Vanishing was a release for Xiahua.
Yet even after her release, many stories born because of her continued to unfold.
For instance, Uncle Wang.
After leaving the energy field, he and the others emerged from the grass outside Jiangcheng. He barely had time to warmly invite everyone home for a meal before he saw a haggard woman clutching a black-and-white photo of him and their daughter.
That was his wife.
Aside from his wife, a crowd had gathered on the outskirts of Jiangcheng, holding banners and calling on the police to provide answers for the missing person case.
Upon seeing Uncle Wang, the haggard woman dropped the photo to the ground.
Granny Zhuang’s granddaughter, overcome with joy, rushed forward.
A throng pressed around them, asking incessantly where they had been, what had happened, and whether they had seen anyone else.
Uncle Wang stared at the picture of his daughter, his face ashen. In the end, it was Granny Zhuang who slowly shook her head.
“These days, I’ve been dizzy the whole time, blindfolded. Tonight, we were suddenly thrown into a patch of grass, and these young police officers woke us up.”
So everyone broke through the cordon and rushed into the grass beyond.
But their missing loved ones did not appear. What they found, as the energy field faded, was a heap of white bones stacked like a hill.
It was as if the world paused for a moment, then resumed its endless cycle.
Crying rang out ceaselessly.
Sirens blared through Jiangcheng. The major missing persons case became national news, along with other incidents: the Anping City apartment disappearance—the whole building’s residents vanishing one by one—and the Changxia Garden floating corpses case—children’s bodies surfacing in the garden pond for three consecutive days.
Until the truth of the energy field was revealed, all these cases could only be classed as unresolved.
Three days after leaving the energy field, Jiang Yan received notice of mission settlement.
When she arrived at the Supernatural Administration Bureau, Lan Lin and the others were already waiting in the lobby. As promised, they turned over all their rewards to Jiang Yan, who promptly put the items up for sale on the official website, then transferred the earnings to Shen Huanhuan.
Shen Huanhuan owned several furnished homes, all move-in ready.
Jiang Yan had spent yesterday touring them, finally settling on a small villa.
The impulse to buy came quite unexpectedly.
Two evenings prior, Mu Wang had been behaving nicely at home, waiting for her to return. But on her arrival, the house was swamped with falling peach blossoms. Both the downstairs and upstairs got covered; Jiang Yan ordered Mu Wang to sneak into the neighbor’s and cut all the flowers, only to discover there were people living downstairs.
The man, just home from work, found several boughs of peach blossoms growing from his sofa. At first, he thought he was seeing things, but after confirming the flowers were real, he contacted a reporter. The incident made the Jiangcheng evening news.
Netizens commented, “Now any nonsense can get on TV.”
Mu Wang spent the night creating an account to argue online.
In the end, he was chased off with, “This guy must be an idiot.”
Mu Wang, clutching petals, bawled so wretchedly at home that Jiang Yan felt she’d go mad; even in her dreams, she heard someone crying, so the next day she took him out house-hunting.
But truthfully, Jiang Yan had wanted to move for some time. After contacting Shen Huanhuan, she took a day to finalize her choice; yet before Jiang Yan could even ask the price, Shen Huanhuan produced the deed and brought in a lawyer for an immediate transfer.
Little Peach Blossom, anxious in her pocket, kept tugging at Jiang Yan’s clothing to remind her it used to be rich too—now it was time to keep working and buy her an estate.
Jiang Yan made it clear she wouldn’t take it for free, and after showing her savings, Shen Huanhuan finally gave up on the free offer.
Thus, she was now a homeowner.
Her previous home had been arranged by He Qingyuan. Jiang Yan planned to move after returning.
Thinking this, she grew absent-minded, standing in the hall for several minutes. As she was about to leave, He Qingyuan called out to her.
“Wang Wenhe will be here soon. His nerves are on the verge of collapse,” He Qingyuan said. “After all, you helped him. Maybe seeing you will comfort him a little.”
Wang Wenhe was Uncle Wang.
Jiang Yan understood, but she had no plans to stay.
She was under no obligation to clean up after others.
He Qingyuan read her look and chuckled, shaking his head. “I suppose you have questions for me? Stay and wait with me, then.”
Jiang Yan crossed her arms, shot He Qingyuan a glance, and did not refuse.
Indeed, she had questions for He Qingyuan—about the Cow Immortal.
About ten minutes later, Cheng Guang brought in Wang Wenhe, accompanied by his wife.
Cheng Guang, not having seen Jiang Yan in some time, called out cheerfully, “Senior Sister!” Jiang Yan nodded coolly, but Cheng Guang was unfazed and would have said more if not for He Qingyuan’s faint cough.
Following his line of sight, Cheng Guang noticed the hunched couple. He scratched his head, his smile fading.
Wang Wenhe, upon seeing Jiang Yan, visibly relaxed—as if meeting someone familiar relieved some of the strain, if only a little.
He looked much older than only three days before.
“He said…” Wang Wenhe pointed at Cheng Guang, “you can let us see our daughter.”
The woman beside him also lifted her face, eyes filled with desperate hope as she looked at them.
He Qingyuan sighed and led them deeper inside.
Every corridor of the Supernatural Administration Bureau was ablaze with light, every room filled with psychics. So many people had died lately that there were staff working day and night to dispel grudges, helping the deceased bid farewell to their loved ones in dreams.
Because Wang Wenhe’s case was special, he was allowed a proper goodbye.
He Qingyuan brought the couple to a room. “You have as much time as you need to say farewell to your daughter.”
Then he left.
In the hallway, Jiang Yan asked, “How long do you intend to keep this secret?”
He Qingyuan sighed.
He was old now—most at his age would have retired long since, but he still labored for the Bureau.
Jiang Yan turned her gaze to He Qingyuan, lips curling faintly.
“You know I can see desire,” she said as she dropped her scrutiny, “so—you’re not going to tell them.”
He Qingyuan was silent a few seconds before answering, “If we make this public, it will cause mass panic and chaos.”
“The world would become hell. Many would suffer things even more horrible than death in an energy field.”
At this answer, Jiang Yan’s smile grew unreadable.
She looked at He Qingyuan with eyes full of cold indifference.
He Qingyuan met her gaze for a long time, then coughed in helpless resignation.
“Your ability…”
Jiang Yan cut in directly: “You’re waiting.”
He Qingyuan gave a wry smile. “Yes, I’m waiting.”
Jiang Yan: “The show Red Pillow wasn’t just to give other psychics emotional release; its real purpose was me. You hoped, by getting me on the show, to achieve your goals.”
Jiang Yan said: “You’re waiting for me to learn empathy for humankind.”
He Qingyuan did not deny it.
So Jiang Yan went on with her analysis:
“Your foresight let you choose the core, most emotionally resonant missions—the first five featured teacher-student bonds, parental love, comradeship, sisterhood, and selfless sacrifice.”
“What do you want me to give up?” Jiang Yan asked.
The answer was clear to both of them.
He Qingyuan wanted Jiang Yan to learn human feelings, so that she would help and save them willingly, from her heart.
He hoped she, like the hundreds of yao stored in the Yao Management Department, would turn her innate power into a single rune, sacrificing her immortal life for the sake of mankind’s survival.
Because her abilities were extraordinary.
He Qingyuan finally spoke, “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now.”
“The cause of an energy field is excess turbid qi. Turbid qi is desire. If you erase all the turbid qi around an energy field, it collapses for lack of support.”
“You don’t even need to enter—you could make it disappear from outside.”
“I’ve run simulations. Erasing a single field consumes too much yao power for long-term use. But if your true body were forged into a rune, half of Huaguo’s sky would clear of turbid qi in an instant. Twenty years ago, there was a bronze-mirror yao three thousand six hundred years old; her rune was duplication, meaning she could copy a single rune multiple times. With your two runes working together, it would break the cycle of global supernatural outbreaks.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Jiang Yan replied, calm and cold.
“I enjoy immortality very much, He Qingyuan. You’re overreaching.”
He Qingyuan was not annoyed; he knew his own logic could not justify his wishes.
Jiang Yan could travel freely through any energy field—she would become one of the longest-lived yao in the world, powerful and immortal. Why should she give herself up for humankind?
She hardly even knew any humans.
The atmosphere turned icy.
He Qingyuan glanced toward the room, deeply moved by the sporadic cries of the couple inside.
Jiang Yan’s face, however, betrayed not a ripple.
“It’s time to talk about the Cow Immortal,” said Jiang Yan.
He Qingyuan composed himself and answered seriously, “Since it can become a god of faith, it is of course one of the great yao of the Classic of Mountains and Seas.”
He spoke the most earth-shattering truths with complete calm:
“It’s not just our world facing a supernatural resurgence—many worlds are suffering. Some struggle on, some have already fallen.”
“Our world’s people are unique to our world, but the Shanhai yao are singular—they are the protectors of all worlds.”
Jiang Yan understood. “So the Cow Immortal disappeared five hundred years ago because it rushed off to help another world?”
He Qingyuan nodded.
“It once protected three worlds. Five hundred years ago, the supernatural resurgence in one accelerated dramatically; it used its body to block the turbid qi, but ultimately failed, and that world fell. Guided by instinct, it returned to where it was born.”
“Our own world’s resurgence accelerated because of this. As the worlds around us fell, their turbid qi drifted into ours; now not only do we bear our world’s accumulated darkness, but also the malice of many worlds throughout history.”
“Those wicked desires relentlessly assault the soul. Without a physical body’s protection, everyone’s soul becomes a defenseless vessel—so the good turn evil, and all kindness becomes corruption.”
Jiang Yan asked: “Each Shanhai yao’s powers are granted by the world’s will. Why doesn’t the world’s will simply give them the ability to block turbid qi?”
He Qingyuan shook his head. “As people must die, the world’s will accepts its own extinction. In its eyes, being replaced by turbid qi is just natural succession, not worth mourning.”
Jiang Yan nodded. “But you cannot help but care.”
He Qingyuan fell silent.
Her questions answered, Jiang Yan turned to leave.
He Qingyuan raised his hand as if to speak.
Jiang Yan looked back, “What is it?”
He Qingyuan opened his mouth, then, suddenly seized by a coughing fit, covered his mouth, his health deteriorating after so many uses of foresight. At last, he waved her away in exhaustion: “Go on.”
“I’ll think of something else.”
Without looking back, Jiang Yan strode out of the Bureau. As she reached the door, three flower petals poked from her pocket.
Little Peach Blossom planted two petals on the edge of Jiang Yan’s pocket, gazing at her in near tears: “Sister, don’t listen to him, whatever you do.”
“If you go looking for Bai Ze…”
Jiang Yan replied mildly, “What if I do?”
Little Peach Blossom gritted its teeth: “Then I’ll die for love!”
Jiang Yan: “…..…”
She shoved the now-blushing Peach Blossom back into her pocket.
She had not been swayed at all by He Qingyuan’s words. To celebrate her new house, she went to the market.
First, she bought fresh flowers. Then she picked up fruit. At the poultry stall, she hesitated, then approached.
“This duck is so cute.”
Little Peach Blossom stuck out its head at once.
Jiang Yan: “Let’s try half a duck.”
Little Peach Blossom ducked back inside.
After paying, Jiang Yan carried her duck home, a bit confused: “Were you spasming just now? Up and down, all at once.”
Little Peach Blossom tilted its head gloomily.
It watched Jiang Yan’s raised brow—then suddenly hugged her finger, nestling closer.
A moment later, it let go and whispered quietly:
“I’m spasming again.”
“It’s so hard to spasm.”