Chen Fan almost swiped to reject the order—racetrack deliveries always meant long waits and rude customers—but the compass around his throat thrummed violently, its golden light blazing brighter than it had at Starcrest Hospital. Rumors had been swirling among delivery riders lately: men in black suits, the same ones who'd ambushed him and Xia Wanxing at the manor, had been loitering near the racetrack's back entrance for days. Curiosity piqued, he hit accept.
The midday sun blazed over Yunjing City's Grand Racetrack, turning the asphalt into a shimmering sheet of heat that distorted the air. Chen Fan's electric scooter whirred to a stop at the entrance, his delivery box rattling with three cold fried chicken orders he'd been stuck with for an hour. The compass around his throat hummed sharply, its golden light flickering like a warning beacon—louder than it had been at the hospital, brighter than it had been in the old manor.
He'd gotten the ping for the delivery ten minutes ago, a last-minute order from a VIP box at the racetrack. The customer's name had made him pause: Su Qingyan. The 24-year-old racing prodigy, the reigning champion of Yunjing's underground circuits, the kind of woman who turned heads not just with her speed, but with her unapologetic arrogance. Everyone knew her—she drove a custom red supercar, wore diamond-encrusted racing gloves, and once told a reporter that fear was "a word for people who couldn't handle going 200 kilometers an hour."
Chen Fan adjusted his helmet, his eyes sweeping over the crowd of screaming fans and the row of luxury cars parked outside the VIP entrance. The air reeked of gasoline and burnt rubber, but beneath it lingered a faint, sickly stench—the rot of a vengeful spirit, thick and cloying. The compass in his hand pulsed faster, its needle locking onto the track's starting line, where a red supercar sat gleaming under the sun.
"Move it, delivery boy!" A security guard barked, shoving Chen Fan's shoulder. "The final lap's about to start. You don't have a pass—scram before I call the cops."
Chen Fan didn't flinch. He pulled out his phone, showing the guard the order confirmation. "VIP box 12. Su Qingyan's order. You wanna stop me from delivering it?"
The guard's face paled. He mumbled an apology and stepped aside, letting Chen Fan through. The crowd's roar hit him like a wave as he walked toward the VIP boxes—fans screaming Su Qingyan's name, commentators shouting into their microphones, the high-pitched whine of engines revving to life.
Box 12 was empty when he pushed open the door. The fried chicken sat on a marble table, but there was no sign of Su Qingyan. Chen Fan frowned, the compass in his hand burning hot against his palm. Body Protection Alert, the passive skill hummed in his mind. He turned just in time to see a flash of red outside—Su Qingyan, climbing into her supercar, her racing suit unzipped at the neck, her sunglasses perched on her head. She was arguing with a mechanic, her voice sharp and impatient.
"The car's fine!" She snapped, shoving the mechanic away. "You're just scared I'll break another track record. Get out of my way—this race is mine."
The mechanic's face was ashen. "Ms. Su, the steering wheel's been sticking all morning! And the dashboard—those weird symbols keep appearing! I'm telling you, something's wrong with this car!"
Su Qingyan laughed, a loud, dismissive sound that carried over the crowd's noise. "Symbols? Please. You're just trying to get me to forfeit so your golden boy can win. Save your ghost stories for the tabloids." She slid into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut, and revved the engine. The car roared—but there was a gurgling, unnatural sound beneath it, like something was choking on metal.
Chen Fan's heart dropped. He ran to the edge of the VIP balcony, the peachwood sword pressing against his back through his delivery jacket. The compass in his hand flared bright red, the Evil Aura Scan and Demon Slash skill activating automatically. It mapped the energy—thick, black, swirling around Su Qingyan's car, clinging to the steering wheel, oozing from the dashboard. The symbols the mechanic had mentioned—they were the same swirling marks as the manor, the hospital, the locket. A vengeful spirit, bound to the car.
The starting gun fired. Su Qingyan's car shot forward, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. She took the first turn at a reckless angle, her tires screeching, and the crowd screamed—half in awe, half in terror. But Chen Fan saw it. The car veered to the left, just for a split second, as if something was yanking the steering wheel. Su Qingyan cursed, yanking it back, but her face paled. She didn't laugh anymore.
"Something's wrong!" She shouted, her voice crackling over the car's radio. "The wheel's stuck! I can't control it!"
The car picked up speed, racing toward the final turn—a sharp, deadly curve that had claimed three lives last year. The spirit's energy flared, the black mist coiling around the car like a snake. Chen Fan could see it now, the ghost's face pressed against the windshield—pale, twisted, its eyes glowing red. A former racer, he realized. Someone who'd died in a crash on this very track, someone who'd been cheated out of a win. Someone who wanted revenge.
"Su Qingyan! Stop the car!" Chen Fan yelled, but his voice was swallowed by the crowd's roar. He didn't hesitate. He climbed over the balcony railing, dropping two meters to the ground, and ran toward the track, his delivery jacket flapping behind him. The security guards shouted, but he ignored them—he had to get to her before the final turn.
The car was 100 meters away from the curve, speeding faster than it should have been. Su Qingyan was screaming, yanking the steering wheel with both hands, but it was no use. The ghost's face materialized fully on the windshield, its mouth opening in a silent snarl, and the car swerved—straight toward the guardrail, where a group of fans stood cheering.
Chen Fan drew the peachwood sword. The blade flared with red light, the compass marking the spirit's weak point—its chest, where the swirling symbol glowed brightest. He ran faster, his legs burning, and jumped—landing on the hood of Su Qingyan's car, the metal scraping against his knees.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" Su Qingyan screamed, slamming on the brakes. The car skidded, but the spirit held it steady, dragging it toward the guardrail.
"Evil spirit!" Chen Fan shouted, raising the peachwood sword. "This isn't your revenge to take! Let her go!"
The ghost hissed, its hand reaching through the windshield to grab Chen Fan's throat. But Chen Fan was faster. He drove the peachwood sword straight through the windshield, hitting the spirit's chest dead-on. The Evil Aura Scan and Demon Slash skill exploded, the red light burning through the black mist. The spirit let out a bloodcurdling scream, its body dissolving into golden sparks that drifted upward toward the sky.
As the golden sparks faded, a fragment of the spirit's memory flickered into Chen Fan's mind—forged brake lines, a man in a tailored black suit handing a thick envelope to Su Qingyan's former teammate, the same swirling symbol carved into a metal box hidden in the team's garage. The spirit hadn't just been cheated out of a win; he'd been murdered, his soul bound to the car as a test for a larger, more sinister ritual—one tied to the seal his family had guarded for centuries.
The car's engine died. It skidded to a stop inches from the guardrail, the fans screaming in shock. Su Qingyan stared at Chen Fan, her eyes wide, her face drained of color. She unbuckled her seatbelt, her hands shaking, and pushed the door open. She stumbled out, collapsing onto the asphalt, and looked up at Chen Fan—at his rumpled delivery jacket, his scuffed sneakers, the peachwood sword in his hand.
"You… you just saved my life," she whispered.
Chen Fan nodded, tucking the sword back into his jacket. He glanced at his phone—his delivery order was officially late, and he'd probably get a one-star review. "Your car was haunted. A former racer. He died here last year, didn't he? Cheated out of the championship by your team."
Su Qingyan's face turned white. "How do you know that?"
"Your mechanic wasn't telling ghost stories," Chen Fan said. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm—her hand was still shaking, but her grip was tight.
"Wait," she said. She pulled off her diamond-encrusted racing gloves, shoving them into his hand. "These are worth 50,000 yuan. Take them. For saving my life."
Chen Fan looked at the gloves, then at her. He could see the arrogance fading, replaced by something like awe—something like respect. "I don't need gloves. Just don't drive like a maniac next time. Even speed can't outrun a vengeful spirit."
He walked away, leaving Su Qingyan staring after him, as the crowd's confused murmurs turned into cheers. The compass around his throat hummed softly, its golden light dimming to a glow. But it didn't stop. It was still searching—for the next spirit, the next formation, the next fight.
And somewhere in the crowd, a man in a tailored suit watched Chen Fan leave. His name was Wang Kun. He was holding a phone, filming the whole thing. And he was smiling—a cold, cruel smile that promised trouble.
Teaser for Chapter 9
Wang Kun brings his goons to Chen Fan's rooftop cubicle, ready to teach the "delivery boy ghost hunter" a lesson. But he's about to learn that messing with Chen Fan means messing with forces he can't even begin to understand.