The door slammed shut behind Chen Fan with a crash that rattled his teeth, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing but darkness—thick, suffocating, absolute. The air reeked of iron and rot, a stench so strong it clung to his throat, making him want to gag. The compass around his neck burned like a brand, its golden light flaring so bright it painted the basement's rough stone walls in a sickly glow, and the wooden sword in his hand thrummed in time with his pulse, the red veins on its blade pulsing like a wounded heart.
He took a step forward, his boots crunching on something that crunched like broken glass under the thick layer of dust. The basement was vast, a warren of stone tunnels and crumbling chambers that stretched out as far as the compass's light could reach. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like tattered shrouds, and the walls were covered in the same swirling symbols that carved the oak door upstairs—ancient, jagged, nothing like any language Chen Fan had ever seen. But the compass recognized them. The needle twitched, skipping over the symbols like it was reading a story written in blood.
This is where it all started, Chen Fan thought, his jaw tightening. This is where my family trapped it. This is where they disappeared.
The growl rumbled again, low and guttural, coming from the deepest, darkest corner of the basement, where the compass's light couldn't reach. Black mist coiled around the shadows, thick and viscous, and when the figure stepped into the glow, Chen Fan felt his blood run cold.
It was taller than he remembered, its frame stretched thin like a skeleton pulled tight over with rotting skin. Its eyes were black holes, no whites, no pupils, just endless darkness, and its fingers ended in claws that glinted like shards of obsidian. It wore a tattered Victorian coat, the fabric stained with something that looked like dried blood, and around its neck hung a locket—small, silver, identical to the one in the portrait upstairs.
The compass burned hotter, the needle locking onto the locket like a magnet. Chen Fan's mind flooded with memories—fragments, flashes, things he'd buried so deep he'd almost forgotten them. His father's rough hands, polishing the compass. His mother's soft voice, whispering about "ancient debts" and "family curses." The night they'd left, their faces tight with fear, telling him to "protect the relics" if they didn't come back.
"This is your legacy, boy," the wraith rasped, its voice like gravel scraping against stone. Its mouth didn't move— the words just oozed out of it, thick and cold, like they were made of the same black mist that clung to its body. "Your blood. Your curse. Your family trapped me here, locked me away with their little trinkets—their compass, their sword. They thought they could stop me. They thought they could bury the truth."
Chen Fan tightened his grip on the sword, the golden light flaring brighter. "What truth?" he said, his voice steady, even though his hands were shaking. "What did my parents do?"
The wraith laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. It lifted a clawed hand, and the black mist swirled around it, forming images in the air—flashes of the manor, centuries ago. A group of people in Victorian clothing, their faces stern, holding the compass and sword aloft. The wraith, young and human once, screaming as they locked him in the basement, as they carved the symbols into the door. The locket, falling from his neck as the door slammed shut.
"They stole my life," the wraith snarled, the black mist boiling around it. "They stole my name. They were hunters—like you. Like your parents. They hunted things like me, things they didn't understand. They locked me here because I knew their secret—because I knew they weren't just hunters. They were killers. They killed anyone who got in their way. Anyone who dared to ask questions."
The images shifted, faster now. Chen Fan's parents, standing in the same basement, the compass and sword in their hands. The wraith, its form flickering, reaching for them. A flash of light. A scream. The basement door slamming shut. Silence.
"They came here to finish what their ancestors started," the wraith said, its voice dropping to a whisper. "They came here to kill me. But they made a mistake. They thought they could handle me. They thought they could bury the truth forever. But the truth doesn't stay buried, boy. It waits. It hungers."
It took a step forward, and the black mist surged, carrying the stench of rot and iron. Chen Fan raised the sword, the golden light cutting through the mist like a knife, but the wraith didn't flinch. It just smiled, a cruel, rictus grin that split its face in two.
"Your parents are dead," it rasped. "I killed them. I trapped their souls here, with me. With the truth. And now you're here. You're the last of them. The last of the hunters. And I'm going to finish what I started. I'm going to kill you. I'm going to set their souls free. I'm going to burn this manor to the ground. I'm going to burn everything."
It lunged, its claws outstretched, the black mist coiling around its arm like a snake. Chen Fan dodged, the sword swinging in a flash of golden light, and it struck the wraith's shoulder. The wraith screamed, a sound that made Chen Fan's ears bleed, and black mist billowed from the wound, hissing like steam when it touched the golden light.
But the wound closed almost instantly, the mist reforming around it. The wraith laughed, the sound echoing through the basement. "You think that little toy can hurt me?" it snarled. "You think your family's trinkets can stop me now? I've been waiting for centuries. I've been feeding on fear. On pain. On the souls of everyone who's ever stepped foot in this basement. I'm stronger than you. Stronger than your parents. Stronger than anything."
It lunged again, faster this time, and its claws raked across Chen Fan's arm. He cried out, the pain searing through him, and he stumbled backward, hitting a stone wall. The compass burned hotter, the golden light flaring so bright it blinded him, and for a split second, he heard his mother's voice—soft, calm, strong.
The relics don't just kill, she whispered. They heal. They set free. You don't have to fight it, Chen Fan. You just have to listen. You just have to choose.
Choose.
The word echoed in his head, and suddenly, Chen Fan understood. The compass wasn't just a weapon. The sword wasn't just a tool. They were relics—family relics. They were meant to heal, not to harm. They were meant to set free, not to trap.
His parents hadn't come here to kill the wraith. They'd come here to save it. To set its soul free. To bury the truth, yes—but to bury it with kindness, not with violence. They'd made a mistake. They'd let their fear take over. They'd let the wraith's anger consume them.
But Chen Fan wouldn't.
He lowered the sword, the golden light dimming to a soft glow. He reached up, his fingers brushing the compass around his neck. The needle stopped spinning, the golden light pulsing in time with the wraith's black mist.
"You're not a monster," Chen Fan said, his voice quiet, steady. "You're a victim. My family hurt you. My ancestors hurt you. My parents hurt you. They were wrong. They were scared. They thought violence was the only way. But it's not."
The wraith froze, its claws inches from Chen Fan's throat. The black mist stopped boiling, settling into a soft, swirling cloud. "What are you doing?" it rasped, its voice confused, for the first time. "Why aren't you fighting me?"
"I'm not my parents," Chen Fan said. "I'm not my ancestors. I'm not a killer. I'm here to finish what they started. But I'm going to finish it right."
He closed his eyes, and he whispered the incantation—the same one his mother had whispered to him as a child, the same one he'd used to set the boy ghost free from Wang Kun. By blood and bone, show the light. By blood and bone, set it free.
The compass exploded into golden light, so bright it filled the entire basement, and the sword in his hand glowed with the same light, the red veins pulsing like a heartbeat. The golden light wrapped around the wraith, warm and gentle, nothing like the harsh glow that had banished the well ghost. The wraith screamed, but it wasn't a scream of pain—it was a scream of relief.
The black mist melted away, dissolving into the golden light, and the wraith's form shifted, shrinking, changing. The rotting skin fell away, revealing a young man, his face pale, his eyes no longer black holes—just human, just tired. The tattered Victorian coat vanished, replaced by a simple shirt and trousers. The locket fell from his neck, clattering to the stone floor.
He stared at Chen Fan, his eyes filling with tears. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice soft, human, finally. "Thank you for setting me free."
The golden light wrapped around him, and he smiled—a small, sad smile—and then he vanished, dissolving into the light, gone forever.
The light faded. The compass stopped burning. The sword's glow dimmed, the red veins going still.
Chen Fan stood there, his arm throbbing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The basement was quiet now, the stench of rot and iron gone, replaced by the faint, clean scent of damp stone. He looked down at the locket on the floor, and he bent to pick it up. It was cold in his hand, heavy, like it held a lifetime of secrets.
He opened it. Inside, there was a photograph—a young woman, smiling, her eyes bright. The wraith's sister, maybe. His lover. The person he'd lost, all those centuries ago.
Chen Fan closed the locket, slipping it into his pocket. He turned, walking toward the door, the sword in his hand, the compass around his neck. The symbols on the walls glowed faintly, then faded, like they were saying goodbye.
The door creaked open, and Chen Fan stepped out into the main hall, blinking in the dim light.
Xia Wanxing was standing there, but she wasn't alone.
A man was with her—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a tailored suit, a gold watch glinting on his wrist. He was holding a gun, the barrel pointed straight at Xia Wanxing's head. His face was cold, expressionless, like he was just doing a job.
Chen Fan froze. The compass burned faintly, the needle twitching toward the man. He's not human, Chen Fan thought. Not entirely. He's got the same rot on him as the wraith. As Wang Kun. He's working for the manor's owner.
The man smiled when he saw Chen Fan, a cruel, cold smile. "There you are," he said, his voice smooth, like polished stone. "The little hunter. I've been waiting for you. The owner wants the manor. He wants the secrets. He wants the relics. And he'll do anything to get them. Even kill a movie star."
He pressed the gun harder against Xia Wanxing's head. She whimpered, her eyes wide with fear, but she didn't scream. She just looked at Chen Fan, her gaze pleading.
"Give me the compass and the sword," the man said, "and I'll let her go. Easy as that. Or I'll blow her brains out right here, right now. And then I'll take the relics anyway. Your choice, kid."
Chen Fan looked at Xia Wanxing—her face pale, her body trembling, the star who'd hired him, the star who'd gotten caught up in something she didn't understand. He looked at the man—his cold eyes, his gun, the rot clinging to him like a shadow. He looked at the compass around his neck, at the sword in his hand, at the locket in his pocket.
His parents had made a choice. They'd chosen violence. They'd chosen fear. They'd chosen to bury the truth, and it had cost them everything.
Chen Fan wouldn't make the same mistake.
He tightened his grip on the sword, the golden light flaring to life. He smiled, a sharp, cold curve of his lips.
"I choose both," he said.
The man's eyes widened. "What?"
"I choose to save her," Chen Fan said, taking a step forward. "And I choose to bury the truth. But not with violence. With me."
He raised the sword, the golden light cutting through the dim hall like a knife, and the man cursed, raising the gun. But Chen Fan was faster. He lunged, the sword swinging in a flash of golden light, and the man screamed, dropping the gun as the blade struck his arm.
Black mist billowed from the wound, hissing like steam, and the man stumbled backward, his face contorting in pain. "You little bastard," he snarled, his voice no longer smooth, no longer human—just a guttural snarl, like the wraith's. "You think you can stop me? You think you can stop the owner? He's got an army. He's got power. You're just a kid with a toy."
Chen Fan didn't answer. He just stepped forward, the sword glowing brighter, and the man turned, running for the door, his arm bleeding black mist, his screams echoing through the hall.
Chen Fan watched him go, then turned to Xia Wanxing. She was staring at him, her eyes wide, her face pale—but there was no fear in them now. Just awe. Just curiosity. Just recognition.
"You're not just a delivery boy," she said, her voice trembling.
Chen Fan smiled, sheathing the sword. "No," he said. "I'm not."
He walked over to her, pulling the envelope of cash from the table, and handed it to her. She stared at it, confused. "What's this?"
"Your money back," Chen Fan said. "I don't need it. The job's done. The wraith is gone. The manor's free."
Xia Wanxing didn't take the envelope. She just looked at him, her eyes intense. "What now? What happens to you?"
Chen Fan looked at the compass around his neck, at the locket in his pocket. He thought of his parents, of their choice, of their mistake. He thought of the wraith, of the boy ghost, of all the souls he'd set free.
He thought of the man, of the owner, of the army waiting in the shadows.
He thought of Yunjing City, of the ghosts clinging to the dark corners, of the rot that festered in the hearts of the rich and the arrogant.
He smiled.
"Now," he said, "I hunt."
Teaser for Chapter 5:
Chen Fan leaves the manor behind, but the owner isn't done with him—not by a long shot. The man he wounded is just the first of many, and the owner has a secret of his own—a secret that could destroy Yunjing City if it's set free. Meanwhile, Xia Wanxing makes a choice of her own—she's not going back to her old life. She's going to help Chen Fan. She's going to hunt. But when the owner's army comes for them, Chen Fan and Xia Wanxing will have to fight side by side, or die trying.