Fueled by adrenaline, Zhong Cheng momentarily forgot the pain and sprinted toward the passenger van, terrified it might drive off any second.

He shouted desperately as he ran, hoping the driver would notice him.

The driver must have seen him—the van hadn’t left, waiting patiently.

Zhong Cheng felt he’d grabbed a lifeline. Focus! Victory was right there.

*Tonight, I’ll make the whole world call me awesome—the coolest guy alive!*

Run, run, run…

He finally reached the highway, lungs burning, gasping for air, but refused to pause.

Almost made it! Hang in there!

Stumbling to the van’s side, he saw the open door and stepped aboard without hesitation.

To his surprise, the van was packed—every seat taken.

Normally, only two or three passengers rode it; five was rare, sometimes none at all.

A full house like this? First time ever.

*A tour group?*

No time to wonder. Those monsters could catch up any moment—who knew what’d happen?

This place was still dangerous. Leaving was the only smart move.

Zhong Cheng hurriedly called to the driver:

“Driver, go now! Don’t ask—just drive! We have to leave, *now*!”

He’d braced for refusal, already rehearsing excuses: *Tiger loose on the mountain?*

No—people would pull out phones to film, post for clout.

*Mudslide.* Safer lie.

But before he could speak, the driver slammed the accelerator. Vroom! The van lurched forward violently.

The jolt nearly knocked Zhong Cheng off his feet.

*Did this driver race down Mount Akina?* Driving this hard—engine must be screaming.

The rattling, near-scrap van bumped along the mountain road, engine humming loudly.

Zhong Cheng sank into the nearest seat. Too exhausted to stand.

He glanced outside. Clear skies. The eerie forest had vanished.

They hadn’t followed. Given up.

He let out a long sigh of relief.

Scanning the cabin, only one seat remained—in the very back.

He trudged over, plopped down, shrugged off his backpack, and slumped back, utterly spent.

A tired but relieved smile touched his lips. The nightmare was over.

With every mile from the Ancient Shrine, tension melted away. Fear released its grip.

Relaxed now, curiosity stirred. He observed the other passengers—this silent “tour group.”

All eerily still. Not asleep—backs straight, necks rigid, eyes forward.

Unnaturally orderly. Like students in perfect formation.

When he’d boarded, not one had glanced his way. As if he were invisible.

The silence felt heavy. Wrong.

Was it his imagination? The cabin felt dim, the air unnaturally cool—like AC was on.

But it was crisp autumn. Why AC?

...Wait. This rust-bucket even *had* AC? Surprising.

His gaze drifted to the girl beside him. Slim-fit jeans hugged long legs crossed lazily. A loose mint-green knit sweater. Glossy black hair cascading down her back.

Quintessential “black hair, long and straight.”

Tall, slender waist, perfect curves—elegant proportions, effortlessly graceful.

Likely a model.

Her relaxed posture radiated mature charm. A true *onee-san* beauty—Zhong Cheng’s ideal type, spot on.

*How did I meet her here? Definitely not a local.*

A faint, sweet fragrance drifted from her. He stole an extra sniff. Familiar… but where from?

*Get her WeChat. If we click… girlfriend?*

Escaping singlehood felt suddenly possible.

Riding the post-escape high, he felt light, confident—like an author who’d downed a few Kirin Beers and wanted to stir things up.

She was focused on her phone: a Sony LT26. A decade-old relic. Rare for anyone young to use.

Yet pristine. No scratches. She clearly cherished her things.

*Maybe she couldn’t afford new?*

She played Fruit Ninja, utterly absorbed. Slender fingers sliced the screen—fluid, precise, chaining combos. Center hits. Double points.

Zhong Cheng meant to glance casually… but got mesmerized.

He’d seen skilled players. Never *this* skilled.

Surgically precise. Like a machine.

He peeked at the score: 100,000+.

*How long has she been playing?*

Seriously—was Fruit Ninja *that* addictive?

He finally looked up, stealing a glance at her face.

Long hair, dim light, head bowed—features hidden.

*Lean closer?*

No. Too forward. First impressions mattered. Stay polite. Charming.

But from the profile alone—sharp chin, straight nose, elegant lips, diamond-shaped face—he knew: stunning.

Only her skin was unnaturally pale. Almost sickly.

*If she’s not beautiful, I’ll eat a cactus live on stream.*

“You’re really good at Fruit Ninja,” Zhong Cheng said, voice warm.

A simple, sincere opener. He’d practiced it.

*She’ll smile. We’ll talk. WeChat next. Future’s bright.*

“Skilled?” she replied softly. “This humble one thought my playing was merely average.”

Meow? Meow? Meow?

…Her voice.

Why did it sound *exactly* like the Ghost Emperor’s?