Mount Paragon sat at the northeastern corner of the city like a crouching beast, its spine blocking the briny winds from the sea.At the mountain's foot sprawled a bustling metropolis—endless traffic, neon lights flickering. But the moment you started climbing, past the stone archway carved with the words "Cloud Gate," it was as if you'd entered another world with the sound turned off.

  In the old days, this was a prized feng shui retreat where officials and nobles escaped the summer heat, leaving behind grand old estates stamped with the marks of their era.

  Now, most of those mansions had crumbled, nothing but broken walls and ruins hidden among wild grass and creeping vines—like tombs forgotten by time.

  The newly developed luxury housing on the mountainside was built right next to these ruins. Driving up from the base took at least forty minutes one way.

  The first half wasn't bad—four lanes, smooth road. But past the Cloud Gate archway, the road suddenly narrowed, winding upward in endless switchbacks. On both sides stood primeval forest so dense the canopies wove together overhead.

  The higher you climbed, the thicker the fog grew.

  The old-timer taxi drivers never liked taking this route.

  "That mountain's got heavy yin energy," they'd say. "Drive up there once and you feel off for days. Gotta go to a temple and make offerings to shake it off."

  This mountain was like an inverted deep well sitting at the city's edge, a maw specifically designed to swallow up the luck of the self-satisfied.

  The elites who moved in fell the hardest when their fortunes were at their peak. For them, declaring bankruptcy or ending up behind bars was considered a stroke of good luck.

  There’s even a story about a family who, on the very night they moved in, torched their entire estate. Afterward, the family of five sat in a circle amidst the ashes and sewed each other’s eyes shut with red thread, all so they would "never have to see the sixth person in this house" again—and yet, that story doesn't even crack the top ten list of horrors on this mountain.

  But no matter the rumors, property prices on that mountain never dropped.

  After all, Longjiang was a city where every inch of land was worth its weight in gold, and new money poured in every year—more than the graves on the mountain could hold. Hillside villas within city limits would always be a scarce commodity.

  Just after nightfall, Dante's car pulled into the mountain.

  Dante sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed ahead, fingers slowly tightening until his knuckles went white.

  "What are you so nervous about?" Ling sat in the back, the Purple-Gold Kasaya bundle with the female ghost in her lap, gazing out the window with interest. "It's just a crappy mountain."

  "This mountain… has a lot of 'people.'" Dante's voice was tight. "Uncle Jiang… shouldn't you file a report with the Underworld for a collection sweep? So many of them… how do the Soul Reapers leave so many behind?"

  Dax sat to Ling's right, eyes closed as if dozing. He answered wearily:

  "Don't make trouble for me. You think I'm not marginalized enough already? File a report? You might as well have me grab a megaphone and shout at the Southern Heavenly Gate: 'Come look! These Soul Reapers are deliberately leaving vengeful spirits in the mortal world to shake down incense offerings! Come restore justice!'"

  Dante shrank back. "Honestly, these dead people are unlucky enough as it is, and then they get used as pawns. Running into their families' dreams to cry, haunting the people who wronged them—all that karma falls on their own heads in the end, but the incense from all the praying goes straight to you guys."

  "Not 'us'—'them.' A bunch of bastards manufacturing demand where there is none. I never touch merit from shady sources."

  Ling's voice dripped with mockery. "Who'd have guessed, Old Jiang? You've actually got some backbone."

  Dante, for once, put in a good word for Dax: "That much is true. Why else do you think no one wants to work with him? This mountain is seriously cursed—all those 'accidents' every year, and have you ever seen anyone go to his temple for a protection charm? Ask him to perform a soul-settling ritual? Such a fat piece of meat, and it all goes to their own agents."

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Guess I backed the wrong horse! Other gods's agents are living large, eating and drinking like kings, while I'm paying out of pocket to run around with you lot. My company wasn't built on merit blown in by the wind—it's watered with my own talent and sweat, you know. Not to brag, but with my abilities, when I kick the bucket, I could easily be King of Hell. I'd have the Underworld thriving, population booming…"

  Perhaps to distract himself, Dante—who was usually terrified of ghosts—chattered nonstop the entire way, endlessly fantasizing about commanding legions of spirits.

  Dax seemed unwilling to look at the pairs of eyes outside the window—some lost, some furious, some filled with resentment. He didn't speak again for the rest of the drive, didn't open his eyes. Hard to tell if he was actually asleep.

  But Ling noticed his hand stayed in his flight jacket pocket the whole time, his knuckles shifting occasionally, as if he were rubbing something.

  The car rounded another bend, and the view suddenly opened up.

  The Leis' villa had arrived.

  From the outside, it was a typical neo-Chinese estate. White walls, gray tiles, upturned eaves. Two white marble lion statues crouched by the courtyard gate, fangs bared, imposing and fierce. Above the door hung a plaque with three gilded characters: "Zhiyuan Residence"—signed by some renowned calligrapher.

  The clearing outside the courtyard was already packed with cars.

  All black sedans—Bentleys, Maybachs, Rolls-Royces. License plates were either sequential numbers or repeating digits, gleaming under the dim lights like silent boasts.

  Small clusters of people stood near the car doors. Some were in Western suits, others in traditional Tang-style jackets, and even a few in flowing Taoist robes. Some murmuring in low conversation, others smoking while they waited. When they saw a new car arrive, they all turned to look.

  Dante got out first, took a deep breath—finally made it through—and opened the rear door.

  "President Li!" A round-faced, round-bellied middle-aged man trotted over, face wreathed in smiles. "Oh, you're finally here! The old master was just asking when President Li would arrive—"

  "Secretary Zhou." Dante gave a slight nod, polite but distant. "Traffic was bad. Sorry to keep the old master waiting."

  He turned and pulled a sophisticated gift box from the car, handing it to Secretary Zhou.

  "My sincere apologies for the poor hospitality today," Dante said mildly. "A small token—please pass it along to the old master on my behalf, with my regards."

  Secretary Zhou accepted it with both hands, imperceptibly testing its weight.

  "Oh, President Li, you're too kind! Just coming is enough—why bring gifts—"

  He led the three of them inside with renewed enthusiasm, his steps noticeably lighter than before.

  "And these two are…?" He glanced at Dax and Ling trailing behind.

  "My friends." Dante kept it brief. "Mr. Jiang, and… Miss Ling."

  Secretary Zhou's gaze swept over Dax and Ling, a flicker of barely concealed disdain crossing his eyes.

  Not that you could blame him. These two were dressed completely wrong for this kind of gathering.

  Dax wore his eternal army-green flight jacket over a plaid shirt so faded it had gone white, paired with wrinkled khaki pants and dad shoes that looked like they'd seen a decade of use. He could have just walked out of a construction materials market after negotiating a bulk order.

  Ling was worse.

  Her plain white dress was passably clean, but the fabric screamed fast fashion, and you could see a tear when she walked. On her feet, those white shoes with the brazen "Adidos" knockoff logo made no attempt to hide what they were.

  Dax and Ling—one big, one small—were like two rat droppings dropped into this gilded soup of wealth and status. Jarringly out of place.

  Dante sighed inwardly. Great. Not only was he spending his time and energy on this, now his reputation was taking a hit too.

  He leaned over and lowered his voice to Dax: "Uncle Jiang, they called it a 'simple dinner,' but look at this scene… and this is what you're wearing?"

  Dax ignored him.

  "You don't even have one decent outfit?" Dante continued his veiled needling. "Is the temple really doing that badly? So those artifacts you sold me before… don't tell me they're also…"

  "You talk too much." Dax cut him off coldly.

  His brow stayed furrowed, his gaze fixed on the bundled suit jacket in Ling's arms, lost in thought.

  Seeing Dante shut down, Ling seized the opportunity to cozy up: "Boss Li, you see how stingy he is. "

  She reached out and felt the fabric of Dante's custom suit, clicking her tongue in admiration. "You're clearly nothing like him. Look how much I helped you today, and this suit is so beautiful…"

  Dante instinctively edged away, expression stiffening. "If Miss Ling likes it, this one's yours."

  "Really?" Ling's eyes lit up.

  "Really." Dante said it almost eagerly. "Come by the office tomorrow, give the jacket to Linda on the third floor. I'll have her tailor it for you and make a few new pieces while she's at it. Consider it… a reward for today's hard work."

  As he spoke, he shuffled another half-step to the side, putting a "safe distance" between himself and Ling—or rather, the suit jacket in her arms.

  Ling nodded with satisfaction. "Bosses really aren't all the same."

  She glanced at Dax's gloomy face in the distance, then at the elegant Dante, and privately began calculating whether she should find a new place to work.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the entrance, Teon stood in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit, features handsome, posture impeccable. He was exchanging pleasantries with several middle-aged men, wearing an appropriate smile, looking completely at ease.

  Just then, Teon seemed to sense something. His gaze swept over.

  He spotted Ling.

  More precisely, he saw the men's suit jacket she was clutching—and the way she was leaning close to Dante's ear, whispering, all cozy and persistent.

  The corner of his mouth turned down slightly.

  He'd seen too many of this type in their circles. Relying on a pretty face to hook wealthy men, snagging whoever they could, making a vulgar spectacle of themselves.

  Teon looked away and continued socializing with those around him.

  He had no spare energy to waste on some irrelevant gold-digger.