(Chapter 5, Mirror Hall Mist 1/2):
The surface of the tea reflected the slivers of light sneaking through the bamboo blinds—fragmented, quivering.
Forty-three degrees. The last inch of warmth the human mouth can comfortably tolerate.
Shen Yanxin had even calculated this.
“Jiang Mian, why aren’t you drinking?” The voice across the table dripped honey. “This tea was specially brought by Editor Su. Pre-Qingming Longjing—only a few liang produced in a year.”
Jiang Mian lifted her gaze.
Today, Shen Yanxin wore a moon-white Xiangyun gauze qipao. The jade brooch at her collar shimmered green, like a frozen lake at its center. Behind her, Fengshang editor-in-chief Su Qing held a camera, and her assistant opened a notebook—the lens and the pen pointing in the same direction.
A hunting posture, elegant yet merciless.
“Is that so.” Jiang Mian set down her cup. The porcelain clicked against the elm tea table—a crisp sound that rippled through the silence. “But it tastes like three-year-old tea. No matter how well preserved, that lingering bitterness never leaves.”
The corner of Shen Yanxin’s mouth froze for 0.3 seconds.
Su Qing pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses: “Miss Jiang, are you a tea connoisseur?”
“Not exactly.” Jiang Mian leaned back, the chair pressing against her spine. “Just something I learned as a child—observe people as you observe tea. New tea is bright but shallow; old tea is calm and layered. Worst is when something new is passed off as old—shiny on the outside, hollow inside.”
Her words fell, and the tea house fell silent for a moment.
Outside, the maple leaves rustled.
[High-Dimensional Live Room Online Viewers: 24,915]
[Workplace Survival Manual]: “The very first line, ‘passing off new as old’—the streamer is subtly mocking Shen Bailian, right?!”
[Tea Enthusiast]: “Longjing doesn’t taste like new tea… The streamer’s palate is sharp!”
[Logic Cat Online]: “Notice Shen Yanxin’s fingers clutching the hem of her qipao—she’s holding back.”
[Observer-01] tipped Tranquil Barrier ×1, comment: “Tea reveals its true taste in boiling water. Stay steady.”
Golden translucent subtitles floated above her vision. Jiang Mian’s eyelashes lowered slightly; her peripheral vision caught the line.
Tea reveals its true taste in boiling water.
Observer-01 was reminding her again. This invisible “watcher” always seemed to appear exactly when she needed support. She folded the words into her mind like an invisible dagger.
Shen Yanxin loosened her grip on the qipao hem, her smile returning: “Miss Jiang, you’re witty. But let’s get down to business—Editor Su wants to do a feature on ‘Independent Women of the New Era,’ and I think you’re perfect for it. After all, securing a seat on the Art Foundation board without a professional background isn’t something just anyone can do.”
She turned to Su Qing, speaking familiarly:
“Su, you don’t know—Miss Jiang is impressive at board meetings. She insisted on personally funding an installation artist living in a tin shack. Two hundred thousand, without blinking.”
The phrasing linked “two hundred thousand” and “without blinking” seamlessly.
The camera zoomed in.
Jiang Mian didn’t look at the lens. She picked up the purple clay teapot and poured herself another half cup. The sound of water flowing was unusually clear in the silence.
“Lin Xiaoyu, twenty-six, graduated from the Oil Painting Department at the Academy of Fine Arts,” she began, her voice low but steady, each word weighted. “Graduated four years ago, her works shortlisted three times for the National Youth Art Exhibition—but she had to give up all three times because she couldn’t afford the booth fees.”
Her gaze skimmed past Shen Yanxin, landing on Su Qing.
“Editor Su knows how much booth fees are—at the farthest corners, eight hundred a day. She couldn’t pay.”
Su Qing’s pen paused.
“I funded her two hundred thousand, not as charity,” Jiang Mian continued, her tone devoid of emotion, only the weight of fact. “To buy her a year. No need to work at convenience stores until two in the morning. No need to take those fifty-yuan commercial illustration jobs. She could finish Alive Part Two—using scavenged plastic bottles and old newspapers to piece together the second face of the city.”
She paused, rotating the celadon cup in her hand.
“For her, that two hundred thousand is life. For me, it’s just money. Exchanging money for a year of creative freedom—I think it’s worth it.”
The tea house remained silent except for the faint wind outside the bamboo blinds.
Shen Yanxin’s smile remained on her face, but the light in her eyes cooled. Reality itself carries a silent power.
Su Qing closed her notebook, glancing at Shen Yanxin with a different look: “Chairwoman Shen, perhaps today’s footage… isn’t suitable for release.”
“Why?”
“Because readers prefer to see ‘the power of truth,’” Su Qing stood, “not ‘meticulously designed drama.’”
She left with her assistant.
The tea house was left with only Shen Yanxin.
She stared at Jiang Mian’s previous seat, at the half-full, now-cold cup, then suddenly grabbed the celadon cup and smashed it on the floor!
Porcelain shattered, splinters scattered everywhere.
[Bullet Screen Explodes]
Here’s the English translation of your passage (Chapter 5, Mirror Hall Mist 2/2):
[“Has the scumbag been cremated today?”]: “Yes!!! Shen Bailian impotently furious!!”
[Workplace Survival Manual]: “The last line from the streamer was epic! ‘My value doesn’t need to be proven by anyone’—this is independence!”
[Logic Cat Online]: “Notice Su Qing’s attitude shift—she’s starting to respect the streamer.”
[Observer-01] tipped Starry Rain Curtain ×1, comment: “Truth carries immense weight. Tea’s cold—time to leave.”
Jiang Mian stepped out of the tea house. The autumn sun was harsh.
She got into her car but didn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, she tilted her head toward the roof—empty, yet in the tea house, the golden subtitles had been so vivid they seemed almost tangible.
“Truth carries immense weight. Tea’s cold—time to leave.”
Observer-01.
How did he know the tea had cooled? How did he know it was time for her to leave?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but this time, mingled with it was something else—a faint warmth, like discovering someone had left a light on for you in the dark while walking alone at midnight.
She spoke to the air, softly: “You’re watching, aren’t you?”
Of course, there was no reply.
But she felt that maybe… he really was listening.
Her phone rang. It was Fu Chenyi.
“Jiang Mian, the tea meeting’s over?”
“Mm.”
“Shen Yanxin brought people from Fengshang?”
“How do you know?”
Fu Chenyi was silent for two seconds. “Su Qing is a close friend of my ex-wife. She just messaged me, said Shen Yanxin lost her composure today… and that you… spoke very well.”
He paused.
“Where are you now?”
“On my way home.”
“Don’t go home,” Fu Chenyi’s tone turned serious. “Come to my office directly. I had someone dig through the old archive for some files. You need to see them.”
“What files?”
“Visitor logs from your father’s lab after March 2011.” Fu Chenyi lowered his voice. “Some names, you need to know.”
Jiang Mian gripped the steering wheel.
“I’m on my way.”
At the top floor of the Chenyi Group, dusk painted the sky a muted gray-blue.
Fu Chenyi handed over a manila envelope. Jiang Mian smelled the faint scent of disinfectant mixed with a trace of iron—blood.
“Were you injured?” she asked.
“Minor,” Fu Chenyi rubbed his left arm. “Yesterday at the old archive, the old caretaker thought I was there to steal something—had a bit of a scuffle.”
Jiang Mian opened the envelope. Inside were yellowed scanned documents. Names circled in red jumped off the page:
The last date struck her like an ice spike.
June 28, 2011.
The day before her father’s accident.
“These records were supposed to be destroyed,” Fu Chenyi said, lighting a cigarette by the window. “An old friend at the archive secretly kept copies. He said the fire back then seemed too coincidental.”
Jiang Mian looked up. “Fu, you’re thirty-six now, right?”
Fu Chenyi blinked, then chuckled. “Why suddenly ask that?”
“When you first knew my father, you were still young.” Jiang Mian’s voice was calm. “Your understanding of him mostly comes from what he described, right?”
Fu Chenyi fell silent, then nodded.
“My father often spoke of him as a pure researcher… but sadly,” he paused, “too rigid, not adaptable.”
He turned, eyes complex:
“But my father also said, this world needs people who are persistently rigorous, even if inflexible.”
Jiang Mian returned the documents to the envelope.
“Thank you.”
“Jiang Mian,” Fu Chenyi called, retrieving a black access card from a drawer, “I have an apartment in the south of the city. It’s not under my name. Stay there for a few days, lay low.”
Jiang Mian didn’t take it.
“The Shen family is already watching you,” Fu Chenyi pressed the card into her hand. “Those three keys in your possession, and the place you’re going tonight… they won’t let you get them easily.”
Her fingers tightened.
“How do you know about tonight…”
“The old mansion’s Mirror Hall,” Fu Chenyi cut in, voice low. “Your father mentioned to mine back then, said, ‘the most crucial key is hidden in the mirror.’ I think it’s time you went.”
He looked at her, unusually gentle:
“Be careful.”
Jiang Mian finally accepted it.
Night fell. Jiang Mian parked two streets away from the Gu family mansion.
She changed into dark gray sportswear, tied her long hair, slung a light black bag over her shoulder.
The old mansion lay silent, grave-like.
She circled to the backyard side door. Thin wires slid into the lock.
Click.
The door opened.
The yard was overgrown; moonlight barely touched it. The east annex was hidden in shadows; the oak door was slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, the smell of dust and mildew hit her.
The hall was empty, except for the giant full-length mirror at its center.
Jiang Mian stepped forward and stood before the mirror.
She took out the three keys, inhaled deeply, and pressed them against the glass—
The instant her fingers touched the mirror, the stained-glass in its frame flared to life!
Tiny points of light rippled across the mirror’s surface, converging until they formed a line of glowing text:
“Mirror Key Activated. Stare into the left eye in the mirror for ten seconds.”
Jiang Mian held her breath and looked at her own pupil reflected in the glass.
One second… two seconds… three…
A faint sting came from her left eye.
Immediately, her vision began to warp—
Her reflection vanished.
In its place, a rapidly unfolding 3D map appeared! The path was clear: descend from the Mirror Hall, pass through an underground passage, destination coordinates flashing—“Cabinet 107.”
[Profiler’s Eye Lv.2 upgrading… Lv.3 activated!]
[New Ability: 3D Spatial Memory Construction, Dynamic Path Prediction]
Golden subtitles floated above her vision. Jiang Mian’s pupils constricted, committing every detail to memory.
The map lasted only five seconds before vanishing.
The mirror returned to normal.
She crouched down, sweeping the flashlight across the floor beneath the frame. One wooden panel, slightly darker than the rest, its edges worn, caught her attention.
She pressed hard.
Click.
The panel sank, revealing a dark hole.
Twenty stone steps led down to a rusted iron door. She inserted the key and turned it.
Creak—
The door swung inward.
Her flashlight illuminated the basement. At its center stood a dark gray metal cabinet.
On the door, the number 107.
Jiang Mian approached, removed the plain silver ring from her left pinky, and pressed the engraved eye on its inner band against the screen—
The display lit up blue.
“Iris verification passed. Welcome, Jiang Mian.”
The cabinet door popped open.
Three layers.
First layer: a black hardcover notebook.
Second layer: a silver metal box.
Third layer: empty.
She picked up the notebook and flipped it open.
On the first page, her father’s handwriting:
“To Xiaomian:
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve reached the final step. Dad is proud of you.
Now, it’s time you know the truth.
The source of the ‘Iris Project’ was a top-secret experiment begun in 1967, codename ‘Open Eye.’ Its goal: to read and write human memory through bio-crystals. The project was terminated due to ethical concerns, and the data sealed.
Thirty years later, these records came into the hands of your grandfather, Song Wenbo—he was the deputy supervisor of ‘Open Eye.’ He discovered that your mother, Song Yun, inherited a rare neurological trait: under certain conditions, her iris could resonate faintly with memory storage.
Your grandfather continued studying this discovery, seeking a safe application. But in his old age, he handed the records to me.
I continued the research under the guise of ‘iris encryption technology,’ but my true aim was to safely seal this dangerous ‘gift.’ I didn’t want anyone to exploit it—or for it to endanger you.
But your mother… she left too suddenly.
The car accident in 2006 wasn’t an accident. I investigated for three years; all evidence pointed in the same direction: someone didn’t want her alive, because she knew too much.
One week before she died, she told me: ‘Mingyuan, if I’m gone, protect Xiaomian. They won’t spare her.’
I failed to protect her.
So I must protect you.
In spring 2011, Tianyan Technology behind the Shen family began pressing me. They wanted all the Iris Project data—and you—because you are the continuation of your mother’s bloodline, the perfect ‘carrier.’
I refused to hand anything over.
I divided the core data into three hidden locations, protected by puzzles only you could solve. This silver key, this pinky ring, and the bronze key from the Gu family mansion—three clues pointing to this cabinet.
Inside the metal box on the second layer are all original records of the ‘Open Eye’ experiments and the truth behind your mother’s accident. You may choose to destroy everything, freeing yourself entirely; or use it to uncover the truth and seek justice for her.
Whatever you choose, Dad wants you to know first: you are Jiang Mian. You are our daughter. You are yourself.
Live well.
Love, Dad
Jiang Mingyuan
2011.06.28″
The handwriting ended there.
Jiang Mian stood frozen, the flashlight trembling in her hands.
She didn’t cry.
Her stomach felt gripped by an icy hand. As a transmigrator, she had no blood attachment to Jiang Mingyuan or Song Yun—but in this body, her heart contracted violently. Was it a residue of the original owner’s memory? Or her own instinctive aversion to the word “murder”?
She didn’t know.
But she knew this: having taken this body, having the clues laid out before her, uncovering the truth was now an unavoidable responsibility.
She put down the notebook and opened the second layer—the metal box.
Inside was a thick stack of yellowed documents. On top, a black-and-white photo—1967, underground lab. Red circles on the back: Song Wenbo.
Her grandfather.
Below were genetic analysis reports, followed by handwritten notes:
“Driver in 2006 accident: Wang Jianjun, 45, truck driver. Died three days later in detention from ‘sudden heart failure.’ Autopsy report missing.”
“One week before the accident, Song Yun received anonymous threat letters: ‘Hand over the items, or face the consequences.’ Handwriting analysis indicated professional forgery.”
“Possible connections: Shen Zhiheng (Tianyan Technology)—his brother Shen Zhiming was deputy traffic police chief responsible for the case.”
The last note read: “If pursuing, first find Li Wei. He emigrated suddenly back then, must know the truth. His son Li Zhe returned last year, now lives in Binhai City.”
Jiang Mian quickly extracted the three most critical pages, folded them, and put them into her inner pocket.
At that moment—
Footsteps above!
Not just one person!
She switched off her flashlight, shoved the notebook and metal box back into the cabinet, and closed the door.
But the footsteps had already descended the stone stairs!
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness!
“Someone’s down here!”
Jiang Mian pressed her back against the cold brick wall, holding her breath.
[User “Observer-01” tipped “Spatial Cloak” ×1, Points +500. Note: Right rear wall, seventh brick.]
Golden subtitles glowed in the darkness.
Jiang Mian lunged at the indicated section of wall, counting quickly to the seventh brick, and pushed with all her strength!
The brick wall gave way, revealing a narrow gap!
The moment she squeezed inside, the basement door was slammed open, and the flashlight beam swept across!
“No one here?”
“The cabinet’s open! Check it!”
Sounds of searching, curses, and muttered threats.
Jiang Mian held her breath behind the wall.
Suddenly—
Bang!
A muffled thud came from the ground!
Shouts and the sounds of a scuffle:
“Grab him!”
The group in the basement panicked, footsteps retreating in a hurry.
Jiang Mian waited another two minutes before slipping out of the gap.
She quickly gathered the files and retraced her steps.
Climbing the stone stairs, the Mirror Hall was a mess—the standing mirror had been knocked over.
Three men in black lay sprawled at the doorway.
Next to them stood Zhou Jian.
He was wiping a baseball bat with a cloth.
Seeing Jiang Mian emerge, he raised an eyebrow:
“Too slow.”
Jiang Mian stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Passing by,” Zhou Jian shoved the bat into a golf bag. “Heard there’d be some excitement at the old mansion tonight, thought I’d see for myself.”
He paused:
“Four goons from the Shen family’s second branch came. Took down three, one got away.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” Zhou Jian approached. “Did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.” He turned. “That one who got away—we need to bring him back.”
They left through the side door, Zhou Jian’s car waiting in the alley.
He opened the door. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Jiang Mian didn’t move. “Zhou Jian, why are you helping me?”
He smiled faintly in the night.
“I said before, I don’t want the Shen family to have everything.”
He looked at her.
“What you’ve got in your hands could topple the Shen family’s second branch—or even shake Shen Huaishan. But it could also get you killed with no burial.”
“So?”
“So, you need allies.” Zhou Jian opened the car door. “And I can be your ally—for now. At least until you uncover the truth.”
Jiang Mian studied him for a long moment, then got into the car.
The car drove into the night.
She leaned back in the seat, exhaustion washing over her like a tide.
Her thoughts drifted to Observer-01’s last message.
Looking into the void, she whispered softly:
“Thank you.”
No reply.
But in her system interface, the points counter flickered ever so slightly.
Like a distant response.
[High-Dimensional Observation Space]
In front of Pei Yuyan, the screen showed Jiang Mian, eyes closed, leaning in the chair.
She looked exhausted, but the faintest curve of a smile touched her lips.
She had just said thank you—to him.
Tens of thousands of screens flickered around him, but he left only the central one illuminated.
He watched her tired yet relaxed face for a long moment.
Then, he pulled up the observation log and added a line at the end of today’s record:
*“Subject D-7392 – Jiang Mian, after mission ‘Mirror Hall,’ expressed gratitude toward the observer for