Chapter 83: "Accident"

“Hey, that little devil can still run so fast after surrendering?” Hao Dalong remarked as he watched the silhouette of Watanabe Shinji fleeing, already vanishing into the distant night along the edge of the lawn.

At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary at the scene, but a closer look revealed several patches of turf corroded into blackness by some strange substance, and the air was thick with a lingering metallic tang of blood, mixed with a musty stench.

Xuanxuan rubbed her forehead, clearly uncomfortable, nearly twisting her ankle as she stumbled. Hao Dalong quickly supported her. “What’s wrong? The curse succeeded, but it’s such a strain on you?”

She nodded weakly. “He’s not an ordinary person, so in hurting the enemy a thousand, I lost… maybe three hundred myself.”

After catching her breath for a moment, Xuanxuan glanced down and was startled to see someone else lying on the ground. With a closer look, her surprise only grew. “Huh! Why is he here?”

“Who’s this?” Hao Dalong was equally baffled—he didn’t know Qi Yan.

They hadn’t noticed him earlier in the car outside the exhibition center; seeing him now was certainly strange.

With just a few words, Xuanxuan explained Qi Yan’s identity, startling Hao Dalong.

“That’s him…”

Hao Dalong quickly knelt down and felt Qi Yan’s wrist. His hand was ice-cold, his complexion deathly pale, lips rapidly darkening, and deep shadows had set under his eyes in just minutes.

“He’s still alive, but he looks terribly weak.”

Xuanxuan shook her head and, looking down, saw that Qi Yan’s limp hand was gently clutching a shadowy talisman.

“We seem to have arrived a bit late. He was nearly drained to death by the power of that talisman. That half a bottle of water of a kid actually dared to face off against that Japanese demon head-on—utter madness…”

“So… should we take him to the hospital?” Hao Dalong asked.

“No rush. Get him to the car first. I’ll call Keke, and we’ll regroup at her place. Once Old Yan has cleansed him of the heavy evil aura, we can send him to the hospital for a checkup—he won’t be delayed…”

Hao Dalong, a strapping man, easily hefted Qi Yan’s frail body.

In fact, though Qi Yan and Watanabe Shinji had fought fiercely here, the whole incident had lasted less than twenty minutes.

At that very moment, the main plaza outside the exhibition center was a scene of chaos. Crowds of people who had fled the fire mingled with staff, and convoys of fire, police, and security vehicles had arrived.

Everyone was drenched to the bone by the fire suppression sprinklers, though the night air was not cold. Few had been injured by the mysterious flames; most of the wounded had fallen or been trampled in the rush to escape.

The tally of casualties had yet to be finalized, but for now, no fatalities had been confirmed.

There were two things about the incident that left the art exhibition staff utterly bewildered. First, as soon as the fire broke out, all the surveillance cameras malfunctioned. This was somewhat understandable—preliminary analysis from the tech team suggested the exhibition’s monitoring system had been remotely hacked, deliberately sabotaged.

After reporting this, the police were preparing to investigate. The hackers clearly had considerable skill—the exhibition’s computer systems were supposed to be top-notch for such an international event. That someone could break in was remarkable.

But the real mystery was the fire itself. With the surveillance system down, how had it started? What had ignited it?

This demanded a thorough investigation.

The fire had caused widespread panic, and two exhibition pavilions had suffered heavy losses.

Nearly all the Japanese Shinto pavilion’s unprotected items had been destroyed. The Indian Brahmin pavilion was similarly affected, with losses still being counted.

For now, the exhibition itself was set aside. In one corner of the convention city, a wisp of smoke still curled skyward in the night.

Journalists were swarming the scene, more aggressive than vultures.

Those who had managed to escape were still shaking with fear, many separated from companions in the chaos and now searching for them.

Qi Guoheng was also searching for Qi Yan; they had become separated during the evacuation and there was still no sign of him. He couldn’t help but worry—could the boy still be inside? But surely the fire had been extinguished before they got out, so where was he?

With their phones ruined by water, calling was impossible; all he could do was fret.

As for the mysterious young man with the sleight-of-hand tricks, Qi Guoheng had no idea who he was, nor did he know why Qi Yan was acquainted with him. He was utterly at a loss.

Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people crowded the square, and only with great effort did police and firefighters restore order, dispatching teams to help locate those still missing.

In a quiet corner near a fountain, away from the crowd, a handful of staff were reporting to a sponsor.

Uncle Yan, who had nearly been trampled inside, hobbled over, still clutching his aching back. Loudly, and somewhat inexplicably, he called out, “Chairwoman Xiao, let’s have a private chat!”

The staff all looked startled. The female owner of Dingtai Group, standing among them, waved the others away when she saw Uncle Yan.

Once the two of them were alone, Uncle Yan wiped water and sweat from his face, fixed her with a long, meaningful stare, and finally spoke in a faintly mocking tone, “Chairwoman Xiao, you’ve gone too far this time, haven’t you?”

Chairwoman Xiao remained as composed as ever—her makeup unblemished, the faintest smile on her lips. “And what exactly do you mean?”

He snorted, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot, and continued coldly, “All this chaos, simply for a single exhibit… You think I haven’t figured it out?”

“Rayong, Thailand—the Chinese-heritage collector, surname Zhou, if I recall correctly. Half a year ago, he died suddenly at home—hospital said it was a cerebral hemorrhage. After his death, over thirty Brahmin and Theravada Buddhist relics from his collection became unclaimed property.”

“Among them was a clay Shiva statue, loaned to the exhibition by a Thai temple.”

“You knew about it early on, didn’t you? The Thai government was temporarily holding the statue, making it hard to steal or swap. But here, at an exhibition like this, it’s different. You sponsored the event purely for convenience.”

“With money comes power. As a sponsor, the staff placed by your company had ample opportunity to get close to the exhibits. But you set up a smokescreen—using the Japanese Shinto pavilion as bait, quietly placing an Onmyodo talisman among their exposed displays. You had skilled hackers standing by, ready to act the moment the exhibition opened.”

“With the crowds at their peak, the exhibits on full display, it was actually easier. First, ignite the Amaterasu Scroll and other flammable items to start a moderate fire and cause chaos. The fire suppression system activates, and with enough water, someone like Watanabe Shinji could, amid the confusion and with the cameras down, use his arts to move the Shiva statue openly. When the authorities investigate, they’ll find the statue never left the convention center.”

“Even if the authorities launch a major probe, they’ll find nothing—fire and chaos cover every trace.”

“Since this ‘accident’ destroyed more than just the Shiva statue, when the dust settles and the Thais discover an artifact missing, they’ll assume it was lost in the confusion. That’s far preferable to outright theft—the case will likely be dropped, just like the museum fire in ’94: no criminal charges, maybe a few officials dismissed, and everything chalked up to ‘an accident.’”

Uncle Yan’s words had been scattered, but now he drew close, voice low, and said, “The Shiva statue itself means nothing to you. Your real target is what the late collector hid inside—the very first Shadow Talisman of the Yin Palace to appear in the world, named ‘Prime Worm.’”