The sun dipped below Yunjing City's skyline, painting the clouds in streaks of burnt orange and bruised purple, when Chen Fan parked his scooter at the rusted iron gate of Ancient Yun Manor. The evening breeze carried the sharp, damp scent of decaying wood and moss-covered stone, the same bone-chilling cold that had clung to his skin the night before—but this time, it felt different. It was intentional, a slow, creeping chill that slithered down his spine like a shadow, like something was pressing its face against the back of his neck, watching.
He slipped his hand into the pocket of his frayed delivery jacket, his fingers brushing the cool, rough hilt of the wooden sword he'd stuffed inside that morning. The compass around his neck hummed softly, a steady, thrumming warmth against his skin—not the scorching heat that flared when ghosts were angry, but a low, persistent warning. Something's here, he thought, his gaze sweeping over the manor's cracked roof tiles and ivy-choked walls. Something older than the well ghost. Something that doesn't want to be found.
The manor's front door creaked open before he could lift a hand to knock. Xia Wanxing stood in the doorway, her usual glamorous red costume replaced by a sleek black dress that clung to her curves, her hair pulled back in a tight bun that exposed the sharp line of her jaw, her face free of the heavy makeup that usually masked her features. She looked less like the A-list star plastered on every billboard in Yunjing and more like someone who'd stared into the dark and come back with a piece of it stuck to her. Her eyes were dark, ringed with faint shadows, a mix of curiosity and fear glinting in their depths.
She didn't say anything at first. She just stared at him, her gaze flicking from the compass glowing faintly at his throat to the subtle bulge in his jacket where the sword was hidden. Then she stepped aside, her voice low enough that he almost had to lean in to hear it, like she was afraid the walls might be listening. "Come in. The crew's gone home. The owner cleared the place for the night. It's just us."
Chen Fan stepped inside, his scuffed boots crunching on scattered film equipment— a cracked camera lens, a crumpled script with coffee stains bleeding through the pages, a half-empty energy drink can that rolled across the stone floor and clattered against a marble column. The main hall was vast, its ceiling vaulted so high that the chandeliers hanging from it looked like tiny, glowing stars. Dust motes danced in the slanted golden light filtering through the stained-glass windows, and the walls were lined with dusty oil portraits of stern-faced men and women in Victorian-era clothing, their eyes dark and unblinking, like they were still waiting for something that would never come. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant drip of water from a leaky roof and the faint, almost imperceptible creak of floorboards shifting under unseen weight.
"I didn't tell anyone," Xia Wanxing said, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed through the hall. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her voice sharp with a defensiveness that hadn't been there the night before. "Not my manager, not my agent, not even the producer who's been breathing down my neck to finish the movie. I know how this sounds— a movie star rambling about ghosts and glowing swords and delivery boys who wield magic. They'd lock me up in a sanitarium faster than you can say 'box office hit.'"
Chen Fan nodded, his gaze drifting to one of the portraits—a woman in a high-collared black dress, her lips pressed into a thin, cruel line, a locket hanging around her neck that glinted faintly in the dim light. The compass around his neck skipped a beat, the needle twitching toward the portrait before snapping back to center, like it had recognized something and then thought better of it. She's watching, he thought, his jaw tightening. But she's not the one we need to worry about.
He turned to face Xia Wanxing, his expression still calm, still unreadable. "Why did you call me here? The fifty thousand you tossed at me the other night—you could've just wired it. You didn't have to drag me back to this place."
Xia Wanxing hesitated, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse like she was trying to wring a secret out of it. Then she pulled a crumpled envelope from the bag and tossed it to him. Chen Fan caught it, his fingers brushing the thick, crisp bills inside—more cash than he'd made in six months of delivery runs combined. "Fifty thousand is for the trouble the other night," she said, her voice steady now, resolute. "For saving that crew member. For saving me. But this"—she nodded at the envelope—"this is a down payment. I need your help. The manor isn't just haunted by the ghost in the well. There's something else here. Something that's been killing people for decades."
Chen Fan set the envelope on a nearby marble table, the cash untouched. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze cutting through her. "You're a movie star. You could hire a dozen so-called ghost hunters. They'd line up around the block for a chance to be associated with you. Why me?"
Xia Wanxing laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that bounced off the walls. "Ghost hunters? They're all frauds. Men in cheap suits with EMF meters that beep whenever a light switch flickers, women in crystal necklaces who claim to talk to the dead but can't even tell you what color your socks are. They wave their gadgets around, charge a fortune, and leave the ghosts angrier than they found them. You—you're different. You didn't run. You didn't scream. You just stood there. And you killed it. With a sword that appeared out of thin air."
She took a step toward him, her eyes intense, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The manor's owner is a real estate tycoon. He wants to tear this place down and build a luxury hotel—glass and steel, no history, no ghosts. But every time he brings in construction crews, someone gets hurt. A worker fell off the roof last month, broke his neck. A foreman went missing a week later; his body turned up in the well, his fingers curled like he'd been clawing at the dark. The police ruled it an accident, a suicide. But I know better. I've seen the shadows slithering through the halls after dark. I've heard the whispers—low, guttural things that don't sound human. I've felt it watching me, even when I was in my trailer, even when I was miles away from this place."
The compass around Chen Fan's neck burned hotter, suddenly, the needle spinning so fast it was a blur before locking into place—pointing straight toward a heavy oak door tucked in the far corner of the hall. The door was carved with strange, swirling symbols that looked like nothing he'd ever seen, its handle rusted black, its surface oozing a faint, sticky dampness that glistened in the dim light. He could feel it now—the dark energy, thick and suffocating, oozing from the cracks like tar, a rage that had been festering for centuries, waiting for someone to wake it up. It was stronger than the well ghost, stronger than the boy clinging to Wang Kun. It was hungry.
"You went down there, didn't you?" he said, his voice quiet, the words cutting through the silence like a knife.
Xia Wanxing flinched, her face going pale. She looked away, her jaw tightening, like she was trying to force the memory back into the dark where it belonged. "I did. Last week. I wanted to get some atmospheric shots for the movie—something gritty, something real. The door was unlocked. I didn't think twice. I just… went down."
She paused, her voice trembling, her hands fisting at her sides. "It was cold. Colder than any place I've ever been. The air smelled like blood and rot. And then I saw it. It was a man, or something that used to be a man. Tall, thin, his skin gray and stretched tight over his bones, his eyes black holes that didn't reflect any light. He was standing in the corner, his fingers curled into claws, just watching me. I didn't scream. I didn't even think. I just ran. I didn't stop until I got to my car, until I was halfway back to the city. I haven't slept since. Every time I close my eyes, I see those black holes staring at me."
She turned back to him, her eyes pleading, the star's arrogance gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered fear. "I need you to get rid of it. For me. For the people who work here. For the poor bastard who ended up in the well. I'll pay you more—double the cash, triple it. Whatever you want. A house, a car, a job—anything. Just make it go away."
Chen Fan didn't answer. He was staring at the basement door, the compass in his hand glowing brighter, the symbols on the door pulsing in time with the light, like they were alive. He could hear it now—a low, guttural growl, deep and rumbling, coming from the depths of the basement, a sound that made his teeth ache, a sound that promised pain and death. This was no weak, scared ghost clinging to the living out of desperation. This was a wraith—a killer, a thing that fed on fear and suffering, a thing that had been trapped in the dark for so long it had become the dark itself. It's been waiting for a fight, he thought. It's been waiting for someone who can hurt it back.
The basement door creaked open, slowly, of its own accord, the rusted hinges screaming in protest. Black mist oozed out of the gap, thick and viscous, coiling around the stone floor like a snake, carrying the stench of rot and iron that made Chen Fan's nose burn. The growl grew louder, closer, until it was echoing through the hall, shaking the portraits on the walls, making the chandeliers sway.
Xia Wanxing let out a gasp, stumbling backward, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle the sound. She stared at the door, her face white as a sheet, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind. "It's here. It's coming."
Chen Fan stepped forward, his hand closing around the wooden sword's hilt, pulling it out of his jacket. The sword glowed with a faint, golden light, the red veins on its blade pulsing like a heartbeat, like it was waking up too. The compass in his other hand burned hotter, the needle pointing straight into the inky darkness of the basement, a beacon cutting through the black mist.
He didn't look back at Xia Wanxing. He didn't need to. He could feel her eyes on his back, her fear mixing with a flicker of excitement—the same curiosity that had made her text him, the same hunger for something new and dangerous that had made her a star. She was a woman who had everything, who had never wanted for anything, and now she was staring at a secret that could shatter her perfect world.
"Stay here," he said, his voice calm, steady, the opposite of the chaos unfolding around them. "Don't follow me. Don't make a sound. And whatever you do—don't scream. It feeds on fear."
He took a step toward the basement door, the sword in his hand, the compass glowing bright enough to cast his shadow on the stone walls. The growl grew louder, closer, until he could see the shadowy figure in the darkness—tall, thin, its fingers tipped with claws that glinted like shards of glass. It was watching him, those black hole eyes fixed on his face, and for a split second, Chen Fan swore he heard a voice, low and guttural, whispering his name.
This was no longer a delivery job. This was no longer about rent or tips or surviving another day in Yunjing City. This was about something more. Something older. Something that had been waiting for him, for centuries—waiting for a descendant of the family that had trapped it in the dark, waiting for a fight that would either set it free or burn it to ash.
Chen Fan smiled, a sharp, cold curve of his lips. He tightened his grip on the sword, the golden light flaring brighter, cutting through the black mist like a knife through silk.
"Come on," he whispered, his voice carrying through the darkness. "Let's finish what your kind started a long time ago."
He stepped into the basement, and the door slammed shut behind him with a deafening crash that shook the entire manor. The last thing Xia Wanxing heard was a roar—part ghost, part man—that echoed through the stone walls, followed by the faint, metallic ring of a sword striking something solid.
Outside, the moon rose over Yunjing City, casting the manor in a pale, silver light. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Inside, the silence stretched on, thick and heavy, broken only by the drip of water and the faint, fading hum of a compass.
Teaser for Chapter 4:
The basement holds secrets older than the manor—secrets about Chen Fan's family, about the compass, about the sword's true power. The wraith is stronger than any ghost he's faced before, and it knows the truth about his parents' disappearance. Meanwhile, Xia Wanxing isn't as alone as she thinks—someone's been watching her, someone who works for the manor's owner, someone who doesn't want the old secrets to see the light of day. When the basement door flies open again, Chen Fan will emerge changed, and he'll have to choose between saving the star who hired him and protecting the truth that could destroy everything he's ever known.