembling thanks…
Everyone wore a mask.
Everyone had motives.
The phone lit up again with a system prompt:
[Mission Update: Survive Tea House Confrontation and Obtain Key Information]
[Danger Level: High]
[Countdown: 18 hours 47 minutes]
Jiang Mian stared at the words for a long moment.
Then she turned off the screen and walked inside.
Outside, the night was thick, like ink that could not dissolve.
And she knew—the tea tomorrow would be the beginning of another battle.
What she did not know was—
Somewhere, in a dimension incomprehensible to this world, someone was quietly watching her.
Watching her tilt her face slightly up in the night.
Watching the fleeting, unnoticed fatigue in her eyes.
Then, in the observation log, the person wrote:
“Sample D‑7392 — Jiang Mian, emotional stability fluctuating near threshold. Recommend injecting trace calming energy.”
But he did not follow protocol.
He only raised the room temperature in her world by two degrees, making it warmer.
Then he turned off all other observation screens.
Leaving only this one.
In the darkness, quietly watching.
Like a guardian of the long night, guarding a lamp that refuses to go out.