Ye slammed on the brakes, the SUV skidding to a halt on the highway shoulder. The night air rushed in through the open window, cold enough to make Rui's breath fog, but her focus was on the earring in her pocket—now burning like a coal, her mother's scream still echoing in her head.
"He's not at the library," she repeated, her hands shaking as she pulled the earring out. Its blue enamel glinted in the dashboard light, and for a split second, she saw a flash: her mother tied to a chair, surrounded by mirrors, Zhou Xuan holding a gold bar. "It's a trap. He wants us there so he can get the fragments. But… there's something else. A gold bar. My mom was staring at it. Like it's a clue."
Dao Feng leaned forward, flipping through Master Qingyunzi's notebook until he found a page marked with a gold sticker. "Wall Street. Three deaths in two weeks. All bankers. All found dead in their offices, hands clutching gold bars. Autopsies say 'acute greed-induced psychosis'—but the coroner's a friend of mine. He said their eyes were black. Yin energy poisoning."
Ye's jaw tightened. "Zhou Xuan's not just using mirrors. He's using greed. Gold's a magnet for human desire—perfect for feeding the Pivot." He put the SUV in reverse, merging back onto the highway. "We go to Wall Street. Find that gold bar. If it's a clue, we follow it. And we keep Mike's team away from the library—tell him to stake out Central Park. The note said 'Queens Library,' but your mom's vision showed gold. Zhou Xuan's mixing lies with truth."
The drive to Wall Street took 40 minutes. By the time they arrived, the sky was starting to lighten—pinks and grays bleeding over the skyscrapers. Most offices were still closed, but one building glowed: the old Morgan Bank, where the third victim, Mr. Han, had worked as a wealth manager. Cops were outside, tape strung across the entrance, but when they saw Rui's SPU badge, they stepped aside.
"Third one this week," a cop said, shaking his head. "Han was found at his desk, gold bar in his hand. Security footage shows him breaking into the bank's vault at 3 a.m. Then he just… sat there. Smiling. Until he stopped breathing."
The bank's lobby was marble and cold, the air thick with the smell of expensive cologne and something sour—fear. Han's office was on the 10th floor, its door cracked open. Inside, the lights were on, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk, and a gold bar—small, antique, etched with Chinese characters—sitting on a pile of papers.
Ye stepped forward, his peachwood sword glowing faintly. "Yin energy's here. Thick around the gold." He tapped the bar with the tip of his sword, and a high-pitched whine filled the air. "It's not just a bar. It's a vessel."
Rui walked to the desk, her hand hovering over the gold. Her Guan Yin pendant grew warm, and her Yin Sight flickered to life. The room blurred, and suddenly she was seeing 1929— a man in a tailored suit, screaming as he threw papers from his desk. Bankrupt. Ruined. He pulled a gun from his drawer, then hesitated, staring at a gold bar in his hand. "I'll never be poor again," he whispered—then shot himself.
The vision faded. Rui gasped, stepping back. "1929. His name was Li Wen. A banker. Committed suicide after the crash. His ghost is trapped in the gold."
Dao Feng nodded, running his finger over the Chinese characters on the bar. "'永享富贵'—'Eternal Wealth.' It's a curse. He died craving gold, so the curse binds him to it. But this isn't natural. Someone amplified it—used Yin energy to make his greed contagious."
"Zhou Xuan," Ye said, his voice tight. He knelt beside the gold bar, his sword's glow brightening. "Look—there's a mark." He pointed to a tiny broken-cross symbol, etched into the bottom of the bar— the Night Shuhui's sign. "He's using Li's ghost to collect souls. Anyone who touches the bar gets consumed by greed. They do anything to keep it—rob, kill, even die."
Rui's phone buzzed. It was Mike, his voice urgent. "We checked the library—empty. But Central Park's got activity. A group of guys in black jackets are hanging around the fountain. One of them has a gold bar. Looks like the same one from Wall Street."
Ye stood, slipping his sword into its sheath. "He's moving the bar. Using it to lure people to Central Park. More souls for the Pivot."
Dao Feng picked up the gold bar, wrapping it in a cloth soaked with cinnabar. "We need to take this. It's evidence. And if we can free Li's ghost, we might get answers—like where Zhou Xuan is hiding."
But as soon as Dao Feng touched the bar, his eyes went black. He staggered back, dropping the cloth, and reached for the bar again—his face twisted with greed. "Mine," he muttered. "It's mine. I'll be strong. Master will be proud."
"Dao Feng!" Ye yelled, grabbing his arm. He slapped Dao Feng's cheek, hard, and Dao Feng blinked, his eyes clearing.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "The curse—it's strong. Taps into your deepest desire. I… I want to make Master proud. Fix my mistakes."
Rui's heart ached. She knew that feeling— the need to prove yourself, to make up for past failures. She walked to Dao Feng, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We'll fix it. Together. But first, we need to free Li's ghost. He's not the enemy. Zhou Xuan is."
They drove to Lao Guo's funeral parlor, the gold bar locked in a cinnabar-lined box in the trunk. Lao Guo was already up, brewing tea, and he froze when he saw the box. "That's not just any cursed gold," he said, pouring hot water over the tea leaves. "It's 'Hunger Gold.' Made in the 1920s by a Taoist blacksmith—Zhou Xuan's grandfather. He used it to trap greedy souls. Zhou Xuan's just carrying on the family tradition."
He took the box, placing it on the counter, and sprinkled glutinous rice around it. The rice turned black instantly. "To free Li's ghost, you need to make him let go of his greed. Show him that wealth isn't everything. But how?"
Rui thought of her mother— of the way she'd always said, "The only wealth that matters is the people you love." She pulled out the blue-enameled earring, placing it on the box. "My mom. She loved this earring, but she'd give it up in a second for me. Li had someone too. A family. We need to find them."
Dao Feng pulled out his phone, scrolling through old records. "Li Wen. 1929. Wife, Mei. Son, Xiao Ming. Xiao Ming moved to Queens in the 1950s. Had a daughter—Li Jia. She's 78 now. Lives in Flushing."
Ye stood, grabbing his sword. "We go to Flushing. Find Li Jia. If anyone can make Li let go, it's his granddaughter."
The drive to Flushing was quiet. The sun was up now, painting the sky pink, and Chinatown was waking up— vendors setting up stalls, elders burning joss paper, the smell of soy milk and fried dough filling the air. Rui stared at the gold bar in the box, her Yin Sight flickering. She could see Li's ghost, trapped inside, pacing back and forth, muttering, "I need more. I can't be poor."
Li Jia's apartment was a small, cozy place in a red-brick building. She answered the door with a cane, her hair silver, but her eyes bright when she saw them. "You're here about my grandfather," she said, before they could speak. "I've been waiting. He visits me in my dreams. Talks about gold. About being sorry."
She led them to the living room, where a photo of Li Wen sat on the mantel— a young man with a kind face, holding a baby. "He wasn't always greedy," Li Jia said, wiping a tear from her eye. "The crash broke him. He thought if he had more gold, he could protect us. But he died before he could see Xiao Ming grow up. Before he could say he was sorry."
Rui placed the gold bar on the table, still wrapped in cinnabar cloth. "He's trapped in here. The curse makes him crave gold, but he's still your grandfather. If you talk to him—tell him you forgive him—he might let go."
Li Jia nodded, taking the bar in her hands. She closed her eyes, whispering in Chinese: "Grandpa. I know you were scared. I know you loved us. You don't need gold to be with us. We're here. We forgive you."
The gold bar glowed, soft and warm. A faint figure appeared above it— Li Wen, in his 1920s suit, his face no longer twisted with greed. He smiled, reaching for Li Jia, then turned to Rui. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft. "Zhou Xuan's hiding in the old subway tunnels under Central Park. He's got a mirror there— bigger than the one in Brooklyn. He's waiting for the fragments. For you."
Then he vanished, the gold bar's glow fading.
Rui picked up the bar, now cold and ordinary. The curse was gone.
Ye's phone buzzed— Mike. "Central Park fountain. The guys in black jackets—they're gone. But there's a mirror there. Big, old, gilded. And on the mirror… a note. 'Come to the tunnels. Bring the fragments. Or the souls die.'"
Rui looked at Ye, then at Dao Feng. They were getting closer. To Zhou Xuan. To her mother.
She tucked the gold bar into her bag, next to the two fragments. "Let's go," she said, her voice steady. "He wants a fight? We'll give him one."
As they walked out of Li Jia's apartment, the sun was higher now, casting warm light over Flushing. But Rui's stomach twisted with fear. Zhou Xuan was waiting. The mirror was waiting.
And somewhere under Central Park, her mother was trapped.
She touched her earring, whispering, "I'm coming, Mom."
The fragments in her bag pulsed— a quiet, steady beat.
They were ready.