With the last spiritual signatures dissipating and the cameras powered down, the environment stabilized into something approaching normalcy. Su Yao walked straight to the control van, pushing the door open to find Jian Feng half-rising from his chair, his face a mixture of rage and relief.
“You, you used her as bait!” he spat. His voice was weak but venomous. “You put her in unimaginable danger! If you had been a second slower—”
“She was never in danger,” Su Yao interrupted. Her voice was flat as she scanned the monitor showing the now-empty room. “The variables were controlled. The outcome was certain. Your concern, while theatrically appropriate, is biologically wasteful.”
She turned to face him fully. Her gaze was utterly dismissive. “See? She is perfectly fine. Her spiritual constitution is now stabilized. She is arguably safer now than she has ever been in her life. The only thing that nearly killed her today was your insistence on drinking her soup.”
Director Luo, buzzing with adrenaline, rushed into the van. “Xiao Ling! That was television history! We need to capitalize! When can we film the next one? Where?”
Su Yao nodded, already moving past Jian Feng’s sputtering. “Precisely. The hospital was a viable location. But we can’t overuse it. The spiritual ecosystem here is now depleted.”
She said it like a farmer discussing a harvested field.
Su Yao pulled out a tablet and brought up a map of the city. Her finger tapped on various points. “We need locations with a high concentration of unresolved spiritual residue. Places of sudden death, prolonged suffering, or broken vows.”
Her finger landed on an old, decaying bridge known for a high number of suicides. “The Blackwater Bridge. The despair there should be potent.”
With a swipe, the display shifted to an abandoned cinema that had burned down decades ago, trapping dozens inside. “The Phoenix Theater. Trapped souls, intense fear.” Then, a former industrial plant with a history of fatal accidents. “The Iron Heart Mill. Lingering anguish and betrayal.”
Her gaze lifted to Director Luo, eyes gleaming with a cold, professional light. “The bait is proven. The method is flawless. Now, we simply need to rotate the hunting grounds. Schedule the next shoot for the bridge in forty-eight hours. I will make sure Li Xiu is prepared.”
Jian Feng could only watch. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. He was witnessing his fiancée being treated as a piece of high-end equipment, her safety reduced to a calculated variable in a ratings war.
The worst part was, Su Yao was right. Li Xiu was fine. She was glowing with a health he'd never seen, already discussing the shoot calmly with a makeup artist.
Su Yao finished her briefing and walked out of the van without even granting him a second glance. As she passed Li Xiu, she said simply, “Rest. Hydrate. The next location will be more aggressive.”
Li Xiu nodded. A serene, almost otherworldly smile was on her face. “I understand.”
Already planning the logistics, Su Yao’s thoughts moved ahead as she walked on. The world was full of lost, hungry spirits. She had the perfect, prettiest net to catch them all.
The steady flow of money from Spirit Magnet soon transformed Su Yao’s life from one of frugal anxiety to one of casual abundance. Her bank account was fat, and she saw no reason to let it languish. Mortal pleasures, while simple, had their charms.
She summoned Zhang Wei with a single text: Mall. Now. Your arms will be useful.
He arrived, still visibly wary after the doppelgänger incident, but too intimidated and perhaps still too hopeful to refuse. He became her silent, obedient pack mule. His arms gradually disappeared under a growing mountain of shopping bags filled with clothes, gadgets, and anything else that caught Su Yao’s fleeting interest.
“Aren’t you tired?” Zhang Wei finally ventured. His voice was strained as he adjusted the bags.
“Tiredness is a physiological response to weakness,” Su Yao replied as she led him into an upscale, modern hot pot restaurant. “I am not weak. And you are here to mitigate the inconvenience. Now, we eat.”
She commandeered a prime table and ordered enough food for six people with a casual wave of her hand. As the plates began to arrive, a waitress approached with their drinks.
“Your ordered beverages,” the girl said. Her head was bowed, carefully setting down the trays.
Su Yao’s eyes, which had been scanning the menu for dessert, flicked up. The voice was familiar. So was the posture.
The waitress was Wong Lei.
Wong Lei finally looked up, her eyes meeting Su Yao’s. A wave of panic and shame washed over her face. She clutched the empty tray to her chest like a shield. “X-Xiao Ling…”
Su Yao looked her over, from the cheap, ill-fitting uniform to the tired shadows under her eyes. “Wong Lei. I see your career in amateur exorcism didn’t pan out.”
Wong Lei flushed a deep red. “I, I need the money. My talisman habit is expensive.” She tried to force a laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob.
Zhang Wei looked between them, uncomfortable.
“Hmm,” Su Yao mused, picking up her chopsticks. “An inefficient use of your time. But your life, your choices.” She gestured to the spread of food. “You may go. The service is adequate.”
The dismissal was absolute. Wong Lei stood there for a second, humiliated, then scurried away back to the kitchen, nearly colliding with another waiter.
Zhang Wei stared after her. “That was harsh. She’s our classmate.”
“Was she?” Su Yao asked, dipping a slice of prime beef into the bubbling broth. “I recall her trying to exorcise me with a wet piece of paper. Our relationship has evolved. Now, she brings me drinks, and I don’t turn her into one. That seems a fair equilibrium.”
She ate with focused enjoyment. The plight of Wong Lei was already forgotten. Her meat was tender and the broth was flavorful. The boy she’d once considered a boyfriend was hauling her possessions. Life as a wealthy, reincarnated demon fox was proving to be surprisingly agreeable.
“Eat,” she commanded Zhang Wei, who was still staring toward the kitchen. “The food is getting cold. And there are still three more floors of this mall to conquer.”
As the meal wound down, the mountain of shopping bags leaning against Zhang Wei’s chair, Su Yao made her move. With a flick of her wrist so casual it was invisible, the last of the three pearl-like pills tumbled from her sleeve and dissolved instantly into the rich, savory broth of Zhang Wei’s unfinished noodle soup.
He was too busy trying to calculate the weight of the bags and the distance to the next store to notice. A moment later, he absently scooped up the last of the soup and swallowed it.
Su Yao watched. Her expression was one of detached curiosity.
Zhang Wei wiped his mouth with a napkin and let out a small, satisfied burp.
“Ready to go?” he asked, already dreading the answer.
Su Yao observed him for a moment longer. His spiritual aura remained as dull and unremarkable as ever. The pill, which had refined Li Xiu into a spiritual beacon and seemingly unlocked something ancient in Mei, had done absolutely nothing for him. It was like throwing a seed onto barren stone.
As expected, she thought. Her internal diagnosis was swift and final. His potential is fundamentally inert. No amount of spiritual fertilizer can make a rock bear fruit.
She felt the satisfaction of a confirmed hypothesis. The pills were a useful metric. Li Xiu had high latent sensitivity. Mei had something else entirely. Zhang Wei had nothing.
“Yes,” she said, standing up. “The home electronics section is next. You will need your strength for the new gaming console I intend to purchase.”
Zhang Wei groaned inwardly but obediently gathered the bags. His arms complained. He felt exactly the same as he had five minutes ago, just a guy carrying too many shopping bags for a girl who sometimes scared him.
Su Yao zeroed in on the most powerful, expensive gaming console available, along with every accessory and a library of games. She paid without glancing at the total, gesturing for the stunned clerk to stack the boxes on top of Zhang Wei’s already precarious mountain of bags.
She turned to him with a rare, uncharacteristic softness in her eyes. “This is for you, Zhang Wei. All of it. You deserve it.”
Zhang Wei stood swaying under the weight. “Ling Ling, this is too much. I can’t accept all this.”
Su Yao glanced at him, genuinely perplexed. “Why not? it’s compensation for your services today. This is your payment.”
“But it’s a fortune!” he protested. His pride finally sparked. “It doesn’t feel right.”
Su Yao sighed, a sound of impatience with mortal sentimentality. “Fine. Think of it as me lending it to you. Indefinitely.”
Zhang Wei blinked. “Indefinitely?”
“Yes. The console, the games, they reside at your residence. You may use them. For as long as I see no need to repossess them.” Her gaze was flat, leaving no room for argument. “The terms are simple: enjoy it until I decide otherwise. Is that ‘right’ enough for your delicate sensibilities?”
It was a temporary placement of assets. A lease with no defined end date, entirely contingent on her continued amusement. In its own way, it was even more controlling than a gift.
Zhang Wei looked from the expensive boxes to Su Yao’s unyielding face. His desire for the console warred with the chilling understanding of the strings attached. The strings were invisible, but he knew they were there, wrapped around his neck.
“Okay,” he mumbled, defeated. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You are welcome,” Su Yao said. Her tone made it clear the transaction was complete. “Now, take everything to your home. I have other matters to attend to.”
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, buried under a small fortune that felt more like a shackle.
As she disappeared into the crowd, Zhang Wei looked down at the top box, the sleek console promising endless escape. All he could think about was the look in her eyes when she said “indefinitely.” It was a word that sounded an awful lot like “forever,” and a forever tied to Xiao Ling was a terrifying prospect.
The experiment was logged. Now, she needed to check on her more interesting variables. Specifically, what her newly serene and unsettlingly calm best friend was up to.
She found them in the brightly lit, sterile kitchen of Li Xiu’s penthouse apartment. The scene was so domestically surreal it gave her pause.
Mei stood beside Li Xiu. Her usual chaotic energy was replaced by a statuesque calm. She was guiding Li Xiu’s hands, which held a chef’s knife, in a precise julienne cut on a carrot.
“Cut with intention,” Mei instructed. Her voice was a low, measured hum. “The blade is an extension of your will. The vegetable is a component to be understood.”
Li Xiu, the billionaire heiress, was listening with the intense focus of a novice monk. Sweat beaded on her forehead. “Like channeling spiritual energy?”
“Exactly,” Mei said. A faint, knowing smile was on her lips. “But subtler. The goal is harmony. Your previous attempts failed because you tried to dominate the ingredients. You must collaborate with them.”
Su Yao leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “A culinary lesson. How enlightening.”
Both girls jumped. Li Xiu nearly cut her finger. Mei turned slowly. Her gaze met Su Yao’s. There was no surprise in her eyes, only a deep, unsettling serenity.
“Ling Ling,” Mei said. “We’re attempting to rectify a critical weakness. A warrior must be able to sustain herself. Especially if her aura makes ordering takeout a spiritual hazard for the delivery driver.”
Li Xiu blushed deeply. “I can’t have what happened to Jian Feng happen to an innocent person!”
“A noble goal,” Su Yao conceded, stepping into the kitchen. She picked up a piece of the perfectly julienned carrot. “Though I question the teacher. Your expertise, Mei, was previously limited to instant noodles and stolen pork buns.”
“Knowledge sleeps in strange places. Sometimes it wakes up.” Mei took the knife from Li Xiu and demonstrated a fluid, effortless slicing motion. The carrot fell into perfect, paper-thin discs. “It’s all about memory. Muscle memory. Soul memory.”
Su Yao watched. Her ancient eyes narrowed slightly. This was proficiency that spoke of lifetimes of practice. The pill had unlocked a deep, skill-based memory.
“See, Yan’er?” Mei said, handing the knife back. “Collaboration. Not force.”
Li Xiu tried again. Her movements were noticeably smoother, more confident.
“The student shows promise,” Su Yao observed dryly. “Try not to poison your fiancé again. The network needs him conscious, if not useful.”
She left them to their lesson. The sound of careful knife work followed her out. The pieces were still moving on the board. Her bait was learning culinary arts from a best friend who was becoming a repository of ancient skills.
It was unconventional, but Su Yao had always appreciated adaptations. If this kept Li Xiu from accidentally creating spiritual bio-weapons, it was a net positive.
Several hours of diligent culinary training passed. Li Xiu’s knife skills had become impeccable. Her movements were graceful and precise under Mei’s unnervingly calm guidance. The ingredients were prepped with an almost artistic symmetry. The aromas rising from the pot were actually pleasant.
Su Yao, observing from the kitchen doorway, felt a flicker of something rare: cautious optimism. Perhaps the combination of Li Xiu’s refined spiritual constitution and Mei’s mysterious infusion of ancient knowledge had finally conquered the culinary curse.
“The harmony of flavors is crucial,” Mei was saying. Her voice was a soothing monotone. “The ginger must speak to the scallion.”
“I think it’s ready,” Li Xiu said, ladling a portion of a beautifully clear broth with perfectly floating vegetables and slivers of chicken into a delicate ceramic bowl. She turned to Su Yao. Her expression was hopeful, yet still bearing the regal poise the pill had instilled. “Xiao Ling? Would you like to try it? I need an objective opinion.”
It was a moment of monumental weakness. Su Yao, the Nine-Tailed Heavenly Fox who had faced down heavenly tribulations, was felled by a combination of scientific curiosity and a faint, foolish hope. She nodded. Her expression was regally indifferent. “A small sample. For quality assessment.”
She accepted the bowl. The broth smelled fragrant. The presentation was flawless. She raised the spoon to her lips. Her millennia of experience detected no immediate spiritual poison or clashing energies. It seemed stable so she took a sip.
For a single, blissful second, it tasted like superior chicken soup. Then, the aftertaste hit.
It was a subtle, insidious wrongness that bypassed the palate and went straight for the soul. The harmonious ingredients Mei had spoken of were, in fact, engaged in a vicious, silent war in her mouth. Their energies curdled into a metaphysical toxin that attacked the very core of her being.
Su Yao’s eyes widened infinitesimally. She carefully placed the spoon back in the bowl.
“Well?” Li Xiu asked. Her hope shone brightly.
Su Yao opened her mouth to deliver a scathing critique, but all that came out was a soft, choked gasp. A wave of dizzying nausea washed over her. The world tilted.
“The scallion,” she managed to whisper. Her vision was tunneling. “Is a traitor.”
Then, the great Su Yao, slayer of cults and master of television exorcisms, swayed on her feet. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the pristine kitchen floor in an undignified heap, out cold.
Darkness, thick and absolute, swallowed Su Yao. It was a turbulent, nauseating whirlpool spun from spiritual dissonance. Then, as abruptly as it began, it vanished.
Her eyes snapped open.
Su Yao was reclining on a dais of flawless white jade, in a pavilion open to a sky swirled with eternal sunset. The air hummed with latent power. Behind her, nine magnificent tails fanned out. Each thrummed with enough energy to shatter mountains.
She was wearing her own silks, fine enough to clothe a dynasty. In her hand was a cup of that immortal peach wine.
Su Yao was home, at last. In the Jade Mountain Banquet Hall. In her true body, the body of the Nine-Tailed Heavenly Fox.
A lesser being might have been shocked. Su Yao simply took a slow sip from her cup. The taste was a familiar explosion of divinity on her tongue.
So, she thought. Her eyes scanned the empty, silent hall. It seems the scallion was more of a traitor than I thought.
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face.
This was no mere memory. The sensory details were too perfect. The weight of her power was too tangible. Her human body was undoubtedly lying incapacitated on a mortal kitchen floor. Her consciousness had retreated here, to the core of her being.
A pleasant side effect of the spiritual poisoning, she mused, swirling the wine in her cup. It has temporarily shattered the barriers. This was a dream, but a dream with the texture of reality. And since it was a dream, there were no consequences.
She could truly relax.
“What shall I do first?” she wondered aloud. Her voice echoed pleasantly in the grand hall.
With a snap of her fingers, a dozen ethereal servants filled the silent pavilion. Their forms were woven from moonlight and shadow, bowing low. The air shimmered, and a feast materialized on the long, absent tables.
“Music,” she commanded.
From the shadows, a quartet of skeletal musicians, their bones carved from ivory and jade, began to play a haunting, familiar melody that had once made celestials weep with joy.
It was good. But it was predictable, a memory of a past pleasure.
She wanted something new. Something this dream-scape could provide.
Her eyes narrowed in thought. Then, another idea, more indulgent, sparked.
She raised a hand, and the scene shifted. The pavilion vanished, replaced by the star-strewn void of the cosmos. Below her feet swirled a nebula of impossible colors. Before her, chained in light, appeared the shimmering, terrified form of a minor celestial dragon she had once imprisoned for insulting her wine and disgracing every legend ever told about dragons.
“You call yourself a dragon,” she said softly, the words cutting sharper than any blade. “A creature meant to embody majesty and flame, yet you possess neither spine nor splendor. You are a disappointment, an echo of greatness without the substance to deserve the name.”
The chains flared brighter as the dragon whimpered, its celestial scales dimming. She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “There are legends of carp that struggle upstream, leap the heavenly gate, and earn the right to become dragons through perseverance and will. Those stories are meant to inspire.”
“But you?” she continued. “You should have remained in the river. A carp knows its place, its currents, its limits. As a dragon, you are a living proof that not every creature deserves the transformation it is given.”
Her eyes hardened. “To be a true dragon is to inspire awe. You inspire only regret that such a title could ever have been wasted on you.”
In the real world, she’d eventually grown bored and released him. But here? In this consequence-free dream?
She pointed at the dragon. “Your scales look dull. Entertain me. Shed them. Create a meteor shower.”
The dragon, confused and terrified, had no choice. It roared, and its scales flew off, burning through the void like a thousand brilliant comets.
Su Yao watched, sipping her wine. It was beautiful. Pointless, but beautiful.
She leaned back on a throne of solidified starlight. A contented sigh escaped her lips. For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, she felt utterly, completely at home.
Yes, she thought, watching the dragon exhaust itself creating fireworks for her amusement. I’ll stay a little longer.