When Yan Tuo regained consciousness, he had no idea where he was. He only knew it was gloomy, cold, and dark, with an uneven surface beneath him that felt like pitted earth when he touched it. Having been severely beaten, there was a metallic taste in his mouth, and every part of his body ached. His head was dizzy—an after-effect of whatever drug they had used.

He struggled to prop himself up but didn’t rush to stand, sitting there for a while instead.

That day, after his hidden weapon was revealed, he promptly confessed everything.

He had no choice but to confess freely: if he concealed anything, Lin Xirou would investigate further, potentially implicating others. Only by taking all the threads upon himself, claiming responsibility for things both done and undone, could others escape scrutiny—besides, since he had already fallen, he might as well make his fall more meaningful.

He said that because of his mother’s diary, he had been planning this for a long time.

He said he had stolen that list long ago, couldn’t understand it at first, but that didn’t matter—he had patience and could wait. Eventually, everything became clear.

He said he had always pretended to want to join them, just to make gathering information easier.

He said that after being imprisoned by Ban Ya, once he learned about their background, he had happily switched sides. Everything after that had been an act for Lin Xirou. Then he had coordinated from the inside to plan this operation.

…

It all came down to:

—No need to waste effort investigating why—it was all me.

—I contacted Xing Shen; I don’t know the others well, they’re all his subordinates.

—As for where Xing Shen and his people are, I don’t know. Even if I did, now that something’s happened, wouldn’t they have moved?

He remembered Lin Xirou’s face turning pale with anger, and Xiong Hei cursing as he immediately landed a punch.

When he next awoke, he was here.

…

There was no sound, nothing could be heard. He waved his fingers in front of his eyes but couldn’t see any trace of movement—people often speak of “eyes adjusting to the darkness,” but that’s because the darkness they knew still contained traces of light.

But here, there was none at all.

Yan Tuo felt around his body—he was still wearing the same clothes as when he passed out. His pockets were almost empty except for that small star containing the plum blossom—Xiong Hei and the others must have searched his pockets but hadn’t thought much of this flattened trinket, especially since the small star was pale gold, resembling candy wrapper foil.

Using his sense of touch, Yan Tuo slowly restored the flattened, deformed star to its shape, pinching the corners and pressing inward repeatedly until it became a plump little sphere.

Then, he carefully placed the star back in his pocket and shakily stood up. Choosing a direction, he raised his arms forward and began counting steps as he walked.

At the eleventh step, he touched a rugged but solid cave wall.

A cave? A mountain cave?

Using this contact point as a starting position, he cautiously felt his way to one side, still counting steps. At the eighteenth step, the cave wall disappeared, and he touched the iron bars.

They were thick. When he shook them forcefully, the bars didn’t move, but loose rust scattered down. Of course, there was more than one bar—he could probably fit an arm between two bars. He counted them one by one. At the twenty-seventh bar was presumably a door with a lock—an old-style chain lock. The chain was as thick as a thumb, wrapped around the door multiple times, with a padlock nearly as heavy as half a brick.

The chain and lock were still new, though.

After the thirty-second bar, there were no more bars, just a cave wall again.

Yan Tuo had a rough idea now—this was a prison converted from a cave, semicircular in shape, with iron bars and a door installed across the open face.

He started walking from this side of the cave wall back inward, wanting to measure the inner arc length of the entire cave. However, after just seven or eight steps, his foot kicked something with a “puff” sound.

Yan Tuo’s hair stood on end in fright, and he stumbled back several steps, his heart pounding wildly. It took quite a while to calm down.

Thinking carefully, what he’d kicked didn’t feel like a person, but rather a soft bag.

Whatever it was, they were “sharing a room”—there was no avoiding it. Yan Tuo steadied himself, took two steps forward, and carefully bent down.

It was a bag, a large plastic one. Yan Tuo unzipped it and reached inside.

First, he felt a blanket—yes, definitely a blanket, soft and medium-thick.

Yan Tuo pulled out the blanket and reached in again.

He found a flashlight, very thin, the kind that only takes one battery. When he pressed the switch, it lit up.

Delighted, Yan Tuo quickly surveyed his surroundings in the light.

His earlier guesses were all correct—this was indeed a cave, shaped like an eggplant, with iron bars sectioning off the eggplant’s waist. He estimated the cell area to be around seventy to eighty square meters. The cave entrance was at the eggplant’s stem, very small and narrow, barely wide enough for one or two people to pass side by side, and completely dark beyond, making it impossible to tell what lay outside.

In the center of the cell, in the area he had fortunately avoided while exploring earlier, there was a long pit.

Yan Tuo approached the pit’s edge. It appeared to be naturally formed, irregular in shape, about calf-deep—enough space for one or two people to lie down.

Was this… a bed? But wouldn’t lying in it feel like being in a coffin?

Yan Tuo swept the flashlight beam around the pit repeatedly, suddenly catching sight of a rolled-up paper in the corner.

He hesitated before reaching for it. The paper was somewhat moldy, but thanks to the “stable” environment, it hadn’t completely deteriorated to mush.

Yan Tuo carefully unfolded it.

To his surprise, it wasn’t paper but a hundred-yuan note. Fortunately, having been born in the 1990s, Yan Tuo recognized this version: the current RMB was the fifth series issued after the founding of the nation, with pink hundred-yuan notes, but this was from the fourth series—the one with four elderly faces, featuring Jinggang Mountain on the reverse, with a faded “1990” visible on it.

This probably wasn’t left by Lin Xirou but by someone from the past.

Looking back in the plastic bag, there was nothing else.

Yan Tuo suddenly felt thirsty. He swallowed and licked his dry lips, then pointed the flashlight beam back at the eggplant stem-sized entrance and shouted loudly: “Is anyone there?”

Honestly, before making a sound, he hadn’t felt particularly scared or spooked, but after shouting, he felt his hair stand on end.

The echo was strange, returning dully to his ears, unfamiliar as if it wasn’t his voice, carrying an eerie undertone that seemed to question him: “Is anyone there?”

There must be someone—Lin Xirou wouldn’t have brought him here without making any arrangements.

Besides, hadn’t she said she wanted him to live and witness her starting over? She wouldn’t just leave him here to starve to death, would she?

Sure enough, after a while, rustling sounds came from outside, and after waiting a bit longer, a strong beam of light swept through the eggplant stem.

Yan Tuo quickly turned off his flashlight. Now, everything in this prison, whether the blanket or the small flashlight, was among his few remaining “resources”—he had to use them sparingly.

The first to enter was Xiong Hei, carrying a bag. He walked straight to the prison and tossed the bag at the door: “Your rations for a while. Use them sparingly.”

Yan Tuo looked at the plastic bag outside the iron bars: “How often do you deliver?”

Xiong Hei’s face was expressionless: “It varies, but don’t worry, we won’t let you starve.”

Yan Tuo remained silent, crouching down to reach through the bars and open the bag.

About seven days’ worth.

It was enough—a prisoner couldn’t ask for much. He’d have to be thrifty.

Yan Tuo stood up and smiled: “The food’s pretty good.”

Seeing him still acting tough even now, Xiong Hei felt anger rising. He stomped on the bag, and two loud pops indicated at least two water packets had burst.

Then he said: “Yan Tuo, you brought this on yourself.”

Yan Tuo felt a pang of distress, glancing at the bag: fortunately, while the water packets had burst, the bag itself hadn’t torn—the water was still contained. Later, he could drink by putting his mouth to the bag.

The second person to enter was Lin Xirou.

It must be very cold outside. You couldn’t tell from Xiong Hei’s attire—he was the type to wear short-sleeved t-shirts even in deep winter—but you could tell from Lin Xirou: she wore a thick down jacket that reached her knees.

She walked right up to the iron bars before stopping, her face as expressionless as Xiong Hei’s. Below her left eyelid was a small red dot.

Such a small wound would probably heal in a couple of days. What a shame—his final strike had only managed to pierce her skin.

Now that the facade was torn and their positions were clear, Yan Tuo felt oddly relaxed seeing her again.

He glanced around the cave and asked her: “Aunt Lin, where is this?”

Lin Xirou replied flatly: “Never mind where it is. Try to fall in love with it—it’s where you’ll spend the rest of your life.”

This retirement home wasn’t much, Yan Tuo tried not to think too much about it. While Lin Xirou was here, he’d ask what he could: “Aunt Lin, is Mayi your son?”

Lin Xirou looked at Xiong Hei, somewhat ruefully: “See that? Even in this situation, he’s still trying to gather information.”

Yan Tuo said: “In this situation, at least let someone die knowing the truth. I’ve seen Mayi—very small and thin, standing straight he’s about as tall as a seven or eight-year-old child.”

He noticed Lin Xirou’s eyes suddenly tighten.

But he pretended not to notice: “Yet anyone who sees him would think he’s just a beast. Aunt Lin, the difference in your appearance is truly striking. I just can’t understand—how did you manage the transformation from beast to human? Using blood sacs?”

Lin Xirou stared at him steadily, and as she stared, she suddenly broke into an odd laugh: “Beast to human? Yan Tuo, you haven’t been listening to those nonsensical descendants of the Chantoujun, thinking that Di Xiao is a beast, have you?”

After a moment’s thought, she added: “I suppose it’s understandable. You have an idiom called ‘taking things out of context.’ The Chantoujun, from beginning to end, only read half a Vol 6 – Chapter of the book—what do they know? Beast to human? Who transformed from beast to human? This isn’t about cultivating a spirit. I can be human because I was human, to begin with.”

Yan Tuo’s mind went blank: “What kind of… person are you?”

Lin Xirou sneered: “You’re friends with the Chantoujun—didn’t they tell you, ‘Once you enter Heibaijian, Di Xiao become demons to humans, and humans become ghosts to Di Xiao’?”

Yan Tuo’s heart pounded wildly. Nie Jiuluo had never said these words; she had only mentioned that the Chantoujun “don’t enter Heibaijian.” But Chen Fu had said it, though he had never understood what it meant.

Lin Xirou spoke mockingly: “Di Xiao is just a nickname you humans gave us. Humans and Xiao are separated, and Heibaijian is like the Chu-Han border, a boundary wall. Do you know why it’s called Heibaijian? Black and white—eternal night on one side, daylight on the other.”

“The so-called ‘don’t enter Heibaijian’—humans shouldn’t enter, and neither should Xiao. But on either side, there are always those who take the risk, aren’t there? Di Xiao who enter Heibaijian are demons in human eyes, and humans who enter Heibaijian are evil spirits in Di Xiao’s eyes. Do you think we’re beasts? Do you think humans who enter Heibaijian look any better?”

Yan Tuo’s mind exploded: “You threw my sister into Heibaijian?”

Lin Xirou smiled and nodded: “Yes, you know quite a bit. You’ve seen Mayi—however, he looks, your sister looks the same way. She’s just a beast in Heibaijian now, eating raw meat and drinking raw blood.”

Nie Jiuluo awoke with a start.

Opening her eyes to complete darkness, she knew she had woken too early—it was still midnight. As for what had startled her, what kind of dream she had had, it was all forgotten in an instant. She only felt that this midnight awakening seemed familiar.

Her heart suddenly leaped with joy. She propped herself up on her right arm, not even bothering to put on shoes, and walked a few steps to the door, opening it.

Outside the bedroom was her workspace, where, as usual, the various sculptures became intimidating shadows without light.

Nie Jiuluo pressed the main light switch.

Bright light poured down, and the clusters of shadows regained their familiar forms, but there was no one there. The sofa was empty, as was the workbench—everything remained exactly as it had been when she went to sleep.

After standing there for a while, she turned off the lights.

Yan Tuo had been missing for some days now.

Xing Shen’s operation had greatly alarmed Lin Xirou. She and her people, including Xiong Hei, had vanished from their usual residence overnight. Now the villa was just an ordinary villa, and the farm truly just a farm without any hidden secrets—after all, the enterprise was a multi-department organization, and as long as someone could exercise the boss’s authority and the department heads remained, the temporary disappearance of key figures wouldn’t cause much disruption to the company.

Moreover, Lin Xirou had always maintained a low profile, and Yan Tuo, who had been pushed to the forefront, might be absent but still sent and received emails as usual—”remote work” wasn’t a problem at all.

In her twenty-plus years in this world, Lin Xirou had at least two hideouts in Shihe, this small county town. Who knew how many more she had set up elsewhere? There was no way to know where to start looking.

Nie Jiuluo had considered the most basic approach—checking surveillance footage. She had gone to Old Cai about this—having been in the art business for so long, Old Cai knew many big bosses from different places and had numerous connections.

However, Old Cai replied with a troubled expression: “Ordinary people don’t have the right to access city traffic surveillance. If you say there was a traffic violation, you can request footage, but only from the incident location. In small county towns where regulations are loose, you might squeeze through with connections, but in medium to large cities, it’s impossible to view footage on a large scale.”

True enough, and when Xing Shen and his people rescued Lin Ling, they employed various tactics including switching vehicles, ultimately successfully evading surveillance. Lin Xirou and her group would only be more thorough.

So what could be done? With no way to find them, “hostage exchange” seemed the only way out, but Lin Xirou’s side had responded saying they “didn’t know where Yan Tuo was, they were looking too.”

Actually, before proposing the exchange, Nie Jiuluo had considered various possibilities.

First, Yan Tuo might be dead. In this case, an exchange wouldn’t mean much, but whether alive or dead, she needed Lin Xirou to produce his body.

Second, though something had happened to Yan Tuo, he might still be alive. If alive, he needed to be rescued, but the terms of exchange would be crucial—they couldn’t let Lin Xirou become angry and kill him.

So, after careful consideration, she suggested to Xing Shen that the exchange should be “matched,” not just random one-for-one trades.

—Mayi for Yan Tuo; without Yan Tuo, Mayi wouldn’t need to be exchanged.

—Six Di Xiao including Chen Fu for eleven people including Jiang Baichuan and Old Dao.

—Lin Ling would temporarily not be included in the exchange items, waiting for Lin Xirou to negotiate, using the “negotiation” to probe the importance ranking of these people in Lin Xirou’s heart.

Lin Xirou might be furious about Yan Tuo’s betrayal, but Mayi was her son—for her child, shouldn’t she be able to swallow her anger?

…

But they never expected Lin Xirou to answer that she “didn’t know where Yan Tuo was, they were looking too.”

This response contained one consolation and two possibilities.

The consolation was that Yan Tuo was probably not dead, because if he were, Lin Xirou could have simply told the truth, said something like “What a pity, you spoke too late, he’s already gone,” and then thrown them a corpse.

The two possibilities were: first, Lin Xirou was telling the truth, and Yan Tuo’s disappearance really had nothing to do with her; second, she was lying—she would rather give up Mayi than let Yan Tuo go.

On this cold winter night, standing barefoot for so long, Nie Jiuluo couldn’t help but shiver.

Had she been wrong? Was Mayi not important to Lin Xirou at all?