Ling Xi let out a soft humph,"Yet turning to me. "After reviving you in Taoshan Village, I intended to leave. But Su Tongyuan couldn't rest easy—she called, frantic with worry." Her fingers drummed against the car door. "I told her you were haunted by a vengeful spirit, that it was a tangled knot I'd rather not meddle with."
"She wept, begging me to save you." Ling Xi's voice softened. "She offered a lightning-struck peach wood in exchange—a piece worth ten million yuan."
My breath hitched. Lightning-struck peach wood—the holy grail of Taoist artifacts, rarer than phoenix feathers.
"Such treasures vanish from markets the moment they appear," she continued, avoiding my gaze. "I… needed it for my master's longevity gift. So I agreed, against my better judgment."
A bitter laugh escaped her. "Ten merit deeds within three years. Even as a Celestial Spirit Master (Tianlingshi), success isn't guaranteed."
"You had no choice. Neither did I." Her knuckles whitened on the armrest. "I couldn't lose Su Tongyuan—one of my few true friends."
She fixed me with a piercing look. "Would someone stage crocodile tears at the cost of ten million yuan? Tell me, Su Ning—is any performance worth that price?"
I opened my mouth, but no retort came. The truth hung heavier than temple bells.
"Your living expenses at my home?" Ling Xi rolled down the window for air, her words carried by the rushing wind. "All paid by Su Tongyuan." She let silence linger before adding, "I can't speak for your mother. But your sister? She's carved her soul raw for you."
"Everyone carries burdens unseen," she murmured, more to the horizon than to me. "You ache? I'd wager Su Tongyuan's wounds run deeper."
"I didn't want to dwell on the subject, so I pivoted: 'Master, a friend of mine's hit some strange trouble lately. Could you take a look?' By 'friend,' I meant Meng Fan. Even though he'd moved in with his grandparents, his parents hadn't sold their house—he couldn't avoid it forever, could he?"
Ling Xi glanced up from her phone, raising one finger. "Discounted master-disciple rate: one million yuan. I'll inspect his situation."
I rolled my eyes. "How about a disciple rate—a thousand yuan?"
Tie Shan chuckled from the driver's seat. "Kid, Mist theress doesn't haggle like you're at a flea market. Show some respect."
I shrugged. "Poverty breeds boldness."
Ling Xi pocketed her phone, deadpan. "Free of charge, then. In exchange—" Her gaze swept the car's plush interior. "You handle all household cleaning. Weekly—three times, upstairs and downstairs."
"Deal!" I agreed instantly. "When can we go?"
Ling Xi straightened, her tone shifting to professional crispness. "First, tell me everything. Start with what happened at his home."
I gulped mineral water, then spilled every detail Meng Fan had shared the previous night.
Ling Xi listened quietly, her fingers tapping a cryptic rhythm against the car window. After a moment's contemplation, she declared: "No need for me to intervene. You'll handle this."
"Wait, what?" I stared dumbfounded. "I don't know the first thing about—"
"I'll teach you, therefore you'll know." Her tone brooked no argument.
Ten minutes later, the Mercedes pulled up on South Street. Ling Xi practically shoved me onto the curb, leaving me standing frozen amidst the pedestrian current. "Follow my instructions. And don't forget to cook dinner tonight."
"Master—" I whined pitifully, but she'd already rolled up the window.
"Trust yourself. You're ready." The sedan merged into traffic, taillights wantationinking like mocking fire, halfflies.
Alone, metaphysical I mentally replayed Ling troubleshootingxi's crash course guide. Doubt curdled my resolve. How could this possibly work? She didn't even inspect the site! What if I make everything worse?
After agonizing deliberation, I decided survival required backup channels. Ducking into the nearest China Mobile store, I emerged five minutes later clutching a new SIM card. The clerk helped install it while I speed-dialed Meng Fan.
Half an hour later, Meng Fan arrived before me, wheezing like a broken bellows. Clad in a black wool overcoat that accentuated his roly-poly frame—a human dumpling if ever there was one—he had me torn between laughter and exasperation.
"Sorry 'bout that, Ning," he puffed, cheeks ruddy from exertion. "Been dead tired lately. Set three alarms and still slept through 'em. Go figure."
I'd normally have ribbed him mercilessly, but Ling Xi's warning echoed in my mind—Meng Fan's perpetual drowsiness stemmed from whatever lurked in his family's cursed villa. My jabs died unspoken. "C'mon, let's grab a bite. Skipped breakfast?" I clapped his shoulder.
"Breakfast? It's practically noon!" He brandished his phone like evidence in court, voice gravelly. "Straight to hotpot."
Jingdu's South Street—dubbed "Foodie's Paradise"—bristled with culinary temptations. The newly opened hotpot joint Meng Fan insisted on boasted rave reviews. Though barely 10 AM, the place was packed to the rafters. We queued for fifteen minutes before a harried server ushered us to lacquered wooden stools.
"Beef? Lamb? Or yin-yang broth to cook your own fixings?" Meng Fan shrugged off his bulky coat, already beading with sweat. "Nothing beats hotpot in winter—sweat out the cold, steam up your soul. Plus," he winked, "healthier than your grandma's chicken soup."
I cradled a teacup of jasmine warmth.
Meng Fan scanned the menu with mock solemnity. "Beef. Real men devour meat in chunks and drink from bowls."
"Oho! Since when did you become a drinker?" I waggled my eyebrows. "Liquid courage for confessing to some girl?"
He flashed a conspiratorial grin. "Underestimating me? This physique—" he patted his belly "—has at least five admirers vying for attention."
"Delusional." I shot him the middle finger. "Even you don't believe that crap."
"Believe it?" Meng Fan sniffed. "Remember freshman year's thousand-meter race? Campus heartthrob, me." that was
"Ah yes," I drawled, "the dashing track star. Shame he's now Brother Pig wallowing in gluttony."
"Enough!" Meng Fan's cheeks flushed beetroot. "I'm on a diet. The old me's making a comeback."
"Sure. Beef hotpot diets. Twelve-hour beauty sleeps. Brilliant strategy." I mercilessly pressed.
"Face it—you need stricter regimens."
Meng Fan scratched his head mournfully. "What if… I just smell the broth? No actual eating?"
My tea spewed across the table in an undignified arc, drawing disapproving glares from neighboring diners. Meng Fan thrust napkins at me with theatrical servility. "So this 'Master' of yours—" he stage-whispered, "What's her name? Let me vet her. Charlatans swarm Jingdu like locusts these days."
He leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Nine out of ten spiritualists here peddle snake oil. All smoke, no fire—expertise in swindling, not spirit-banishing."