The atmosphere in Xingfu Lou Residential Community felt eerie and unnaturally still. Beneath the calm surface, tension simmered. Neighbors drifted apart, faces growing strange. Words vanished. Relationships froze solid.
Zhong Cheng silently pulled on his mask, hiding his expression—guarding his emotions, shielding his thoughts. Yet the mask only widened the rift. Everyone eyed each other with suspicion.
Was this a collapse of morality? Or a twist of human nature?
How could neighbors once living in harmony now treat each other as strangers?
Could a mole really have halted all transactions?
Who is the mole? Step forward and take your beating!
Zhong Cheng reached the security booth. Uncle De stood outside—not seated—mask on, posture rigid as if bracing for battle.
Had things gotten this serious?
Damn. What the hell was happening?
“You’re asking why everyone’s masked?” Uncle De said as Zhong Cheng collected his takeout. “Wear one too. A possible infectious case surfaced here. Safety first—for yourself, for your family.”
Zhong Cheng had hesitantly asked why residents seemed so jittery.
This was Uncle De’s reply.
So no mole. No moral decay. Just an outbreak.
Zhong Cheng recalled news reports—the novel infectious disease had been making headlines nationwide.
Cases sprouted across cities from an unknown origin. Numbers climbed steadily, never dipping.
Low fatality rate, but low recovery too. Long treatment. Highly contagious. A stubborn, messy illness.
For a densely populated nation, outbreaks weren’t rare—sanitation, crowding… one every few years. Usually contained fast, minimal damage.
But this one? Six months in. Still uncontrolled.
No mass spread yet, but sporadic cases persisted. No room for carelessness.
If it truly reached Xingfu Lou, this reaction made sense.
Zhong Cheng snapped alert.
No wonder delivery riders couldn’t enter. He’d nearly misjudged the rider.
Soon, teams in sealed hazmat suits would swarm in, locking down the community. Leaving? Nearly impossible.
Then daily “community care” visits: staff grilling you on health, outings, contacts, needs.
Seemingly kind—but really treating you like a prisoner. Zero privacy. Step out of line? You become a “priority care” target.
“Who’s infected?” Zhong Cheng asked.
“Auntie Zhang from Building 5’s penthouse. She and her husband woke up weak today—unwell, inexplicably thin despite no diarrhea, couldn’t even stand. Called a neighbor, then an ambulance took them.”
“Not confirmed yet, but results soon. If positive, lockdown begins.”
“Stay indoors from now on. For everyone’s sake,” Uncle De said.
“Got it,” Zhong Cheng replied.
Auntie Zhang? The same auntie he’d met at the market yesterday?
She’d been lively just hours ago. How could she collapse so suddenly?
Doubt prickled. He pressed Uncle De for details.
“How is this so similar to yang qi depletion symptoms?” Zhong Cheng muttered.
“Fashionable?” Uncle De asked.
“Eh, nothing,” Zhong Cheng brushed off.
As someone with… considerable experience—multiple rounds a day, non-stop thrills—he knew yang qi depletion all too well.
Auntie Zhang’s condition didn’t fit infection. It mirrored yang qi loss.
The thought took root. He couldn’t shake it.
Had someone truly drained their yang qi?
And who?
Could it be… the Ghost Emperor?
In Xingfu Lou, she was the only one Zhong Cheng knew capable of it.
And yesterday—she’d crossed paths with Auntie Zhang.
Zhong Cheng didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Don’t overthink it. Probably just the disease,” he muttered.
Though he said it, he desperately hoped it wasn’t true. No lockdowns. No forced “community care.”
Zhong Cheng left with his takeout.
Minutes later, home.
In the living room, the Ghost Emperor and his younger sister played Honor of Kings.
The Ghost Emperor controlled the phone; his sister coached her—using the sister’s device. The Ghost Emperor’s phone was too outdated for heavy games.
They seemed oddly close.
Like real sisters. While Zhong Cheng and his sister had only maintained a decade-long “plastic” sibling bond.
How’d they get this cozy in under a day?
Truth was, the Ghost Emperor stayed aloof, passive. His sister’s relentless warmth drove it all.
Zhong Cheng noticed her snuggling against the Ghost Emperor like a winter kitten seeking warmth.
Head resting on that ample chest. Sneaking subtle nudges. A satisfied yet lewd smirk playing on her lips.
Damn.
His sister was shamelessly copping a feel. Was bust appeal *that* powerful? Look at that creepy grin—so embarrassing.
He scoffed inwardly… but yeah, big brother kinda wanted to snuggle too.
“Breakfast’s ready.”
Zhong Cheng set down five takeout boxes: potato pancakes, spicy-sour noodles, two bowls of preserved egg and minced pork congee, three youtiao.
The aroma hit—his sister instantly pulled away, snatched two pancakes, dove into the noodles.
Pungent spice flooded the room.
Zhong Cheng slid the balcony door open for air.
Back on the sofa, he stuck a youtiao into the Ghost Emperor’s congee and pushed it over.
She didn’t glance up. Eyes locked on screen, utterly absorbed.
Was this kids’ game *that* gripping? Or just not hungry?
Right—she’d replenished yang qi recently. Damn.
Zhong Cheng did the same to his bowl. Slurped congee. Chewed softened youtiao. Nibbled pancakes…
“FYI—possible infectious case in the community. Stay cautious. Don’t wander…”
He shared Auntie Zhang’s situation, watching the Ghost Emperor’s face closely.
If she was guilty, *something* should show.
But her expression stayed frozen—emotionless, nearly catatonic.
Useless as evidence.
The Ghost Emperor finished a match (victory chime confirmed win), set her phone down, and ate a few bites.
“You eat it,” she said, sliding the congee toward him.
“Huh? Don’t like it?”
“No. You’re still hungry, aren’t you?”
Zhong Cheng *was* still hungry. Even after a full bowl. He’d planned to cook noodles later.
He hadn’t expected her to notice—and offer her portion.
A tiny warmth flickered in his chest.
“No need. I’ll cook noodles later. Or… you cook noodles for me? Or I cook noodles for you?” Zhong Cheng grinned.
