The black villa ahead lay drowned in white, clotted fog, a whale swallowed by milk-white surf. Lu Ming edged up to the iron bars, trying to pierce the shrouded yard beyond.

The fog pressed like wet wool; visibility past the gate was nil, a wall of cotton. After a brief try, he let it go, two roads fanning open in his mind like a forked stream.

One road: circle Wang Yan’s villa and hunt for clues, a lantern held low against night. Alone was safer, a single oar on a quiet lake.

The other: step through that eerie gate like a black maw and find the Red Robed Wraith, Li Kexin, to ask why she had dragged him here, a hook in his ribs.

In his eyes, her earlier moves weren’t cheap jump-scares; red-robed wraiths are storm and steel, not pranksters. If she used this house, she meant to send a message, a drumbeat through wooden halls.

She had turned strange right after hearing Zhang Yun’s name, a spark on oil. That meant the one who ruined her back then was likely tied to him, a thread pulled from the same loom.

A chef working here four or five years, in and out like a shadow at dusk, was odd, a bird that perches but never nests.

If he was avoiding something in the villa, why not quit and fly? Why punch a time card under a thunderhead?

Was it Wang Yan’s high pay like honey on the tongue, or something hidden in these walls like nails under silk, keeping him bound?

Too many burrs snagged Lu Ming’s mind. From Uncle Li to Zhang Yun, every name felt like a knot under the rug.

But he was a Spirit Exorcist, not a detective; his blade was spirit, not paper. To find truth, he had to go inside, like stepping into a cave to hear its echo.

While he weighed his choice like a scale trembling, the black gate swung open by itself, iron yawning. The hinges screeched like chalk on slate, a knife across the ear in the whitest quiet.

Looked like he had no other path, a single bridge over a chasm.

At the threshold, his mouth twitched, a dry leaf in wind. An unseen hand had opened the way; the message was carved clean: go in, or the fog would swallow him whole.

Thoughts fluttered like moths, but he obeyed the gate’s verdict and entered Wang Yan’s villa, a pawn moving because the board demanded it.

He didn’t plan to die for something stupid, a candle snuffed for nothing. Cold still crawled up his back like frost, and he staggered forward, a short-circuited machine listing on warped rails.

He crossed the tall black grille and stepped inside. Seconds later, the mist thinned like breath on glass. He widened his eyes and fed them a trickle of Spirit Energy, and edges sharpened like blades.

The scene matched the villa he’d seen before, a mirror pond. Only now, a few staff moved through it, busy as ants in tidy rows.

They wore the same cut as Uncle Li: black tailcoats, snow-white gloves, faces sealed with duty. Lights burned bright, birdsong threaded the air, flowers breathed perfume, and for a breath he felt he’d slipped back into daylight.

Was this the villa as it once was, a lantern-slide from the past?

On the main path, his gaze hooked onto a tall girl in a white maid’s dress, a crane in fresh snow. She spoke to another girl in white, yet his eyes refused to leave her.

Beautiful, pure, elegant, composed—every word for light gathered on her like dew. She stood there doing nothing, yet drew every glance like a moon over water.

He felt he’d seen her somewhere, a face in a dream. When she waved goodbye to her coworker, he snapped awake and strode after her, a hunter catching a trail.

Could she be Li Kexin, before the red robe stained her like wine?

The thought flashed, and pain bit his shoulder like a dog. He almost fell, the ground tilting like a boat.

A tall man hurried past, chef hat cupped in his hands like a crown. He seemed late, and after slamming into Lu Ming, he never slowed, arrowing toward the front door.

From first step to last, he acted like Lu Ming was smoke, a shadow unnoticed.

Rubbing his shoulder, Lu Ming frowned, a crease cut in clay. Was that Zhang Yun?

He’d never met Zhang Yun, but the clues stuck like burrs. Wang Yan had only one chef, and a man carrying a chef hat was an easy match to the name.

Fine. Follow and see, a fishing line cast into dark water.

He moved toward the villa, long strides on a narrow path. Other staff were the same as the man—eyes sliding past him like rain off oiled paper.

Even when he pushed the door and went inside, their gazes never budged, like dolls facing the sun.

Where did they go, the living heartbeat in these halls?

He wandered through Wang Yan’s villa, a map unrolled in his mind. Thanks to her earlier guidance, he didn’t lose himself, a thread held tight through the maze.

He reached a room like a kitchen; noises clattered from within, a panicked flock in a cage. Curious, he stepped in and found the familiar white-clad girl, hands flying, flour drifting like snow.

Maybe it was her first time cooking; the place was a wreck, a battlefield of bowls. Cream dotted her cheek, a cloud smudged on porcelain skin.

What’s this, gleaming beside the cake like a pebble by a stream?

A small book without a name tugged at him. He leaned in; it was a diary, a black seed in a sugar field.

Is it hers, a heart tucked in paper?

He glanced at the girl, still busy as a spinning wheel. Certain she couldn’t see him, he opened the notebook, slow as lifting a veil.

Strange pages, he thought, words stacked like bricks and ash.

It recorded how she was adopted from an orphanage, then fought for a chance to study abroad, a sapling pushing through stone.

But the world blew cold from all sides, and whether to leave gnawed at her, a rat behind the walls.

He skimmed, page after page, a hawk over fields.

From the orphanage on, she suffered bullying of the colder kind, not fists but winter—silence, distance, and eyes that looked past her like glass.

She was perfect, yet unlucky; a white flower pecked by crows.

Adopted, then working with her former orphanage mates, she found the cold grew stronger, ice not melting but thickening.

Her kindness returned as frost, her warmth met with closed shutters. She wondered if she should leave and start anew, a boat cutting to another shore.

But she couldn’t bear to leave her foster father, a lamp near its last oil.

He was near seventy, with a thin purse, coins like dry seeds. To go meant to leave the man who’d kept her warm for years, a blanket she’d outgrown but couldn’t throw away.

Today was her final day to choose, a crossroad under noon sun. Leave and begin again, or swallow the cold and stay by his side.

Lu Ming finished, returned the diary to its nest, and looked at the girl anew, a portrait before the paint turned dark.

Before the red robe, Li Kexin was bookish and pure, a skylark. After, she was cruelty and night, a blade wrapped in silk. In life and death, she stood at opposite poles, ice and ember.

As he wondered what storm had made that change, the kitchen door swung open, clap like a fan. A tall man in a chef hat stepped in, face tight as a drum.

Lu Ming knew him—the same man who had almost knocked him cold in the hall, a bull in a narrow lane.

Li Kexin didn’t want to see him; that was clear as a closed fan. She tidied in haste, grabbed her diary like a talisman, and tried to slip around him, a bird dodging a snare.

The man’s restraint snapped like a bowstring. Shyness slid off his face; madness rose like a tide. He lunged to grab her wrist—and caught only air.

Fright hit her like thunder. She ran and cried for help, a bell rung in a temple.

No one came. Lu Ming peered through the kitchen window, and outside the butlers and maids chatted like sparrows, hands busy, ears plugged with wax.

He moved to help, but an invisible wall stood cold before him, glass without light. The thought of forcing it died in his throat like smoke.

Li Kexin fled the kitchen, swift as a startled deer. The front door on the first floor was locked, a mouth clamped shut.

Driven, she rushed to the second floor, then the third, while the man followed like a nightmare glued to her heels, a shadow at noon.

From first floor to second, from second to third, the chase coiled like a serpent up a tree.

At last, clutching her diary like a lifeline, she found herself cornered in a third-floor room, window light cutting a blade along the floor.

Only one road remained, a thin line between sky and stone.