Watching Mo Lin's deliberate composure, the man realized at once: Mo Lin refused to leave any debt of gratitude unpaid.
"Brother Mo," Fu Wan San began, clearing his throat, "I have not truly gifted you this ring without cause. There is a matter I wish to trouble you with."
"A matter?" Mo Lin inquired, arching an eyebrow.
"In two days' time, I am to attend a transaction of great importance," Fu Wan San explained. "I wish to request your services as my bodyguard."
He knew Mo Lin's renown as an adept Spirit–Controller; for so delicate a negotiation, he dared not risk any mishap.
"Very well," Mo Lin replied. Once one accepts a favor, he is bound, by honor, to return it.
Fu Wan San smiled, relieved. "Please, keep the ring as a token of my gratitude." He gestured toward the blood–red band, no longer hiding his appreciation.
"Thank you," Mo Lin said, slipping the ring onto his finger without further ceremony. He glanced once more around Fu Wan San's collection: curios of lesser renown, interesting perhaps, but none matched the ring's singular potency.
Gathering the ebony chest of Nether coins, Mo Lin departed Sifang Courtyard and returned to his workshop at home. There, he set to work on forging new spirit–bound implements, for he had pledged to supply Fu Wan San with finely crafted ghost–weapons.
His forging ritual was methodical: melt down Nether coins into ethereal mist, shape that essence into the desired form, and bind its spirit conduit. Within five hours, Mo Lin completed five ghost–weapons, each capable of seven strikes. These common-grade talismans required little finesse—mere assembly–line precision sufficed.
With those prepared, Mo Lin retrieved the crimson ring given by Fu Wan San. Today's task was far more intricate: to transform this relic into a permanent spirit vessel.
He prepared an iron cage lantern, akin to an ancient oil lamp—its framework stout enough to bear arcane flames. Placing the ring within the lantern's heart, he surrounded it with Nether coins as fuel. As he ignited the first coin, a sapphire-blue flame erupted, burning steadily.
Through two days of constant feeding—never allowing the fire to falter—Mo Lin coaxed the ring's essence, forging it into a vessel capable of housing a phantom for eternity.
"Knock, knock, knock…"
A rapid pounding at the door broke his concentration.
"Brother Mo, open up!"
The voice was unmistakable: Feng Mingyu's. Mo Lin swung the door wide to find his friend standing breathless on the threshold, flanked by a middle-aged man in sleek black sunglasses—Feng Mingyu's uncle, Liu Feng. Mo Lin had consulted Liu Feng's vast intelligence network only days before.
"Brother Mo," Feng Mingyu blurted without preamble, "there is something I must ask you to help with."
"And what is that?" Mo Lin gestured him inside.
"My uncle's daughter is missing," Feng Mingyu said, voice tight with worry. "Please, find her for me."
Liu Feng stepped forward, adopting a tone equal parts supplication and resolve. "Mo Lin, if you recover my niece, I will gift you one of my finest ghost–bound artifacts."
To ordinary folk, a spirit–weapon was priceless; to Mo Lin, whose collection already numbered among the rarest in existence, the offer held scant allure.
"Your intelligence network is vast," Mo Lin observed. "Why not consult them directly?"
Liu Feng sighed, regret shading his features. "I have offended many in my years of gathering information. Now I cannot discern whether my niece vanished on her own or was taken by malicious hands. A single day's delay could mean unspeakable horrors."
His worry was palpable: the child, only ten years old, might suffer the cruelties of kidnappers if rescue did not come swiftly.
"My offer stands: two spirit–weapons," Liu Feng continued, his voice earnest. "Even the simplest talisman you craft holds considerable worth."
Mo Lin hesitated. Though unmoved by promise of mere artifacts, Liu Feng's next words seared his attention: "I possess knowledge of Netherfire's secrets. Should you aid me, I will share every scrap of that lore."
At mention of Netherfire, Mo Lin's heart thundered. He prized information on that dread flame above all else.
"Indeed," Mo Lin said, pausing only a breath before adding warmly, "even if your Netherfire intel were withheld, I would assist in finding your daughter. Consider it done, for friendship's sake."
Feng Mingyu rolled her eyes at his lofty pretense—hypocrisy stung—but she dared not deny the sincerity beneath his boast: for Netherfire's knowledge, Mo Lin would brave any peril.
"Enough with pleasantries," Feng Mingyu interjected, stepping forward. "Do you truly have a way to locate her?"
"I did not—until now." Mo Lin clapped his hands once. "Xiao Li… appear."
A small phantom materialized before him. "Master Mo Lin, you summoned me?" the youth–shaped specter asked, bowing respectfully. Under his mother's urging, this lesser ghost had grown markedly more deferential.
Though Xiao Li's martial prowess was negligible, he held a prized Ghost Art: Clairvoyance—able to follow the faintest trail to any target.
At Mo Lin's command, Xiao Li's eyes gleamed as he inhaled the lantern's glow, attuning himself to stray threads of aura. Feng Mingyu froze, astonishment widening her eyes: Mo Lin wielded more contracted phantoms than any Controller she knew. Common mortals bound one ghost; the rarest could court two. Yet Mo Lin, like Yun Ling before him, had not one but two spirits at his command—and many more hidden within his compendium.
"You, too, hold two contracted wraiths? Remarkable," Feng Mingyu whispered.
"I beg your pardon?" Mo Lin bristled. "Two? And yet you speak as though you disdain me?"
His tone betrayed mild annoyance: to belittle his mastery of the unseen was to affront his very identity as a Shadow Magistrate. For, beyond his two principal phantoms, Mo Lin's Spirit–Tome contained half a dozen bound entities he had captured—and countless other submissive wraiths gleaned in battle.
"Friends and family," Mo Lin continued, turning to Feng Mingyu's uncle. "Show me any clue—a scrap of clothing, a fading scent—and Xiao Li will guide our path. Let us not delay."
Thus, beneath the waning lantern light of Mo Lin's workshop, a small host gathered—Controller, kin, and minor ghost alike—to embark on a rescue borne of loyalty, haunted by Netherfire's elusive promise, and guided by the faintest echo of a missing child's spirit.