Life after returning home was relaxed and joyful.  

Cooking meals and drawing talismans every day—life couldn’t be more blissful. Especially now that Zhou Jiayu, with his excellent culinary skills, had joined the household, mealtime had become an absolute delight.  

After returning, Zhou Jiayu noticed that the little paper figure seemed to have grown slightly larger. He was still wondering if it was just his imagination when Shen Yiqiong came over with a soft measuring tape, sized up the paper figure, and declared, “It really has grown taller!”  

The little paper figure proudly puffed out its tiny chest. Shen Yiqiong then turned to the weasel and asked, “Should I measure you too?” The weasel responded with a couple of sharp kaka sounds and gave Shen Yiqiong a disdainful look with its small eyes before leaping onto Zhou Jiayu’s shoulder, resuming its role as a makeshift scarf.  

Shen Yiqiong had no words for the weasel’s tsundere attitude. What are you glaring at me for? It’s not my fault you haven’t grown taller!  

Zhou Jiayu gave the little paper figure a straightforward name—Xiao Zhi (Little Paper). Little Paper seemed quite pleased with it, but the weasel snorted mockingly. Shen Yiqiong chimed in drily, “Don’t laugh at others. Your name is just Xiao Huang (Little Yellow), isn’t it?”  

The weasel: “…”  

Nowadays, the little paper figure and the weasel fought much less frequently, though they still couldn’t stand each other. They often competed over trivial matters—essentially just being jealous of each other’s attention.  

At first, Zhou Jiayu tried to mediate, but later, realizing they actually enjoyed their little rivalry and it wasn’t causing any real harm, he simply let them be.  

The scent of spring grew stronger, the cold whiteness of winter gradually giving way to vibrant light green. Plants revived, branches sprouted new buds, and the chilly air turned warm and gentle.  

Due to his constitution, Zhou Jiayu had never been fond of winter. He much preferred the warmer seasons.  

Lin Jue didn’t seem to have much going on lately either and had been staying at the Lin residence. However, she didn’t live in the same small wooden building as Zhou Jiayu—apparently, she had her own quarters in the southwest corner of the estate.  

Lin Zhushui took some time to teach Zhou Jiayu the patterns of the estate’s pathways. It seemed like something that could only be memorized through rote learning—or, to put it in more scientific terms, like plugging numbers into a formula. Zhou Jiayu found it quite challenging.  

Shen Yiqiong comforted him, saying it had taken him a full six months to memorize the patterns, during which he could only hole up in his room drawing talismans. He advised Zhou Jiayu not to rush.  

Still, Zhou Jiayu’s talisman-drawing skills had improved. He could now effortlessly sketch out even the more complicated luck-enhancing talismans. He once asked Lin Zhushui if these talismans had any side effects. Lin Zhushui replied that most didn’t—they merely served as aids—but under special circumstances, they could produce unexpected results.  

Hearing this, Zhou Jiayu immediately thought of Shen Yiqiong’s unfortunate mishap and shuddered. Thank goodness they caught it in time. Otherwise, I might have ended up with a pitch-black, effeminate little guy on my hands.  

Before bed, Zhou Jiayu usually browsed the internet. The feng shui forum was still bustling, filled with all sorts of bizarre and intriguing stories—most of which sounded quite plausible.  

In the casual discussion section, Zhou Jiayu spotted the username Wang Nu again. Clicking into the thread, he found the poster sharing some harmless feng shui tips.  

That alone wouldn’t have been strange, but when Zhou Jiayu scrolled down to the replies, he nearly fell out of his chair.  

Every single comment was addressing the poster as Goddess, gushing about how knowledgeable she was. A few users even excitedly claimed that after ditching their phones, their minds had cleared up significantly, and some of their physical pains had even lessened. Zhou Jiayu’s expression twisted. These guys probably just had neck problems from staring at their phones all day… But he couldn’t help wondering how they’d react if they knew their so-called Goddess was actually a bald, burly man over six feet tall.  

There was no doubt—Wang Nu was Xu Ruwang’s alt account. Zhou Jiayu sent him a private message, asking how he’d been and whether he’d really gone into seclusion in the remote mountains of the northeast to train diligently.  

Xu Ruwang replied almost instantly, saying that if he had gone into the mountains, he’d have been cut off from the internet long ago—no way would he have time to chatter on forums. He also mentioned he was doing well, his hair had grown back, and asked if Zhou Jiayu wanted to see his current look.  

Zhou Jiayu said, Sure, why not?  

Xu Ruwang sent over a photo. Zhou Jiayu studied it and thought that with hair, Xu Ruwang did look less intimidating—though he’d still look like a thug with sunglasses and a gold chain.  

“What about you? How’ve you been?” Xu Ruwang asked.  

Zhou Jiayu said he was doing great and briefly summarized his recent experiences.  

Xu Ruwang marveled at the tale. Though Zhou Jiayu’s account was concise, the dangers were still evident. Then he added, “Oh, by the way, you must have a phone now, right? Let’s swap numbers.”  

Zhou Jiayu joked, “Didn’t you tell everyone phones were bad for them?”  

Xu Ruwang replied shamelessly, “They are bad—bad for your eyes and a waste of time. I’m just helping them kick a bad habit.”  

Zhou Jiayu had no retort for that.  

“But something weird’s been happening around here lately,” Xu Ruwang suddenly mentioned. “A bunch of kids started some kind of organization…”  

Zhou Jiayu asked, “What kind of organization?”  

Xu Ruwang said, “They call themselves the ‘Supernatural Truth Seekers.’ Personally, I think they’re more like a ‘Daredevil Squad.’”  

Zhou Jiayu: “Huh? What do you mean?”  

Xu Ruwang: “These guys have nerves of steel. They’ve collected all sorts of occult rituals and are trying them out one by one—live on stream.”  

Zhou Jiayu had once been a staunch materialist, but after everything he’d experienced, his perspective had shifted. Even if you didn’t believe in the supernatural, it was wise to maintain a sense of reverence. Deliberately courting danger like this—even if they didn’t actually summon something sinister—could plant psychological suggestions that might warp their perception of reality. Every stroke of bad luck would be blamed on the supernatural. In that sense, their behavior was just another extreme.  

“They’ve got guts,” Zhou Jiayu remarked. “Have they run into anything creepy yet?”  

Xu Ruwang: “Not yet, but if they keep this up, it’s only a matter of time. I stumbled across them and have been keeping an eye on their streams.”  

Zhou Jiayu: “Send me the link. I’ll check it out too.”  

Xu Ruwang shared a livestream URL. When Zhou Jiayu clicked in, he was surprised to see the channel had over 300,000 subscribers—on par with many top streamers.  

“When do they usually go live?” Zhou Jiayu asked.  

Xu Ruwang: “No fixed schedule, but usually around nine at night. They were on yesterday…”  

Zhou Jiayu acknowledged it.  

After a bit more small talk, they ended the conversation.  

Zhou Jiayu closed the forum and went to bed.  

He didn’t think much of the link Xu Ruwang had sent—until a few days later, when Lin Jue suddenly craved a late-night snack. Zhou Jiayu used freshly delivered fish to prepare a grilled fish feast. The fish was roasted over fruitwood charcoal, which lent it a refreshing aroma absent in regular charcoal grilling. The skin was crispy, the flesh tender, and the dish was loaded with accompaniments—potatoes, tofu, and more.  

Lin Jue brought out chilled beer from the fridge and poured everyone a glass. Though Zhou Jiayu wasn’t much of a drinker, since they were at home, getting a little tipsy shouldn’t be an issue.  

“Wow, this fish is amazing,” Shen Yiqiong exclaimed after the first bite, nearly moved to tears. The fish was succulent, flavorful, and carried a subtle fruitwood fragrance that lingered on the palate. The skin—crisped to a perfect golden brown—was the highlight, bursting with aroma the moment it hit the tongue.  

“Yeah,” Lin Jue agreed, downing her beer in one go. “Zhou Jiayu, is there any dish you can’t make?”  

Zhou Jiayu smiled. “Plenty. But if I don’t know how, I can usually figure it out by studying a recipe.”  

Lin Jue nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.  

As they chatted and ate, the atmosphere was lively. Zhou Jiayu suddenly remembered the link Xu Ruwang had sent days earlier and brought it up as a topic of conversation.  

To his surprise, Lin Jue’s expression darkened. “Are they trying to get themselves killed? You can’t just mess around with the supernatural!”  

Zhou Jiayu said, “They’re probably just young and don’t take it seriously…”  

Shen Musi added grimly, “This is practically suicide.”  

Zhou Jiayu checked the time. “It’s just past ten now. Let me grab my laptop and see if they’re streaming.”  

Everyone agreed.  

Zhou Jiayu fetched his laptop and entered the URL Xu Ruwang had provided. The page loaded quickly, revealing the livestream interface.  

The group was live. Countless comments and gifts scrolled across the screen, and the viewer count in the top-left corner showed over a million. Of course, based on the platform’s algorithms, the actual number was likely around a hundred thousand.  

Zhou Jiayu maximized the screen. The streamer and their friends were in a dilapidated house, explaining the night’s game to the audience.  

“Tonight, we’re playing ‘Four Corners Shoulder Tap.’ It’s a pretty well-known game, and I’m sure some of you have tried it before,” said the streamer, a pretty young woman in her twenties. “The rules are simple: four people stand in the four corners of an empty room, facing the walls. One person walks to another and taps their shoulder. The tapped person then moves clockwise to the next corner. If you reach an empty corner, you cough once…” She giggled. “Normally, someone would always be coughing because one corner would stay empty. But supposedly, after a few rounds, there’ll come a point when no one coughs…”

She deliberately lowered her voice to create a creepy atmosphere. “Xiao Mi is feeling a little scared now… Won’t everyone send some gifts to comfort her?” She put on a pitiful and delicate expression.

The next moment, the livestream was flooded with all kinds of virtual gifts. Zhou Jiayu didn’t really understand what they were, but judging from Xiao Mi’s expression, it seemed like quite a lot.

“Well then, everyone, watch closely. The game is about to begin.” Host Xiao Mi smiled and hung the camera on her chest.

Lin Jue’s chopsticks paused midair, her expression turning a little angry. “These young people really have no regard for their lives. They’re trying out all these things?”

Shen Yiqiong said, “Yeah, and they’re not even afraid of provoking something powerful.”

Zhou Jiayu asked, “Do these folk methods actually work?”

Lin Jue replied, “There’s no definitive answer to that. Simply put, these methods are like loudspeakers, constantly calling out to those unclean things. Now, the effect of these folk rituals is usually weak, but if something happens to be nearby and hears the call… they won’t even have time to cry before it’s too late.”

Zhou Jiayu didn’t know what to say. All he could think was how far people were willing to go just to grab attention online.

While they were talking, Xiao Mi had already taken a step forward, starting the game.

Clack, clack, clack — the sound of her high heels striking the worn wooden floor echoed crisply. The house was silent, only the faint sounds of breathing could be heard. Xiao Mi tapped a teammate on the shoulder, watching them step forward.

Cough cough. Before long, the four participants had rotated once, and Zhou Jiayu clearly heard a heavy cough from the screen—it must have come from whoever stepped into the supposedly empty corner.

Gifts flooded in once again in the livestream. Xiao Mi tapped her friend’s shoulder while glancing down at her phone, happily interacting with viewers. She didn’t seem the least bit worried that something might go wrong with the game, her face still full of smiles.

One round, then another. The coughing sound kept returning at intervals, with nothing seemingly out of the ordinary.

Since she couldn’t speak during the game, Xiao Mi typed into the chat: Oh no, after so many rounds, there’s still no change. Xiao Mi’s getting more and more scared~

The viewers responded enthusiastically with another wave of gifts to comfort her.

At that moment, Xiao Mi felt a tap on her shoulder again. She didn’t think much of it and moved on to the next corner, tapping her teammate’s shoulder. But before long, as she was looking down at her phone to type, she felt another tap on her shoulder.

So soon? The thought flashed through her mind.

But it was the viewers who noticed something first. Soon, messages started spamming the chat: Why didn’t anyone cough? Where’s the cough?

Xiao Mi read the comments, and her expression visibly stiffened. Her lips tightened, completely different from her previously relaxed, cheerful look.

Zhou Jiayu frowned at the screen. “Did they really attract something?”

Lin Jue said, “Can’t tell. The image is blurry and we don’t have a full view. Who knows if they really drew something in?”

But the clear coughing sound had indeed vanished. And in the corner that was supposed to be empty, an unknown person had somehow appeared. Just like the others, it slowly stepped forward, gently placing a hand on the shoulder of the person in front.

Xiao Mi swallowed hard. The forced smile she had managed to maintain was now completely gone—only a rigid mask remained. Even Zhou Jiayu, watching from outside the screen, could feel her fear.

Some viewers were frightened. Others accused the host of faking it. And some still jeered, encouraging Xiao Mi and her team to keep going…

Fear built up, layering thicker with each passing moment, attacking the participants’ sanity.

Eventually, one of the girls couldn’t take it anymore and screamed. Thump-thump-thump — she bolted down the stairs.

The noise broke the heavy silence, and Xiao Mi visibly relaxed. She forced a laugh: “W-Well, looks like our experiment was a success, right? Hehe… just not sure what the ghost we summoned looks like, haha…”

Her smile no longer held any sweetness—her words trembled with fear.

“Hahaha, don’t be so nervous,” one of the men joked. “It was me. I didn’t cough on purpose. Wanted to scare you all.”

Xiao Mi’s eyes widened. “What the hell kind of joke is that?!” She remembered she was still live and quickly tried to smooth things over. “You nearly scared us to death.”

The man laughed awkwardly.

“Alright, that’s it for today’s livestream.” Xiao Mi hastily wrapped things up. “Looks like Xiao Shu was really shaken—I’ll go comfort her.” She tried to sound playful, but the stiffness in her voice and expression revealed her true state of mind to the audience.

No doubt, after this experiment, even Xiao Mi—who never believed in the supernatural—began to waver.

The livestream abruptly ended.

Shen Yiqiong muttered, “That doesn’t add up. That guy was clearly lying.”

Zhou Jiayu said, “Yeah.”

They had all noticed: the man who claimed to be the one who stopped coughing couldn’t have been lying alone. After all, it wasn’t always the same person standing in the empty corner—each round, someone different ended up there. If only one person was in on the prank, the missing cough wouldn’t have happened repeatedly.

That left only two explanations: either all four participants had planned the act together—or there really was an extra person in the house.

And since Xiao Mi, the host, was always seen standing in front of someone, the first theory was invalid.

Eliminating all other possibilities, only one truth remained.

Zhou Jiayu asked, “So… they really attracted a ghost?”

Lin Jue calmly replied, “Obviously.” She took a sip of beer, her tone irritable. “These kids… really not afraid of death.”

“Sigh.” Shen Yiqiong let out a breath.

Their previously good mood was now thoroughly ruined.

Zhou Jiayu asked, “Is it dangerous?”

Lin Jue shook her head. “No idea. You can’t tell just from watching a screen. You’d have to meet the people involved to know.”

Zhou Jiayu muttered, “I really shouldn’t have watched it.” Seeing people flirt with death like that left an uncomfortable feeling.

Fortunately, Zhou Jiayu checked back online a few days later and found that nothing had happened to the streamers.

Xiao Mi even posted on Weibo to reassure fans that they were safe. Zhou Jiayu thought that would be the end of it—that the group would stop playing these supernatural games. But as the saying goes, you can’t reason with someone determined to die.

A few days later, Zhou Jiayu saw another announcement in the livestream room: they were doing another ghost-summoning game, and this time it would be even more extreme.

When he learned of this, he told the others during dinner.

“How annoying. These people are just asking for trouble!” Lin Jue snapped. She seemed truly angry about their recklessness. “They clearly sensed something was wrong and still want to continue? If that’s not courting death, what is?”

“What game are they trying this time?” Shen Musi asked, somewhat intrigued.

Zhou Jiayu gave a summary. This time, at midnight, they would go to a crossroads, stick three incense sticks into a bowl of white rice, and after the incense burned down, eat the rice. Supposedly, doing so would allow them to see spirits.

Shen Yiqiong clasped his hands in mock admiration. “Impressive. That’s some imagination. I’ve followed the Sir for so many years and never seen something like this…” Some people are determined to die, and heaven can’t stop them.

Zhou Jiayu asked, “Does it really work?”

Lin Jue didn’t reply, her expression dark. Shen Musi sighed lightly, “I don’t know if it works or not, but honestly, given the time and setting, I wouldn’t be surprised if they do see something.”

Zhou Jiayu nodded. “Isn’t there anyone trying to talk them out of it?”

“Sure there is. But they probably can’t let it go.” Shen Yiqiong said, “Their popularity’s off the charts.”

Which meant, none of them could really help.

“Guess we’ll just have to watch it tonight,” Lin Jue said. “Midnight, right?”

Zhou Jiayu nodded.

So they all agreed to gather and watch the livestream at midnight. Zhou Jiayu went to the kitchen to make a few dishes and brought out some beers.

The stream started even before midnight. It was still hosted by Xiao Mi, who was cheerfully chatting with her friends as a warm-up. Zhou Jiayu noticed that the girl who had previously broken down—Xiao Shu—wasn’t there this time. Instead, there were some new faces. But they all had one thing in common—youth.

They say there’s courage in numbers. The group didn’t seem scared, even cracking jokes as they sat at the intersection.

As the night deepened, foot traffic dwindled. By the time it was nearly midnight, there were barely any cars on the road.

Then, Xiao Mi brought out the bowl of rice and incense. She signaled to her friends that they were about to begin.

The group gathered around as Xiao Mi inserted the incense sticks into the rice and lit them with a lighter.

“The game is starting,” Xiao Mi said with a smile. “If you think it looks cool, don’t forget to… send some gifts!” Strangely, her last sentence seemed distorted—like it had been twisted by static. Just for a split second, her voice sounded truly eerie. But the moment passed quickly, and her voice returned to its usual sweetness.

She smiled and carefully placed the bowl in the middle of the street, watching the incense slowly burn down, ash falling onto the white rice.

---

Author’s Note:
Zhou Jiayu: Sir didn’t appear today.
Lin Zhushui: Miss me?
Zhou Jiayu: Mn.
Lin Zhushui kisses his cheek: It’s alright. I’ll be there tomorrow.

(Not time for a love confession yet, hahaha~ Sir’s feelings for Guan’er still aren’t very clear, but they’re about to be stirred up.)