Everyone present was stunned by this sudden “magic trick.”
Actually, a few days earlier, Ying Bujie had already received an invitation. The National Anomaly Management Bureau had invited him as a special guest to discuss spirit creatures and ghost classifications.
Perhaps because he hadn’t been apart from Gao Shi since coming down the mountain, Ying Bujie was feeling a bit down. After entering the house, he took out two black wooden tags, each about the size of a thumbnail, and gave one to Gao Shi.
Gao Shi, not understanding, accepted it. The wooden tag was simple and regular in shape, engraved with a white character “解” (Jie), and had a small hole for threading a string.
Ying Bujie’s tag was strung together with two golden bells, each less than half the size of the wooden tag, using a black thread wrapped around his wrist.
Gao Shi vaguely saw that his tag was also engraved with characters.
“This is a guardian bell. If you encounter ghosts or spirits, the bell will ring and I’ll come,” Ying Bujie said.
Although Gao Shi thought he’d never need it, seeing Ying Bujie’s earnest face, he felt a little touched. He took off the pendant he wore around his neck and threaded the wooden tag onto it.
The pendant he had been wearing was a safety charm carved by Gao Gusheng when he was learning woodcarving. Now, next to the safety charm, there was a small wooden tag.
Gao Shi looked at the two wooden tags resting together in his hand and couldn’t help but find them a bit cute. He smiled, “I always run into ghosts and spirits on missions. If you come every time, it’ll drain your power too much.”
“If I really can’t handle it, I’ll call you.”
Ying Bujie said, “Then, if you encounter very strong demonic or ghostly energy, I’ll come.”
“Alright.”
…
Just now, when the fox appeared, Ying Bujie hadn’t shown up, but now that Feiyu had arrived, Ying Bujie did come.
Gao Shi glanced at Feiyu, who was being hastily lifted by Yin Ling, then at Ying Bujie, who seemed to have done nothing at all. All his anger turned into helplessness, and he gave a wry smile. “Daoist, when will he wake up?”
Ying Bujie replied, “I didn’t do anything.”
His tone was calm, but Gao Shi could hear a hint of grievance.
“I just looked at him.”
Yin Ling crouched down to check, his face full of embarrassment. “Daoist… is right.”
Yin Ling covered his face. “Feiyu probably just came out of seclusion and is a bit weak. Daoist’s spiritual energy is too strong, so Feiyu… got knocked out.”
As soon as he said this, the room fell silent.
How embarrassing. Truly embarrassing.
They’d seen people weak before, but never this weak.
And not only was he weak, he almost faked an injury in front of outsiders.
The Anomaly Management Bureau’s reputation was practically ruined.
Everyone tried to laugh it off, and this grand capture mission ended in the most awkward way.
Unrelated personnel at the scene would have their memories erased, but this group would still be taken directly to the criminal police brigade, as they were suspected of group debauchery and forced prostitution. According to the fox spirit, this wasn’t the first time She Tingxie—or rather, Wanxing Entertainment—had done this.
Once the Anomaly Management Bureau people left, Huang Shan finally withdrew his gaze, looking preoccupied.
Chang Yang patted Huang Shan on the shoulder. “Brother Huang, what’s wrong? Not feeling well?”
Huang Shan forced a smile and apologized to Gao Shi, “Sorry, Captain, I…”
Gao Shi was straightening his clothes and waved him off, cutting him short. “Brother Huang, it’s not your fault. Feiyu just has a sharp tongue. Every time I see him, I want to spar with him.”
Chang Yang asked curiously, “Brother Huang, I heard you call him Dongxue just now. Did you know each other before?”
Huang Shan shook his head. “I must have… mistaken him for someone else.”
Seeing he didn’t want to talk, Chang Yang didn’t press further.
Every Anomaly Management Bureau officer had their own story.
…
Once in the car, Gao Shi suddenly remembered, “Daoist, now that you’ve left, what about the meeting?”
Ying Bujie looked down. “The meeting’s already over. They wanted to take me out to eat.”
Gao Shi could imagine the surprise his sudden disappearance must have brought them.
He smiled wryly and, raising his hand, saw a message from upstairs asking about it. He said to Ying Bujie, “Daoist, you should let them know. They’re worried about you.”
Ying Bujie obediently nodded and replied.
It seemed no different from usual.
But Gao Shi felt he seemed a bit down, lacking energy.
After a moment’s thought, Gao Shi apologized, “Sorry, Daoist, that was my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed it was you who knocked Feiyu out without asking.”
Ying Bujie shook his head, then suddenly said, “Sorry.”
Gao Shi was stunned.
Ying Bujie said softly, “Actually, I lied to you. Feiyu fainted because I looked at him.”
What did “look” mean?
“Feiyu has Kunpeng blood, his memory is incomplete, and his soul is unstable. I can…”
Ying Bujie opened his mouth, but his face suddenly turned pale, as if an invisible hand was stopping him from speaking further.
Gao Shi was alarmed and quickly stopped him. “You don’t need to say more, Daoist!”
Ying Bujie frowned slightly and rephrased, “He’s very weak right now. If he meets my eyes, he’ll faint.”
Gao Shi saw that Ying Bujie’s complexion finally looked normal and breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s not really your fault. Yin Ling already warned Feiyu many times not to come out of seclusion immediately. He should have stayed in seclusion for another fifteen days to stabilize his soul, but he never listens. A little suffering will do him good.”
Seeing that Gao Shi wasn’t angry, Ying Bujie also relaxed a little.
Gao Shi watched Ying Bujie’s subtle expressions and felt like he was looking at a child who’d done something wrong—he found it rather cute.
Then he suddenly remembered, “Feiyu has Kunpeng blood?”
Ying Bujie nodded. “The fox spirit’s demonic energy isn’t strong, but Kunpeng’s is.”
Gao Shi was shocked. “Kunpeng? As in the one from the Classic of Mountains and Seas?”
Wasn’t that just a myth?
Ying Bujie nodded.
Gao Shi rubbed his forehead. If the immortals and spirits from ancient tales could be real, then things from the Classic of Mountains and Seas could be real too.
Honestly, they’d always thought Feiyu’s unusual appearance was just a result of spiritual energy anomalies.
Like Yin Ling, who had a super-grade ghost sealed inside him—the horn on his head was just a mutation from spiritual energy.
“So you said his soul is unstable, and his memory incomplete?”
Ying Bujie thought for a while, looking confused. “I can tell, but I can’t remember why.”
Gao Shi reassured him, “Don’t worry, your master will be out of seclusion soon. When the old man comes out, maybe your memory will return.”
“Daoist, since you missed their banquet, let me take you out to eat.”
“Mm.”
After Jia Qi fainted, it was half a day before he slowly woke up.
He seemed to be in a hospital room.
He felt sore all over, utterly exhausted, listless—just like after his first all-nighter with Zhou Da and Lin Kun.
But later, after the system gave him a “recovery service,” he never felt that way again.
He only needed to enjoy himself—any fatigue, pain, or even wounds afterward would all be wiped away by the system with a single click, as if erasing a faulty program.
What was going on?
[System, where’s my recovery service?]
No answer.
[System? System!]
Still no answer.
A wave of unease swept over Jia Qi.
He kept calling for the system while stumbling toward the bathroom, almost falling as his legs went weak.
There was a large mirror in the bathroom, and he saw his own face in it.
Slightly drooping eyes, fair and delicate skin bought with money, rosy lips.
It was a very pretty face.
But it wasn’t the face he had exchanged for with talent points—the one so stunning it could topple nations.
This was his own face.
Not ugly at all, even quite delicate and attractive, but compared to that demonically beautiful face, it was nothing.
Jia Qi, used to gourmet feasts, couldn’t adapt to plain porridge and pickles. He lost control and covered his face, shouting, “System! Ah!! Where are you! Get out here!!”
He screamed, but no one responded.
Gradually, he realized something was wrong.
With all this noise, a nurse should have come, but after so long, no one appeared.
A chill ran through Jia Qi. He tried the doorknob, only to find it wouldn’t turn at all.
He was locked in!
Had someone discovered the system’s abnormality?
Or was this revenge from one of the men he’d discarded?!
Jia Qi forced himself to calm down, recalling what happened before he lost consciousness. He’d been auctioning a painting in front of hundreds—no one could have been so brazen.
The last thing he remembered was a silver-haired youth attacking him—clearly a boy, but he felt like a terrifying monster.
…
In front of the monitors, Xuan Yu looked at Jia Qi in the room and turned to ask, “Captain, is Ghost Eye done?”
Yin Ling, watching the tiny fox in the spirit-locking bottle, replied, “Almost, we’ll be able to let Jia Qi out soon.”
Yin Ling put the fox back in its cage and sighed, “No choice, this time Ghost Eye has it tough—there are nearly two hundred people who’ve been physically involved with this kid, and he has to erase each memory and return the yang energy the fox stole. Not easy.”
Xuan Yu said, “You can’t return all the yang energy, right?”
Yin Ling casually grabbed an apple, tossed it, then took a bite and winced at the sourness. “Returning even a tenth would be a lot. Especially for the ones Jia Qi was tangled with the longest—the loss is almost irreversible. Unless they get some great fortune in the future, their lives will be tough: at best, weak and sickly, listless all day; at worst, chronically ill and short-lived.”
Just then, Ghost Eye’s figure appeared in the air. “All done.”
Yin Ling clapped his hands. “Alright, Jia Qi can be released.”
…
Jia Qi inexplicably fell asleep, and when he woke, he was still lying in a hospital room, but everything was normal. When he pressed the call button, a nurse came in and asked if he needed anything.
This was the Sun family’s private hospital.
That strange hospital room seemed like nothing but a dream.
Apparently, after he fainted, he was sent to the hospital. No one noticed his disappearance, and everyone ignored the change in his face. He couldn’t find a single photo of himself during the time his appearance had changed.
Although the system was gone, his former lovers were real, and quite a few men came to visit him.
But things seemed off.
For example, the man before him was a well-known playboy at the neighboring art academy. Though his art skills were average, he was good-looking and could put on a show, with countless boyfriends and girlfriends. One boy he’d dumped had even tried to slit his wrists to keep him.
This playboy had shoulder-length hair and a captivatingly melancholic air. He was one of the high-quality targets the system had flagged.
Before Jia Qi fainted, he and this guy were at the “tinder meets gasoline” stage—just a glance between them could spark enough fire to power a crematorium.
The playboy had released his whole “pond” for Jia Qi, and was even willing to “share a husband” with other men.
He’d turned over a new leaf for Jia Qi, and Jia Qi enjoyed the sense of conquest. Recently, he’d “favored” him the most, almost as much as Lin Kun and Zhou Da, who were always nearby. As a result, the playboy was now so thin he was just a melancholic skeleton, and might soon go from a skeleton to a pile of bones.
Anyone who’d been dumped by this playboy would probably feel vindicated seeing him now.
But now, when he saw Jia Qi, the playboy hesitated, and his attitude was much colder than before. The sparks that used to fly between them were gone, as if someone had put a stack of textbooks between them.
After the playboy left, Jia Qi felt a sinking feeling.
This playboy’s past conquests had always been extremely good-looking men and women.
In short, he was a face-chaser.
Now, although Jia Qi was still decent-looking, compared to the playboy’s “pond,” he was nothing special.
At the same time, the playboy also felt a sense of loss. This time, seeing Jia Qi, he no longer felt the urge to live or die for him—instead, he started doubting himself.
With such an ordinary face, why did I ever like him?
I even released my whole “pond” for him?
The playboy didn’t understand it, but now wasn’t the time to fall out with Jia Qi, because what had drawn him in, besides Jia Qi’s stunning face, was his artistic talent.
Both were art students—Jia Qi’s talent was extraordinary, while the playboy’s was barely enough to teach elementary school. He’d only taken the art route because of poor grades and a two-month crash course, unlike true art students who loved and had a gift for the field.
So, he wanted to cling to Jia Qi, hoping Jia Qi would introduce him to more resources and help him up—only then could he make a living in art in the future.
But even so, looking at Jia Qi’s current face, he really couldn’t swallow it.
He pulled out his phone, skillfully opened his Moments, and found one of his “released fish.”
This fish seemed even more attractive now.
The playboy’s fingers flew as he typed into the chat box: “Saw a leaf turn yellow today. What I mean is, I kind of miss you.”
Confidently, he hit “send.”
A red exclamation mark popped up—“The other party is not your friend yet.”
…
On one side, the playboy was frantically adding back all his former “fish,” only to be met with a slew of red exclamation marks, while on the other, Jia Qi was sending off wave after wave of men who came to visit him.
He had so many men, whether it was just a one-night stand or repeated encounters, he probably didn’t even know the exact number himself.
The only thing they all had in common was that they’d all tasted him and were willing to make time to visit.
However, a few face-obsessed guys changed their expressions the moment they saw Jia Qi, and the rest of the conversation was spent in a daze of self-doubt.
There were also quite a few of Jia Qi’s so-called “true loves” who fooled around with him in the hospital room again and again. Some of the men who came later joined in, some left questioning their own lives. They couldn’t understand why they’d ever been willing to share a lover with other men. Those who didn’t break up on the spot only did so out of a sense of humanitarianism.
The only thing all these men had in common was that they were all a little “green” on top.
Today’s wild indulgence let Jia Qi regain a bit of his old feeling of being high and mighty, but without the system’s recovery, his reckless behavior finally made him pay the price.
His legs were trembling and weak. Before, with the system, he’d never had to ask anything of his men, nor had he ever asked them to hold back—he just wanted pleasure. Now, he could barely feel anything down there, especially in those delicate spots, which he didn’t even dare touch.
His body was covered in overlapping marks, filthy and unkempt, like a dirty ragdoll. Yet there was no one to help him, and he couldn’t clean himself up either.
Was he really going to have to spend the night like this??
Jia Qi’s temper was never good, and now, feeling so uncomfortable, he was even more irritable. He couldn’t help but start blaming the last man who left, but when he thought about it, he couldn’t even remember who the last man was.
Just then, the door opened and Sun Langgan walked in.
He paused when he saw his brother’s disheveled state, then silently closed the door and walked over.
Jia Qi looked at his former big brother.
Jia Qi had once viewed Sun Langgan as his backup plan. Later, after getting the system, he’d conquered many men younger and more energetic than Sun Langgan, many richer young masters, and even some with higher status than the Sun family.
Those men were witty, young and cheerful, or melancholic and charming. Gradually, he forgot the original Sun Langgan.
The big brother who had once broken with his parents and brother for him.
His tone toward Sun Langgan had changed from fawning and seductive to arrogant and bossy, while Sun Langgan’s gaze shifted from doting and concerned to increasingly silent, following him quietly and occasionally cleaning up his messes.
Jia Qi looked at Sun Langgan warily. “I’m not feeling well right now, not doing it.”
Sun Langgan didn’t speak, just sighed softly, bent down, and picked him up. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Xiao Qi.”
Sun Langgan’s movements were gentle, the water temperature just right. He didn’t say a word, just quietly washed Jia Qi’s marked body and applied ointment.
Jia Qi felt very comfortable being touched by him—not the pleasure of lust, but the comfort that makes a long-tired person drowsy.
He yawned sleepily.
Half-asleep, he thought, Sun Langgan really doesn’t know how to be romantic, such a stick-in-the-mud, never says a word.
Tomorrow, who should he find to keep him company?
…
Jia Qi was discharged from the hospital.
In fact, he’d only been severely drained of yang energy by the fox spirit before it fled, and even his own yang energy was depleted, so he felt sleepy all the time. If not for the wild antics in the hospital that day, he probably would have been discharged sooner.
Jia Qi’s body was still sore. Without the system’s recovery, it would take at least another half month for him to fully recover.
But he didn’t have time to rest.
Because the national art exhibition was about to begin.
This exhibition would be fully livestreamed, attracting art lovers from all over the country to watch many famous masters paint in real time.
Some of these masters were so famous that when the competition list was published, many netizens commented—
[So-and-so?! Isn’t that master already gone?!]
[Sorry, sorry, I don’t know why, maybe because I always see their paintings in textbooks, I keep thinking the master has already ascended.]
[Hey, stop it! That master still has their own Weibo account. You fake fans better go follow them!]
As society’s pace gets faster, the more refined the art, the harder it is for the public to appreciate it slowly. People feel that high art is far away from them. The formation of information silos means the public’s sources become narrower, and more “circles” form—those inside communicate easily, but outsiders struggle to grasp the real meaning.
To break these “circles,” the art association decided to livestream this exhibition.
The exhibition was really a chance for the old masters to show off their disciples. Half the works were by the old masters themselves, the other half were a competition between young disciples.
It wasn’t a very formal event—the prizes were just pens donated by the old masters and ink, paper, and inkstones bought with funds from the art association.
The true value of this competition was that the elders would bring the younger generation into the circle and introduce them to the right people. If your artwork could gain the recognition of the other old masters, it would make everything much easier for you in the future.
That’s why Jia Qi took this event so seriously. It was also the reason he had tried to exchange quantity for quality, conquering multiple men just to gather enough “talent points.”
What he didn’t know was that those so-called “talent-boosting cards” were nothing more than illusions cast by the fox spirit onto his paintings. Everyone who looked at his work would experience the emotion that pleased them most.
In other words, even if Jia Qi painted a pile of crap, with the fox’s illusion, collectors would think it was an extraordinary pile of crap—that it expressed Jia Qi’s sadness about global warming, his anger at carnivores, or his awe of gods and Buddhas.
Relying on the system’s “talent boost cards” and “inspiration boost cards,” Jia Qi had focused only on collecting talent points and hadn’t practiced at all during this period—not even the most basic brushwork or color exercises. When he picked up a brush again, he was horrified to find his skills had regressed significantly, even worse than the painting he’d submitted to the last exhibition a few weeks ago.
Art is like martial arts: skip one day and you know it, skip two days and your peers know it, skip three days and the audience knows it.
Jia Qi’s face turned pale—there was no time left to practice now.
All he could think about was Sun Jun.
He could lose to anyone—but not to Sun Jun.
With trembling fingers, he pulled up Sun Jun’s practice painting from a week ago on his phone.
With just a few strokes, the painting depicted a tulip so vivid you could almost smell its fragrance through the screen.
At a glance, Jia Qi knew he would be utterly defeated by Sun Jun.
No! He couldn’t let Sun Jun steal the spotlight.
Jia Qi nervously bit his nails.
Should he swap out Sun Jun’s brushes?
Switch his paints?
Give him diarrhea so he’d embarrass himself on stage?
Or break his hand so he could never hold a paintbrush again?
##
