The flight back to New York was filled with laughter—Lao Guo showed everyone the photos he'd taken on the mountain, including one of Ye tripping over a root and landing in a bush, and Dao Feng told stories of his childhood pranks (like the time he'd hidden Master's rice wine and blamed it on a stray monkey). When they landed, Mike was waiting for them at the gate, holding a manila folder with the SPU's logo on it. "We need to talk," he said, his tone serious—but there was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, giving him away.
The SPU office was on the 12th floor of a downtown building, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Mike led them to a conference room where a stack of papers sat on the table, and the director— a woman with gray hair and a no-nonsense expression—waited for them. "Agent Lengyu, Mr. Ye," she said, shaking their hands. "We've been watching your work—Feng Xinyu, the Corpse Fiends, the zombie king. You're the best team we've ever had. We want to hire you both as full-time Paranormal Consultants. Salaries, benefits, official badges, the whole deal. You'll lead the new Cross-Cultural Paranormal Unit—handling cases that mix Eastern and Western spirits. Dao Feng, we'd like you to join as a Taoist Advisor, if you're interested."
Dao Feng's face lit up. "Really? I'd love that. I've always wanted to help people, not just fight spirits."
Rui's eyes widened. "Full-time? What about my current cases—the haunted doll in Brooklyn, the ghostly bartender?"
Mike shook his head. "We'll reassign them. This is a promotion—you'll get to pick your cases, work with teams around the country, even internationally if needed. And we'll give you an office—with a shelf for Ye's talismans and a desk for your runes."
Ye looked at Rui, his eyes asking for her opinion. She smiled, nodding. "Yes. We accept."
The next few months were a whirlwind. They moved into their new office—small but cozy, with a window that faced Chinatown—and decorated it with Rui's rune sketches and Ye's talismans. They handled cases all over the country:
In Miami, a 1920s jazz singer's ghost had been scaring guests at the historic Biltmore Hotel. She'd died in a fire in 1926, and her piano had been locked in the basement ever since. Ye used his peachwood sword to calm her, while Rui helped her pass on to the Underworld—after the singer had performed one last song for the hotel's guests, her voice floating through the ballroom like a memory.
In Boston, a ghost ship had been haunting the harbor, its crew of 18th-century merchants crying out for their families. The ship had sunk in a storm in 1792, and the crew's letters had never been delivered. Dao Feng used the Xuanqing Whisk to clear the ship's Yin energy, and Mike's team tracked down the crew's descendants. They wrote letters back, which Rui read aloud on the ship's deck, under the stars— and when she finished, the crew's spirits smiled, then vanished.
In Chicago, a vampire had been feeding on college students, hiding in the basement of a fraternity house. He'd been turned against his will in the 1950s, and he'd been trying to find a way to die ever since. Rui's runes trapped him, and Ye used a Four-Blood Exorcism Pill to destroy him— but not before the vampire thanked them, tears in his red eyes.
Every case brought them closer. They celebrated small wins at their favorite diner (the one with the blueberry pancakes Ye loved), comforted each other after hard losses (like the time a child ghost couldn't be saved, and Rui cried in Ye's arms for an hour), and dreamed of their next trip to Xuanqing Mountain.
One night, they were at their favorite steakhouse— the same booth by the window, the same orders (ribeye for Ye, medium-rare; filet mignon for Rui, well-done)—celebrating their six-month anniversary. The restaurant was quiet, the only sound from a jazz band in the corner playing "My Favorite Things." Ye took her hand across the table, his eyes serious, and stood up.
"Rui Lengyu," he said, getting down on one knee. He pulled a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a silver ring with a small jade stone—from Xuanqing Mountain, he later told her, carved from a piece of the 500-year-old peach tree. "I've loved you since the day we stood in that alley in Chinatown, watching glutinous rice turn black. I've loved you through every ghost, every zombie, every sunrise. You're my partner, my best friend, my home. Will you marry me?"
Tears welled in Rui's eyes. She nodded, her voice breaking. "Yes. Yes, I will."
The restaurant erupted in applause, and Mike and Dao Feng—who'd been hiding in the back, eating a shared plate of onion rings—ran over, cheering. Dao Feng threw confetti (stolen from Lao Guo's funeral parlor, which he'd "borrowed" for the occasion), and Mike handed them a bottle of champagne he'd been hiding in his coat.
The wedding was planned for three months later, on Xuanqing Mountain. Qingyunzi agreed to officiate, and the Taoists prepared the temple. Rui's father flew in from Queens, and he walked her down the aisle, tears in his eyes. "I always knew you'd find someone who gets you," he whispered. "Even if he does carry a wooden sword."
They said "I do" as the sun rose over the mountain, painting the sky pink and gold. The young Taoists sang a traditional Chinese song, their voices echoing through the valley, and Lao Guo cried into his handkerchief as he handed them a box of red bean buns—"For luck," he said.
Their honeymoon was in Paris. They visited the Louvre, where they helped a 19th-century painter's ghost find his long-lost masterpiece (hidden in a storage closet behind a pile of old canvases), ate croissants by the Seine, and danced under the stars on a rooftop. It was perfect—quiet, romantic, and just a little bit haunted.