“I planned to wrap things up in Volume Four and tie off all the foreshadowing from the first three volumes. But I don’t know what went wrong with that website. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t pass review. It even triggered a bizarre event. If I hadn’t had my life-saving items, that one would’ve taken my life. And if I didn’t update, that little black figure kept hounding me to hurry up. Eventually, I saw the light: living in constant fear every day wasn’t worth it. I’d had enough of being an author, so I ended the book right there. Who would’ve thought that as soon as I did, I’d suddenly end up in that blasted Immortal World? I nearly lost my soul…”

As the Daoist recounted his story, Xu Fang’s thoughts began to wander.

The Dzungar Khanate fell in 1759. That was the earliest recorded appearance of Zhenkui, which would make it at least 258 years old. In this universe, any long-lived being who knows the truth about the 432-year curse would look for a way to extend its life if it wanted to survive. Was that why Zhenkui entered the Immortal World?

Just as Xu Fang thought of this, he saw a black crow land on a nearby rooftop. It seemed just as determined as ever to keep an eye on the two of them.

How much longer did Zhenkui have to live? And why was it in such a hurry to contact the author? This was hard to figure out.

Xu Fang’s lips curled slightly. There was only one way to find out.

“Since you’re here, why not come a little closer?” Xu Fang beckoned to the crow.

The crow stared at Xu Fang for a few seconds, flapped its wings a couple of times, then swooped down to land beside Xu Fang and the Daoist.

The moment the Daoist saw the crow, his body trembled and the chopsticks fell from his hand.

“Zhang Empty, I’ve released my control over you. Otherwise, I could’ve possessed you just now.” Zhenkui made its voice sound less grating, then turned toward Xu Fang. “That’s to show my sincerity.”

Xu Fang gave a slight nod. “I understand. You controlled the Daoist because you were afraid he’d use the setting panel to hurt you. You didn’t kill him because you were worried I’d retaliate. And you’re showing your sincerity because you want to work with me.”

Zhenkui had spent a long time preparing what to say, only for Xu Fang to sum it all up first. It paused, slightly taken aback. “Since you’ve already seen through me, this should make things easier.”

“Zhenkui, what year were you born?” Xu Fang suddenly asked.

“The early eighteenth century.”

Xu Fang took out his phone, looking as if he were about to look something up. Zhenkui added, “I have no reason to lie.”

Xu Fang put his phone away and smiled. “So you don’t have much time left, huh?”

“You mean the 432-year curse? So what?”

The Daoist’s heart stirred. He’d nearly forgotten that Zhenkui had lived for a very long time. He did some quick mental arithmetic. If Zhenkui had been born in the early eighteenth century, then it was only a little over three hundred years old. It was getting closer and closer to 432, sure, but that didn’t mean it was almost out of time. Or had Zhenkui lied again? Was it not really born in the early eighteenth century?

The Daoist regretted not making Zhenkui even more ancient.

The crow glanced at the Daoist. “Compared to those old things from the old era, I, Zhenkui, have always been the one who followed the rules best. That’s why I outlived them. Zhang Empty, you’re the author. You should know.”

The Daoist stroked his goatee and met Xu Fang’s gaze as he explained, “Back then, the extraordinary beings were mostly soul cultivators. The strongest forces among them were the foxes, ghosts, and yao. Fox spirits excelled at soliciting blessings, manipulating and deceiving people, and stealing other people’s fates. Ghosts were skilled at possessing, devouring, and destroying. Yao, meanwhile, specialized in seeing through people, communicating, and manipulating their hearts. Compared to the other two, Zhenkui, as a yao, was indeed relatively orderly. But the destruction it caused on its own was greater than that of all the other extraordinary forces combined!”

Zhenkui wasn’t very pleased with the Daoist’s explanation. “The destruction I caused? Wasn’t the real cause of destruction war itself? Human greed? I merely collected a toll along the way. And I’ve saved far more people than you think.”

With Xu Fang right beside him, the Daoist felt he had someone to back him up, and his courage grew. He immediately shot back, “You gathered so many followers. Don’t tell me you didn’t have ulterior motives?”

“If I really had ulterior motives, none of you would still be standing here in front of me.” Zhenkui’s voice turned cold.

The Daoist stiffened, his gaze involuntarily slipping away from Zhenkui’s eyes.

“All right, Zhenkui. If you want to work with us, tell me what you’re after. Do you want to rule the world again, or carve out a territory of your own?” Xu Fang rested his chin on his interlaced fingers, his tone unhurried.

“Neither.” Zhenkui stared at Xu Fang. “I’m looking for something, and it’s somewhere inside those Bizarre Events. The terms are simple: you take me in, and I’ll offer you something of equal value in return. One trip might not be enough, so you may have to take me in several times, until we find it.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t want to reveal my secrets so casually.”

“It’s hard to work together if neither side is willing to be honest.” Xu Fang shook his head. “Still, even if you don’t tell me, I can make a pretty good guess. Zhenkui, are you looking for an ‘exit’?”

The Daoist was completely lost.

“You’re looking for a way out of this world. You don’t have much time left—in fact, time is running out fast. Maybe less than three years. Maybe even less than one.”

“Huh? But it’s only a little over three hundred years old…”

“Daoist, did your book explicitly say that the third-generation protagonist destroyed Zhenkui?”

“Uh, yes. But it didn’t really die, did it? It even survived into the modern era.”

“No. Since that website approved the book, the third-generation protagonist really did destroy Zhenkui. That’s a fact. The Zhenkui here is only its duplicate.”

“…You’re sharp. But the third-generation protagonist only destroyed a duplicate. I’m the original.” Zhenkui didn’t deny Xu Fang’s claim outright.

“What does that have to do with it running out of time?” The Daoist still didn’t get it.

“Daoist, your book might not have mentioned this, but there’s a reason Zhenkui didn’t split itself into thousands upon thousands of copies. Every time it splits, it has to divide the rest of its lifespan in half. If the Zhenkui from the early twentieth century made a duplicate, you can work out how much of its actual lifespan it has left.”

The Daoist thought it over for a moment, then cried out, “Within the next couple of years?”

“So if Zhenkui wants to survive, it only has a few options. It could change the number 432, find a way to make peace with the universe, or simply leave this universe.”

After listening to Xu Fang, Zhenkui fell silent for a moment. “The Immortal World is too small, and I can’t leave it without the author. That’s not the way I want to live. Leaving this universe might be the best option.”

By now, nearly all of Zhenkui’s weaknesses had been laid bare. Whatever trump cards it might still be hiding were insignificant next to the Deadline drawing closer by the day.

The Daoist couldn’t help sighing inwardly. That was Xu Fang for you.

“I can work with you, but only if we’re both completely honest. If I find out you’ve been hiding anything from me, I’ll end our cooperation at once—and make sure you pay dearly for it.”

Zhenkui realized it had already lost the upper hand in the negotiations. At the same time, it had gained a little more faith in Xu Fang, so it replied, “Agreed. We’ll bind ourselves to each other with a contract. This will be a fair deal.”

“Not so fast. I still have a few important questions.” Xu Fang asked, “First, if I make a deal with you, will I become one of your ‘followers’?”

“Of course not. My followers are people who can’t pay the price themselves. They can only lend me their futures and let me control them.”

“Second, can you foresee the contents of a Bizarre Event? Can you predict how dangerous it’ll be? And can you control when it happens?”

“I can sense when someone is about to experience a Bizarre Event, and tell whether it’ll benefit me. As for how dangerous it is… Every Bizarre Event is dangerous. I can’t control when one will arrive.”

“Third, explain your abilities in detail.”

“I can tell you about my ability to ‘trade.’ As for the others, I’ll only consider revealing them after we’ve signed a contract.” Zhenkui paused to think, then continued:

“‘Soliciting blessings and stealing fate’ means coaxing someone into giving up their fortune. If you’re unlucky, you might end up drawing bad luck instead. ‘Possession and usurpation’ requires you to take on your host’s karma, and the price is just as heavy—lifespan is part of karma, too. My ability, ‘equivalent exchange,’ can achieve results similar to ‘soliciting blessings’ and ‘possession’ without suffering any backlash from the price, because the price is paid in full the moment the deal is made.”

“I can plant a ‘mark’ in any soul and use it as a medium for communication. When that soul wants to make a deal, I’ll fulfill its request. For example, the crow I’m controlling right now wanted food. I satisfied that need, so I gained control over the crow. Zhang Empty wanted an item. I gave it to him, so I gained control over his body. That’s a fair deal, not possession.”

The Daoist cursed inwardly. Fair? I didn’t even know I was making a deal with you!

“How many people have you marked? Me included?”

“Thousands? Tens of thousands? I’ve lost count. Souls that don’t make a deal with me soon lose their coordinates. Even those that do trade with me only remain for a short while. Only followers who willingly sell their souls remain in my marks for a long time. But I don’t take followers anymore. After all, it was a follower who made me fall into a trap in the first place.” Zhenkui paused and looked at Xu Fang. “Your abilities are still weak, but I can tell from the color of your soul: we’re alike. We’re both soul manipulators. I can’t mark my own kind—and I have no way to do it, either.”

Soul manipulators? Could that be what the website called thought perception? Did Zhenkui have a high level of thought perception? Xu Fang wondered. What a terrifying ability.

“All right, let’s sign a contract and agree on how we’ll work together from here on. But…” Xu Fang smiled. “This will be a three-party contract.”

“Zhang Empty too?”

“No, the website.” Xu Fang continued, “Even though we’ve pieced together the truth, there’s still a possibility—unlikely, but terrifying—that the Daoist’s memories of you are fabricated. He might even have become your follower without knowing it. And it’s possible that all the information I have right now is an illusion you’ve carefully arranged, leading me to these conclusions step by step.”

“To rule out that possibility, I’ll have the website join the contract as a third party. If I find out you’ve deceived me during our cooperation, it’ll make sure you pay the price.”

Zhenkui: “…”