The old manor stood on the outskirts of Suānchéng, where fog lingered longer than it should and roads seemed reluctant to lead there.
Modern maps still marked the district, but few people visited anymore.
Memory was a stronger landmark than geography.
Once, the estate had been the pride of the Yè family—a sprawling compound of weathered stone, cherry-wood beams, and ancient sigils carved so deeply into the walls that even time had failed to erase them.
Tonight, its gates hung open.
Broken.
A black van idled beyond the entrance, its dark surface swallowing the glow of nearby streetlamps.
Inside the courtyard, five figures moved through the mist.
Silent.
Precise.
Their gray coats bore a faint insignia stitched near the collar.
Two simple letters.
E.T.
No one spoke unless necessary.
No one wasted movement.
At their head walked a woman whose presence seemed to glide rather than step.
Tall.
Slender.
Calm.
Her hood concealed most of her face, but there was something unsettling about the way she carried herself—as though she already knew how every conversation would end.
Huáng Nián Qīng paused beside an ancient stone tablet half-buried beneath creeping vines.
The runes etched across its surface shimmered faintly.
Not with light.
With recognition.
One of the agents approached.
"What about the villagers?"
His voice was low.
"Someone might've seen us."
Huáng Nián Qīng didn't look up.
"Then make them remember something else."
The agent fell silent immediately.
No one laughed.
No one questioned her.
The fog itself seemed quieter around her.
She crouched and brushed her gloved fingers across the tablet.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the sigils trembled.
A faint chime echoed through the courtyard.
Ancient.
Distant.
Almost mournful.
Huáng Nián Qīng's eyes narrowed.
"So the records weren't lying."
The runes pulsed once beneath her hand.
Then went dark.
Behind her, another agent emerged from the eastern wing.
"Nothing yet."
"Keep searching."
Her voice remained calm.
"The answer is here."
---
Elsewhere
The university cafeteria was loud enough to drown out thought.
Students crowded tables, argued over assignments, traded gossip, and complained about exams with the enthusiasm of people who had collectively accepted their suffering.
Yè Yī stood in line near the drink dispensers, phone in one hand.
For once, his earbuds weren't in.
Unfortunately, that meant he could hear everyone.
"I swear Professor Liao's class is a sleep spell."
"Still better than Advanced Mechanics."
"Bro, we got our midterms back."
"Don't remind me."
"Guess who topped again?"
Yè Yī already knew where this was going.
"Robot One or Robot Two?"
A snort.
"Both."
"Seriously?"
"Qiū Huà Bǐ and Yè Yī."
"I swear they're secretly competing."
The conversation drifted into increasingly ridiculous theories.
Yè Yī tuned it out.
He'd developed the skill years ago.
His attention returned to the news feed on his phone.
Economic reports.
Local incidents.
Weather alerts.
Nothing unusual.
Then his phone vibrated.
Caller ID:
Lǎo Āyí
He blinked.
That was unexpected.
The old woman wasn't family.
Just a farmer who lived near the ancestral estate.
Whenever he visited the village, she'd insist on feeding him enough food for three people and sending him home with baskets of persimmons.
He hadn't spoken to her in months.
Yè Yī accepted the call.
"Āyí?"
The response came immediately.
Breathless.
Panicked.
"Child! Thank heavens!"
His expression sharpened.
"What's wrong?"
"There are people in your family's old house!"
The noise of the cafeteria suddenly felt distant.
"What house?"
"The ancestral one!"
Her voice shook.
"The old manor!"
Yè Yī stopped walking.
Around him, students continued moving through the lunch rush.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
"Slow down."
"What happened?"
"I saw a van outside!"
She sounded close to tears now.
"Strange people, child. Gray coats. They broke the gate."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"And there are lights."
Yè Yī frowned.
"Lights?"
"Blue ones."
The old woman's voice dropped to a whisper.
"They're coming from under the floors."
Silence.
For the first time since answering the call, Yè Yī felt something shift.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just a faint sense that the conversation had stopped belonging to ordinary life.
"The lights are underneath the house," Lǎo Āyí continued.
"Like water trapped underground."
Yè Yī didn't respond immediately.
His gaze unfocused.
The ancestral manor.
He had only visited a handful of times.
The orphanage director had taken him there years ago after discovering old records that connected the Yè name to his own.
That was all.
A surname.
A forgotten property.
A history no one bothered explaining.
Nothing more.
Or so he'd thought.
"Āyí."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"Leave."
"What?"
"Go home."
The cafeteria noise washed around him.
Students laughed.
Trays clattered.
Someone argued about exam grades.
Life continued.
Unaware.
"Lock your doors," Yè Yī said quietly.
"Don't go near the manor again."
"Child—"
He ended the call.
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
The cafeteria suddenly felt too bright.
Too loud.
Too normal.
Far away, beyond the city, beyond the university, beyond the life he'd carefully reduced to classes and routines—
someone was searching his family's past.
And for the first time all day—
Yè Yī left the line before getting his lunch.