Jiang Yan’s hands could cleave through anything.
This fact was well accepted throughout the livestream chat—there wasn’t a single question mark to be seen.
Jiang Yan sat on the lower step and unfolded the bridal gown for a closer look.
Beyond the shape, it was hard to describe—utterly plain, the fabric rough and unadorned, stitches crooked as if hurriedly sewn. Only the two grass rings stood out; their inner loops were oiled and smooth, made with real care.
As for the little poem, the handwriting was clearly Wu Mei’s.
Though its sentiment seemed melodramatic, the feelings behind it were crystal clear.
From the melancholy lines, ending with “Welcome to Wuhai Girls’ School,” it seemed less a poem for any one person than a farewell for every girl who had ever attended this school.
According to the “Main Building Living Rules,” one could not remove any student’s personal belongings.
Jiang Yan wasn’t sure whether Wu Mei, as a graduate, still counted as a Wuhai student. To be safe, she left all three items where she found them.
After confirming there was nothing else on the steps, Jiang Yan entered the second floor.
She’d already heard faint sounds of reading coming from one of the classrooms below while on the third floor; now, as she reached the second floor, the recitation grew louder.
The voices beckoned from the last classroom along the corridor.
Jiang Yan wanted to avoid a direct confrontation with any supernatural entity—her focus for today was simply to gather clues and ensure the cattle-raising class was completed, so she moved with care, steering clear of the classrooms near that voice.
But the reading was loud enough for her to make out the words inside.
“To bear a son is to play with jade, to bear a daughter is to play with tiles. Since ancient times, all men are gems, women but spare parts.”
It was the girls reciting.
Then came the teacher’s voice: “If you are fortunate enough to be chosen by Sir Cow Immortal—not as a sacrifice but as a bride—remember this well.”
“If you bear a boy, place him on the bed, dress him in fine clothes; if a girl, lay her on the ground with rough fabric. It has always been so—you must follow tradition.”
And the girls drawled in chorus: “Yes, Teacher—”
Jiang Yan paused in her search for clues, glancing in the direction of the classroom.
It sounded as though a girl had raised her hand.
The teacher said, “Zhou Xiahua, do you have a question?”
A clear, girlish voice, brimming with innocence: “But Teacher, Sir Cow Immortal is an ox. Even if we bear offspring, they’d be bulls or cows. Does that mean bull calves are worth more than heifers?”
The teacher was briefly at a loss, then replied, “That is likely so.”
Zhou Xiahua laughed: “Teacher, you’re good at empathizing with Sir Cow Immortal—applying human bias to divine beings. What if the deity actually prefers girls?”
A ripple of laughter ran through the room.
The girls were all laughing.
The teacher fell silent, then suddenly said, “Yet in terms of sacrificial offerings, Sir Cow Immortal does in fact prefer girls.”
At that, the laughter disappeared.
At the same time, Jiang Yan found a neatly folded school uniform in a wardrobe corner, with two notes in its pocket.
Both were eerily apropos.
The first note:
[Our teachers are always so good at empathizing with beasts.]
There was a little star drawn at the end.
The second note:
[Dear Fanxing, calm down. This isn’t right. They only think they can empathize with beasts.]
The first note’s owner was Fanxing; the reply was from Xiahua.
Now there were three girls from the same class: Wu Mei, Fanxing, Zhou Xiahua.
It seemed the girls of Wuhai School had no real respect for Sir Cow Immortal. In fact, one could almost say they had none at all.
Jiang Yan folded the uniform and replaced the notes where she’d found them.
She headed downstairs, but half the first floor was a locked cafeteria, the rest offering no clues. After some thought, Jiang Yan returned to the second floor.
The students were reading again.
Jiang Yan took up a position at the rear door, quietly peering through the window.
[If only Jiang Yan could use paper dolls to slip under the door and spy.]
[Really, going in there herself is too risky.]
[It’ll be fine. This is Jiang Yan we’re talking about!]
[I’m following three different energy field streams right now. The Wuhai School instance has the highest survival rate for psychics—only one fatality so far. Honestly, if Jiang Yan weren’t here, there’d be way more deaths. I trust her completely~]
[Wait—what do you mean “only one dead”?? How is that remotely something for a human to say?]
[Judging by your stream time, you must just have registered. Keep watching; you’ll understand.]
[See what the other livestreams look like and you’ll get it.]
[Three months of energy field outbreaks. You get used to it. In the end, we’re all going to die—might as well cry for ourselves, not for anyone else, hahaha.]
[Everyone dies, so what? No need for the dramatics.]
At that point, a few comments cut across the wave of melancholy:
[Hey, hold it! You’re not going to bring your negativity into the only stream officially designated “Entertainment” by the Administration Bureau, are you??]
[From the start, “Red Pillow” was marketed as a psychic entertainment show. Contestants are all in their twenties and learned little, so there’s no teaching or instruction. And the official ban on attacks or pessimism in the comments—there are hundreds of other streams for you to vent in, but this one is for us to laugh.]
[I know you’re sad, but if you’re sad, go elsewhere. I haven’t laughed in three days, and I just want to find something here to laugh at—then post: hahahahaha, just like that.]
Jiang Yan was unaware of the discussion in the chat.
But she did know the underlying situation long ago.
Before entering the energy field, He Qingyuan had spoken to her. The reason the Supernatural Administration Bureau created “Red Pillow” was to give psychics somewhere to vent. As a precog, he had long foreseen the coming crisis, and the immense psychological stress his colleagues would bear.
Hence, “Red Pillow” was founded at his urging.
Because psychic livestreams were otherwise such a serious matter, only this show dared market itself as “entertainment.” Leadership understood how strange—and disrespectful—it was to brand a deadly ordeal as entertainment, yet psychics needed a place to release their emotions.
Every psychic already knew: the world was about to be overrun by energy fields.
There was nothing the Administration could do about it; their script was never to save the world, only to bear witness.
Once inside, at best, a psychic might outlive others by a few days—if lucky, survive a few months longer after escaping a field, until the next was drawn in. In the end, the cost was pain too great to bear.
Knowing this was the future, knowing their whole life would be spent surfing in and out of fields, was agony. So they tried desperately to find an outlet.
But after all the pain was spent?
Suppress emotions too far, and they rebound—the more suppressed, the wilder the rebound.
So comes a kind of emptiness, restlessness, even euphoric highs, low empathy, making their own happiness the center of all things.
The Administration wanted to create a place for their post-traumatic excitement to be safely given its due.
They were psychics—no matter how they vented, it wouldn’t be at a bar. They’d just be watching colleagues on a stream.
After all, every second watching was a second less to live.
[Hahahahahahahahaha!]
A flood of laughter scrolled suddenly through the chat.
Just as Jiang Yan glimpsed the classroom inside, she saw the teacher begin to turn around, and hurriedly ducked to the floor, instinctively raising her arms to shield her head.
She quickly lowered them and walked away as if nothing had happened, but her involuntary reaction had everyone in the chat smiling fondly.
Jiang Yan was oblivious.
She made her way out, recalling the scene just now.
There were seven students in the class, all turned away, so their faces were hidden, but she could see that water streamed from every single one.
The small classroom was ankle-deep in water, flooding the students’ bare feet.
All these students had drowned.
Jiang Yan thought of the rope and the discarded boat in the storeroom upstairs; now, she understood how these seven girls had died.
After leaving the main building, Jiang Yan glanced at the fourth floor.
Judging from the time, Yu Renwan and the black cat should have finished before her. She was just about to head back to the shed when she heard a “creak.”
A window overhead opened.
Jiang Yan spun around.
Yu Renwan, clutching the little black cat, leapt from above. She still wore a cold sweat, but when she caught sight of Jiang Yan, she beamed, “Jiang Jiang!”
Jiang Yan marveled at how someone could grin while leaping from a window.
But she couldn’t ignore it—she raised a finger, caught Yu Renwan’s fall, and set her down only after two bounces in the grass.
A moment later, Yu Renwan dusted herself off.
Hands behind her back, she faced Jiang Yan, clearly waiting for praise.
Jiang Yan asked, “Why did you jump?”
Yu Renwan deflected: “When we found the ‘Teacher Rules’ you didn’t praise me, so aren’t you going to praise me now?”
She stretched out her palm. “Look, Teacher Wang’s staff badge!”
“Finding the rules won’t make you a teacher—you need this as well.”
Jiang Yan had already expected as much.
She’d left Yu Renwan at the fourth floor precisely to find more items, so she nodded.
“I know.”
Yu Renwan’s face fell.
When she was sure Jiang Yan had no compliment for her, her expression turned downcast. “I knew you’d see through it…”
“And you already praised me before you left this morning—I shouldn’t expect praise twice in one day… Let’s just go back…”
Jiang Yan: “……….”
She said, “Tell me why you jumped out the window, and I’ll praise you.”
Yu Renwan hesitated.
But for Jiang Yan’s praise, she finally confessed, squirming a little: “Because Teacher Wang scared me…”
“I didn’t mean to—but she’s so sneaky, suddenly appeared at the side office door and came after us. I cursed her out of instinct, and she slipped, dropping her badge.”
“Not young anymore, is she? After falling, she didn’t get up for ages, so I thought I’d test your rule…”
Jiang Yan frowned. “Which rule?”
“That being caught by a mirror counts as using a private device. I wasn’t sure if it applied just to students or to teachers too, but I was curious…”
Jiang Yan: “…So?”
Yu Renwan ducked her head. “I was just curious, so I pushed her out the door.”
“It really was just curiosity, but then a girl suddenly dragged her into the mirror. Her bones clattered in the hallway…”
“Scared me half to death.”
She patted her chest, still shaken.
Jiang Yan was silent.
[I’ve wanted to say it for a long time…]
[Yu Renwan…is a natural-born little fiend.]
After a moment, Jiang Yan nodded. “Excellent work.”
Yu Renwan made a triumphant little fist.
As they walked back, she kept sneaking glances at Jiang Yan. “So next time…”
Jiang Yan said, “Depends on the situation.”
Teacher Wang was the designated cattle-feeding teacher.
That was in the Teacher Rules—non-negotiable.
But both “possession of Wang’s staff badge” and “Teacher Wang herself” could serve to trigger the duty, so if Wang hadn’t died, Jiang Yan would have had to trap her by nightfall.
But now that Wang was dead, the badge alone was enough. There remained only one step—
Start the job.
*
At six o’clock that evening, the shed doors unlocked by themselves.
But this time there was no teacher to lead them; the broadcast instructed everyone to go to the cattle pen on their own.
After singing outside, everyone filed inside.
Shen Huanhuan helped out Granny Zhuang, Mint Candy explained to Uncle Wang, and the routine produced smooth progress thanks to experience. Both Granny Zhuang and Uncle Wang looked on with growing amazement.
“Child,” Granny Zhuang couldn’t resist asking Shen Huanhuan,
“Are you what my granddaughter calls…mystics?”
Shen Huanhuan grinned, “Pretty much—the national department of the paranormal.”
Uncle Wang’s smile broke wide. “So the country’s got that? Incredible. Planning for a rainy day! Then we’re all saved, aren’t we?”
Then, as if realizing he’d overstepped, he quickly added, “But don’t feel pressured.”
“You’re so young—tough line of work.”
Shen Huanhuan waved it off.
Truth be told, Uncle Wang was an hour short of three days here, so his young ones were noticeably larger than the others. Shen Huanhuan couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
At 7:30 p.m., the feeding announcement sounded.
Jiang Yan, just as in the morning, mashed up the chicken and lamb carcasses and handed it out.
After feeding, all the animals were gone. Jiang Yan eyed the empty bran sacks, exhaled, and stood up.
At 7:45, it was time to feed the calves.
She pinned the badge to her chest. Almost at once, all the calves fixed their eyes on her.
“Has Teacher Wang changed?”
The green-tea calf flicked its dreadlocks: “Somewhat like my lovely follower, but mine’s still better.”
The muscle-bound calf flexed: “Teacher Wang, don’t my muscles look great?”
Jiang Yan smiled, “Very handsome.”
“Sir Cow Immortal, please follow me to the feeding area.”
Before leaving, she murmured a few instructions to Shen Huanhuan, then used a rope to lead out all the chicks and lambs.
Yu Renwan poked her head around, “What did Jiang Jiang say?”
“What were you all talking about today? Why did she talk to you alone?”
Shen Huanhuan was a little confused herself.
She didn’t really understand Jiang Yan’s meaning. “She said if we fail, we should go to the riverside.”
“There’ll be a way out there.”
[What does that mean??]
[No way she already knows how to force an exit from the energy field, right? Huh?]
[No way!!]
[Hahaha, Yan-jie’s tone is like, ‘If I fail, I’ll just tear open the field and walk you all out the riverside,’ hahaha.]
[Yeah right, how could that possibly happen QAQ]
After Jiang Yan left, the shed was half-empty.
Nothing left but people.
The twins and Yu Renwan sat together, Lan Lin folded her arms by the window, looking off after Jiang Yan; Mint Candy sidled over, “There’s no way she’ll mess up.”
Lan Lin turned and teased, “You were the most negative about this plan, so why the pep talk now?”
Mint Candy stuck out her tongue: “Once you commit to a plan, you have to trust it.”
“It is what it is. I’m determined to have a hundred and ten percent hope for the future!”
Time ticked by.
It was close to eight thirty, and everyone was straining to hear any sound from outside. Rain was drizzling on the cattle pen’s roof; the night breeze was chilly and Shen Xiaoxiao pressed up against her sister.
“Jiang Yan-jie will be fine.”
She mumbled.
“And even if she’s not, as long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy for us to even be buried together.”
Shen Huanhuan pinched her cheek, “Don’t say that.”
But Xiaoxiao just kept going, “You don’t really want to be buried with me, do you?”
Huanhuan sighed, “Ask me once I’m dead. Right now, no.”
Shen Xiaoxiao puffed up her cheeks to protest, wanting to add more, but just then a sweet chime filled the air above all of them and the words died on her lips.
The mood froze.
It was as if even the air refused to move.
Time ticked slowly by. At last, with the chime faded, a voice came from the broadcast:
“Ding dong. Congratulations—nine students have met the requirements for admission. The Entrance Ceremony will begin shortly—”
The voice cut off abruptly.
The female voice returned after a time.
“As the receiving teacher has died, the Entrance Ceremony is cancelled.”
“All students, please proceed to your dormitories; your roommates have been waiting.”
As the broadcast ended, the sign reading “Wuhai Secondary School” vanished from the roof.
A new sign appeared before them.
[Wuhai Girls’ School]
Jiang Yan exited the main building, supporting a black umbrella with one hand. Catching up to the group, she waved the nine clue slips taken from the calves.
“Come on—let’s go to the dormitory.”