The night was silent, the scene sensual. As Lin Wanchen emerged from the water, everyone held their breath, watching this beautiful woman who, despite being over forty, still possessed such captivating charm. Assistants immediately rushed forward with makeup kits and water, but after being submerged for so long, she clearly didn’t want a drink. She shook her head, declining.
The newcomer actress, feeling a bit stage-frightened, was ignored by the crew as she climbed out. Someone eventually tossed her a used towel—the one Lin Wanchen had just used to dry her hair. The actress said nothing, quietly drying herself off.
Qian Luo watched from a distance. Suddenly, she saw the little ghost walk over and trip the person who had handed over the wet towel, before returning to sit nearby, hugging her knees and falling still once more.
“This little ghost is quite righteous,” Qian Luo whispered.
Ye nipped her neck lightly with sharp fangs. “What does the sect rule say?”
Qian Luo fell silent. The sect rules were clear: the more docile a ghost appeared, the further away you should stay. A vengeful spirit has lost its mind; it is simply a dangerous beast. But for a soul that has lingered for years without dissipating, docility implies their intellect is intact. If such a ghost feigns gentleness while plotting, they are impossible to guard against.
After all, a ghost-tamer’s heart is the most precious treasure a spirit can find—Qian Luo knew this better than anyone.
She instinctively reached into her pocket and gripped her talismans.
…
In the deep mountains not far away, two shadows supported each other as they walked. Zhou Xiaoming’s silhouette was growing fainter. The spiritual light she carried was being ground away by the attrition of her existence. Her instincts warned her: if she didn’t reincarnate soon, she would vanish completely.
Beside her was an even paler shadow.
The woman’s entire body was a blur. She stopped warily. “Something’s wrong. There’s a ghost-trapping array set by a tamer here.”
Zhou Xiaoming leaned against a tree, gasping. She had forgotten much of her life as a human, and her attachments to the world had faded. “Is this our only way? If… if that ghost is just another poor soul…”
The woman shot her a look of disdain. “You’re about to vanish into nothingness, yet you worry about others?”
“I was just thinking,” Xiaoming whispered. “If I had been pinned under a rock for years, and a companion finally came to ‘save’ me only to treat me as a ‘food reserve’… I would definitely—”
The woman, fearing where this line of thought was going, cut her off. “Stop overthinking!”
A sinister red light flickered in Xiaoming’s eyes. “So I wonder… you’ve been so good to me. Am I your food reserve too?”
The woman’s blurry form twisted in what looked like pain. “We have a pact, don’t we?”
“But I never agreed to it.”
“You will,” the woman said calmly, looking back. “When you’re on the verge of disappearing forever.”
They continued their slow ascent.
At the base of the mountain, a black car sped up the steep, winding road. Through the open window, the sharp, beautiful profile of a young woman was visible. On the roof of the car, a ghost lay flat, growling lowly as it scanned the surroundings against the biting wind.
The girl in white steered with one hand while holding her phone with the other. “Second Uncle, my ghost caught the scent.”
“My sister’s aura is nearby. It’s moving slowly. Don’t worry, I’ll catch the spirit that took her heart. Reincarnation? In her dreams. I’ll make her endure a hundred and eighty tribulations before her soul is ground to dust. Death is too easy an escape for her.”
She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and floored the accelerator.
…
Lin Wanchen was finished resting. She watched “Big Head” Long coach the young actress. Though playing a ghost seemed simple, Long insisted the character was a soul who died after immense suffering; her movements needed to project not just horror, but deep-seated resentment.
“Your face will be covered by hair,” Long explained. “Only your eyes will show. They must have that terrifying look—jealousy and hatred of beautiful women.”
The producer, fiddling with her necklace, smirked. “Just act like yourself. Jealous of Film Queen Lin’s beauty, right? Give it some thought…”
The young actress’s face turned beet-red. “I’m not jealous of Sister Lin. I admire her.”
“Oh, I’m not saying you really are. It’s just acting… right, Assistant Director?”
The assistant director looked grim. “Leave me out of it.”
Qian Luo, observing from nearby, stood up. “I need to go chat with that producer.”
Ye stretched. “Why bother with someone like her?”
“She talks a lot,” Qian Luo replied. “Maybe I can get some info out of her.”
Ye started to reply but suddenly sniffed the air. “This smell is familiar… did that ghost snap?”
They looked over, but the little ghost was still sitting docilely. Ye frowned. “Keep your talismans ready. I’m heading down the mountain. Something powerful is coming up—I can smell the blood from hundreds of meters away.”
Qian Luo nodded and approached the producer. She acted casual, mentioning to the assistant director: “The Film Queen is so hardworking. To come out and act after such a tragedy at home.”
“The industry moves fast,” the assistant director sighed. “Three days without a job and you’re forgotten. If she doesn’t take roles, she’ll have nothing left when the company folds.”
The producer’s sharp tongue couldn’t stay still. “Please, she used her daughter to climb the ladder. Why would she be heartbroken? It’s better the kid is dead; saves her the trouble.”
“Shut your mouth,” the assistant director snapped.
“What? Don’t like the truth?”
Qian Luo realized she’d walked into a domestic dispute. A crew member pulled her away. “They fight every day. Stay clear.”
The assistant director muttered, “Director Long is the one whose heart is broken… his hair has turned white.”
“Shouldn’t it be Lin Wanchen who’s grieving?” Qian Luo asked, puzzled.
The assistant director rolled his eyes. “Her? Director Long was blind to marry her. Artists see beauty and project poetry onto it, but the reality is…”
The producer grabbed his ear. “What’s that supposed to mean?! You insulting me?!”
Qian Luo beat a hasty retreat.
As she listened for details, she glanced toward the pool. Lin Wanchen was about to enter the water again. Everyone was bracing for the next take.
Suddenly, Qian Luo felt a shift in the air. A sound like rustling leaves whispered in her ear, yet the mountain was still. The crew was a chaotic mess of noise, but this sound was distinct.
She realized the little ghost was gone. She spun around, gripping her talisman.
But the little girl was sitting right in front of her, staring up with wide, docile eyes. “Hey,” the ghost said. “You can see me, right?”
Qian Luo nodded. “Why are you looking at me?”
“I’m looking at your hand,” the little ghost whispered.
Qian Luo leaned down. “What about it?”
“The right one.”
The ghost stood up and reached out to grab Qian Luo’s right hand—but at that exact moment, a violent, metallic wind tore through the air.
Out of the darkness, a horrifying, shattered face appeared behind the little ghost. A sharp claw instantly pierced through the spirit girl’s chest.
Qian Luo gasped. The little ghost’s grip on her hand weakened instantly.
“QIAN LUO!” A piercing scream came from across the pool. A girl in white vaulted over the water with desperate speed. “Are you okay?!”
Qian Luo stared in disbelief at the hand protruding from the little ghost’s chest.
It was Zhuo Zitong.
The little ghost’s eyes remained fixed on Qian Luo. Her voice was a fading sob. “Why… why would you want to sever your own right hand?”
Qian Luo reached out to grab her, but her hand passed through the girl’s body. The soul was already dissolving.
The ghost girl’s eyes held a trace of pity. “Don’t break it… it’s such a good hand… so many people want it…”
A night wind swept through the mountains, tearing the soul into fragments and scattering them into the void. Zhang Youwei skidded to a halt in front of Qian Luo, grabbing her and shouting, “Are you insane?! How could you get so close to a ghost? If I hadn’t made it in time, you would have—”
…You would have ended up like my sister. Heart ripped out, soul lost. I would never have found you again.
Qian Luo stood frozen, pushing Zhang Youwei away. “You killed her?”
Zhang Youwei frowned. “Of course. Did you want her to gut you?”
Qian Luo’s voice turned ice-cold. She repeated, “You killed her?”
…
Tragedy strikes! The little ghost was trying to warn Qian Luo about a dark secret involving her ‘right hand,’ but now she’s gone. Will Qian Luo ever forgive Zhang Youwei, or has the ‘childhood recognition’ turned into a permanent rift?