Volume Two: The Youth of a Thousand Faces, Truth in Disguise Chapter Forty-Six: The Calamity of Qi Mu

Year 3224, August 31st, the day before Bancroft Academy’s opening.

With a sharp crack, an expensive vase was hurled against the wall, shattering mercilessly.

The girl glanced at the vase that had narrowly missed her, then turned with cold eyes to face the man. “Wang Zhe, can’t we part ways peacefully? What are you doing?”

Wang Zhe, burning with rage, glared at her with eyes full of fury and shouted, “To hell with your ‘peaceful parting’! I put in so much effort to win you over, and now you just want to break up because you feel like it?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “So much effort? Besides squandering money on those flashy public displays, what else have you done? If I hadn’t seen you persist for a whole year without giving up, and thought you at least had some perseverance, do you think I’d have gotten involved with someone so lacking in ability and talent?”

Wang Zhe cursed, “Talent, my foot! You just like that masked pretty boy, always clutching that stupid book and muttering about Night Rain and Cold Crows. He doesn’t even dare show his face! I bet he’s nothing but a country bumpkin!”

A devoted fan of Night Rain and Cold Crow, the girl sneered, her tone unwavering against his rabid attack. “What does he have to do with it? He’s just my idol. Ask yourself, over these three years, how much have I invested in helping you improve, pushing you to grow? And you? Every day, you just indulge yourself and refuse to make progress. I’ve had enough! I’ve wasted three years of my youth on you—I’m done!”

With that, she turned to leave. Stepping through that door would mean leaving the past behind, saying farewell to a time of naive dreams. Only children believe that hard work alone can fulfill their fantasies.

But just as she crossed the threshold, a hand shot in from outside, seizing her throat in a vice grip.

The figure who held her aloft entered the room—a man entirely shrouded in a hood and mask, exuding no hint of supernatural power, yet radiating an aura of danger that made the knees weak, like some ancient beast.

“Such powerful resentment. For someone to harbor such malice over a mere breakup—what a promising candidate,” the man’s voice was cold and mocking as he looked at Wang Zhe, who had slumped helplessly to the floor.

He didn’t release the girl, but instead scanned the room. “Nice location. To afford a villa here, you must come from money. That will make it easier to operate in the human world—no need for me to arrange the finances.”

The girl kicked helplessly in the air, desperate for breath.

Catching her eye, the man murmured, “Almost forgot about you. I only need humans with powerful resentment as my pawns. Since you happened to see something you shouldn’t have, you can die now.” With that, he snapped her neck as casually as breaking a twig. She died instantly.

“You… who are you?” Wang Zhe stammered, scrambling backward in terror, desperate to escape this remorseless killer.

In a flash, the man was upon him, crouching to grip Wang Zhe’s throat and slam him to the floor. He leaned in close and whispered, “You don’t need to know who I am, and you never will. I just need someone like you to help me with a few things.”

As he spoke, an inky liquid began seeping from his hand, flowing from Wang Zhe’s throat to the back of his head.

“Tell me, what has filled you with such resentment?”

“That woman wants to break up with me,” Wang Zhe replied, as if all will had been stripped away. The black liquid slowly formed vine-like tendrils around his skull, and his gaze grew vacant.

The man savored the fragments of memory he drew from Wang Zhe, as if tasting a rare delicacy. “Not deep enough. You’re angry at her leaving, but more than that, you’re jealous—jealous that her heart belongs to another man.”

“Anger. Jealousy,” Wang Zhe echoed hoarsely.

“That’s right. Your grievances may be petty, but your resentment, your pettiness—I quite appreciate it. To become the first infected of Bancroft by me, Qimu, you should consider it an honor.”

“An… honor…” Wang Zhe’s saliva dribbled from his slack mouth, his expression twisted in pain.

As Qimu continued to invade Wang Zhe’s mind, he mused aloud, “When the woods are thick, you find all kinds of birds. The saying fits—before I came here, I never imagined I'd encounter such a specimen: a man who blames his girlfriend’s favorite author for their breakup. What next, if he gets in a car accident, will he bomb the dealership?”

Qimu was, in truth, the parasite now inhabiting Zhang Fan, one of Jiang Feng’s underlings.

Over the past few days, Qimu had fully taken over Zhang Fan’s mind, gleaning information about Bancroft from his stolen memories.

Though possessing no combat power of his own, Qimu ranked eleventh among the Twelve Catastrophes—a testament to his unique talents. Years ago, he single-handedly plunged an entire colony into terror, his tracks remaining undetected until the Reaper Hunters arrived. That feat earned him the title of Eleventh Catastrophe, but those days were a decade gone. In recent years, he had worked quietly, gathering intelligence and cultivating a network among humans. Of all the Catastrophes, none understood humanity as thoroughly as Qimu.

For a parasite, it was always the resentful who were most susceptible to becoming puppets.

Qimu knew that once he’d finished his work, this human would forget ever encountering him, acting henceforth according to the suggestions buried in his mind.

This infiltration of Bancroft was by the will of the King of Calamities, Zaitian, who had sent Qimu to find a specific human. Qimu had expected to wait in hiding much longer, but fortune had delivered opportunity straight to his door.

To fish in troubled waters, the pond must first be muddied. And what better way than to exploit Wang Zhe’s grudge against Night Rain and Cold Crow, especially with the author’s book signing only days away? He could stir chaos—if things went wrong, Wang Zhe would take the fall, and Qimu—or rather, Zhang Fan—would remain above suspicion.

—

Night Rain and Cold Crow—representative of the new generation of young writers, renowned for a versatile style: sometimes lighthearted and comedic, sometimes profound and evocative as an ink-washed landscape. His celebrated work, “Rhapsody on a Rainy Night,” sold over a million copies in its first month. Later, special editions featuring exquisite illustrations and the author’s handwritten quotes set new sales records.

“Rhapsody on a Rainy Night” was famous for its wildly imaginative stories. Though most were brief and seemingly unrelated, each featured a mysterious, masked figure—a thread stringing scattered jewels into a necklace. This figure’s identity was never revealed. Sometimes, he granted fortunes to the virtuous poor; other times, he bestowed power upon greedy officials. Whether for good or for evil, any might benefit from his hand. Yet, the final outcome always depended on human nature.

Some said this character was the author himself.

The book, though appearing to tell disconnected tales, actually invited readers to witness the complexity and hypocrisy of humankind from a detached perspective—only to reveal, at the bleakest moments, the enduring light of humanity.

Night Rain and Cold Crow was just such a gifted young writer. Today would be the first signing event for his new novel, “The Language of All Flowers.”

Many fans were puzzled by the choice of location. Bancroft was heavily guarded, and the organizers had hired numerous supernatural agents to protect attendees traveling from various colonies. Still, the Wilds were daunting—most ordinary people would tremble just to set foot here. Why hold the event in such a place? The organizers gave no explanation.

As a result, more than seventy percent of the fans attending were themselves supernatural agents—a rare concentration, since Bancroft was an academy for such individuals. In any colony, their proportion would be less than one in ten.

After three months of negotiation between Bancroft’s administration, the publishers, and the media, full-scale promotion was finally agreed upon. With Eddie Halls’s personal approval, both the principal and the dean acquiesced without protest—after all, they were dealing with the son of Eddie Halls.

Year 3224, September 4th—the most chaotic book signing in literary history was about to begin.