The sunlight blazed outside, but as it streamed into Han Ling's living room, the smart holo-glass automatically adjusted its tint, softening the harsh brightness into a gentle silver-grey. The whole room felt like the scene of a suspense drama that had never reached its final act.
"I spent three days and nights piecing this timeline together," Leander said with a wry smile, seated at the central projection desk in Han Ling's home. With a tap of his finger, layers of data unfolded in mid-air—a detailed timeline interwoven with intricate interaction lines. "Don't let the celebrity gossip fool you. There's deadly stuff hidden under all this fluff."
Faces flickered across the screen—Ling Ning, Chen Qiyue, Ling Zhao… and as the web expanded outward, the data grew increasingly blurred and classified, clearly redacted by top-level clearance.
Han Ling stared at the threads of evidence in silence, his expression calm, but the steady tapping of his fingers against his knee betrayed the tension that never left his mind.
"Let's just get to the point." Grant, who had entered under the pretense of 'helping with the case,' frowned as he stared at the screen, barely touching his coffee. "Is she really Ling Zhao's sister?"
After Han Ling pulled some strings with Hang Zhongxuan to get access to the case, Grant had made a bold suggestion: that Ling Ning wasn't Ling Zhao's biological sister.
Han Ling, though he had his own suspicions after observing Ling Ning's features, had said nothing publicly. Instead, he quietly asked Leander to investigate further—given Leander's family background and influence, he was likely to dig up much more than the average agent. Ironically, Grant had voiced the same suspicion on his own, and both Han Ling and Leander had played it down, not knowing if it would lead anywhere.
"She's not," Leander said, his voice deepening. "Her household registration records were filed just a week before Ling Zhao's father passed away. Based on reconstructed data and genetic verification—"
With a swipe, the screen changed to show the DNA comparison between Ling Zhao and Ling Ning. "There's only about 9% similarity. Not even close to half-sibling status."
"So she's not his sister," Grant muttered, "but...?"
"She was a child left in Ling Zhao's father's care by an old friend who passed away. She's about five years younger than him, reportedly born in a remote mountain region. Her origin is completely blank."
A short silence passed between the three of them.
Han Ling asked, "Have you confirmed the pregnancy?"
Leander nodded. "Over seven months ago, she and Chen Qiyue suddenly started contacting each other frequently. Here—"
The screen shifted to hotel records and surveillance footage from a luxury hotel. The timestamp read: seven months and five days ago, late at night.
"They vanished for almost five hours after an entertainment awards after-party. The next morning, they were seen leaving this hotel together. The room was registered under Ling Ning's name."
"Drugged?" Grant asked sharply.
"They both appeared completely conscious in the footage. No obvious signs of intoxication." Leander paused. "But what's strange is—before this, they weren't that close. Just vaguely familiar acquaintances. Still, I found this."
The display switched to a grainy paparazzi photo from a past gala. Though blurry, the photo clearly captured the emotional tone—Ling Ning secretly kissing an unconscious, drunken Chen Qiyue.
"She liked him," Han Ling said quietly.
"Yes. And she liked him for a long time. During this period, their messages became unusually frequent."
Leander brought up a simulation of their chat history. Though filtered for privacy, the general content remained clear. Ling Ning would send dozens of messages each day. Chen Qiyue's replies were sparse—short phrases or even no reply at all.
"But she never stopped," Leander said coldly. "A textbook case of love-struck obsession. Then, one day, she messaged him saying she was pregnant."
Grant sucked in a breath. "You've got to be kidding… this world's insane."
"The key is—he replied that night. And even went to her apartment. At that time, Ling Zhao was still home. But within days, something happened. The two men had a huge fight."
The screen displayed security footage from outside Ling Zhao's apartment. It was raw, unaltered footage never seen by the public.
"No one knows what happened that night. But a week later, Ling Zhao disappeared. According to Grant, that was the day their contact was completely severed."
Grant bowed his head in pained silence.
Han Ling looked at Leander. "What do you think the motive is?"
"At first... I thought it was just emotional chaos—pregnancy, jealousy, love, betrayal. But now, I think it's more than that."
The screen shifted to a gallery of Ling Zhao's past works—novel covers, drama stills, awards. One by one, they appeared in dazzling succession.
"Ling Zhao was a genius. Every book he released became a sensation. The adapted dramas turned struggling actors into superstars, some even winning top awards. He wasn't just a writer. He was a foundational pillar of the entertainment industry."
Han Ling's brows furrowed as he stared at the covers.
"And after he disappeared," Leander continued, "Ling Ning suddenly announced she'd been granted rights to one of her brother's original IPs—to direct a drama adaptation. Chen Qiyue starred as the male lead. The drama revived his career, but then the backlash started."
"One word at a time," Leander said grimly. "The original fanbase went ballistic. They said the plot had been butchered, the characters distorted, and the casting was downright ridiculous. Then rumors started—did Ling Zhao really give her permission?"
Grant clenched his teeth. "That novel… he spent three years writing it. He told me—back when we were dating—that he wanted to direct it himself. He kept postponing because he couldn't find the right actors or director. No way he'd hand it over."
"No way," Han Ling echoed.
With a final tap, Leander pulled up one last piece of footage.
"This is the surveillance I bought—paid a fortune for it. Even Hang Zhongxuan couldn't retrieve the original, which proves someone deliberately wiped it."
The video began to play.
In the elevator, Chen Qiyue and Ling Ning stood side by side, seemingly engaged in casual conversation. But in the bottom-right corner, a flickering shadow emerged—faint and untraceable, like something the camera couldn't fully register.
"Only cultivators like you two would notice that kind of… absence," Leander said quietly.
Han Ling closed his eyes, then opened them again, voice low but resolute. "That wasn't just a shadow. That was an existence beyond the Hua Xu stage. Someone using an invisibility spell—or something similar—to hide themselves."
"It must've been the Celestial Master," he added grimly. "The footage never caught his true form…"
"So you think," Grant asked, "they've already made contact with the Celestial Master?"
"Not just contact," Leander murmured. "They may already be working with him."
"Cooperating? With that Celestial Master?" Grant frowned.
"After news of Ning Ling's pregnancy leaked, the two of them seemed to deliberately avoid appearing in the same frame—yet they maintained some kind of ongoing contact," Leander said in a low, even tone. Each word landed like a needle. "And if you look closely at that shadow in the elevator footage, right before it exited, it lightly brushed against Ling Zhao's front door."
Han Ling's eyes snapped open.
"You're saying that person...?"
"I'm not certain," Leander replied slowly, "but that was the last known surveillance footage of Ling Zhao before his disappearance. That door—was never opened again after that night."
The entire living room fell into a suffocating silence.
Only the holographic screen continued to flicker, casting pale light across the three men's faces—like an omen coming into focus.
"How did you even get that surveillance footage?" Han Ling suddenly asked.
"Chen Qiyue bribed the building's security manager, trying to erase the file. But turns out…" Leander gave a cold laugh. "Someone else saw an opportunity and uploaded a backup to the company's cloud storage. It cost me quite a bit, but the guy eventually sold it to me privately."
"Brave soul," Grant muttered.
"He knew sooner or later a big fish would come looking. He was just waiting for someone like us."
Han Ling nodded, his voice hoarse. "This debt… will be settled in due time."
Leander shut off the screen. Instantly, the room was swallowed by shadows.
But the nightmare wasn't over.
"We're not the only ones looking into this. The internet's already in flames." Leander gave a bitter chuckle and flicked open another virtual panel. Screens of reposts, forums, and short videos exploded with outrage.
> #NingLingGetOutOfDirecting
#DoesChenQiyueEvenDeserveThisRole
#WhereIsLingZhao
#WhereIsTheAuthorizationFromLingZhao
—Each hashtag was a firestorm.
"It started with angry fans. Now people are questioning whether Ling Zhao ever authorized anything at all. They're digging through old publishing records and contract drafts for comparison."
"Is it working?" Grant asked.
"Of course not. Half a month after Ling Zhao went missing, every single one of his digital accounts was locked and wiped. His lawyer can't be reached, and the publishing house only received a vague 'authorization letter'—no lawyer's signature, and I've checked, the handwriting isn't his."
"Then how the hell is this show still airing?" Han Ling's voice had gone ice cold.
"Because there's money behind it. Someone wants to use this series as a tool—to whitewash, to rebrand, to rewrite the narrative."
As he spoke, Leander pulled up an internal memo—one that had never gone public.
"…The investors are negotiating licensing with overseas platforms. Ning Ling and male lead Chen Qiyue are to increase public interactions to build audience emotional resonance. Online backlash must be suppressed quickly. Emphasize the narrative that 'the older brother supported his sister's dreams.'"
Grant's eyes widened. "They're going to fabricate a whole 'older brother helping his sister achieve her dreams' story—to cover all this up?"
"Not just that. They're marketing Ning Ling as a 'genius female director.' Trying to turn her into the next icon of female representation."
"If this keeps going… Ling Zhao will be buried for good."
Silence fell again like a shroud.
Han Ling slowly stood, walked to the window, and stared at the garden beyond. Sunlight filtered through grayish clouds, casting a cold-edged silhouette behind him.
"There's still one more question," he said suddenly. "This Celestial Master you mentioned—who is he?"
"I haven't identified him yet. But he must be from the other side—one of the high-tier cultivators whose identities haven't been revealed. And this time, it's clear… they've meddled with someone they shouldn't have."
"Ling Zhao... is he still alive?" Grant finally voiced the most painful question in his heart.
Han Ling didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he spoke, voice low and steady:
"His soul is not in the body of the dead. His aura hasn't entered the Netherworld. And his name scroll remains unbroken. By all accounts—he should still be in the human realm."
"Then...?" Leander pressed.
"But his aura has been completely erased. Whether by spiritual sense, spells, or life imprint—it's all been sealed." Han Ling clenched his fists. "This isn't death. This is... imprisonment."
"Who could do something like that?"
"Someone above the level of Nascent Void (Hua Xu)... and what I fear most—" Han Ling paused, voice suddenly grim, "is that someone from the Upper Realm has descended to this one."
That sentence silenced the room again. Leander and Grant's expressions shifted to shock.
"You mean... from the Upper Realm? Someone really came down?"
"I can't confirm that yet." Han Ling turned back to them, gaze sharp as a blade. "But this isn't just a scandal in the entertainment industry anymore. What's behind all this—is the deepest force in the world of cultivation."
Grant whispered, "Then what exactly are we fighting against?"
Han Ling looked at him, voice calm but firm like never before:
"We are fighting against ascension itself."
Without improving our cultivation—there's nothing left to talk about.