Chapter 35

Our Discord Server: https://discord.gg/PazjBDkTmW

Chapter 35: Title

The young man, freed from the Bridge Princess’s enchantment, gradually regained clarity. Staring at the fox-eared girl before him, his lingering daze prompted him to murmur, "Little Fox Fairy."

【Ugh, total weeb alert.】

【Mei Mei, back away! Mama forbids you near such a creep!】

【Anyone fooled by the Bridge Princess can’t be decent.】

【At least he recognizes our Mei Mei’s charm! C’mere, sweetie—Daddy needs snuggles!】

【911’s on speed-dial. Enjoy jail, degenerate.】

Hu Mei ignored the live stream chatter, hauling the youth aside before turning her attention to Yang Xingyu and the wounded Bridge Princess. Contrary to legends, the spectral entity remained rooted—likely weakened by Yang’s earlier strike.

Abe Masanari arrived swiftly. Having barely departed the hotel, he’d rerouted upon receiving dual alerts from Yang and the authorities.

"Wandering apparitions always complicate matters," he muttered, fingers already flicking a talisman. "By the sacred nine, bind this malice!"

Yang Xingyu extinguished the nascent flames in his palm as the Onmyoji approached. The Bridge Princess had pursued him relentlessly since being injured, her manic attacks nearly provoking him to unleash destructive fire—a temptation curbed only by Ghost in Red’s warning. Even a centuries-old spirit feared his blaze; this murder-fueled wraith might’ve been obliterated instantly.

"Perfect timing, Abe." Yang retreated smoothly, yielding the arena. Some battles belonged to specialists—let Fusang’s demon face Fusang’s exorcist.

Hu Mei darted over, fox ears twitching. "You hurt?"

"Almost roasted her," Yang shrugged, suppressing a shiver from the lingering ghostly energy. "But Senior’s advice stayed my hand."

They observed as Abe Masanari wove intricate seals—routine work for a seasoned Onmyoji. Hu Mei angled her camera, whispering theatrically, "Exclusive footage, folks! Authentic ghostbusting!" Had Li Canghai been present, he’d have objected. With only Yang around, chaos containment counted as victory.

Hotel

Li Canghai meditated cross-legged, an unadorned long sword across his knees. Its sole identifier—ZX-568 stamped near the hilt—marked industrial mass production.

Fingertips grazing the blade, he channeled hair-thin streams of Spiritual Energy. Since midnight, he’d cycled power through the cheap steel, refining control. For one in the Innate Realm, sleep mattered little—though twenty-three shattered blades testified to the exercise’s difficulty.

Daoist Priest Chen Qingfeng faced similar struggles. Both men’s cultivation threatened to annihilate mundane weapons; a single misstep could reduce a sword to shrapnel. Li’s current project? Forge resonance with disposable steel through precision.

The blade hummed faintly as energy completed its thirteenth circuit. Progress.

They enjoyed an unlimited supply of long swords from the Special Bureau, with professors continually refining the blades’ metallic composition. The weapon in his hand would command over ten thousand yuan on the market, assuming one could even find a forge capable of producing it.

Li Canghai had cherished swords since boyhood, his family employing martial arts instructors to nurture both his physique and swordsmanship.

Eyes closed in deep concentration, he sensed his unique difference from others. Consultation with Leng Xingwen had revealed this gift as spiritual awareness – the ability to perceive surroundings without sight, typically mastered only at Tier One, yet somehow achieved during his Innate Realm.

The air chilled imperceptibly, the room’s heating system running yet utterly ineffective against the creeping cold.

Something stirred.

Moonlight through the floor-length window etched a feminine silhouette against the glass, the shadowy figure gliding toward the bed where Li Canghai sat.

Silver light danced along his blade as he grasped the hilt. With fluid precision, he swept the sword through the air, the steel singing its metallic hymn.

The weapon found its mark like a guided raptor, striking the shadow a pace away. An ear-splitting shriek – distinctly feminine – pierced the night, raising gooseblesh on his arms.

Li Canghai’s eyes snapped open, glacial gaze fixed on the writhing darkness at his feet. Witnesses would scarce recognize this razor-edged version of the man known for his detached courtesy.

The customary Li Canghai moved through life like spring’s first breeze – politely distant yet radiating warmth, his faint smile maintaining careful boundaries while disarming hostility. Now he mirrored his blade’s lethal edge, forbidding prolonged observation.

Moments passed before his features softened to their usual composure. Sword leveled at the quivering shadow, he contemplated the lingering thrill of combat.

"What manner of creature are you?"

The entity shrank from his aura, attempting to melt into the corner’s darkness. Without hesitation, Li Canghai unleashed another strike, spiritual energy arcing from blade to shadow in a crackling discharge.

"Speak."

Two impacts later, the amorphous mass coalesced into humanoid shape. Li Canghai frowned – this spirit clearly lacked speech, yet releasing it risked unleashing greater danger. Had this entity targeted someone less capable…

Silence enveloped the high-rise hotel room, its drama unseen. Fusang’s supernatural ecology complicated matters – a land where ghostly manifestations multiplied under cultural reverence, far surpassing Zhongxia’s spectral population. The Spiritual Network’s bulletins listed both extraordinary individuals and entities like shopping reminders.

The stalemate broke with Yang Xingyu’s return. Abe Masanari, having escorted the group after subduing the Bridge Princess, paused at the hotel entrance. His ritual gesture revealed the struggle above – roiling black mist pinned by cerulean radiance.

"Disturbance upstairs." The onmyoji dispatched his snow maiden scout while hastening to the elevator.

Hu Mei reconsidered ending her livestream, camera still rolling as they reached Li Canghai’s floor.

Outside the Daoist’s chamber

"Something feels… off." Yang Xingyu murmured, lacking spiritual vision yet sensing tension.

Abe Masanari’s knuckles rapped against wood. "Daoist Priest Li?"

"You may enter directly," Li Canghai spoke without shifting his gaze from the shadowy entity before him.

When the group burst into the room, they found Daoist Priest Li’s sword aimed at a writhing shadow on the floor. His own shadow lay perfectly still beside him, while the intruding darkness contorted under their sudden intrusion.

"Shadow Maiden," Abe Masanari identified, nodding toward the feminine silhouette imprinted on the floor-to-ceiling window.

Li Canghai sheathed his sword only after witnessing Abe Masanari secure the talisman onto the Shadow Maiden, then turned to address Yang Xingyu’s group.

"I was deep in meditation when this shadow breached my chambers."

Yang Xingyu whistled through his teeth, eyeing the spectral figure trapped within the glowing talisman prison. "Bold move, invading during a Taoist master’s meditation. Must’ve had a death wish."

"My deepest apologies you encountered this on your first day in Fusang," Abe Masanari bowed deeply, genuine remorse etching his features.

Yang Xingyu waved dismissively. "No harm done. We don’t mind handling minor nuisances."

"Nevertheless, your assistance deserves gratitude. These spirits grow bolder each moon."

"You faced disturbances too," Li Canghai observed, noticing their unsettled energy.

"The Bridge Princess," Hu Mei confirmed, her manicured nails tracing protective sigils in the air.

After repeated bows of apology, Abe Masanari escorted the bound Shadow Maiden away.

The three companions settled into the vacated chamber.

Hu Mei terminated her livestream with a sigh, observing her companions. "My illusions proved useless tonight," she murmured, more to herself than others.

Yang Xingyu collapsed onto an embroidered cushion. "Fusang’s drowning in spirits! Don’t they employ ghost messengers here?"

"Those belong to our underworld," Hu Mei countered, pouring chrysanthemum tea. "Different bureaucratic systems, I suppose."

"Could use some cross-cultural management," Yang Xingyu snorted. "Remember those viral haunting videos during The Seven Days? Government kept claiming they were hoaxes…"

His voice trailed off as memories surfaced – the sealed archives in the Special Bureau’s underground vaults, shelves groaning with documented horrors that made online rumors seem tame. The crimson-stamped CLASSIFIED files detailing incidents that erased entire villages from maps and memories.

Hu Mei’s teacup clinked against its saucer. "Our host mentioned Yin Chai earlier. How did they compare to legends, Daoist Priest?"

Li Canghai stroked his beard, recalling the underworld envoy. "Less fearsome than stories claim. Resembled any scholar, save for the death-pale complexion and funeral robes."

"Antiquated!" Yang Xingyu groaned. "You’d think the afterlife administration would modernize."

Hu Mei’s laughter tinkled like windchimes. "Should they adopt corporate dress codes? Imagine Yama in a three-piece suit reviewing soul quotas."

"Not worse than our current paperwork," Yang Xingyu grumbled, massaging his temple. "This trip’s report will need three department seals. Why’d I agree to attend this divine festival?"

"Because you wanted to see Fusang’s famous spirit processions," Hu Mei reminded him.

"Still," Yang Xingyu leaned forward, "that Yin Chai’s mention of an ‘Empress’ intrigues me. Myths and legends always named the King of Fengdu as underworld ruler. When did imperial succession occur?"

The room’s shadows deepened as three pairs of eyes met, unspoken questions hanging heavier than temple incense.

"Who else am I supposed to ask?" Yang Xingyu shook his head helplessly.

"Myths aren’t entirely reliable. When I asked Chief Lin similar questions, he explained many legends were reworked by later generations. It’s natural they don’t match the original myths – nobody truly knows what transpired during the actual mythological era."

"Consider this – Fūsāng claims eight million deities, yet only Amaterasu has manifested. India’s gods are said to be as countless as Ganges sand grains, but none have appeared."

"True enough," came the reply. "Our nation’s only manifested being remains that Buddhist bodhisattva."

"Ah, if only Huixin could reach Guanyin, we’d have our answers straightaway," Hu Mei sighed, disappointment coloring her voice.

"…We’re talking about divine entities here," Yang Xingyu countered. "You can’t just summon them like messengers. According to Huixin, that manifestation might not even be Guanyin’s true form – likely a projection or avatar."

The following dawn revealed Fūsāng’s grandest divine festival in centuries, resurrected after hundreds of years’ absence. From the Prime Minister to the lowliest citizen, all hoped Amaterasu would witness their devotion and continue protecting Japan.

As Zhongxia’s official delegates, Yang Xingyu, Hu Mei, and Li Canghai occupied prime viewing seats. Though typically relaxed, their expressions now mirrored the ceremony’s gravity.

Unlike Zhongxia’s purely administrative governance, Fūsāng retained its Emperor – a vestige of monarchy resembling Zhongxia’s imperial past. Though stripped of political power, the Emperor’s symbolic importance shone through during this sacred event. After all, imperial mythology traced the Chrysanthemum Throne directly to Amaterasu’s bloodline – unbroken through millennia.

The Ise Grand Shrine’s chief shaman led chanting shamans through monotonous yet solemn prayers. Their exit ushered in crimson-and-white clad priestesses bearing demon-dispelling bows and arrows. As weapons touched ground, silver anklet bells chimed through ritual dances.

Their vantage point near the altar revealed foreign dignitaries and extraordinary individuals. Li Canghai’s sudden inhalation drew Yang Xingyu’s attention.

"The bow… it’s glowing faintly," the Daoist priest murmured through spiritual awareness – his innate gift requiring no energy channeling. This mirrored Xu Li’s talents, though the Special Bureau recruit’s eyes held unexplored potential according to Lin Jing’s analysis.

Yang Xingyu squinted. "I see nothing."

"Perhaps my error," Li Canghai conceded as the glow vanished. Their hushed exchange still reached nearby enhanced hearing.

When priestesses concluded their dance, the Prime Minister’s speech began. Uninterested in incomprehensible Japanese, Yang Xingyu surveyed neighboring extraordinary beings. His gaze lingered on France’s holy light knight – golden-haired, azure-eyed, wearing the rumored size-shifting cross sword pendant. The knight noticed, answering with a sunbeam smile.

Noticing their smiles, Yang Xingyu felt compelled to respond politely. He returned a brief smile and averted his gaze with feigned composure—his subtle observation had been noticed.

His attention drifted to the witch beside Augustus—Merlinka, the elf witch. The distinctive silver-red ombré cascading down her hair and those inhumanly pointed ears confirmed her identity beyond doubt.

As he glanced at the others nearby, he pondered whether their obscurity stemmed from genuine anonymity or merely unremarkable appearances. None sparked recognition.

"Daoist Priest Li," he whispered curiously, "where are those seated figures from?"

"India and Egypt. The specifics would hardly interest you," Li Canghai answered. His mind, honed by memorizing dossiers of global extraordinary individuals, effortlessly retrieved their profiles—a testament to his near-perfect recall.

Indian and Egyptian extraordinary individuals? Yang Xingyu’s eyes lingered despite himself.

Nations had guarded their extraordinary population counts like state secrets before the Spiritual Network’s revelation. Post-disclosure, these numbers swelled daily. Countries beyond the initial disclosure coalition now scoured their lands with renewed urgency, determined not to repeat their industrial-era missed opportunities during this Spiritual Energy Awakening.

Not all extraordinary individuals reveled in prosperity. Many had struggled through impoverished lives before their awakening—a condition unchanged by their newfound status. Few chose to wield heaven-sent abilities for misdeeds.

Most wrongdoers found themselves on national wanted lists, while virtuous practitioners received tempting offers. Yet refusal remained common.

Consider the Special Bureau: from over a billion citizens, three hundred registered post-Tier One practitioners emerged. Yet barely twenty joined officially.

Many feared institutional constraints, unlike free spirits like Yang Xingyu. The Bureau demanded little—complete their introductory course, and graduates could resume ordinary lives.

The curriculum covered Spiritual Energy Awakening fundamentals, patriotic indoctrination, shareable cultivation techniques, and a 50,000 monthly stipend. In exchange, recruits surrendered a month’s time and ongoing Division 6 monitoring—necessary sacrifices for studying scarce extraordinary subjects.

Initial reluctance faded as benefits became clear. Post-training recruitment remained uncertain, but the Bureau’s perks tempted many. Exceptional talents received privileged treatment.

Yang Xingyu had even heard Lin Jing propose constructing dedicated training facilities—no more borrowing school buildings.

Three hundred Tier One adepts formed the core, supplemented by hundreds sensing Spiritual Energy’s presence—natural prodigies by pre-Awakening standards.

Nibbling festival snacks, Yang Xingyu planned his free days after the afternoon ceremony. Any destination suited him, provided it lacked supernatural encounters.

India

Ye Linlang materialized in New Delhi after stashing provisions in her dimensional space. A nose-tickle suggested someone’s mental invocation—calculations revealed Yang Xingyu’s celestial grumbling. With the heavenly dao dormant, such complaints might as well target her directly.

"Natural talent?" She scoffed, lips twisting. "Useless without effort."

Her system had randomly selected decent candidates for Spiritual Energy perception, sprinkled with contrasting samples. Selection hinged on luck—that capricious cousin of fate. Even she couldn’t unravel destiny’s threads, though true supreme deities could trace mortal lives from conception to ashes.

Perhaps her limitations stemmed from inadequate power to navigate time’s currents, or her refusal to predestine lives. To her, mortals thrived best unchained.

If fate bound anyone, they’d forged those shackles themselves. The heavenly dao concerned itself solely with virtue and sin—all else meant less than morning mist.

Ye Linlang arrived in Delhi, India’s capital, as bustling as any nation’s crown jewel. Her understanding of this land had been cobbled together from digital clips and dusty tomes, later supplemented by the system’s vast archives. Gazing at the urban sprawl, she opted for an unhurried exploration.

Activating her invisibility buff, she drifted through the crowds like a phantom. Her mission: locate the ideal package recipient amidst this teeming metropolis.

India’s contradictions sprawled before her – the world’s second most populous democracy shackled by ancient caste divisions. Dalits languished in society’s gutters, stripped of dignity. Crumbling infrastructure neighbored glittering tech parks, while slums festered beneath the shadow of nuclear silos. Its cinematic dreams rivaled Hollywood’s, yet farmers toiled as they had for millennia.

The military’s mountain regiments and aircraft carriers hinted at forgotten ambitions, though Ye Linlang’s encyclopedia-derived knowledge remained academic. She dismissed any notion of reviving India’s tangled mythos – better to let those quarreling deities rest with other fallen pantheons. What use were weak gods in an era where civilizations drowned in history’s currents?

Her focus shifted to higher caste circles, where the system’s algorithm sifted through candidates. Two of India’s extraordinary individuals were currently attending Japan’s divine festival – a necessary evil in maintaining cosmic balance. The rest? Security guards moonlighting with powers, or zealots preaching in temple shadows. Not one retained their world-shaking aspirations.

Ye Linlang’s lips twisted wryly. Who could blame them? Extraordinary power became golden handcuffs, trapping them in complacent luxury. Revolution required more than lone warriors against centuries-old systems, especially when literacy rates sabotaged grassroots movements. Even history’s giants had failed here.

Through accelerated dream simulations, she tested fifteen finalists. None sparked hope. Now she stood in a marble-walled sanctum, its opulence mocking her search. The writing youth at the teak desk seemed misplaced – fair-skinned Kshatriya royalty amidst Delhi’s hues. Caste divisions, she mused, were written in melanin and colonial legacy.

"Last chance," she whispered, triggering the sleep protocol. Neh’s face met parchment as his consciousness plunged into constructed reality.

On the floating interface, his digital avatar continued scribbling unaware. Ye Linlang accelerated the simulation, weaving authentic prophecies with coming catastrophes – the Abyss Fragment’s looming invasion, Blue Star’s impending trial. Her underworld creation wasn’t mere afterlife theater; it was karmic balance for those sacrificed in humanity’s stumbling progress.

Neh’s dream unfolded: globetrotting intellectual returns to caste-stratified homeland, witnesses failed spiritual awakenings, endures cosmic crises. Would he break from gilded shackles? The simulation’s answer would determine whether Ye Linlang needed to craft her own champion – an outcome she dreaded, yet knew grew inevitable.