Zhang Yuanqing stole two fine bottles of wine from Fu Qingyang's storage cabinet, took a premium ham from the kitchen, and snuck a box of top-tier Cuban cigars from Ling Jun's room. ——He'd previously stolen Fu Qingyang's cigars, and ever since, couldn't catch up with the money公子 who kept picking at him. Returning to his villa, he asked the Queen for the car keys and set off alone. The tasks he had ahead were not suited for bringing teammates, not even Guan Ya. Zhang Yuanqing's hometown was a rural village just outside the Longfu estate. At that time, Longhai City hadn't yet become a national financial hub, nor a first-tier metropolis. The pride of the Longfu people remained, and when mentioning Longhai, they habitually raised their chins to say: Back then, Longhai was just a small fishing village, with hardly any foot traffic—considered a rural area under our Longfu jurisdiction. Today, Longfu is merely a district of Longhai, and one located far from the city's bustling core. Zhang Yuanqing drove his white sedan through the bustling streets, turned onto the outer ring expressway, and after half an hour, left the city and entered the Unlike the Shu Ling tunnel in the spiritual realm, the real-world Shu Ling tunnel features a clean, smooth asphalt road and bright, snowy-white xenon lights overhead. The steady flow of vehicles moves through it without a hint of fear or strangeness. As the sound of wheels rolling over the asphalt drifts through the air, Zhang Yuanqing finds himself recalling his initial fear and unease when he first entered the spiritual realm, feeling a wave of profound emotion. Time passes swiftly, and years unfold—now, he has already... "Hmph, it's only been four months since then. I still haven't reached the point where I need to reflect on the past," Zhang Yuanqing murmurs to himself, brushing away the drifting thoughts and focusing back on driving. Twenty minutes later, he arrives at his father's hometown—Jian'an Village. Oh, now it's called Jian'an Community. Zhang Yuanqing hasn't come back here in many years. The image of the rural village he remembers no longer exists; instead, modern villas and residential buildings rise one after another. Shops line the streets, creating a flourishing, vibrant scene. He remembered back then, the houses were red brick buildings oriented north-south, with one corridor per floor. During summer storms, the corridors would get soaked with rain. After his father passed away, his mother took him back to Songhai. In a few years, the Jianshan village was demolished. Mother didn’t insist on receiving housing; instead, she accepted full compensation payments. Combined with her savings from her work over the years, they purchased a large, modern apartment in Kangyang District. Although Zhang Yuanqing hadn’t become a "rent-collecting second-generation" family, the apartment in their home is now worth 40 million RMB. While reviewing the village now completely transformed, he recalled his family’s background: his father, Zhang Zizi, was the only child in the family. It’s said that when he was just two years old, his grandmother fell seriously ill and was unable to bear more children. Thus, Zhang Zizi became a rare only child at that time. When he was ten years old, his grandfather died from a lung injury caused by a wild ox trampling him while working on the production team. His grandmother single-handedly carried the family's livelihood and passed away from exhaustion before her son reached adulthood. As a result, Zhang Yuanqing had no uncles or aunts. While there were several siblings in his grandfather's generation, many had married far away and severed ties, or had emigrated abroad due to the upheavals of the time and had largely lost contact. The closest blood relatives Zhang Yuanqing could find were from his father Zhang Zizhen's uncle's line—his great-grandfather's younger brother. The elder finally realized that there had indeed been such a senior in the village before, and stared in surprise at the young man before her: "You're looking for him? He's been dead for many years now." "I'm his relative; he's my father's uncle," Zhang Yuanqing explained. It was one of their own after all... The elder felt a sense of warmth and pointed behind her: "His son lives in Unit 18, Room 207, 208, and 209—those are all in the same household, though Rooms 207, 208, and 209 are now rented out. Oh, his son passed away from cancer a few years ago. You'll have to go find his grandson." Then, hesitantly, she asked, "Your father's name?" "Zhang Zizhen," she replied. The elder gave a strong, almost strained "Oh!" and said with a tone of emphasis: "You're Zizhen's son, I'm thinking... Ah, yes! Didn't your mother take you and remarry?" "No, my mother never remarried. She brought me back to her parents' home." Zhang Yuan thought, though he couldn't recall it clearly, that the auntie had been from the same village as him back then—so it would be a perfect opportunity to ask about his father. "Do you remember my father?" she asked. "Who could forget that young charlatan? He claimed to be the reincarnation of the Purple Emperor, and he fooled people all over the village with fortune-telling and money-making schemes." The auntie's tone grew increasingly sharp. "He even told me that our home's feng shui was poor, with evil spirits haunting us, which is why my husband had pain in his toes—those spirits were literally holding onto his feet, and we had to pour his child's urine over them for forty-nine days, two cents a day. "Later, when the pain became unbearable, we went to the hospital and found out it was gout. What a nuisance—my husband was constantly smelling urine all the time. The whole village had been fooled by him." Some people may have passed away, yet they still lived on in others' memories, stirring up frustration every time they were recalled. Well, it's all in the past now. Let the past drift away like the wind... Zhang Returned to the car, took out the gifts he had gathered, and then bought a bag of fruit and two packs of cigarettes at the street corner. Zhang Yuanqing followed the elderly woman’s directions and found Apartment 207, Building 18. "Dingdong!" He rang the doorbell. A moment later, the security door opened to reveal a man in his forties, slightly overweight, with swollen under-eye circles, who was scrutinizing the stranger at the door and asked, "May I help you?" Zhang Yuanqing stared intently at the man, trying to recall his face, but had no memory of him. "I'm Zhang Yuanqing, son of Zhang Zizhen," he introduced himself. "Son of Zizhen...?" The man was clearly taken aback, then his face lit up with both surprise and joy, saying, "You're that old now? Come in, please, come in. Sit down." Zhang Yuanqing carried all the gifts into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and said, "Uncle, no need to get me a drink—I'll just sit here a while and then be on my way." "Meanwhile, introducing each of his gifts one by one—some worth tens of thousands, like a whisky; a limited-edition Hubert stick priced at five thousand; ham slices costing three or four thousand each..." "Given how valuable these gifts are, how can I possibly feel comfortable accepting them?" the middle-aged man listened, stunned. "My mother earned some money from property investments and sent me here to see you. I'm planning to go abroad at the end of the year, and after that, my father's grave will rely on you to maintain. I'll visit during Qingming Festival so he won't feel lonely." Zhang Yuanqing spoke with ease, his words flowing naturally. Only then did the middle-aged man manage to accept the gifts, expressing his sentiments: "Going abroad—that's wonderful. Nowadays, more and more wealthy people are choosing to go abroad. Back then, when your mother brought you back to her family, you stayed for over a decade without returning. But I suppose there's not much to see here either—Zi Zhan has no siblings or close relatives..." After a while of chatting, Zhang Yuanqing learned that the man's name was Zhang Zitao, a distant cousin of his father. Zhang Yuanqing began to investigate his father's past. This time, he returned home primarily to learn two things: the truth behind his father's death and the identity of his enemies. Upon hearing this, Zhang Zitao recalled the past, nodded, and said, "He did stay here. Back then, life was difficult. My uncle passed away early, and Zizhen was weak as a child. Your grandmother feared she wouldn't be able to raise him, so she sent him to a temple. There was a temple near the village, which I remember was called Xiaoyao Temple. The temple's monks specialized in handling funeral services for the village and also served as village-based barefoot doctors." Xiaoyao Temple? I think I now understand where the name 'Xiaoyao' organization comes from... Zhang Yuanqing shifted to his main topic and asked, "My mother said that after my father had his accident, it was my maternal uncle who performed the funeral rites. Where exactly did the accident occur?" Since it's impossible that my father died in a car crash, there must have been no collision incident at that location. As the person responsible for the funeral, the maternal uncle at least knows exactly how Zizhen died. Zhang Zitao shook his head: "I was working outside at the time, so I wasn't very clear on the details. All I remember is that my father mentioned my mother called the grandfather over. After that, he informed the family that Zi-zhen had died in a car accident and arranged for the funeral." That makes sense—my initial doubt about a car accident was well-founded. How could a vehicle capable of killing a peak-level master have been involved? It would surely have been at least a semi-divine-level vehicle. Zhang Yuanqing's lingering question was now resolved. When he first discovered that his father had met the zoo's spirit-being, he had suspected that his father hadn't actually died in a car accident. With the recent accumulation of information about the Xiao Yao organization, that suspicion only grew stronger. Now that his uncle has passed away, he wanted to uncover the true cause of his father's death—so he needed to reach out to his mother, who had been living abroad for years. However, if the Princess of the Zhizhi Palace's account is entirely accurate, then perhaps even his mother didn't know the true cause of his father's passing. All he knew was that there had been a sense of He must have had quite a few enemies, right? Where did he work before? That’s the second reason I came today. “Enemies? He was quite good at deceiving people back then, but those were all childhood matters. Everyone felt sorry for his background—people just saw it as a way to feed him, so they’d deceive him, not out of malice. How could there be real enemies?” Zhang Zitao waved his hand. “After he married your mother, he became much more steady and reliable—he never deceived anyone again. As for his job, I can’t quite recall the details. He used to be away a lot—often hard to find. I even advised your mother to keep a close eye on him, since it wasn’t fair to leave her alone at home all the time. Your mother used to be very beautiful when she was young.” I guess my father must have been busy killing bosses and clearing dungeons every day… Zhang Yuanqing asked. “After my father married, did he always live in the village? Has he ever taken my mother away from it?” He wanted to know whether his father had escaped to avoid hardships, and if so, during which period. Zhang Zitao thought for a moment, then shook his head: "It seems not!" The two chatted a bit more, but Zhang Yuanqing didn't gather any particularly valuable clues and felt a bit disappointed, though he wasn't ready to go back yet. He kept thinking, thinking again—what specific details might be useful to me, and what details would his uncle, Zitao, know? He actively engaged his mind. Zitao was an ordinary man. Even if his father had enemies, he wouldn't have been told about them. And at the time of his father's death, he wasn't even in the village... His paternal uncle had passed away, and his son had also passed away. Most of the older people had gone, making it hard to trace anything back. Zhang Yuanqing sighed inwardly, then smiled with genuine curiosity: "What skills did my father learn at the temple? Did he really have magical abilities?" He intended to first find out when his father had become a spiritual traveler, as, according to everyone's perception of Zhang Zizhen, he had been a mere folk healer for most of his life. Suddenly, one day, he became a night-wandering deity with the actual ability to capture ghosts and drive away evil spirits—surely he would be eager to prove his genuine skills to everyone. Independent practitioners, however, have always lacked such awareness. When both village doctors and funeral arrangers could make a living, that was better than deceiving people. "It seems like the old feudal superstitions were knocked down when my father lost his footing—he had nowhere to go, so he had to resort to faking it in the village," Zhang Zitao said. "That temple was rather mystical. He stayed there for over a year, then constantly claimed to be a descendant of the Xiaoyao School, a lineage that had existed since ancient times. When we were playing together, he even offered to take me on as a junior staff member, asking me to present him with new clothes and shoes. "Every time he said that, I'd beat him up." "A lineage that existed since ancient times?" Zhang Yuanqing was startled, stopping suddenly, his tone becoming urgent. "Since ancient times? What does that mean, Uncle? Please explain clearly." Zhang Zitao didn't understand why his nephew had suddenly become so eager, and smiled slightly. "Who remembers that now? It's been decades." "Uncle, I'm heading abroad by the end of the year, and I'm not sure when I'll return. After that, I'll no longer hear about my father's past. Please try to recall it." Zhang Zitao furrowed his brows, thinking for a while, then sighed, "He said he found in the ancient books at Xiao Xiao Pavilion that the end of the world is approaching soon. The world had already gone through a great end-of-times period in ancient times, and the Xiao Xiao Sect survived that era. He also said he wants to save the world—otherwise, he'll die—and if he wants to survive, he'll offer his new clothes and new shoes as a gift. That's about all I remember. He always spoke in a formal, bookish way, reciting directly from the texts." Unbelievable... Zhang Yuanqing remained silent, pondering, then after a while said, "Uncle, could my father draw talismans?" Zhang Zitao nodded, "Isn't a Taoist simply someone who draws talismans?" "Do you remember what talismans my father used to draw?" "I don't remember." "...Let's go inside." The two returned to the house. In Zhang Zitao’s dazed gaze, Zhang Yuanqing searched the living room for a ballpoint pen and a sheet of white paper, then sketched a corpse-stabilizing talisman with swift, fluid strokes. A talisman that resembled the one in form but lacked spiritual power. Zhang Zitao stared at it for several seconds, then slapped his thigh: “Right, right—exactly like this! So unusual. I didn’t know he’d taught you this.” The young man approached, staring intently at the woman, his eyes beneath the baseball cap wild and frenzied. "They say your place is the largest intelligence hub in the south, with the biggest black market—right?" Lin San Yue lifted her eyes, looking at him. "For props, materials, or intelligence?" The young man's gaze held a quiet madness, and he spoke steadily. "I want intelligence—specifically, the distribution lists of the major branches across the country, especially the Tai Men Ye You Shen units." Lin San Yue scoffed. "I have a rule—I never sell intelligence that's unfavorable to the official authorities. That's the foundation of our business. But you can go to the black market and negotiate on your own. Do you have any leverage?" "None!" "One hundred thousand per item." "No money." "Then get out—you're a ghost with nowhere to go." "You've recognized I've taken over her body—no small feat, considering you're the sovereign." The young man chuckled, his expression still wild, as if he were on the verge of breaking at any moment. He pulled out a bead from his pocket and placed it on the counter, "I'm mortgaging this to you. I'll come back in three days to retrieve it." The bead shimmered, unfolding a series of dreamlike scenes. Lian San Yue picked up the bead, examined it carefully, and said, "Saint-grade quality, a dream bead—worth about 200 million. Deal." She opened the cabinet on the counter and broke a hand-held card into pieces. The young man blinked—his small shop had transformed into a bustling market. Lian San Yue called over a sturdy man and instructed, "Give this a sign, listing the nationwide distribution of the Taiyuan Night-Wandering Deities, and place it at stall number six." After the man left to attend to his task, she glanced at the young man and handed him a mask, saying, "I'm merely a marketplace intermediary. I don't guarantee your safety. If official envoys take notice of you, you'll be fine here. But once you step out of these doors, your fate is yours own." The young man grinned fiercely. "Take notice of me? I'd be delighted to be spotted." Lian San The young man immediately sat down at stall number six and patiently waited. Not long after, a man dressed in a black robe, wearing a mask, approached, his voice hoarse. "Do you need the list of the Night-Wanderers from Taiyuan Sect? Taiyuan has recently recalled most of its Night-Wanderers, leaving only a few outside. I happen to have a list—five million, for you." The young man remained silent for a few seconds, then chuckled dryly. "How can I trust you?" "The owner of Wanbao Pavilion can verify its authenticity." "Deal!" The young man nodded, his eyes beneath the mask blazing with wild enthusiasm. "There's no such thing as coincidence in the world. You must have deliberately sent me this list—able to predict my itinerary, your people are no ordinary ones." The man in the black robe, his voice still hoarse, smiled. "Indeed, you are no ordinary disciple of the Pure Yang Master—your keen observation is truly remarkable!"