Zhang Yuanqing sat in silence for a long time, weighing his options. In the end, he decided not to reveal the existence of the Red Dancing Shoes just yet.
For one, Ou Xiangrong had only just gone on the run. The Five Elements Alliance hadn't yet launched a full investigation. As an official organization, they likely had other means to track down the Bewitching Monster.
There was no need for a rookie like him to get involved.
And more importantly, he was only a Level 1 Night Wanderer—a complete newcomer among Spiritwalkers. If he exposed the existence of a rule-based item, it could easily invite greed and trouble.
Better to wait and see what action the organization takes before deciding on his next move...
Zhang Yuanqing stopped thinking about it, turned his eyes to the night scenery outside the car window, and quietly waited to arrive at his destination.
Right now, his top priority was strengthening himself.
Five minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of the "Songhai Pulmonary Hospital." After paying the fare, Zhang Yuanqing headed straight for the Emergency Department.
At this hour, the outpatient department was already closed. All patients and hospital operations were concentrated in the emergency wing.
Inside the Emergency Department, the place was packed. Patients were either seated in the waiting area or shuffling between the cashier and various clinics.
Zhang Yuanqing walked through the busy lobby, pushing through the crowd until he found a seat near the restroom.
He sat down, stretched his legs, and waited like a fisherman by the riverbank.
To spirits, a Night Wanderer's aura was like a firefly in the dark—bright and unmistakable.
There was no need to go hunting. They'd come to him on their own.
A normal human's spirit lingered for only seven days after death. Unless someone had just died nearby, you usually couldn't just wait for spirits to show up out of nowhere. That's why hospitals were the best places to level up.
Roughly five minutes later, Zhang Yuanqing spotted an old man in a hospital gown approaching. His gaze was blank, his steps stiff, and he drifted through the crowd like a ghost.
Because he was one.
His figure flickered between tangible and ethereal. People walked right through him like he wasn't there.
The old man looked emaciated, his eyes pure white and eerie, his aura steeped in pain and regret.
A wrathful spirit.
Usually, people turned into wrathful spirits after death. Peaceful souls were rare—no one dies willingly.
The love for life and the fear of death always curdled into a lingering bitterness.
When the old man reached him, Zhang Yuanqing inhaled gently.
The spirit turned into wisps of blue smoke and drifted into his mouth.
Pain bloomed between his eyebrows. His mind suddenly expanded, and fragmented memories poured in.
The old man had died of terminal lung cancer. The final years of his life were spent battling the double torture of chemotherapy and cancer. Coughing blood, hair loss, shortness of breath, pain... his death had been anything but peaceful.
His last conscious thought had been regret: Why did I ever start smoking?
"I'll never smoke again..."
Zhang Yuanqing opened his eyes and blurted out, face full of remorse.
People nearby turned to look at him, puzzled.
...Zhang Yuanqing froze, then put on a blank expression, pretending nothing had happened, covering up his embarrassment.
Once the stares faded and his emotions settled, he pulled up his status screen. A soft blue panel appeared before his eyes:
[EXP: 44.5%]
"Zhao Yingjun's spirit was worth two points. Normal people give only 0.5... Like regular mobs and elite mobs? And the further I progress, the less they'll be worth. Probably not even 0.5 later on. Guess I'll have to grind..." Zhang Yuanqing mused.
Still, the visible, tangible sense of growth brought genuine satisfaction.
He returned to his seat like nothing had happened. A few minutes later, a middle-aged man in a suit—a typical office worker—shambled toward him with empty eyes.
No one around noticed the man. They walked right through him.
Zhang Yuanqing repeated the process and absorbed the spirit. As the energy merged into his body, memories surged in like a tide.
The man had died from overwork—heart failure. A sudden death brought on by China's infamous 996 grind culture.
His passing had been painless—heart attacks happened in a blink. But after seeing his memories, Zhang Yuanqing learned the man's wife had just given birth to their second child, still a baby. He'd been working himself to death for formula money, all for the sake of his family.
And he was born in the 1980s, part of a generation with few siblings. Once he died, there was no one left to care for his aging parents.
He traded his life for money, only to lose everything in the end.
When Zhang Yuanqing's mind returned to his body, he was overwhelmed by a wave of sadness and emptiness.
What was the point of a life like that?
He sat there, dazed and blank-faced for a long time.
Then, a third spirit arrived.
A woman with sharp features, sculpted Korean-style eyebrows, and a sense of luxury in her dress. A high-quality woman, no doubt.
"So young and pretty... what a waste..."
As she got closer, Zhang Yuanqing noticed her chest was caved in, and her tight black top was soaked in ghostly blood. The back of her head had suffered horrific trauma—blood matted her hair into clumps.
She wasn't in a hospital gown. That meant she hadn't died in the hospital, but from an accident—or murder.
Zhang Yuanqing inhaled and absorbed her spirit.
...
His brow throbbed, and foreign memories surged into his mind.
His vision went dark, then came into focus on a pair of long, pale legs sitting at the edge of a bed. The woman was slowly rolling black stockings up her thighs.
So that's how women put on stockings... thought Zhang Yuanqing, suddenly gaining a rare insight, courtesy of twenty years of singlehood.
Then, a hoarse male voice came from behind:
"Stop texting me at night. My wife nearly caught me yesterday."
Zhang Yuanqing felt a jolt of panic.
A man. A bed. Stockings...
Anyone could guess what had just happened.
Yeah... better not absorb female spirits so casually next time. That's not safe at all. He breathed a silent sigh of relief—at least the memory started with stockings. If it had gone a few minutes further...
God knows what position he might've found himself in. Lying down... or kneeling...
At least there was no weird taste in his mouth. Thank God.
As he was still reeling, he heard the woman—his body—pout:
"Then divorce her and marry me."
The man rustled around, putting on clothes, then sneered:
"I've got a son and daughter. Planning a third next year. Why the hell would I divorce for you? Divorce means splitting my assets in half.
"Didn't we have an agreement? You're the mistress, I give you money. Once you've saved enough, marry whoever you want. Some nice guy or whatever. If you want to end this, just tell me. But don't get any ideas."
The woman didn't respond, just stormed out in her BMW, speeding down the road to vent her rage.
She got into a crash.
Died on impact.
When the vision ended, Zhang Yuanqing opened his eyes and pinched his temple, deeply frustrated.
Sister, why bother? There are easier ways to sell high-end seafood. The market's always open. Why fight over one man? As if any of them are worth it.
And marrying a "nice guy"? Yeah, no. Not happening. Ever.
As he thought this, something felt off.
Why do I suddenly relate to her so much? I'm a guy, goddammit.
A few seconds later, it clicked—he'd been subtly influenced by the high-quality woman's thoughts. He was unconsciously thinking like a woman, feeling a craving for wealth and material security.
Same with the "I won't smoke again" line earlier. That had come from the old man's lingering regrets.
Just as he started to stabilize his spirit, the fourth soul appeared.
A slender, handsome young man. The kind that brought "puppy boy" to mind.
"Not bad looking. Let's stick to absorbing guys—it's safer. Worst case, I'm still the one on top."
He opened his mouth and drew in the spirit.
...
A blast of noise hit him. LED lights flickered like strobe lightning, filling the room with blinding color and chaos.
People swayed, heads bobbing, music thundering, the air thick with the smell of cigarettes.
It was a bar.
Zhang Yuanqing's body swayed uncontrollably to the music. He picked up a glass and clinked it with his friends, downing it with a shout.
They drank, played dice, and reveled into the early hours. Around 2 a.m., the young man and a muscular friend called a rideshare and went back to their apartment.
Zhang Yuanqing realized he couldn't move his body—but his mind was clear. The young man was completely plastered. Throbbing temples, pounding blood vessels...
Alcohol poisoning? Maybe he drank himself to death?
As he pondered, the friend laid him on the bed, took off his shoes and pants, covered him up, and wiped his sweat with a wet towel.
Solid friend, Zhang Yuanqing thought.
Then, the friend started stripping... and lifted the blanket... and quickly pulled the guy's underwear off.
Zhang Yuanqing froze.
Something wasn't right.
Then he heard the young man mumble:
"Hubby~"
The "friend" climbed on top, popped open a bottle of Vaseline, and slurred through alcohol breath:
"Arch that ass—lemme lube you up!"
???
Zhang Yuanqing's brain exploded like thunder from a clear sky.
NO! NO! NOOOO!
YOU CAN'T DO THIS! THIS ISN'T RIGHT!!
In a panic, Zhang Yuanqing forcibly severed the memory.
Back at the hospital lobby, in the seat near the restroom, he jolted upright like he'd just woken from a nightmare. He gasped for breath like he'd been drowning.
Pale-faced, terrified, his back soaked in cold sweat.
"You okay, young man?" a nearby auntie asked with concern. "Have you registered? What's hurting?"
Zhang Yuanqing waved her off and bolted into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over his face, again and again.
Men... are terrifying.
He had just suffered a kind of trauma no man should ever experience.