Not long after Zhou Qi’an finished speaking, a player played along with a chuckle and said casually, “You’re still the impressive one.”
Zhou Qi’an raised a brow. Being team lead had its perks—even this got praise.
Yan went on, “I climbed the big tree across the street for a look. There are people inside—more than one.”
Several figures were moving back and forth, like a newspaper office in normal operation.
“Something’s off.”
“Feels wrong.”
The voices came one after another—Shen Zhiyi spoke first, then Chen Su.
Seeing Shen Zhiyi didn’t intend to elaborate, Chen Su lowered her voice: “The newspaper boss died in a fire.”
Same logic as the swimming center—ghosts’ abilities and power are tied to how they die; their final moments in life heighten their resentment. Fire usually corresponds to heat and dryness.
But right now, the downpour hadn’t even stopped.
There’s no reason for an instance to create conditions favorable to players.
The others felt the strangeness too.
Zhou Qi’an, more an observer at the moment, let his gaze idle between Chen Su and Sixth Master.
Their styles were opposites: Chen Su gave thorough, proactive advice; Sixth Master was overly low‑key.
That didn’t match their initial profiles when they entered. At first Sixth Master had half‑heartedly vied for team say‑so, while Chen Su chose to drag things out passively to stretch survival time.
With these personality shifts, Zhou Qi’an couldn’t immediately tell if someone had been replaced by a ghost in the interim—or had always been one.
Or had the newspaper ghost slipped in?
As if knowing his thoughts, Shen Zhiyi gave a small shake of his head and, in a voice only the two of them could hear, said, “The paper in the newspaper boss’s hand and he are one.”
In a sense, the newspaper itself is the true vessel of power; it goes wherever he goes.
Zhou Qi’an: “Right…”
Chen Su and Sixth Master had showered without concern—now they were standing in the rain too. If either were the “newspaper ghost,” they’d be avoiding it at least a little.
He ended with a faint, amused snort.
Whoever the mole was, with two shop rights on him, if they could hold back and not act… they weren’t a ghost—they were a saint. He already had a leaning in mind, but needed one more confirmation.
One mustn’t kill the wrong person.
He looked up—and his eyes tightened.
On the second floor, behind rain‑blurred glass, stood several… no, more than a dozen silhouettes, all crammed together, pairs of cold eyes staring straight down.
Zhou Qi’an took aim—then rolled his eyes.
Second floor: “…”
Standing in the rain any longer was pointless. Zhou Qi’an walked straight in.
Soon the rest followed. The quiet, old stairwell felt like something from the 1940s or 50s.
No one spoke; every player’s mood was complicated. They wanted to see the boss right away, like at other shops—follow the rules and end him. But they also hoped he wasn’t there—this ghost was too difficult to handle.
They reached the second floor. A half‑open iron door creaked in the wind. The door was new, but Zhou Qi’an sharply noted the frame was almost charred out of shape—so the iron door could never shut properly.
As he was taking it in, a pitch‑black hand suddenly reached out from inside.
Zhou Qi’an stepped back. A somewhat deformed head stuck out. As if he hadn’t just been peering down from the window, he asked politely:
“You are…?”
Zhou Qi’an: “Looking for your boss.”
“The editor‑in‑chief will be back later. He dislikes rainy days.”
Because he wore a mask, the employee’s voice was muffled—you had to listen carefully to make it out.
Now everyone understood—the rain was cutting off their chance of meeting the boss during the day.
For how long, no one knew.
“Come wait inside.” The masked employee opened the door. A choking stench rolled out.
Under his eye, they had no choice but to go in.
The layout was simple: a large open office with solid‑wood desks lined up neatly and 2–3m‑tall cabinets behind them.
Steam curled from teacups on the tables. Thick columns naturally partitioned the space. On the left ran a corridor to the restrooms. There was also a separate small room; even from here a high‑end leather sofa was visible—probably a reception room.
The staff remained at their stations. The masked man who’d let them in rasped, “We’ve just renovated; the smell’s a bit strong.”
A bit?
Every breath of the mixed odors in the air suffocated.
On the way to the reception room, Zhou Qi’an glanced back. The office staff were absorbed in their work. Their eyelids were rolled up slightly; the exposed whites seemed to be “standing in” for pupils, fixed on the newcomers.
But he’d barely looked when the masked man returned, displeased.
“Until a piece goes to print, everything is strictly confidential. Stop looking around.”
Zhou Qi’an cocked a brow. Not even a glance? How were they supposed to explore?
The employee rattled off more rules. In short, before the boss returned, they couldn’t ask, look, or move—just sit tight in the reception room.
“Most stifling instance yet,” Zhou Qi’an muttered.
Shen Zhiyi understood. The place had already burned once; even if fire broke out again, it wouldn’t affect the instance much.
“My condolences,” he said.
“…”
The smoke‑tainted smell in the reception room was worse. They had to control their breathing—too much and they couldn’t inhale.
The masked woman sat opposite them, monitoring the players like a camera.
Maybe it was their nerves, but outside the rain sounded lighter; however, the sky really was darkening faster than usual.
Yuan Nianshu coughed once, then deliberately tapped her heel on the floor.
Following the spot she’d tapped, they saw the ceramic tiles start to crack. Not just tiles—the plastic jug on the water dispenser was melting.
Tick—tock.
The second hand ticked five marks at a time. Time’s speed chilled Yuan Nianshu to the marrow.
The lividity on her wrist darkened.
The cold on her skin was one thing—but her internal organs felt scorching, as if they were melting.
The others sensed the abnormality too. The trouble was, there were no system prompts yet. How to break the stalemate?
Chen Su tried a skill midway. A faint, fresh fragrance cleared the air; the masked man glazed over and, under her suggestion, left the reception room. But two seconds later he returned—and a taller masked woman came in instead.
After she arrived, the temperature in the room dropped sharply. She was clearly harder to deal with.
The players traded looks—none good.
Only three minutes had passed, and the leather sofa’s smooth surface had begun to sag and slump. The newspaper was mutating second by second. Once it fully reverted to the fire scene, the consequences would be dire.
After two seconds’ thought, Zhou Qi’an stood abruptly.
The masked woman moved lightning‑fast, blocking him with a barked, “Where do you—”
“Shrrrp,” the zipper flew to the top. Zhou Qi’an opened his backpack. Two horrific severed heads appeared under the masked woman’s nose with no warning.
“?”
Zhou Qi’an blinked. “We’re here to bring warmth to the editor‑in‑chief.”
She stared at the bag.
After a moment, her cheeks began to distort—like old pain had been dredged up. Hatred and vicious glee pooled in her eyes.
Even with the heads ruined beyond all recognition, she recognized their faces.
They were the beasts who had set the fire.
Ignoring her shifting expression, Zhou Qi’an put a finger to his lips. “Your boss hired killers under the constraints here. We definitely can’t let the ghost‑market administrators find out.”
Before she could react, he added, “Luckily it’s heaven, earth, you, and us who know—if it leaks, you said it.”
“You want to kill me?” Zhou Qi’an asked politely. “Go ahead—then you’re the owner of two shops.”
Working here this long, she had to know how ownership transferred.
In an instant, the input overwhelmed her. Before she could process it all, he said, “Apologies for rambling. But I believe the boss isn’t petty—he won’t strike you just because he fears an employee tattling to the administrators.”
Implication: deep.
The masked woman’s mouth worked. Even through cloth, her expression shifted.
She wanted to kill Zhou Qi’an. But thinking of his bagged trophies—he’d killed two ghosts—she backed off.
Now that she knew this much—would the boss let her live?
Charred brain matter creaked as it turned.
From behind, the boss—reclining like an honored guest—spoke up:
“Help is help. We kill the boss together, you take the chair—then we wipe this whole street and you become the administrator.”
Not only the masked woman—Zhou Qi’an’s eyelid twitched.
Shady—so very shady.
He’d draw that big a pie?
Apparently she’d never been pitched before. She looked dazed.
In that daze, Sixth Master and Qiao Song stood up—well, forced themselves up. The cushions under them had suddenly liquefied—they’d almost been scalded raw.
No one dared rush the masked woman. Even in mounting anxiety, they maintained the air of remote sages.
Zhou Qi’an deliberately zipped his pack slowly, looked past her to someone behind, and said, “Bathroom.”
The masked woman hesitated, then didn’t stop him—apparently allowing a little “exploration.”
Their gazes met in the air. Borrowing the same pretense, Shen Zhiyi left with Zhou Qi’an.
At the door, Zhou Qi’an muttered two quick lines.
Shen Zhiyi nodded. “Okay.”
Seeing this, another player tried to head out—but the masked woman snapped back to her earlier severity and blocked them. “Please don’t wander!”
So two leaving was the line—any more would be the “don’t touch” of the instance. The rest sat still.
The wall clock ticked faster and faster.
About seven minutes later—or rather, the clock had advanced seven marks while real time was two or three—the masked woman’s daze faded. A powerful stench leaked off her.
Not just her. Outside, the employees who had been “working” went wild.
They stared at the clock, their jelly‑like eyes seeming ready to melt.
Boundless resentment seeped from their pores.
The players guessed what they were waiting for—
The moment the fire started.
“Cough, cough…”
Choking black smoke spilled under the door. Sparks crackled from nowhere. Fire had broken out somewhere outside.
Day after day, the newspaper reenacted its fire.
The players looked up now and then. After a painful wait, Zhou Qi’an returned—but alone. The smoke was too thick; he’d had to hunch and cover his mouth, coughing low.
“Hiss!” Qiao Song had wanted to crack a window. The flames hadn’t reached it—but the glass still seared his palm raw at a touch.
Something outside exploded in the heat. Terrible flames roared to life. Black smoke billowed all around.
Pinned between choices, the system finally chimed—
[Welcome to the Daily in the sea of fire.]
[Mini‑game triggered: Spot the Difference.]
[As the undercover agents the editor‑in‑chief sent to Pool No. 33, you surely have keen observational skills. Carefully compare the system‑issued drawing to the现场 before the fire—find the differences.]
[Tips: 1) Find 3 differences to leave the fire zone; 2) Find 5 differences to earn an extra clue; 3) You may guess wrong once; 4) Each difference can only be found once.]
[Note: Changes in characters’ appearances and actions are not counted as differences!]
[Image issued.]
It was an interior scene of the newspaper, marked at the top: [12:24].
It showed the office just before the fire—at 12:24.
Chen Su reacted first, aiming at the reception room sofa in the picture. “The cushion pattern’s different.”
One cushion had melted here, but she remembered a lotus—while the image showed a rose.
[Correct.]
[Spot the Difference: 1/3]
On the side, another player’s face soured—they’d seen it too, but were a half‑beat late.
Zhou Qi’an watched coldly. This phase was a race—against the spread of flames and against teammates.
He turned and stepped into the roiling smoke outside.
Shen Zhiyi, who hadn’t entered earlier, was a short distance away. Even through the smoke, Zhou Qi’an recognized that slightly blurred silhouette at a glance.
Zhou Qi’an pointed toward another office section, signaling he’d check it first.
Shen Zhiyi didn’t follow—he watched him go.
Elsewhere, the players filed out of the reception room. The boss happened to notice the direction Zhou Qi’an had gone and headed that way.
The players had spent most of their time in reception; no one knew the exact state of the office at 12:24. But desks and fixtures were fixed. With no need to consider staff movements, there was a window now—before the fire consumed the building—to make final comparisons.
Zhou Qi’an reached a deeper spot. His eyes paused on a potted plant atop a cabinet.
He walked closer, glass crunching underfoot. As he compared the real plant with the one in the system drawing, a charred figure barreled into him.
A staffer.
It howled like a beast. Chicken‑claw hands with ten‑inch nails slashed for his throat.
In speed, Zhou Qi’an never lost. He slipped aside. But as he flashed to the diagonal, someone who’d been hiding behind a thick column bared their teeth and lunged for his slim back…
Momentum meant he hadn’t even settled his feet. The column was only a breath away—no way to avoid it. At the same time, the monster sprang up again, moving like a “weirdo class,” and launched a second attack.
Attacked front and back, Zhou Qi’an still ignored the hands reaching for his back. His eyes held a cold glint he didn’t usually show.
·
The dense smoke cut vision to shreds.
From about ten meters away, Shen Zhiyi heard the stir and glanced over thoughtfully.
He was standing at a file cabinet. In the firelight, his pupils were muddied. He seemed about to step away—
Then, catching a burning charging phone to the side, his heart gave a sudden hitch. His body moved faster than thought—he retreated several steps.
Thump!
Seconds later, a small flash‑explosion went off near the cabinet. Glass and splinters, sped by the blast, became the sharpest shrapnel.
He’d already snatched up a table as a shield, but as it shattered, fragments still embedded in his skin.
Thin it looked; thick it proved—springy, too. The shards didn’t sink into the deep flesh. Otherwise, the results would have been ugly.
A hot blast slammed him into the wall. His head clacked. For a moment he felt almost concussed.
“Ugh…”
He rubbed his brow—then looked down. In the firelight, a coal‑black face stared up at him.
Pushed by the heat as well, the staffer’s flesh had stiffened. The mouth tugged wide at both corners. With a ghastly rictus, it pounced.
Its fangs hadn’t reached the slender neck before its whole head was seized from behind by another hand.
“Having a shop is a foothold, at least.” The one who’d grabbed the monster cared nothing for the surrounding flames—he didn’t even glance at it. He looked past to the figure beside it. “It can be the company’s transfer station.”
Shen Zhiyi’s eyes flickered.
The boss sneered. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Shen Zhiyi” looked conflicted.
No way. Even after swapping outfits, with Zhou Qi’an shelling out 3,000 points for a confusion item—he still recognized him?
Earlier, under the pretext of a bathroom break, Zhou Qi’an and Shen Zhiyi had switched identities.
For one reason—bait the mole.
Nine times out of ten, the mole would choose this moment to strike him. Zhou Qi’an wasn’t like Shen Zhiyi—his “shadow” didn’t have eyes in the back of its head.
Such anti‑backstab work was for professionals.
He was facing away from the boss now. He drew a breath, turned, and forced a laugh. “You actually recognized me.”
The boss’s discernment was average; he couldn’t counter illusions—why he’d been tricked at the barbecue shop. So—he recognized him by “feel”?!
“I could recognize any of my employees even if they were ash,” the boss said lightly, almost gentle. “Xiao Zhou, stick with me. When the company plants its flag in the new world, you’ll be founding staff. The company won’t treat you poorly.”
“…”
Well, damn.
Zhou Qi’an’s lips twitched—he almost swore.
He’d just peddled a dream to the masked woman—now one for him?
Slave‑driver—shoot for the moon, why don’t you?
__
Author’s Note:
Zhou Qi’an: There’s something worse than the end of the world—when the world ends, and the capitalists are still alive.
Help I’m starting to ship zhou qi’an with the boss