“The Candidate is chosen! The Nue will rise! A new age will dawn!” The masked woman gasped the words, her voice tearing through the electronic rasp of distortion. She stumbled, struggling to brace herself against the crushing force of Su Yao’s unleashed nine-tailed form.
Su Yao looked down. Nine tails, thick as ancient trees, bristled behind her, each tip poised like a scorpion’s stinger. They held weapons forged to unravel reality. Her head, framed by glowing eyes, tilted in a cold, dismissive gesture.
“So what?” The question exploded, a peel of thunder that swallowed all other sound. What is a ‘new age’ to me? “I have seen a thousand ages dawn and die. They are all the same.”
Her eyes narrowed to fiery slits. “And you, you will not live to see this one.”
The Fan of Ten Thousand Sorrows twitched in one tail’s grasp. A visible wave of decay, a shimmering gust of air, washed over the woman. She screamed, a short, sharp sound, as the armor on one arm crumbled to orange dust. The skin beneath withered and cracked like ancient parchment.
“You cut my hair,” Su Yao purred, the sound a promise of exquisite, lingering violence. “A transgression I don’t forgive. So I will make a counter-offer.”
She leaned in, her colossal form eclipsing the light. Her breath, a hot wind smelling of plum blossoms, washed over the assassin.
“How about this?” she said, her voice deceptively soft. “Trade offer. You cut my hair. So I will cut your head from your shoulders. It seems a fair trade, does it not? This is the price of your disrespect.”
The masked woman never had a chance to reply. A tail snapped forward, driving the Vortex Spear ahead of it. Its singularity tip grazed her neck.
Absence followed. The space where her neck had been vanished, the surrounding air silent. Her head, still encased in the cracked white mask, clattered to the floor. For a moment, the body remained upright before folding in on itself, limbs scattering like discarded puppets. The void-blade fell beside the remains, struck the floor once, and faded into shadow.
The crushing pressure in the room dissipated. Su Yao’s nine-tailed form shimmered, collapsing back into her human body. Her eyes still glowed with residual fury. She stood over the disintegrated body, the lock of her shorn hair lying a few feet away.
She nudged the mask with her foot. “The ‘Nue’? A ‘new age’?” she muttered. “More delusional fanatics with a grand slogan.”
She glanced at Zhang Wei, who stood in the shattered doorway, his face pale.
“She talked too much,” Su Yao stated, her voice flat. “Her technique was lacking. She focused on the grand pronouncement instead of the next move.” She bent, picking up the severed lock of her hair, and stared at it with a mixture of irritation and genuine loss in her expression. “What a shame. It was good hair.”
Tucking the lock into her robe, she stepped over the remains. “Let us go. They have moved their ‘Candidate.’ And now we have a new name to investigate. This ‘Nue.’ And that ‘Golden White Face’ she mentioned.”
She paused at the door. “And find me a good hairdresser. This is unacceptable.”
Zhang Wei finally stepped through the rubble. He looked from the assassin’s remains to the lock of hair Su Yao was securing. His brow furrowed in confusion.
“Can’t you just… regrow it?” he asked, his voice cautious. “With your regeneration? Or transform it back?”
Su Yao stopped, turning to look at him with disappointment. He has missed the point entirely.
“If every problem is solved by magic,” she said, her voice laced with a weary sort of grandeur, “then magic loses its meaning. It becomes a crutch, a cheap trick to erase consequences.”
With the hand holding the severed hair, she made a sharp, dismissive gesture. “This was a violation, an insult. The memory of the insult is in the cut. If I simply wave my hand and pretend it never happened, what have I learned? What has been avenged? The memory becomes hollow and the victory becomes sterile.”
Her gaze dropped to the dark lock. “Some things must be endured. Certain marks must be left, so we remember why we fought. To instantly heal every wound, to reverse every slight is the path to becoming a stagnant pond.”
She tucked her hair away with care. “Loss lends flavor to victory. A scar lends weight to the story. To erase it’s to admit the act itself was meaningless.”
Picking her way through the debris, she continued, “Besides,” a familiar, petty irritation returning, “it is the principle of the thing. She cut it. I killed her for it. The transaction is complete. Using magic now would be undignified. Like changing the terms after the deal is done.”
A backward glance caught him, eyes still faintly glowing. “So, no. I will not ‘just regrow it.’ I will find a mortal artiste with skilled hands and excellent taste to restore what was lost through craft. It will be a process that takes effort. And it will be infinitely more satisfying.”
Sunlight spilled through the ruined front door as she pushed it open and stepped outside. “Now, stop asking foolish questions and help me find a hairdresser. Then, we find this ‘Nue.’ I have a new grudge to settle, and it seems they are at the center of it.”
The salon Su Yao chose was the most exclusive and discreet in the city. It was a place of minimalist decor, hushed tones, and exorbitant prices. The moment she swept in, the head stylist sensed an aura that was both immensely demanding and terrifyingly powerful and rushed forward.
But as a junior stylist was ushered forward for the consultation, Su Yao’s eyes narrowed. The girl, clad in the black uniform, her hair in a severe bun, nervously clutched a comb.
“You,” Su Yao stated flatly.
Wong Lei flinched, her eyes wide with terror. “I—I can explain! This is my… my weekend job! I am training to be a certified stylist! it’s a legitimate career path!”
Zhang Wei, standing guard by the door, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Su Yao leaned back in the plush chair, studying Wong Lei’s reflection. “How many part-time jobs do you have?” she asked, her tone one of genuine, though disdainful, curiosity. “First, an amateur exorcist. Then, a waitress. Now, a hairdresser. Is your life a series of failed vocational experiments?”
“I’m diversifying my skills!” Wong Lei squeaked, her hands trembling. “The exorcism thing didn’t work out. And the restaurant got shut down for questionable ingredients. This is stable! it’s normal!”
“Define ‘normal’,” Su Yao deadpanned. She then gestured to her shorn lock. “Can you fix this, or am I wasting my time with another of your inadequacies?”
Swallowing hard, Wong Lei’s demeanor shifted. This was her domain now. She reached out, her fingers gently examining the ends of Su Yao’s hair. The trembling stopped, replaced by a focused, professional touch.
“The cut is clean. Surgical, even,” she murmured, her critic’s eye overriding her fear. “The problem is blending the length back in without losing the overall shape and flow. It’s about restoring the intention behind the original style.”
Su Yao’s eyebrow raised slightly in the mirror. That was the most intelligent thing she has ever said.
“Fine,” Su Yao conceded. “Proceed. But if you ruin it, I will use your soul to polish my shoes.”
For the next hour, under the terrified but fascinated gaze of the entire salon, Wong Lei worked. She was, to Su Yao’s grudging admission, surprisingly competent. Her hands were steady, her cuts precise. She focused solely on repairing the damage with a subtle, layered approach.
As Wong Lei put the finishing touches on the style, expertly blending the shortened section so it appeared as if it had never been cut, Su Yao finally spoke again, her voice low.
“The woman who did this spoke of a ‘Nue’ rising. A new age.”
Wong Lei’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. “The Nue?” she whispered. “That is a name from the deepest, oldest legends. A calamitous convergence and a fusion of the most powerful and wretched souls, forged into a single, world-breaking entity.”
She resumed her work, her voice barely audible. “The texts say its rise is preceded by ‘Heralds’ of impossible skill, utterly loyal, who clear the path.”
“The masked woman,” Zhang Wei said from the door.
Wong Lei nodded nervously. “If a Herald has appeared, then the process is already far along. They build the Candidate from the ground up.”
Su Yao looked at her newly restored reflection, then at Wong Lei’s terrified face in the mirror.
“Finish up,” Su Yao commanded. “It seems your most useful part-time job is being my part-time lore master.” She stood up as Wong Lei removed the cape, her hair falling perfectly back into place.
“You are hired. The pay is you get to keep your soul.” She tossed a wad of cash onto the styling station that could have paid for the entire salon. “Now, let’s go. We have a ‘convergence’ to dismantle.”
Su Yao’s satisfied gaze at her restored reflection hardened into a sharp, suspicious glare, fixed on Wong Lei’s reflection behind her.
“I almost forgot. The ‘Golden White Face’,” Su Yao repeated, the words dropping like stones into the quiet of the salon. “You knew about the Nue. Now, tell me what you know of that name.”
Wong Lei, who had been basking in a moment of professional pride, instantly deflated back into a puddle of fear. “Oh. That? That is… that is just another name for Tamamo no Mae. The, uh, the most famous nine-tailed fox in Japanese folklore.”
The air around Su Yao grew cold. She slowly turned in her chair, the movement predatory. Her eyes locked onto Wong Lei.
“Is that so?” Su Yao’s voice was dangerously soft. “How… convenient. Your knowledge of these Japanese legends is remarkably specific. First the Nue, now Tamamo no Mae. You, who failed every test at the orphanage, seem to be an unparalleled expert in the very factions now invading our land.”
She leaned forward, her presence seemingly filling the entire salon. “Explain quickly before I decide you are a spy.”
Wong Lei’s face went from pale to a ghostly white. She waved her hands frantically, the styling comb in her grip clattering to the floor. “No! Nononono! I’m not a spy! I swear!”
“Then how do you know this?” Su Yao demanded.
“I’m a weeb!” Wong Lei blurted out, the word bursting from her in a desperate, high-pitched wail.
Su Yao froze. The terrifying pressure in the room stuttered. “…A what?”
“A weeb!” Wong Lei repeated, hugging herself. “It is short for ‘weeaboo’! It means I’m obsessed with Japanese culture! Their anime, manga, and light novels! I’ve read every obscure myth and legend I could find online!”
She cut herself off, her face turning crimson with a mixture of terror and shame. “The point is, I’m not a spy! I’m just… really, really cringey and obsessed! My knowledge comes from years of spending too much time on the internet!”
She gestured wildly at her own uniform. “Do I look like a master infiltrator to you? I’m a minimum-wage hairdresser who reads fanfiction about yokai!”
Su Yao stared at her. The ancient, calculating look in her eyes slowly gave way to one of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment. She looked from Wong Lei’s desperate, tear-filled eyes to Zhang Wei, who gave a small, helpless nod of confirmation.
This was, apparently, a real thing.
Su Yao leaned back, the cold aura dissipating. She looked at Wong Lei as a bizarre, pathetic, and unexpectedly useful specimen rather than a threat.
“A ‘weeb’,” she repeated, tasting the absurd word. A dry chuckle escaped her as she shook her head. “Of all the ridiculous mortal afflictions.” Su Yao stood up, straightening her robes.
“Very well. Your pathetic obsession has proven useful once again.” She tossed another stack of cash onto the station, far more than the service warranted. “Consider it a retainer. You are now my officially recognized weeb-in-residence. Your duty is to use your extensive and shameful knowledge to decipher whatever nonsense these ‘Yamato’ fanatics spout next.”
She walked toward the door, pausing to look back at the utterly relieved and still-terrified Wong Lei.
“Try to be less cringey,” Su Yao advised, her tone one of regal dismissal. “But not too much. Your usefulness appears to be directly tied to your level of cultural degeneracy.”
With that, she swept out of the salon, leaving Wong Lei to collapse into a stylist’s chair, hyperventilating, surrounded by enough money to pay her rent for a year, and newly employed as the personal otaku to the Nine-Tailed Heavenly Fox.
Su Yao’s phone buzzed with a generic, corporate email as she stepped out of the salon. The subject line read: Notice of Program Discontinuation & Final Settlement.
She opened it. The body was a masterwork of sterile, legalistic language, stating that Modern Exorcist was being indefinitely discontinued due to “unforeseen operational restructuring and strategic realignment.” Attached was a direct deposit notification for her final paycheck, a surprisingly generous sum, likely hush-money severance.
She stared at the screen for a long moment, the pieces clicking together with a quiet, definitive snap.
The Luo family’s operation was being scrubbed, its public front dismantled. An “undisclosed reason” sat plainly in her inbox.
Her first thought was of Jian Feng. His sudden, desperate search for a job at a host club. The humiliation at being discovered.
A slow, appreciative smirk spread across Su Yao’s lips.
“Jian Feng,” she murmured, a note of genuine respect in her voice. “You weasel.”
Zhang Wei looked over from where he was hailing a cab. “What is it?”
“The show is dead. It’s canceled for ‘undisclosed reasons’,” she said, showing him the phone. “My final pay is already here.”
Su Yao looked back at the screen, her smirk widening. “He knew. He must have caught wind of this. The Luo family’s funding was being cut, their television experiment deemed a failure or too much of a risk. His meal ticket was about to expire. That is why he was so desperate for an independent income stream. It was about survival after the fall.”
She let out a short, sharp laugh. “All that arrogance, and underneath it, he was just a rat with good enough instincts to smell the ship sinking before anyone else.”
A grudging admiration flickered in her eyes as she shook her head. “He is smarter than I thought. Or at least, more pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall and was trying to get off the stage before the lights went out for good.”
With a smooth motion, she slipped the phone back into her robe. The Luo family, her brief, amusing cover, was now defunct. The Yamato threat was escalating. A “Nue” was being built.
“Things are getting interesting,” Su Yao mused, her gaze turning toward the city’s skyline. “The petty players are being wiped from the board. Only the real contenders are left.”
She glanced at Zhang Wei. “It seems our focus is about to become much sharper. Let’s see how this ‘Nue’ enjoys a recently unemployed fox with too much time on her hands.”
The vision hit Su Yao with the force of a physical blow, arriving as a raw, unfiltered sensory overlay directly from the tether she shared with Jian Feng’s mother.
One moment, she was watching the city lights. The next, she saw through the ghost’s eyes.
The view was from a dark corner of a lavishly decorated lounge, filled with plush velvet and soft, golden light. A bass-heavy, generic pop song thrummed in the air. In the center of it all stood Jian Feng.
A ridiculously flamboyant tuxedo draped his frame, a crimson rose pinned to the lapel. His hair was styled with a theatrical flair he’d never used as a Modern Exorcist. By a low table, he knelt to pour champagne for a group of giggling women, wearing a practiced, dazzling smile that barely reached his eyes. Beneath it churned humiliation and desperate determination.
“My lady,” his voice was a smooth, oily baritone, a complete affectation. “The bubbles in this vintage are like the fleeting dreams of youth. Allow me to capture one for you.” He made a ridiculous, flourishy gesture with his hand.
The mother’s overwhelming, distorted pride saturated the vision. Look at him! So resourceful! So charming! My son is the star here! He’s doing so well!
Su Yao, witnessing this through the ghost’s adoring filter, felt a wave of such soul-deep contempt that it nearly eclipsed the usefulness of the intelligence.
The vision lasted only a few seconds before she severed the connection with a mental shudder.
Zhang Wei noticed her abrupt stillness. “What is it?”
“An update on our former colleague,” Su Yao said, her voice dripping with scorn. “He has indeed found his calling and is currently comparing champagne bubbles to ‘the fleeting dreams of youth’ for a paying audience.”
She let out a short, disgusted breath. “And his mother is there, watching, beaming with pride. It’s nauseating.”
But the vision had served its purpose. It had provided a definitive, real-time confirmation.
“Whoever this ‘Nue’ is,” Su Yao stated, her tone now flat and certain, “it absolutely can’t be Jian Feng.”
There was a cold clarity in her eyes as she looked out the window. “The Candidate they are building, this fusion of wretched and powerful souls destined to break the world, isn’t a man who finds his ultimate purpose in reciting bad poetry to drunken socialites for cash. The universe has a sense of irony, but even it has standards.”
Su Yao filed the information away. Jian Feng was a closed book, a pathetic footnote. The real “Nue” was still out there, a hidden threat being sculpted in shadows.
“At least one mystery is solved,” she murmured. “Now we hunt for a threat worthy of the name.”