Chapter 76: Uncle Yan’s Fury

The piercing, relentless clang of the fire alarm echoed through the exhibition hall, startling everyone present. The already well-lit venue grew even brighter as flames sprang up from the paintings on display, their fiery tongues licking higher and higher. Several firefighters had already grabbed extinguishers, spraying jets of powder through the panicked crowd. White clouds billowed and rolled out, several streams erupting at once.

Suddenly, the central broadcast system blared the voice of the announcer, issuing a fire emergency warning to the entire hall. Instantly, people scattered like frightened birds. Those nearest the fire fled at once, while those farther away began to chatter anxiously, and some, driven by curiosity, even pushed closer to watch the chaos unfold. Yet as they saw the thick, rolling clouds of extinguisher dust billowing from the Shinto pavilion, their jaws dropped in astonishment—this was no staged performance.

Panic swept the Shinto pavilion—not because the flames themselves were overwhelming, but because the sudden emergency infected everyone with fear. Most attendees scrambled to escape, while the staff, trained to guide the crowd, did their best to keep people calm, urging them to evacuate in an orderly fashion and head toward the emergency exits.

But few had ever experienced a real fire, and with so many—elderly folks, students, children, women, and staff—fear quickly took hold, plunging the hall into chaos. Qi Guoheng grabbed Qi Yan’s hand and hurried with the stream of people toward the fire escape. Qi Yan was walking, yet craned his neck, searching for something nearby.

In the Shinto pavilion, almost everyone, including the trained staff, wore anxious expressions—except for one man. He walked among the crowd with a slight smile, unhurried, not at all anxious, and moving in a direction opposite to the others.

Finally, from several meters away, Qi Yan got a clear look at the young man’s face. It was him... that man!

Memories flashed through Qi Yan’s mind, recalling the time he and Li Lan had been kidnapped by a mysterious criminal group, and the silent, handsome man in the cold pool at Haimu Ravine...

But just as he recognized the man, clouds of extinguisher powder billowed out, obscuring his view.

As the situation grew more chaotic, the firefighters failed to notice something strange. Though they used their extinguishers with practiced precision, the flames showed no sign of dying out.

Meanwhile, Shinichi Watanabe slipped past the crowd, heading toward the Brahmin pavilion. His hands were tucked in his jacket pockets, unnoticed by those around him. Yet a subtle coincidence followed him—wherever he walked, the flammable exhibits nearby would suddenly ignite, as if sprinkled with powder, the flames rising in uncanny fashion.

At that moment, the hall’s many security cameras began to malfunction. In the control room, staff puzzled over the screens, which flickered with static, distorted images, blackouts, and flashes—everything became inexplicably strange, with no warning.

Compared to the Shinto pavilion, the Brahmin pavilion was much larger. Those present were slow to react, but as the smoke drifted over, everyone realized disaster had struck.

It was a domino effect: the fire began inexplicably in the Shinto pavilion, then the alarm sounded, smoke filled the air, voices rose in panic, and soon every section of the exhibition hall understood the gravity of the situation.

The panicked crowd was terrifying—perhaps more so than the fire itself. Even though the emergency exits were open, they couldn’t accommodate everyone at once. Many people ignored the designated escape routes, running and colliding in a frenzy. Staff struggled to maintain order, but their efforts had little effect.

Children and students, seeing adults in chaos, were even more frightened; some cried loudly, others were separated from their parents and teachers by the crowd. Adults fared little better—the extinguishers seemed powerless against the sudden flames.

What began as spontaneous combustion of a few exhibits soon spiraled out of control. The fire spread rapidly along the ornate wallpaper, smoke thickening with every second.

The central broadcast’s pleas for calm backfired, fueling the crowd’s panic. For such an uproar to erupt, something truly catastrophic must have happened.

Who could have imagined a fire would break out at an art exhibition where even smoking in the restroom was met with a five-hundred-dollar fine?

The alarm’s shrill ringing only heightened the terror, amplifying everyone’s fear.

Minutes passed, yet the fire in the Shinto pavilion only grew larger. The panic overwhelmed the hall, and even the faintest whiff of smoke sent people into a frenzy.

The uncontrolled crowd caused blockages and even trampling incidents in several areas.

The elderly and children suffered most, pushed and jostled by stronger adults, their cries of distress echoing throughout the venue.

Uncle Yan had been monitoring the Brahmin pavilion, drowsy before the chaos began. When the panic broke out, his sleepiness vanished. He hurried from the second-floor corridor, only to be shoved down the stairs by fleeing attendees. “Ouch!” His hand was stepped on, and before he could rise, he was kicked in the back—almost knocked senseless.

His glasses fell off, and rubbing his sore waist, he managed to get up, only to see a small wave of flames from the Shinto pavilion advancing toward his area.

He stared at the distant flames for a long moment. Though they appeared ordinary, his face grew grim. “This... is ghost fire?!... This is bad, very bad…”

Before he could think further, the hidden sprinklers overhead began to release a curtain of water, rain falling onto the heads of those fleeing. The sudden downpour prompted another round of shouts.

Now, the priceless exhibits hardly mattered—so many lives were at stake!

Uncle Yan wiped the water from his face, shaking his head in frustration. “What on earth is going on here…”

His gaze wandered, finally settling on a prominent figure atop a high stair opposite him.

It was the same lady Qi Yan and Chen Huiting had encountered earlier in the pavilion—the chairwoman of Ding Tai Group, Ms. Xiao.

She stood with arms crossed, watching the terrified crowd from above, her face showing not the slightest shock, but rather a faint, enigmatic smile, as if she were serenely observing all the fear, panic, and helplessness, untouched by it—and perhaps, subtly savoring it.

As Uncle Yan spotted her, she noticed him as well.

The two gazed at each other across the chaos, briefly ignoring the turmoil around them.

Uncle Yan’s aged face twisted into a rare expression of venomous anger and deep resentment, his clouded eyes gleaming with a chilling coldness.