Jiang Yan swept her gaze over everyone’s faces.
After a moment, she turned back and took both children by the hand. “It really is time for bed.”
“Come with me.”
Xiao Jia obediently took Jiang Yan’s hand. Xiao Tian, embarrassed to take Jiang Yan’s, grabbed Xiao Jia’s instead, and the three left the garden quickly.
Once inside the main hall, Xiao Tian’s shoulders slumped in relief, as if he’d survived a great ordeal. He let out a breath.
“Jeez, this is the fourth time this month! That scared me to death!”
Xiao Jia spoke softly, “We’d better get back to our room.”
Xiao Tian nodded immediately. So Jiang Yan led them up the stairs to their room. When they reached the third floor, Jiang Yan glanced out the window at the corner. The patients in the courtyard had returned to normal.
They had their arms around each other, chatting animatedly.
Jiang Yan slowed her pace.
She asked the children, “Aside from tonight’s two incidents, when else have the ordinary patients acted strange?”
Xiao Tian thought a moment, then replied seriously, “I think it was May third and May ninth!”
“I remember those days too,” Xiao Jia said, looking at Xiao Tian. “It’s getting more dangerous here. Tomorrow, we should talk to Le Yi about escaping. If we’re careful, we shouldn’t get tricked by any begging gangs…right?”
Xiao Tian nodded vigorously. “Yeah, escaping at least gives us a shot at surviving!”
Jiang Yan lowered her eyes.
Indeed.
Right now, the spirit behind the scenes seemed not intent on controlling these children, but was constantly trying to take control of everyone else. It wouldn’t be long before this semi-energy field evolved into a full energy field, granting the spirit dominion over all.
Under those circumstances, Jiang Yan doubted the four kids would escape the coming extermination game.
She paused in thought, then walked the children to Room 404 before returning to 405 herself.
Although she wasn’t particularly concerned for their lives, she still had a job to do—and these children were intimately connected to the spirit behind everything. She would do her best to keep them safe.
When she came in, Le Yi was already lying on the bed.
She had been facing the door, but when she saw Jiang Yan enter, she rolled over with a look of distaste, turning her back.
Jiang Yan said nothing. She washed up and went to bed.
At eleven that night, Jiang Yan slowly opened her eyes.
Listening to the steady breathing beside her, she slipped out of bed barefoot.
[What’s she doing?]
[Looking for clues? She didn’t tell anyone.]
[Looks like she’s planning to move on her own.]
Jiang Yan did, in fact, intend to take action alone.
She didn’t wish to alert anyone, because of something odd she’d noticed on her walk through the garden tonight—
It seemed every time she went down a flight of stairs, she would encounter a patient at the stairwell.
But the stairwells weren’t at all suitable for chatting: they were cold, damp, and cluttered with random junk. Whether the hallway or the lower garden, everywhere else was much more inviting than the stairs.
With this in mind, Jiang Yan recalled her movements since arriving.
There were always people in the halls.
People always in the stairwells.
Always people in the little garden.
Wherever she went, she would encounter someone different—be it staff, patients, or those children.
She had never found herself alone.
As though something were watching her every move through their eyes.
Jiang Yan exhaled quietly.
All day, she had been pondering the nature of the spirit’s abilities in Baishan Sanatorium. Since it had managed to render Shen Xiaoxiao unconscious without warning, it obviously had real power—able to control all the staff for hours, able to make everyone in the institution its eyes, just not quite enough to manipulate all the patients directly.
This morning, when patients “glitched,” Jiang Yan at first thought it a show of force—but on second thought, it seemed more likely a failed attempt at control.
The spirit had been trying to seize control of everyone, but didn’t have the strength yet.
Tonight in the garden was its second attempt.
Maybe partly intended to intimidate her, but clearly it hadn’t worked.
Time was pressing. Jiang Yan forced her thoughts away and, carrying her shoes, slipped quietly out of Room 405.
She didn’t want to disturb Le Yi.
Even if, as Le Yi said, the spirit didn’t intend to control them, it didn’t mean the children might not be used as its eyes.
And tonight, Jiang Yan wanted no interruptions.
Because she was heading to the Director’s office.
Earlier, she’d noticed the office next to the records room. On the door was a detailed schedule—the Director only came during the day on Sundays and Mondays, so right now the office was likely stacked with files.
She might be able to find something useful.
She closed the door quietly behind her and quickly padded down the hall barefoot to the stairwell.
The stairs at night were silent. She slipped on her slippers, raced up to the fifth floor, then removed them, stepping barefoot on the cold tiles to the Director’s door.
The door was locked tight.
This lock couldn’t be forced. Jiang Yan took a hairpin from her pocket and stuck it in the keyhole—though she had no idea how to pick a lock. This was just for the sake of the livestream.
Unseen by anyone, a red thread slipped under the crack and flicked the spring latch open.
With a faint click, the door swung open.
[…]
[Shouldn’t you explain why you’re so good at this? Huh??]
[Jiang Yan can’t be bothered with us anymore.]
[She doesn’t even bother lying to us now! She used to at least make something up!!]
Jiang Yan glanced around, making sure no one was there, then locked the door from the inside before heading to the desk.
Just as she had guessed, the Director’s desk was covered with files.
The Director must have only come in the morning today—after all, Yu Renwan had only brought her breakfast, not lunch or dinner, which were much better.
But Jiang Yan tended to think the Director hadn’t been here at all, that the breakfast was sent early by Fang Miao just in case she showed up.
She did not waste time. After a moment’s thought, she picked up the files and began to read.
On top were the sanatorium’s income and expenditure records.
Nearly all the largest outlays were for psychiatric drugs, authorized by someone named “Fang Yong.” Because the signatures on the children’s files were illegible, she and the twins hadn’t recognized the doctors, so they hadn’t pursued it.
Now the name was clear.
The doctor who put the cast on Shen Huanhuan was “Doctor Tan.” They hadn’t met Fang Yong yet—he must be the psychiatric doctor working with Le Yi.
Jiang Yan set the accounts aside and went through the other documents.
There was Xu Jing’s vacation request; Zhang Lei’s book purchase list. She skimmed quickly but found nothing related to the laboratory.
Jiang Yan figured the lab must be managed by Fang Miao, since she was always the one dragging the “white mice” in.
But maybe no one ran the lab; perhaps the spirit had created that room just to ensnare the “diseased white mice.” Since the lab was next to the garden, it was probably an ordinary storeroom during the week, transforming into a lab only on Sunday nights.
But none of that was urgent—what Jiang Yan needed most was any information tied to the spirit.
The minute hand crept halfway round the dial.
After half an hour, Jiang Yan had found nothing.
Aside from solidifying the fact that the sanatorium didn’t care at all about patients’ health, she found nothing else.
She was almost through the pile, sifting rapidly, barely glancing at documents before setting them aside.
Her reading speed shocked the livestream viewers.
[Is she actually reading?]
[No idea. God, I’m a junior in high school, I could really use that kind of memory speed.]
[Junior in high school?? It’s almost midnight! Go to bed!!]
[Just one last look at Yan-jie…]
Jiang Yan was starting to get annoyed.
Sifting through vast amounts of useless information in a short time was anything but pleasant. She massaged her brow, forcing herself to keep calm. As she neared the end, she glanced at the clock.
[23:42]
She set down the last file.
Nothing.
A wasted night.
Jiang Yan exhaled in frustration, displeased, and prepared to leave. But just as she reached for the lock, a buzzing mechanical sound interrupted her.
She paused. Looked back.
It was the fax machine.
Someone had just sent a fax to the Director’s office at this hour.
Jiang Yan approached. The machine had spit out one page and was printing a second.
A moment later, she picked up the two still-warm sheets.
The first was a demand for payment.
The amount was close to eight figures; the creditor’s surname was Sun—Sun Xinzhi.
The second was a stern letter of demand.
“Ms. Jiang He, I have been trying to reach you for a year without a reply. I have written you, emailed you; I have no choice but to fax your office.”
Sun Xinzhi’s anger seethed between the lines.
“Last year’s surgery was a success, but the payment you promised never arrived in my account. This is the last time I’ll contact you.
“Don’t think that because this surgery was conducted privately, our agreement doesn’t stand. The entire conversation was recorded. I have no intention of making it public, but you know what else I’m capable of. What you stand to lose will be far more than eight million.
“To be honest, I don’t understand why you keep stalling on this payment. The children’s surgeries went smoothly, especially Pingping’s and Le Yi’s. Without me as the lead surgeon, it would have been impossible. You are far too greedy. If I’m not mistaken, you’re making full use of Le Yi’s blood. You should have earned the eight million long ago.
“Greed knows no bounds. Please transfer the eight million into my account by month’s end, or face the consequences yourself.”
It was clear that a year ago—just before Jiang He died—she had invited Dr. Sun to Baishan Sanatorium to secretly perform surgery on several children.
The specific surgeries were not mentioned, but they couldn’t have been legal—otherwise, there’d have been no need for such repeated, furtive collecting of payment.
Jiang Yan focused on two sentences:
“The surgery was very successful, especially for Pingping and Le Yi. Without me as lead, it would have been impossible… You are too greedy. You’re making full use of Le Yi’s blood. You should have earned the eight million by now.”
There were three possible logics behind this.
First: Pingping’s and Le Yi’s surgeries were successful, Le Yi regained her health, and her blood became safe for the billionaire’s daughter to use.
Second: Pingping’s and Le Yi’s surgeries were successful, and after the surgery, Le Yi possessed a rare blood type, so she could provide blood for the billionaire’s daughter.
Third: Pingping and Le Yi underwent the surgery together—and the outcome was that Le Yi now had a rare blood type, able to provide blood for the billionaire’s daughter.
Jiang Yan recalled Pingping’s tragic death. She didn’t believe Pingping could have survived any surgery, let alone have succeeded. So what did “surgery success” mean for Pingping? Most likely, her organs were harvested before her death—for the sake of “success.”
Yet Sun Xinzhi had said “this surgery” as if it were a single procedure done to both.
That made the third logic most probable.
And that was the most terrifying.
What kind of surgery would require both Le Yi and Pingping together?
Why did Le Yi’s blood type become “usable” only after the surgery?
The answer was easy to infer.
Because the rare blood type belonged to Pingping. But with Pingping dying, Jiang He arranged a procedure to transfer the blood type to Le Yi.
Pingping died, and her blood was put to use. That was the “successful surgery.”
But is it possible to change blood type?
Jiang Yan knew nothing about this, so she looked up Sun Xinzhi on her phone.
Search results revealed a specialist page.
“A renowned domestic bone marrow transplant expert.”
“Presided over numerous domestic and international allogeneic hematopoietic stem cell transplants.”
Allogeneic hematopoietic stem cell transplant.
Jiang Yan copied the words and researched further.
Conditions for such surgery:
Physical health, a match in tissue type, no need for a blood relationship.
Consequences of surgery:
Rejection reactions; blood type may change. After transplant, the patient’s blood type becomes the same as the donor’s.