Scene One: Morning Dew and the Blade
6:50 a.m. The doorbell rang.
Not a frantic series of rings, but three, pause, then three again—controlled, deliberate, like a code that could not be ignored.
Jiang Mian opened her eyes from the sofa.
Not naturally awake—her bones, still carrying the biological clock of a police academy cadet, sensed abnormality three seconds before her consciousness could fully process it. Too quiet. The usual morning sounds of the safe house apartment—water running in the next unit, footsteps upstairs, the faint hum of the elevator—were swallowed by some invisible barrier. Only her deliberately muted breathing remained, audible in the oppressive silence.
She didn’t move, her eyelashes trembling slightly in the faint morning light, her peripheral vision scanning the living room like a searchlight. She had been in this body for less than a month, yet her physical memory and police instincts were merging at a startling rate. Three seconds later, she pinpointed the anomaly—
At the door.
The thin strip of light that should have fallen from the hallway was interrupted by an irregular shadow. Someone stood outside, motionless for at least two minutes, deliberately adjusting their stance to avoid the peephole’s gaze.
Jiang Mian slid silently off the sofa, bare feet touching the soft carpet like a cat, and moved to the door. She did not immediately peek through the peephole—it might reveal she was awake. Instead, she listened, pressing her breath almost out of existence.
Two breathing patterns.
One slow, steady, roughly twelve breaths per minute—trained and controlled. The other slightly faster, eighteen breaths per minute, carrying a subtle tension. Both deliberately subdued, yet unprofessional—true infiltrators could suppress to six per minute or fewer.
She stepped back two paces, letting her slippers rub lightly against the carpet, then moved into the kitchen and turned on the tap. The rush of water masked her real movements—checking all window locks, pulling a pen-sized stun device from the fridge’s hidden compartment into her pajama pocket, before returning to the door.
Through the peephole, Zhao Bo stood just outside, head slightly lowered, hands folded in front. Behind him, a middle-aged man in dark gray uniform and white gloves followed, face rigid like a museum statue, holding a deep blue velvet box.
“Miss Jiang,” the man’s voice came through the thick door, calm and deliberate as if reading a verdict, “This morning, Madam found a few items once cherished by Ms. Song Yun while sorting her old belongings. In remembrance, I have been tasked to deliver them to you.”
Song Yun.
The name pierced Jiang Mian’s consciousness like a shard of ice. As a transmigrator, she had no blood attachment to her biological mother and could not empathize with familial grief. But the word relic—appearing now, in this way—reeked of cold calculation, and her stomach tightened instinctively.
It was bait. Without a doubt.
More importantly—her mother died in a car accident in 2006. Her father, Jiang Mingyuan, was still alive then. Any real relic should have been with him, or lost in his 2011 lab fire. How could the Gu family possess it? Unless…
Unless this wasn’t a relic at all, but something else entirely—poison wrapped in familial sweetness.
Jiang Mian opened the door just a crack, her body blocking it, forming a natural defensive stance.
“Please convey my gratitude to Madam,” she said, her voice hoarse from sleep but her gaze sharp as ice. “Since these are my mother’s belongings, I should collect them personally. Kindly take them back, and I will visit to see them at a later date.”
The uniformed man bowed slightly, holding the box with textbook precision. “Madam insisted it be handed to you personally. Additionally—” His voice lowered slightly, but every word cut through the air, “The foundation will hold a special board meeting at 10 a.m. today to review the Pilot Mentor Program for New Board Members. You are requested to attend punctually. Your mentor has also been personally selected by Madam.”
The name he spoke carried honey-coated venom:
“Chairman Shen Yanxin will be your mentor for the next three months. Please make the most of this rare learning opportunity.”
He placed the box on the floor, nodded, and turned. Zhao Bo glanced at Jiang Mian, his cloudy eyes a mix of old servant pity, restrained warning, and detached indifference, before quickly looking away and following the man.
Footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, fading into the sound of the elevator doors opening.
Jiang Mian closed the door, double-locked it, and pressed her back against the cold wood for three seconds.
Mentor program. Shen Yanxin.
Chen Manli had acted—elegantly, flawlessly, with poisonous precision—to trap her under Shen Yanxin’s watchful eye for the next three months. Every proposal, every statement, every move required his approval. A sunlit trap, dressed as a favor.
She didn’t touch the box.
She first moved to the window, lifting the curtain corner. Across the street, the black van was slowly departing. The tinted windows were dark, but she noted the last three digits of the plate: 739. A meaningless number, but she cataloged every detail.
Then she returned to the box.
Morning light slanted across it, casting a sharp streak on the velvet. The surface shimmered like liquid under the sun.
[Profiler’s Eye Lv.3 — Silent Mode]
Faint golden 3D annotations appeared:
Conclusion: Surveillance device. Live feed. Not new, but carefully repurposed old material.
Jiang Mian squatted, pulling out a silver foil sheet from the coffee table drawer—a temporary signal-blocking patch bought with 300 points. Thin as cicada wings, icy to the touch. She pressed it on the box’s bottom for three seconds; the edges glowed faint blue then vanished.
Then she opened the lid.
No yellowed photos, no faded letters, no true relic of her mother.
Only a button-sized micro-camera, metallic, glinting coldly in the morning light. High-end, with HD recording, live streaming, location tracking, and two-way audio. Market price: five-figure minimum, inaccessible via normal channels.
Beneath it, a folded note:
“The ‘relic’ is bait; surveillance is real. The camera is live. Your current expression is being broadcast to Shen Yanxin’s private tablet. Chen Manli and Madam had breakfast together in the west hall at 6:00 a.m., completing this transaction. Suggestion: act shocked and upset, then consider where to ‘return’ this eye to maximize use.”
Jiang Mian stared at the note for two seconds.
Then she lifted her face and, toward the empty living room—likely the camera’s focal point—she revealed a faint, weary, almost confused smile.
Brief as a blooming night flower, quickly covered by exhaustion. Her eyes glimmered with restrained emotion, lips quivering.
Five seconds. Long enough for the unseen observers to record, to laugh, to confirm her “weakness.”
Then she dropped her head, shoulders slumping, left hand covering her face, letting near-silent sobs slip through her fingers.
Her right hand, however, reached for a lipstick-shaped high-frequency signal jammer at her waist, pressing the concealed button three times.
Thirty seconds of interference—a strong enough pulse to disrupt any wireless feed, freeze images, or black out the stream.
Her eyes then returned to the camera.
All the fragility, confusion, and breakdown vanished instantly.
Replaced by cold ice, and beneath it, a flicker of dangerous fire.
First act: performed.
[High-Dimensional Live Feed · Online: 31,205]
[Chat Explodes]:
Familiar golden text appeared above:
“Mirror already suspended. Proceed with caution. Yet even the mirror can reflect the cameraman. Beyond the board, the observer watches.”
Jiang Mian’s heart skipped slightly.
Again, it was him—Observer-01.
His notes always appeared at these precise moments, as if synced with her heartbeat and breathing. But this time—the mirror can reflect the cameraman too. Was he suggesting she could use the camera to watch them? Or that their hubris itself would expose their flaws?
“Beyond the board, the observer watches”—referring to himself?
A plan formed in her mind: cold, sharp, and merciless.
She rose to the study, retrieving another black metal box—Zhou Jian’s “gift” from two days ago. Inside were a dozen miniature trackers, bugs, receivers, and two camera replicas identical to the one in the velvet box.
Fingers grazing the cold metal, she paused on a replica and smiled.
Faintly. Almost invisible, but the room seemed two degrees colder.
Scene Two: Tremors and Lies in the Café
During the jammer’s thirty seconds, Jiang Mian moved swiftly.
She placed the velvet box and camera into a spare lead-lined metal box, then changed into an unremarkable dark gray tracksuit, black cap and mask, and slung a small canvas backpack.
Leaving through the safe house’s hidden passage, she emerged three minutes later at a convenience store two streets away, hailed a passing taxi.
“Chengnan, ‘Zhiyan’ Café,” she instructed calmly.
8:20 a.m.—the café had just opened.
She chose the corner booth: back to solid brick, left a window for street observation, right the restroom corridor, straight ahead the entrance, bar, and seating—all in clear view. Police instincts—avoid ambush, maintain surveillance.
Her coffee arrived, steaming, which she let obscure her features.
At 8:50, the door chimed.
Lin Xiaoyu entered.
A petite, fragile girl, younger than her age suggested. Worn denim jacket, fraying cuffs, canvas bag straps splitting. Barefaced, pale, dark under-eye shadows she couldn’t hide. The bell startled her, shoulders tensing like a nocturnal animal caught in light.
“Miss Jiang…” her voice quivered, soft as a trembling leaf in autumn wind. “S-sorry I’m late…”
“Sit.” Jiang Mian’s gaze passed over her, settling on her trembling, pale fingers.
[Profiler’s Eye Lv.3 — Full Scan]
Golden annotations surfaced:
“I… I brought something,” she said, handing over a rough paper bag from her canvas bag. Inside: photos of Shen Yanxin embezzling funds to collect artwork, and a handwritten list of three other young artists in similar situations, with contact info.
Jiang Mian took it but did not open it. “Why now? Why never before?”
Lin Xiaoyu swallowed hard, voice rushed, as if reciting rehearsed lines. She explained her desperation: broken promises, mother’s dialysis costs, father injured, threatened by Chen the lawyer, needed money to save her family.
Too fluid. Too rehearsed.
When mentioning “Lawyer Chen,” her gaze drifted 0.3 seconds to the lower left—an oddity suggesting either retrieval of auditory info or external prompting.
Jiang Mian traced her finger along the cup rim, noting her hand pressed a raised square in her bag—likely a smartphone.
“Lin,” Jiang Mian asked calmly, “can I see your phone?”
Lin froze, fingers tightening on the bag.
“Phone? W-why?”
“I thought I heard a notification before you came in,” Jiang Mian said casually.
“My… phone’s dead,” Lin stammered.
“Really.” Jiang Mian set down her cup. The sound rang like a stone in a well in the silent café.
She leaned forward, shrinking the distance to less than half a meter. Voice low but sharp:
“Then the professional recorder in your bag, running now—who is it transmitting to? Shen Yanxin, or Lawyer Chen?”
Lin’s face went pale, lips trembling, hands retracting from the bag as if electrocuted, spine hitting the booth with a thud.
“What did they promise you?” Jiang Mian’s gaze cut like a scalpel. “VIP hospital beds? Money for three years of treatment? Or an offer to replace me as a board member if you ‘expose’ Shen Yanxin?”
“No… no…” Lin sobbed, truly breaking now, tears streaming, body shaking. “They threatened my brother… 19 years old… in Macau… 800,000 debt… please don’t… I didn’t want to harm you…”
She collapsed, sobbing violently.
Jiang Mian watched silently.
Anger? A little. More so: cold clarity, and a faint, unnoticed sadness. Shen Yanxin had resorted to kidnapping and coercion to set her up. Lin Xiaoyu was merely a pawn—forced, tragic, yet culpable in passing danger to others.
Here’s the English translation of your passage, keeping it smooth, immersive, and faithful to the tension without over-dramatizing:
“Turn off the recorder.” Jiang Mian’s voice was flat, void of warmth, like stating a fact.
Lin Xiaoyu trembled as she fished the black professional recorder from the compartment of her backpack—sure enough, a high-end device worth nearly ten thousand yuan. The screen was on, the red recording light blinking in a steady rhythm, like an ominous eye. She cried as she turned off the recording, deleted the files, even formatted the memory card—her movements frantic but practiced.
“On the list… the first two names and their incidents… are they real?” Jiang Mian picked up the handwritten list, her fingertips tracing the rough surface.
“Yes… Zhang Wei and Wu Hao are real. They were both ‘handled’ in similar ways by Director Shen. But the third one, Li Yue… they made me add her. That person doesn’t exist—it’s a trap. If you investigate her, you’ll fall right into the snare they set long ago; the evidence will point to you, fabricating the list, framing them…”
Jiang Mian carefully stored the photos and the list into her encrypted file pouch. Then, from a compartment in her wallet, she pulled out a pure black business card—no text, only raised braille and a tiny silver emblem in the lower-right corner.
It was from Fu Cheny, the so-called “absolutely reliable” private detective, specializing in high-society secrets, kidnappings, and various gray-area matters.
She pushed the card toward Lin Xiaoyu.
“Contact this person. Tell him everything—your brother’s location, the number of people involved, possible backgrounds. He can locate your brother and ensure his safety. He also has his ways of dealing with loan sharks.” Jiang Mian’s tone left no room for argument, like giving an order. “As for your mother’s treatment fees, I’ll cover three months upfront. But there’s one condition.”
Lin Xiaoyu lifted her tear-blurred eyes, a faint glimmer of hope flickering in them.
“This afternoon at 2 PM, at the Foundation Board meeting, I need you to attend as a ‘representative artist who has faced injustice.’ You don’t need to say much, just sit in the designated seat and nod to confirm when I need you to testify.” Jiang Mian looked at her, calm but piercing, “Can you do it?”
Fear—intense, nearly tangible fear—flickered in Lin Xiaoyu’s eyes again. But looking into Jiang Mian’s calm, deep-lake eyes, beneath which fierce currents flowed, that fear gradually gave way to a desperate resolve.
She nodded firmly, tears falling onto the rough wooden table, soaking dark stains into the surface. “I… I can! Miss Jiang, thank you… thank you so much…”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Jiang Mian stood, slipping several bills under the coffee cup—enough for two drinks with change. “2 PM sharp, Foundation building main entrance. Don’t be late, but also don’t arrive more than five minutes early. Dress presentably, but not overdone.”
She turned and left the booth, her steps steady, never looking back.
Outside, the morning sun was already harsh. She put on sunglasses, the dark lenses cutting off any trace of emotion from her eyes, blurring most of her face.
Not ten meters out, the system gave a familiar vibration—not a phone, but a subtle nudge deep in her consciousness, like someone lightly tapping her nerves.
Golden letters flowed across the edge of her retina:
【New Message: Observer-01: The bait contains a bait. Lin Xiaoyu’s brother is indeed under Shen family’s control, location locked (Macau, Coloane Island, ‘Golden Barrel’ underground casino VIP lounge). The detective is reliable, but remind him: ‘Hesheng’ controls the casino; connections must be arranged before action. Key third vote in the board—the daughter of Director Wang Minzhi was admitted last night for acute appendicitis, surgeon Zhang Wei is a student of Shen Huai’s wife’s brother, indebted to the Shen family. Chen Manli already pressured Zhang Wei at 7:20 this morning. Director Wang is currently pacing the hospital hallway.】
The information was terrifyingly precise. Not only names, events, and locations, but also timelines, relationships, and vested interests were laid bare. This was no simple “observation”—it was near-total control of the information flow of the world.
Jiang Mian stood amidst the noisy street, car horns, chatter, and shop music merging into chaotic background noise. She spoke lightly but clearly to the chaos, asking the question that had lingered for so long:
“Why… do you know all this?”
A few seconds of silence.
Then the golden letters appeared again, clearer, their strokes carrying an indescribable rhythm:
“Because I am watching more than just you.”
“On the board, every piece’s movement, the hand tremors of the player, even the observer’s breathing… everything is in view.”
“And your moves are the most unique I’ve ever seen.”
This time, Jiang Mian felt no unease or chill of being watched.
Instead, it felt like walking alone in an endless dark alley for years, used to solitude and vigilance, when suddenly another set of footsteps echoed from a nearby corner.
Clear, steady, composed.
Not too close, not too far—just a few steps behind, or from a dimension unseen yet undeniably real.
Silently declaring: I am not your enemy. I am watching your path. Perhaps… I am walking with you.
Act Three: The Move · The Boardroom’s Blade
10 AM, Yanxin Art Foundation top-level conference room.
The long redwood table gleamed coldly; eleven of twelve high-backed chairs were occupied. The air smelled of premium cigars, antique perfume, and silent tension.
Jiang Mian pushed the door open; all eyes—scrutinizing, calculating, sneering, indifferent—fell on her like spotlights.
Today she wore a charcoal gray suit dress, hair neatly tied back, pale yet calm face. Her left shoulder injury was perfectly hidden by the tailored cut of the jacket.
“Director Jiang, please sit.” Chen Manli, at the head, nodded toward the only empty chair at the far end, slightly lower and directly in the airflow from the AC vent.
Jiang Mian sat. Cold air hit her neck; she straightened further, unmoving.
“Everyone’s here. Let’s begin.” Chen Manli’s voice carried her usual, unquestionable authority. “This special meeting discusses one agenda item: the ‘Pilot Mentor System for New Board Directors’ draft.”
Li Wei’an immediately distributed thick documents.
“In recent years, the foundation has welcomed many young directors—energetic, but inevitably inexperienced,” Chen Manli continued, scanning the room before resting on Jiang Mian. “To avoid mistakes that damage the foundation’s reputation, the advisory committee proposes a mentor system. For the first three months, all proposals, motions, and public statements by new directors require the co-signature of their assigned mentor.”
She paused, smiling faintly, almost kindly:
“Jiang Mian is talented, but new to this field. After careful consideration and with her consent, we are honored to appoint Director Shen Yanxin as Jiang Mian’s mentor. Applause, please.”
Sparse claps followed.
Shen Yanxin, sitting to Chen Manli’s right, in soft ivory, smiled gently. “Jiang Mian, don’t be nervous. I’ll ‘guide’ you well.”
“Thank you, Director Shen.” Jiang Mian’s voice was calm. “However, I have a question.”
The room went silent.
“Oh? What question?” Chen Manli arched an eyebrow.
“Chapter 7 of the charter states that the establishment or modification of any board system requires two-thirds attendance and majority consent.” Jiang Mian held the draft. “Today, eleven directors are present, so quorum is met. But the draft doesn’t clarify the mentor’s authority boundaries. For example: do I need mentor approval to vote? Must my communications with other directors be monitored by the mentor? Should my personal artistic judgment align with the mentor?”
Each question was sharper than the last.
Shen Yanxin’s smile stiffened.
Li Wei’an quickly tried to smooth things over: “Director Jiang is overthinking. The mentor system is for guidance and advice, not to interfere with your independence…”
“Written clearly is better,” Jiang Mian interrupted, looking at Chen Manli. “Otherwise, in future disputes, do we follow the charter or the mentor’s mood? Surely, no one here wants their rights dependent on ambiguity, right?”
A few neutral directors exchanged glances, nodding slightly. Jiang Mian had tapped into a latent concern—today’s chains could become tomorrow’s traps.
Chen Manli’s face darkened. “Jiang Mian, this is for your good and the foundation’s.”
“I understand, Madam,” Jiang Mian replied respectfully but firmly. “Which is why we should define it in the system, to honor your intention and prevent Director Shen from being placed in a bind later.”
She deftly returned the ball.
Shen Yanxin took a deep breath. “Jiang Mian’s consideration is thorough. Let’s have Secretary Li draft an addendum post-meeting, clarifying mentor authority boundaries.”
“Understood, Chairwoman.” Li Wei’an wiped his forehead.
“Now, we vote on the mentor system draft and the nomination of Director Shen as Jiang Mian’s mentor.” Chen Manli avoided looking at Jiang Mian and moved to procedure. “Raise hands if you agree.”
She went first.
Shen Yanxin raised hers.
Li Wei’an and two other obvious Shen-Chen faction directors raised theirs.
Five votes.
Six needed (majority of eleven).
All eyes turned to the six remaining. Three were veteran independent directors, two were from families with subtle ties to the Guos, and one was Director Wang—the third seat—mid-fifties, sharp, running several galleries.
Director Wang looked down, flipping the draft, her fingers nervously tracing edges. Fatigue marked her face.
Jiang Mian knew Observer-01’s intel was accurate. Director Wang’s daughter had surgery last night; Shen family influence could guarantee it—but getting involved in this scandal could ruin her galleries and reputation. She calculated carefully.
Seconds passed.
Chen Manli’s gaze pressed on Wang.
Shen Yanxin smiled, fingers subtly pressing her palms.
Just as Wang’s hand lifted to vote—
“Sorry, I need to interrupt.” Jiang Mian spoke again.
All eyes turned to her.
She placed a document from her briefcase on the table.
“Before voting, I’d like the board to review a ‘Temporary Supplementary Attendance Request’ from the administration. Under the charter, the board may invite relevant field representatives to attend meetings and provide expertise. I’ve requested a young artist representative to attend and share her personal experience with foundation funding efficiency.”
Li Wei’an’s face changed: “Director Jiang! This is improper procedure! Attendance requests must be submitted 24 hours in advance…”
“Article 10 of the charter: with two-thirds consent, temporary attendance can be approved.” Jiang Mian looked at the room. “We can vote now on whether to hear this artist’s opinion. No 24-hour wait required.”
She had played procedure against procedure.
Chen Manli’s eyes froze. Shen Yanxin’s smile faltered.
Neutral directors’ interest was piqued—young artist? Funding efficiency? Personal experience? Enough to stir imagination.
“I agree to hear her.” A veteran white-haired director spoke first.
“Seconded.”
“I agree as well.”
In no time, consent exceeded two-thirds.
Chen Manli clenched her pen almost to breaking. But she couldn’t deny the right to speak in front of everyone. She nodded stiffly.
The conference room door opened.
Lin Xiaoyu entered, head down, in a clean shirt and trousers. Nervous, yes, but with resolute determination. She sat in the designated seat, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“Miss Lin,” Jiang Mian’s tone softened, “please briefly introduce yourself and your experience with the foundation.”
Lin Xiaoyu inhaled deeply, voice shaky at first but gaining clarity:
“Directors, my name is Lin Xiaoyu, an installation artist. Last October, my work ‘Morning Light’ was collected by the foundation under ‘supporting young artists,’ paid 80,000 yuan. Later, I learned it never entered the foundation’s collection but appeared in Director Shen’s private apartment. I also received a warning from Director Shen’s lawyer to sign a ‘voluntary donation agreement’ and not mention this publicly. After that, I was excluded from all subsequent support programs.”
Pin-drop silence.
Shen Yanxin’s face went pale. Chen Manli glared at Li Wei’an. Li Wei’an broke out in cold sweat.
“You… you’re fabricating!” Shen Yanxin stood sharply.
“I have photos of the transaction at the gallery, screenshots of the foundation’s bank transfers, and recordings of conversations with Lawyer Chen.” Lin Xiaoyu met her eyes. “Photos and transfers are already with Director Jiang. The recordings… will be submitted when safe.”
“Ridiculous! This is forgery! Jiang Mian instructed you to frame me!” Shen Yanxin lost composure, pointing at Jiang Mian.
Jiang Mian remained calm. When Shen Yanxin stopped gasping, she spoke quietly but firmly, cutting through the room:
“Director Shen, we are voting on the mentor system. Miss Lin, as an artist representative, is merely presenting concerns possibly related to fund allocation. Whether this is a ‘frame’ or ‘conspiracy’…”
Her gaze swept the room.
“I believe each director can judge. And the foundation should have corresponding investigative and appeal procedures, correct?”
Flawless logic, elevating personal claims to institutional and reputational level.
Neutral directors’ expressions turned serious. A scandal involving misappropriation of funds and threats to artists could shake the foundation’s core.
Director Wang finally lowered her hand from the draft. She looked at Shen Yanxin, then at Jiang Mian, who calmly held the “photos” and “bank transfers.” She made her calculation.
“I oppose this draft,” Wang said first, clear and decisive. “At least until the related issues are investigated, it’s inappropriate to implement a system that could disrupt board operations. I also oppose assigning Director Shen as any mentor now.”
Like throwing a stone into water—ripples spread.
“Seconded.”
“I oppose as well.”
“Recommend suspending the draft and forming an independent team to investigate Miss Lin’s claims.”
The tide instantly turned.
Chen Manli’s face was iron, chest heaving. Shen Yanxin slumped back, eyes hollow.
“Then,” Chen Manli forced through her teeth, “draft suspended. Meeting adjourned!”
She left first; the chair scraped the floor. Shen Yanxin stumbled, aided by Li Wei’an.
Other directors departed, passing Jiang Mian with glances of caution, curiosity, and subtle respect.
Jiang Mian packed calmly.
Lin Xiaoyu approached, voice trembling: “Miss Jiang, I…”
“You did very well,” Jiang Mian said. “Has the detective contacted you?”
“Yes. He has leads, told me not to worry.” Lin Xiaoyu’s eyes reddened again. “Thank you… truly…”
“Go be with your mother. Leave the rest to me.” Jiang Mian patted her shoulder.
The conference room emptied quickly.
Jiang Mian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching Shen Yanxin rush to a car below. Sunlight lit her face, cold and bright.
This round was won.
But the war was far from over.
【High-Dimension Live Room: 41,563 viewers】
【Chat flooded with frenzy】
[Workplace Strategy Textbook]: “High tension the entire way! From procedural maneuvering to dropping a witness, every step meticulously planned! Absolutely thrilling!”
[Has the Jerk Been Cremated Today?]: “Shen Bailian’s face went from angel to devil on the spot! That old hag Chen turned green! Screenshot and make a meme!”
[Logic Cat Online]: “Using rules to counter rules, turning public interest to deflect personal attacks—this streamer’s strategy is on another level!”
[Gossip Without Spitting Seeds]: “That twist with Director Wang! Observer-01’s intel is godlike!”
[Observer-01] tipped “Starry Rain Curtain” ×5, with a note: A player places a move, and all phenomena are chess. Yet beyond the board, the one who moves the pieces must also stay alert.
At dusk, Jiang Mian returned to the safe house.
She didn’t turn on the lights, standing in the dark for a long while, letting exhaustion wash over her limbs like a tidal wave. The pain in her shoulder flared faintly again, mingling with the mental collapse that followed high tension.
She walked over to the sofa and sat down, taking out the metal box from her bag—it contained the camera Chen Manli had “gifted” her.
Opening the box, she held the camera in her palm. Cold metal, tiny lens—it was like a silent, malicious eye.
She should destroy it.
But as her fingers touched it, she stopped.
A thought flashed like lightning.
She picked up her phone and called Zhou Jian.
“Find me someone. Top-tier tech, trustworthy.” she said.
“For what?”
“To modify this camera.” Jiang Mian looked at the miniature device in her palm. “Make it appear to work normally, maybe even transmit some ‘valid’ footage and sound. But the true control—must be in my hands.”
A pause. Then Zhou Jian’s low chuckle came through: “You want to play counter-surveillance? Fight fire with fire?”
“They like to watch,” Jiang Mian said coldly. “Then let them watch as much as they want.”
“Understood. Send me the address. I’ll have it back to you by tomorrow morning.”
Hanging up, Jiang Mian placed the camera back in its box. She had just stood up when her phone rang again.
It was Fu Chenyi.
“I’m downstairs.” His voice came through the receiver, background quiet. “Can I come up?”
Jiang Mian walked to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. The familiar black sedan was parked across the street; the driver’s side window was halfway down. Fu Chenyi’s profile faced her, a faint red glow flickering between his fingers.
“Come up,” she said.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Fu Chenyi entered, carrying the faint chill of the night air and a subtle scent of tobacco. In his hand was an insulated bag.
“You haven’t eaten, right?” He set the bag on the table and opened it. Inside were several neatly packed thermal food containers. “Homemade, light, good for recovery.”
Jiang Mian watched him lay out the dishes: lily congee, steamed fish, blanched greens—all nourishing foods.
“Thank you.” She sat at the table.
Fu Chenyi sat across from her, not touching the food, only observing. His gaze was deep, assessing, layered with a complex, hard-to-describe emotion.
“I heard about what happened today,” he began slowly. “Beautifully done, but bold. By cornering Shen Yanxin, you’ve effectively declared war on Shen Huaishan.”
“I have no way back.” Jiang Mian scooped a spoonful of congee; the temperature was just right.
“I know.” Fu Chenyi paused. “So, this is for you.”
From his suit’s inner pocket, he pulled out a brass key and placed it in front of Jiang Mian. The key was old, teeth worn, and wrapped in a faded red cord.
“This is the key to my father’s study in the old seaside house. After he passed, the study remained locked—no one went in.” His voice dropped. “Inside are things he left for your father. To be precise, things entrusted to your father for safekeeping. Your father likely didn’t have time to tell you before… before it happened.”
Jiang Mian put down her spoon and took the key. Heavy, carrying the chill of time.
“What things?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Fu Chenyi shook his head. “My father only told me: if one day Jiang Mingyuan’s daughter starts seeking the truth, give her the key. He said… it’s the truth about the ‘eyes.’”
Eyes.
Eyes again.
Jiang Mian gripped the key, the rough fibers of the red cord pressing into her palm.
“Why only now?”
“Because before, I felt it wasn’t the right time.” Fu Chenyi looked at her, honest. “You weren’t ready. Knowing too much would put you at risk. But after today… perhaps you are now ready to know more.”
He paused, a rare weariness in his tone:
“Jiang Mian, the further you walk this path, the darker it gets. The Shen family is only the tip of the iceberg. What’s behind that key… could show you a world entirely different.”
“You fear I can’t bear it?” Jiang Mian looked up.
“I fear you…” Fu Chenyi stopped, finally only sighed. “I fear you, like my father and Uncle Jiang, will see too clearly—and not be able to escape.”
Silence settled.
Only the faint hum of cars outside.
“I will go,” Jiang Mian said, securing the key. “Thank you.”
Fu Chenyi nodded, saying no more. They ate the meal in silence.
When they finished and cleared the table, his phone rang. He checked it, frowning, and stepped onto the balcony. Jiang Mian heard a few words: “…Seaside City… Liu Jianmin… movement…”
He returned, expression serious. “There’s news from Seaside City. Liu Jianmin—the former researcher I mentioned—tried contacting a distant relative last night, but lost contact. Our people traced him to a small inn near the dock. The room… shows signs of struggle.”
Jiang Mian’s heart sank.
“The Shen family?”
“Not sure. Could be… another force.” Fu Chenyi rubbed his temple. “I’ll send more people to check. Be extremely careful with the key. Before heading to Seaside City, tell me—I’ll arrange support.”
“Okay.”
After Fu Chenyi left, the room fell silent again.
Jiang Mian walked to her desk, turned on the lamp, and placed the brass key next to her father’s silver key and the signet ring. Three keys, three materials, all pointing—somehow—to the same mystery.
Her phone lit up with a message from Gu Xingye: just three words: “I’m sorry.”
Jiang Mian stared at it. She didn’t reply. She didn’t know why he apologized—his mother’s actions, his past negligence, or something else—but she didn’t want to dwell.
Fatigue washed over her again. She turned off the lamp and lay down, eyes closing, but the day’s images flashed in her mind: Shen Yanxin losing control, Chen Manli’s icy gaze, Lin Xiaoyu’s trembling courage, Director Wang’s final decision, Fu Chenyi’s restrained worry, and Observer-01’s precise, surgical-like message.
“Because I am watching, not just you.”
This Observer-01—how high must he stand to see every piece and undercurrent on the board so clearly?
She whispered to the dark:
“Who… are you?”
No answer expected.
But a moment later, a familiar system tremor reached her.
Golden letters appeared at the edge of her retina, longer than ever before:
“I am the Observer, also the outsider. I watch the trajectories of countless worlds; yours is the most special. You do not belong here, yet are deeply entangled. Cold as ice, yet a fire burns within. I help you because I want to see—where this fire will ultimately illuminate, or… consume itself.”
The letters lingered five seconds, then faded.
Jiang Mian lay in darkness, eyes wide.
Her heart thumped heavy and clear.
He had acknowledged it.
He said “countless worlds.”
He said “you do not belong here.”
He knew she was a transmigrator.
That recognition struck her mind like a silent thunderclap—not fear, but an almost absurd… confirmation.
In this completely alien, hostile world, finally, someone knew exactly who she was and where she came from.
The feeling of being seen—so absolute, so lonely, yet oddly comforting.
She stayed silent until her heartbeat calmed.
Then, speaking lightly yet clearly into the air, she said:
“Then, Mr. Observer, if this fire is destined to burn, will you… watch it all the way?”
The wait was long—so long she almost believed no answer would come.
Just as her eyelids grew heavy, about to fall asleep—
The system gave an unprecedented, gentle, continuous tremor.
No text.
Only a small, warm golden halo, drifting and expanding before her closed eyes like a nebula, finally enveloping her gently.
Like a sigh.
Like an embrace.
Like a silent answer.
Under this warm glow, her tense nerves finally relaxed, and she sank into dreamless sleep.
Unbeknownst to her, after her breathing evened out, the golden halo didn’t immediately vanish. It lingered beside her pillow like a guardian, before gradually disappearing into the darkness.
6:17 a.m. Jiang Mian was awakened by the system’s tremor in her deep consciousness.
Not a phone alarm. Not a notification. A cold trace imprinted directly on her nerves, like a drop of ice water sliding down her spine.
[New Mission Released: Travel to Seaside City, uncover the secret behind the brass key]
[Mission Reward: Points ×1000, Special Item ×1, Memory Fragment ×1]
[Danger Level: High]
[Recommended Preparation: Identity disguise, backup communications, reliable companion (optional)]
[Countdown: 71h 58m]
She opened her eyes, lying quietly in the dim light for three seconds, then slowly sat up.
Her left shoulder had scabbed over; only a faint pull remained when moving. Morning light sliced through the curtains, cutting a sharp patch on the floor where dust floated slowly in the beam.
Barefoot, she walked to the desk.
Three keys glinted differently in the dawn.
The silver key was cold and sharp; the signet ring warm and subdued; the brass key from Fu Chenyi heavy, with a dark, mellow patina from age. She lined them in her palm, the metallic chill seeping through her skin.
Seaside City.
She opened her laptop; the cold screen lighted her pale face. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, booking the earliest flight to Seaside City the day after tomorrow, using Fu Chenyi’s backup identity—Chen Qian, an art consultant for a small curatorial company. Payment via anonymous prepaid card.
Done, she opened her encrypted mailbox.
Two new emails.
The first from Zhou Jian, two lines:
“The device is modified; instructions attached. The Shen family’s second branch has been in frequent contact with Southeast Asian art brokers, seeking something ‘eye-like.’ Stay alert.”
The second email had no sender; the subject line read:
“Supplementary information regarding Song Yun (your mother)’s car accident—perhaps you should check it before going to Seaside.”
The body was empty; only an encrypted attachment. Password hint: “her eyes.”
Jiang Mian tried her mother’s pinyin plus birthday—wrong. Her father’s name plus death anniversary—also wrong.
She stared at the four characters, and suddenly her mind flashed back to what her father had said in locker 107: “The key is in the eye.”
She lifted her left hand and looked at the plain silver ring on her ring finger.
The morning light hit it from the side, and the delicate engraving of an eye on the inner surface of the band caught a faint silver gleam. The golden pattern in the pupil shimmered subtly.
She positioned the ring in front of the computer camera, adjusting the angle so that the engraving perfectly filled the center of the lens.
“Click.”
A faint, almost mechanical unlocking sound came from deep within the device.
The attachment opened.
It was a scanned document, low-resolution, filled with noise, as if photographed with an old-fashioned copier from a paper archive. The cover page bore faded red characters: “Supplementary On-Site Investigation Record of the 713 Traffic Accident (Internal Archive).”
Date: July 13, 2006.
The day of her mother’s accident.
The investigator’s signature was sloppy, but she could just make out the surname “Zhao.”
Jiang Mian scrolled down the page.
The moment her eyes landed on the text, her breath caught for half a second.
“…The vehicle’s front end was severely damaged, consistent with high-speed collision with a guardrail. However, upon secondary examination, the base of the driver’s seatbelt latch showed evidence of non-collision human tampering. The metal break exhibited uniform tool-cut marks, distinctly different from tearing caused by the crash.”
“Under the passenger side floor mat, a metal button was recovered (Evidence No.: TJ-0713-03). Analysis confirmed it did not belong to the deceased, Song Yun, nor to the driver Wang Jianjun on that day. On the back of the button, fine mechanical engravings were found. Under high magnification, the letters ‘S’ and the number ‘7’ could be discerned (font: imitation Song).”
“About 15 meters east of the scene, near the edge of the greenbelt, a set of blurred shoe prints was found (preliminarily size 44). The sole pattern matched ‘Iron Eagle’ tactical boots. These prints were not within the activity paths of either the deceased or the driver. This evidence was not included in the official accident report.”
“Investigation opinion: multiple suspicious points exist in this case; recommend transfer to the criminal investigation department for thorough inquiry.* Directive: Handle as a standard traffic accident. Do not escalate, to avoid adverse consequences. Signature: Shen (illegible handwriting).”
The last few pages contained photographs, scanned from the originals.
The crash site was horrific—twisted metal, shattered glass.
Close-ups of the seatbelt latch, the fractured metal gleaming coldly under the flash.
The button’s microscopic photo revealed the S7 engraving with piercing clarity.
And one more.
A distant, blurry shot, seemingly captured by accident. A tall man’s back as he turned and walked away toward the edge of the trees. The pixels were too low to see details, only a dark jacket, long strides, and a trained, precise posture disappearing into shadow.
Not an accident.
A murder.
Deliberate, premeditated.
Jiang Mian leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The familiar icy tightness in her stomach returned. As a transmigrator, she had no blood ties to Song Yun, but the word murder, and the naked malice and scheming behind it, was enough to make any normal person physically uneasy.
Her mother had been silenced for knowing something, for seeing something.
Her father had followed that trail—and paid the price.
And now, she was walking the same path, step by step, toward the vortex that had swallowed them both.
S7.
What did it mean? A code? An organization symbol? A project number? Or a personal mark?
She encrypted the document deep in her folders, locking it layer by layer. Then she picked up her phone and messaged Fu Chenyu:
“I’m flying to Binhai City the day after tomorrow. Also, I need everything you can find related to the combination of letter ‘S’ and number ‘7’—logos, codes, organizations, or project info. The older, the better. Focus especially on the 60s to 80s, possibly linked to ‘special research.’”
Fu Chenyu replied almost instantly:
“Understood. Send me your flight info; I’ll arrange pick-up. Some of this info is sensitive, so I’ll need time. You’ll have it by tomorrow night at the latest. Stay safe, Jiang Mian.”
He signed with her full name.
Jiang Mian stared at the screen for two seconds, then put the phone down. The doorbell rang.
Through the peephole, Zhou Jian was leaning against the hallway wall outside, twirling a small silver USB drive. He wore a black stand-collar jacket, looking like he’d just come from somewhere that required discretion.
She opened the door.
“Morning.” Zhou Jian tossed the USB drive, and she caught it. It rolled half a turn in her palm, cold to the touch.
“I modified it as you requested. Outwardly, everything seems normal. It will periodically transmit trivial footage and audio. The real control is in this USB—you plug it into a computer, and you can see everything the camera captures, even inject preset audio remotely.”
He paused, lips curling into a faintly cold smile:
“I suggest putting it back where it belongs, or… somewhere more ‘interesting.’ Like Shen Yanxin’s vanity, or Chen Manli’s study.”
Jiang Mian secured the USB. “Any concrete info about the Shen family’s second branch and the Southeast Asian art brokers?”
Zhou Jian stepped in, casually closing the door, leaning against the wall at the entrance. Light from the hallway cast clear shadows across his face.
“They’re looking for an object,” he said quietly, a hint of excitement like a predator. “Supposedly from a batch of ‘scientific relics’ that leaked years ago through a ‘special channel.’ Its shape is unusual—like a giant eye, or some artificial crystalline lens. Asking price starts at eight figures in USD.”
Eye.
Again.
Jiang Mian’s heart skipped a beat. She recalled the photo in locker 107 of her father holding a transparent container with a floating eyeball, pupil marked with intricate golden patterns.
Gamma-7 sample.
The key carrier mentioned in her father’s notes.
Could the Shen family’s second branch—or the forces behind them—be searching for that?
“Understood,” she said calmly. “Thank you.”
Zhou Jian looked at her and suddenly asked, “How many days will you be gone?”
Jiang Mian met his gaze.
“Binhai City.” Zhou Jian smirked faintly, eyes gleaming with understanding. “No need to hide it; I have my sources. It’s a deep place. The Shen family has been rooted there for over a decade. Need help?”
“Not for now,” she shook her head, calm. “If I do, I’ll ask.”
“Alright.” Zhou Jian didn’t ask more. He turned, opened the door, then paused just before stepping out and glanced back.
Hallway light washed over him, his expression half-lit.
“Jiang Mian,” he said, voice quieter than usual, but every word clear, “don’t die there. If you die, this game stops being fun.”
He spoke casually, like a joke.
But Jiang Mian heard the underlying truth—a genuine, even caring warning.
“I won’t die,” she said.
Zhou Jian smiled faintly and left.
She was alone again.
Sitting at her desk, she looked at her flight order for the day after tomorrow, the encrypted emails on the screen, the three keys at hand, and the modified camera.
The chessboard had reached Binhai City.
Her opponents were not just Shen Yanxin and Chen Manli.
The mystery surrounding her parents’ deaths was pulling in older secrets and far more dangerous forces.
In the shadows, Observer-01 watched and assisted; in plain sight, Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian hovered between help and distance, while Gu Xingye’s gaze remained complicated and elusive.
Her task was to move forward.
Peel back each layer of lies.
Find every piece of truth.
Survive.
She clutched the brass key tightly in her palm. The edges dug into her skin, the sharp pain sharpening her mind.
Then, she opened the system interface.
Her points balance flickered faintly. The mission countdown ticked down by the second.
Finally, she spoke to the void, softly but clearly:
“Mr. Observer, I’m going to Binhai City. Can you see it from there?”
A few seconds of silence, only the low hum of the air conditioner.
Then the familiar micro-vibration arrived.
At the edge of her vision, golden text slowly appeared, clearer and steadier than ever:
“Wherever you go, I observe.”
“This path is dangerous, the undercurrents fierce. But you may use this object to call me once when in desperate need.”
[System Notice: Acquired Special Item “One-Way Communication Talisman (Single Use)” ×1]
[Description: Can break dimensional barriers to send one message not exceeding twenty characters. Single use only.]
A small icon, glowing softly golden, floated quietly in her inventory—like a silent protective charm.
Jiang Mian stared at it for a long time.
Then, her lips curved slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
This time, no text replied.
But sunlight outside seemed to grow suddenly warm and bright, streaming through the thick curtains, bathing her in comfort.
The warmth wasn’t harsh; it felt like a sunlit afternoon quilt, soft and reassuring.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
By evening, Jiang Mian began packing simple luggage for Binhai City.
A carry-on suitcase, a few sets of casual clothes, necessary documents and electronics, and the three keys—each hidden in the suitcase compartments, an inner pocket of her backpack, and a pendant necklace.
While sorting through old items in the study, she found a dust-covered hardbound notebook at the bottom of the bookshelf.
It wasn’t her father’s. On the title page was a neat handwritten note: “To Xiao Mian’s Growth Diary—Mom.”
Her mother, Song Yun’s handwriting.
Jiang Mian dusted off the cover, stood for a moment, then opened it.
The first page was dated October 2001, shortly after her birth.
The entries were trivial and warm, filled with the flustered joy of a new mother:
“Xiao Mian smiled today, even if it was just an unconscious muscle twitch, I feel she was smiling at me.”
“Spit-up all over me—need to buy a better bottle tomorrow.”
She flipped quickly.
The diary entries became less frequent as she grew, but still gentle in tone. Around 2005, the handwriting grew hurried, and the content subtly changed:
“Dad came today, looking very serious. He spoke with Mingyuan in the study for a long time. I brought tea and overheard them mention ‘data leaks’ and ‘safe house.’ I felt uneasy.”
“Mingyuan has been coming home later and later, smelling of lab disinfectant. He said the project reached a critical stage. But I see the fatigue in his eyes… and something else I don’t understand.”
The last entry stopped on July 12, 2006.
The day before the accident.
It was very short:
“Met Dad. He was worried. Gave me an encrypted micro-storage chip, saying if anything happens in the future, give it to Mingyuan—or… wait until Xiao Mian grows up and can protect herself, then give it to her.”
“I stored the chip in the bank’s independent safe (No.: B-07, password: Xiao Mian’s birthday reversed + my initials). Hope I never have to use it.”
“Xiao Mian, Mom loves you. Always.”
The diary ended abruptly.
Her heart pounded heavily in her chest.
The bank’s independent safe. No. B-07. Password: her birthday reversed plus her mother’s initial.
The day before the accident, her mother had stored a critical item—a secure micro-storage chip—in a bank safe. The clue to open it was hidden in the growth diary left for her daughter.
The clue was abstract, numeric, a password—the mother’s final key, left in the most discreet way, anticipating danger.
Jiang Mian carefully placed the diary in a compartment of her carry-on.
Binhai City awaited.
But before that, she would first go to the bank.
Outside, night slowly swallowed the skyline, city lights flickering on, forming a glittering yet cold sea of illumination.
A new search was about to begin, before dawn.
And the dark currents of Binhai City already surged silently beneath the distant horizon.