For a beat, Mei was silent. The steam curled between them, carrying the sharp scent of chilies. Then something in her expression shifted. Her amusement folded into calculation. Her posture straightened just slightly.
Mei set down her chopsticks and leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a businesslike tone. “The contract needs specific language. ‘Creative control,’ is too vague. You want ‘final editorial authority over target selection and methodological execution.’ You want ‘unrestricted access to the spiritual asset archive for research and development purposes.”
Su Yao watched her. A flicker of genuine curiosity broke through her planned provocation. “How do you know the precise terminology?”
Mei typed furiously. “I’m minoring in pre-law. My parents said writing web novels wasn’t a real career. I figured I’d become a lawyer by day. Better to know the rules if you’re going to break them, right?”
She finally glanced up, a sly grin on her face. “Also, contract law is basically just fantasy world-building with more paperwork. It’s all about creating systems, loopholes, and consequences.”
Showing Su Yao a bulleted list, she turned the phone around. “Here’s your opening bid. We ask for everything. They’ll counter. We let them think they’ve won by conceding on things that don’t matter, like a smaller percentage of merchandising rights. But we hold firm on the archive access and target selection. That’s your true objective.”
Su Yao took the phone, scanning the list. It was ruthless, practical, and perfectly aligned with her goal of systematically dismantling the enemy’s resources on live television.
“This is adequate,” Su Yao said. A note of approval entered her voice. She handed the phone back. “Proceed. Handle the negotiations.”
Mei beamed. The professional mask slipped for a second into pure glee. “Yes! I’ll draft the email to Director Luo tonight. He’s so desperate to keep you, he’ll agree to almost anything.” She giggled. The sound now held a darkly mischievous edge. “He has no idea he’s signing a contract for you to eat his entire business model.”
“That is the intention,” Su Yao said, returning to her meal. The hot pot tasted better than ever.
That night, Su Yao read the draft email on Mei’s laptop. Her eyes scanned the text with the speed of a being who had once memorized entire libraries in an afternoon.
Subject: Proposal for Spirit Magnet: Phase Two - A New Paradigm in Spiritual Reality Programming
To: Director Luo From: Mei Mingzhu (On behalf of Xiao Ling)
Director Luo,
Current ratings indicate viewer appetite is shifting towards definitive, conclusive resolutions. The era of simple banishments is over. The audience craves finality.
To maintain our competitive edge and capitalize on Xiao Ling’s unique capabilities, we propose a new format, tentatively titled ‘Spirit Magnet: Purification.’ This format requires a restructuring of our contractual agreement to maximize its impact.
Key terms for negotiation:
Xiao Ling is granted final editorial authority over all target selection and methodological execution during field operations. This is non-negotiable for ensuring authentic, high-impact content.
Unrestricted, full-access privileges to the network’s complete spiritual asset archive, including all unaired footage and classified case files, for the purpose of advanced research and target analysis.
A revised compensation structure reflecting the increased risk and exclusivity of this new format.
We are confident this evolution will shatter ratings records and establish Golden Dragon Channel as the undisputed leader in spiritual media. We look forward to your prompt response.
Sincerely, Mei
Su Yao’s lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile. The wording was perfect. It was a masterclass in corporate predation, wrapping her true intent in the bland, irresistible language of profit and market trends. The phrase “final editorial authority over methodological execution” was particularly elegant. It gave her carte blanche to consume every spirit on camera.
“Adequate?” Mei asked, hovering nervously.
“More than adequate,” Su Yao said, closing the laptop. “The phrasing ‘increased risk’ is a particularly nice touch. It implies I am the one at risk.”
“Right? He’ll be so focused on the money part, he won’t even see the trap,” Mei said, grinning. “I’ll send it now. He’ll probably call us first thing in the morning, panicking.”
Mei sent the email with a soft click. It was a seemingly mundane action. But in Su Yao’s mind, it was the equivalent of a gauntlet thrown down, a declaration of war written not in blood, but in legally binding prose.
The puppeteer wanted to build an army. Su Yao had just hired a lawyer and a TV crew to help her eat it.
Meanwhile, the bureaucratic wheels of a television network turned infuriatingly slowly. There had been no definitive answer from Director Luo in the upcoming days, only frantic emails asking for ‘clarifications’ and ‘risk assessment reports.’
Su Yao observed the delay with cold amusement. It was like watching ants carefully measuring the poison before carrying it into their nest.
During this lull, her aunt bustled into her room one Saturday morning, beaming. “A-Ling! With things so stable now, we have to think about your future! You're a top graduate! We can afford it! I've booked us a campus tour at Duwang University!”
She looked up from a textbook she was memorizing out of sheer habit. “University. A higher tier of organized tedium.”
“Don't be like that! It’s a top university! You could study business! Or communications!” her aunt chirped, undeterred. “The campus is beautiful. Just come see it for me?”
Su Yao sighed internally. Maintaining the human facade required occasional participation in these mundane rituals. “Very well. I will treat it as a survey of the territory.”
The university campus was everything she expected, filled by sprawling lawns, pretentious brick buildings, and herds of students shuffling between classes with a mix of ambition and exhaustion. Her aunt chattered excitedly with a tour guide. Su Yao’s sharp eyes cataloged it all with disdain. It was a factory for producing slightly more specialized cogs for the mortal machine.
Then, as they rounded a corner near the business school, she saw him.
Jian Feng.
He was holding court under a large oak tree, surrounded by a group of fawning underclassmen. A crisp, expensive-looking sweater framed him as he spoke with the same condescending authority he used on set, now turned toward what sounded like a lecture on market fluctuations. The scene painted him as the picture of the successful university elite, a far cry from the soup-poisoned invalid she’d last seen.
Their eyes met across the quad.
Jian Feng’s smooth delivery faltered. His smile stiffened, then vanished completely. The aura of easy confidence cracked, replaced by a flicker of pure, undiluted panic. He quickly looked away, trying to recompose himself. The damage was done.
Su Yao’s aunt followed her gaze. “Oh! Isn't that the handsome young man from your show? Jian Feng? He goes here? What a small world!”
“The world is insignificantly small,” Su Yao murmured. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. She altered her course, walking directly toward him. Her aunt, confused but curious, followed.
Jian Feng’s fan club parted as Su Yao approached, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere.
“Senior Jian,” Su Yao said. Her voice was sweetly poisonous. “What a surprise. I see you've recovered fully from your gastrointestinal distress. Your complexion is much improved.”
Jian Feng’s ears turned red. His friends looked at him, confused. “Xiao Ling,” he managed. His voice was tight. “What are you doing here?”
“Considering my educational options,” she replied. Her gaze swept dismissively over his group. “It seems a prudent backup plan, in case one’s television career is cut short by unforeseen dietary hazards.”
One of his friends, a braver soul, piped up. “Jian Feng is top of his class! He’s already interning at his fiancée’s family conglomerate!”
Su Yao’s smile widened. “How impressive. To have one’s path so thoroughly paved by matrimonial connections. It must save a great deal of effort on actual merit.” She looked directly at Jian Feng. “I, however, prefer to build my own foundations. They tend to be more stable.”
She turned to her aunt. “The facilities are adequate, but the student body seems lacking in resilience. I believe I have seen enough.”
The encounter with Jian Feng left a pleasant aftertaste of petty victory, but as Su Yao and her aunt walked toward the campus exit, a different, far more potent flavor caught her attention. It was a spiritual signature that was dense, ancient, and steeped in a familiar corruption.
A powerful evil spirit was nearby. Its energy was intricately, intimately intertwined with Jian Feng’s own aura.
She made an excuse to her aunt about wanting to see the library alone and doubled back, following the scent like a shark following blood in the water.
She found her, hidden in the shadow of the clock tower. The spirit appeared as a young woman, beautiful but with eyes that held a bottomless hunger and a deep, sorrowful love. She was staring with heartbreaking intensity at Jian Feng, who was now walking away with his friends, oblivious.
The spirit sensed Su Yao’s approach and whirled around. Her form flickered with defensive menace. “Stay away from him,” she hissed. Her voice was a blend of a whisper and a roar.
Su Yao tilted her head, analyzing. “Your connection to him is maternal. A tether of devotion. Unusual for a spirit of your caliber.”
The spirit recoiled as if struck. “You can see that?”
“I see everything. You linger for love. Yet you reek of consumed souls. Explain the contradiction.”
Pride mixed with shame on the spirit’s face. “I died when he was a baby. I couldn’t leave him. I wanted to watch him grow.”
Her gaze softened as she looked after her son. “To stay, I needed energy. At first, it was just weak, wandering ghosts as nourishment. A means to an end.”
Just then, her expression darkened. The hunger in her eyes flared. “But then, I tasted it. The power. The vitality. Each spirit I consumed made me stronger, let me linger longer, see him clearer. It was so easy. One became ten. Ten became a hundred. The love that kept me here became the excuse for the hunger.”
She looked at her own translucent hands with disgust. “The mother who wanted to protect her son had become a monster that other monsters fear. I became what I am to stay for him, and in doing so, I became something he would need to be protected from.”
Su Yao listened, utterly still. A strange, unwelcome feeling stirred within her. It was recognition.
I wasn’t always a glutton, either.
The thought surfaced from a depth she rarely visited. Once, the Jade Mountain Banquet had been about celebration, artistry, and the joy of existence. The consumption of powerful essences had been a sacrament, not staple.
But over the millennia, the joy had faded. Only the hunger remained. The means had become the end.
They were alike. This tragic spirit was a distorted mirror of her own descent.
“Your story is tragically mundane,” Su Yao said. Her voice lacked its usual mockery. It was a simple statement of fact. “You are an addict who mistakes her addiction for a mission.”
The spirit flinched. “What else do I have?”
Su Yao considered ending her. It would be a mercy, and a tasty one. But the recognition stayed her hand. “Your son is a coward and a fool,” Su Yao stated. “But your corruption is, in its own way, a purer motive than his ambition.”
She turned to leave. “Continue your vigil. But know this: if your hunger ever outweighs your love and you attempt to harm a mortal, I will consider you just another meal. Your sentimental backstory will not save you twice.”
Su Yao took three steps, then paused. She half-turned back toward the spirit. A grin that was all teeth and no warmth sliced across her face.
“Just kidding,” she said. Her voice was light and mocking. “The part about the ‘purer motive.’ That was a joke. There’s nothing pure about you. You're a sentimental parasite who’s too weak to let go. Your love is just the flavoring on your gluttony.”
The spirit stared. Her ethereal form trembled with confusion and fresh fear.
“Feel free to do anything you want,” Su Yao continued with a dismissive wave. “Lurk. Pine. Consume a few lesser ghosts for old time’s sake. I really don't care. Just two pieces of advice.”
She held up a finger. “First, don't catch the attention of the wrong people. There are things out there that would string you up as a decorative trophy.” A second finger joined the first. “And second, try not to get eaten by a bigger evil spirit. It would be a pathetically anticlimactic end to your little sob story.”
Su Yao paused again. A new thought struck her. She turned back a final time. Her expression shifted to one of mild, transactional interest.
“Actually, since I've generously offered such valuable advice and refrained from turning you into a light snack,” she said, tapping her chin, “a consultation fee is in order. Consider it a toll for continued existence.”
The spirit shrank back. “I, I have nothing to offer a being like you.”
“Information,” Su Yao stated. “About Jian Feng. You've been watching him his entire life. You must know things. Useful things. Weaknesses. Secrets.”
A flicker of maternal protectiveness crossed the spirit’s face. “You want to harm him?”
“I want leverage. The two are often synonymous. Now, talk.”
The spirit hesitated, but the threat of annihilation was potent. She began to speak. Her voice was a whisper of shame and love. “He’s afraid of earthworms. Truly, deeply afraid. He wet the bed until he was nine.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if bracing herself, then went on. “He once tried to impress a girl by claiming he could speak to birds, and when she asked for a demonstration, he stood in the park making choking noises until she left. He still sleeps with a tattered stuffed rabbit named Mr. Floppy that he hides under his pillow. He has a birthmark on his—”
“Stop,” Su Yao commanded. Her face was a mask of utter disgust. She had been expecting blackmail material like hidden scandals, secret alliances, or illicit cultivation techniques. “You call them secrets? These are childhood embarrassments.”
The spirit looked defensive. “They're vulnerabilities! They're precious!”
“They're useless,” Su Yao snapped. “I can’t threaten a rival cultivator by announcing his enduring affection for a stuffed rabbit. This has been a waste of my time. Your debt remains unpaid.”
She shot the spirit a final, withering glare. “The next time I see you, have better information. Or just be tastier. It’s simpler for everyone.”
Su Yao turned to leave once more, but a nagging irritation clawed at the back of her mind. She frowned slightly, then looked back over her shoulder.
“I forgot to ask,” she said. “What’s your name?”
The spirit blinked. Her form flickered faintly, as if the question had disturbed something buried deep within her essence. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Silence stretched between them.
“I don’t remember,” she said quietly. Her eyes were wide with something close to panic. “I used to say it to myself every day, so I wouldn’t forget. But at some point, it stopped feeling like mine. And now, it’s just gone.”
Su Yao studied her, one brow arched. “Pathetic,” she said flatly. “You clung to this world for so long that even your own name slipped away. All that devotion, and not even an identity left to show for it.”
The spirit shrank slightly, haunted by the realization.
Su Yao gave a disinterested shrug. “Then I’ll just call you ‘Mother.’ Appropriate. Undignified. Vague. Like you.”
Spinning on her heel, she stalked away, muttering under her breath about the uselessness of maternal sentiment. Note to self, interrogating spirits for meaningful intelligence requires filtering out the ones blinded by irrational affection.
Su Yao found her aunt waiting by the university gates, but the woman standing there was not Su Nuan Nuan. The posture was too rigid. The eyes held an unfamiliar, ancient light. As Su Yao approached, the thing wearing her aunt’s face offered a stiff, formal bow.
“Great Fox,” it said. The voice was a strained approximation of her aunt’s gentle tone. “Forgive this imposition. This one borrows this vessel out of utmost necessity. I bear an urgent message from—”
The words were cut short by a sound like a shattering icicle. A projectile of concentrated spiritual energy, invisible to mortal eyes, tore through the air and struck “Auntie” squarely in the back. It was a clean, precise shot from a spiritual bullet.
The possessing spirit let out a choked gasp. Su Nuan Nuan’s body convulsed. A web of crackling blue energy spread from the point of impact. The ancient light in her eyes flickered and died. Vacant confusion replaced it as the possessing entity was forcibly ejected. Its message was undelivered.
Her aunt blinked, swaying on her feet. “A-Ling? I, I had the strangest dizzy spell…”
Su Yao’s head snapped toward the source of the attack. Her eyes locked onto a rooftop across the street.
A figure clad in non-reflective black tactical gear was already melting back into the shadows. A long, rifle-like spiritual tool was slung over its shoulder.
An assassin.
The message had been intercepted and silenced.
Su Yao caught her aunt as she stumbled. “You are unwell, Auntie. The campus air must disagree with you.” Her voice was calm, but her mind was a vortex of cold fury.
“I think I need to sit down,” her aunt mumbled.
“Of course,” Su Yao said, guiding her to a bench. She projected an aura of mundane concern while her senses tracked the fading spiritual residue of the assassin. They were good and professional. But not good enough to escape her.
The message was urgent enough for someone to send a spectral sniper to prevent its delivery.
As she comforted her bewildered aunt, Su Yao’s smile was a razor-thin line. The puppeteer had made another move. This time, he had delivered an invitation to a duel.