Chapter 22: Monster Confessions and a Letter from the Underworld

On the eve of the store’s break, after the staff meal, Yun Tao gathered everyone and said, “We’re doing silent renovations tonight. There’ll be a temporary construction barrier outside, so use the side door for now.”

Everyone nodded in acknowledgment. Yun Tao then asked, “So, what’s everyone doing on their day off?”

Lin Xiao grinned. “Sui-ge and I are hitting the internet café for some gaming. Oh, and I’m also heading home to grab my stuff.”

These two were total gaming addicts. Since there were no desktop PCs in the store, they’d been stuck playing mobile games, itching for a proper session.

Yun Tao had no such troubles—he could access games anytime through the system. Not that he cared much for them. What really piqued his interest was: “Don’t you need an ID to get into an internet café? Let me see your monster ID cards. I still don’t know what your human names are.”

Monster IDs were issued by the Bureau of Monster Affairs. One card, two identities—by default, it functioned as a regular ID, but checking the monster identity required higher clearance. Taotie Delicacies’ was a legit establishment, so every employee had proper documentation.

Tai Sui slapped his ID onto the table, looking completely uninterested. “What’s there to see? You’re the only one who cares.”

Except… everyone else immediately crowded around.

Tai Sui: …

What the hell? Since when were monster IDs this fascinating?

Lin Xiao chuckled. “Sui-ge, your black hair looks amazing!”

They say ID photos are a disaster for most people, but not for Tai Sui. With his sleek black hair, he looked far less unruly and way more refined—like nobility. Better than most celebrity ID photos floating around online.

Yun Tao read the name on the card. “So, your human name is Lu Suisui?”

Tai Sui immediately ruffled his own hair into a mess, gritting his teeth. “Lu. Sui. Not Lu Suisui.”

Lin Xiao proudly pulled out his own ID. “You guys should already know my name, right? Lin Xiao! My master picked it for me—sounds awesome, doesn’t it? Back when I first gained sentience, all the other little foxes were jealous. I had a friend from the Yellow Immortal clan who got named… Huang Goudan. He later changed it, but everyone still calls him Goudan. Poor guy totally regrets it.”

“Is this a monster ID confession booth now?” Feifei burst out laughing and generously showed her own ID.

Her photo was absolutely stunning—she was a certified beauty. Her name on the card read: Yuechu.

Everyone: …

That’s it? So simple? But oddly poetic?

“‘The moon rises, startling the mountain birds; their cries echo through the spring ravine.’”

The name conjured images of a tranquil forest, which actually suited Feifei’s overall vibe.

“Great name!” Yun Tao hyped her up.

Feifei playfully pinched his cheek. “You sure know how to sweet-talk.”

“What about you, Feifei-jie? Any plans for tomorrow?”

She replied, “Jiang Qing asked me to model for a beauty video. We’ll be filming in the restaurant’s garden—mind if we borrow the space?”

“Of course! You’re more than welcome.” Yun Tao then turned to Yun Fenghe. “Gege, are you staying home too?”

Yun Fenghe nodded. “I’m planning to do some weeding in the garden.”

Lin Jiuyuan raised his hand. “I’ll help!”

“Nope,” Yun Tao shot him down immediately. “I checked your serialized comic—the comments section is full of people demanding updates. You should focus on that.”

Lin Jiuyuan slumped. “Ah… fine.”

“You don’t seem very motivated. Want me to make you a special limited-edition cake?”

One infused with Taotie’s spiritual energy!

Lin Jiuyuan shook his head like a rattling drum. “No need! No need! I’m super motivated! I’ll go home and draw right away!”

The next morning, Yun Tao slept in. By the time he woke up, Tai Sui and Lin Xiao had already left. He stretched lazily and stepped onto the balcony. Below, Yun Fenghe was wearing a straw hat, tending to the garden. Jiang Qing had arrived with her makeup kit and filming gear, chatting with Feifei, the two of them laughing cheerfully.

Yun Tao ruffled his own curly hair, yawned, and slowly made his way downstairs.

Taxue trotted ahead of him, stopping every few steps to wait for him.

Halfway down, Yun Tao sat on the staircase, wrapped his arms around Taxue’s neck, and nearly dozed off again.

Yun Fenghe came in through the side door and woke him up. “Why are you sleeping here? What if you fall? Sui-ge made pork bone congee, by the way.”

Yun Tao’s eyes snapped open. He wobbled to his feet and headed downstairs.

Outside, the renovation barriers were up, but the dining hall itself had already been upgraded and was fully operational. Yun Tao did a quick inspection—he was very pleased with the results.

Yun Fenghe washed his hands and soon emerged with a bowl of congee, a plate of steamed Wenray Fish, and two Zhuyu pork buns.

He stuffed a bun into Yun Tao’s hand, then scooped up a spoonful of congee with a piece of fish and held it up to his mouth.

Still groggy from oversleeping, Yun Tao just ate whatever was fed to him.

The congee, simmered with pork bones, was incredibly rich—the meat juices had fully melded into the broth, making it unbelievably flavorful. His brain was still half-asleep, but his picky taste buds had already woken up.

Half a bowl in, Yun Tao was finally fully awake. Realizing how shamelessly he’d been fed, he felt a little embarrassed and quickly downed the rest of the congee in big gulps.

Yun Fenghe chuckled and continued deboning the fish for him. Wenray Fish had very few bones, so it was easy to tear off large chunks with chopsticks. Soon, Yun Tao’s bowl was full again.

Taxue had his own portion too, crouching beside them and happily chomping away at the fish. At this rate, he’d reach full sentience in no time.

After breakfast, Yun Tao put on a little straw hat and helped Yun Fenghe with the garden work.

The courtyard at Taotie Delicacies was nice and cool, so Jiang Qing decided to film an outdoor makeup tutorial. But before she even started, she and Feifei got completely distracted by Yun Tao in his tiny straw hat. Inspiration struck, and they spontaneously decided to film a “Little Farmer’s Garden Tour” video first.

Yun Tao was very cooperative. Only after the sisters finished their impromptu shoot did he quietly connect to the system and set up the Bluebird Mailbox at the entrance of the garden.

When he first got the Bluebird Mailbox, he didn’t think it would be that useful. But now, after meeting Lin Jiuyuan’s family—well, who knew? Maybe this could turn into a viable yin-yang mail service.

Might as well get the structure ready!

The Bluebird Mailbox was a deep green, topped with a lifelike carving of a three-legged Bluebird. The bird held a letter in its beak, wings spread as if about to take flight—adorable and dynamic.

Yun Tao patted its little head. “An SR-tier special resource would be a shame to waste.”

Meanwhile, a young woman named Ming Siyu adjusted her umbrella and scanned the street signs. “4… 6… 8… There it is—Shanhai Street, No. 8.”

A faint smile appeared on her delicate face. But just as quickly, it faded.

The gate of No. 8 Shanhai Street was locked from the outside, a heavy padlock securing it shut. Inside, most of the plants had withered, the balcony was empty with no clothes hanging to dry, and the windows were coated in dust. It didn’t just look like no one was home—it looked like no one had lived there for a long time.

Ming Siyu anxiously searched for a mailbox outside the gate. When she finally found it, it was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if it hadn’t been used in ages.

What’s going on? Did she get the wrong address?

She pulled out a letter and double-checked the address. Then, just to be sure, she opened her phone and checked the location again.

No mistake. This was the place.

Tightening the straps of her backpack, Ming Siyu gathered her courage and stopped an elderly man walking his dog. “Excuse me, sir… I was wondering if you know where the people who lived here went?”

Old Pu blinked in surprise, glancing at No. 8 Shanhai Street. His perpetually stern face showed a hint of awkwardness. “I don’t know.”

He really didn’t. Old Pu had always walked his dog during off-peak hours, avoiding neighbors and ignoring most things happening around him. He had no impression of the people who used to live here.

But recently, he had been going out more and had picked up bits and pieces about Shanhai Street. Seeing the disappointment on the young girl’s face, he uncharacteristically added, “No one’s been in or out of that house for a while. If you’re looking for someone, you won’t find them. Do you have their phone number?”

“I do, but… her number has been deactivated.” Ming Siyu noticed that the old man seemed socially anxious, so she thanked him and prepared to ask someone else.

Surprisingly, Old Pu didn’t just walk away. Instead, he led her to a nearby fruit shop.

He and Wang Ying, the shop owner, were somewhat familiar with each other—one was a devoted grandpa fan of Yun Tao, the other a self-proclaimed “mom fan” of Yun Tao. Whenever they met, they would chat about the kid.

Plus, Wang Ying was well-connected and knew the ins and outs of Shanhai Street. If anyone could help, it was her.

When Wang Ying saw Old Pu bringing a young girl over, she was intrigued. Fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan, she greeted them with a smile. “Pu-shu, who’s this young lady?”

Two other Shanhai Street residents, who had been chatting in the store, also turned to look, curious.

Ming Siyu’s face turned slightly red, but she wasn’t about to put the socially anxious grandpa on the spot. She took the initiative to explain, “Hello, Auntie. I’m looking for a friend who used to live at No. 8 Shanhai Street. But when I checked, no one was home, and her phone number is no longer in service. We always kept in touch through letters… but now, I can’t reach her.”

These days, people who still relied on letters were rare. Even Old Pu, from an older generation, hadn’t sent a letter in years.

But Wang Ying’s expression changed the moment she heard those words. Her heart clenched as she asked, “Young lady… are you Ming Siyu? Are you looking for Xia Zhifeng?”

Ming Siyu’s eyes widened in shock. “Yes! I’m Xia Zhifeng’s friend! How do you know her? Did she mention me?”

A trace of pity flickered in Wang Ying’s eyes. “So you actually came all this way… Sigh. This is a long story. Sit down first—I need to get something.”

A bad feeling crept over Ming Siyu. She numbly sat on a small stool in the fruit shop, her heart pounding.

The other customers were curious too, but the atmosphere felt too heavy to linger. When Wang Ying returned with a bag in hand, the bystanders tactfully took their leave.

Old Pu, about to leave as well, turned back and, in his usual stiff way, muttered, “If you need help, you can come find me.”

Ming Siyu waved at him gratefully.

Once everyone else had left, Wang Ying handed the bag to Ming Siyu. “Xiaoyu… you need to prepare yourself.”

Her voice was gentle, but there was a weight behind it.

Wang Ying had agreed to take care of this, but she never expected the girl would actually come all this way. The ending of this story was something none of them had foreseen. Adults often assumed that teenage friendships were fleeting, insignificant. But they always underestimated the depth, the intensity, the unwavering devotion of youthful bonds.

Ming Siyu opened the bag—and froze.

Inside were all the letters she had sent over the past year.

Her palms grew clammy. She looked up at Wang Ying, disbelief clouding her voice. “Auntie… why are my letters here? Where’s Xiaofeng?”

“Prepare yourself”—what did that mean?

Ming Siyu and Xia Zhifeng’s friendship was rare in this digital age. They had met in middle school but were in different classes. By chance, they became pen pals, encouraging each other through handwritten letters. Other than their letters, the only other place they saw each other’s names was on the school’s academic ranking lists.

In ninth grade, Ming Siyu’s family moved to another province due to her father’s job transfer, while Xia Zhifeng’s family faced a crisis. She was taken in by her aunt’s family and relocated to Shanhai Street.

Despite the distance, the two quiet but strong-willed girls never stopped writing. They made a promise: one letter a month, sharing updates on life and exam scores. And once they graduated high school, they would take a trip together.

A childish promise, but it’s their secret and their bond.

Ming Siyu kept her end of the deal, and Xia Zhifeng’s letters always arrived as expected.

But in the second year of high school, Ming Siyu noticed something strange.

Xia Zhifeng rarely responded to her worries from previous letters. She stopped discussing exam struggles. Instead, her words became purely supportive—always warm, always encouraging.

Then, in the final semester of senior year, the letters returned to normal. The only difference was that the envelopes felt a little old, a little cold to the touch.

It was Xia Zhifeng’s encouragement that carried Ming Siyu through her hardest times. The only thing that knew how many tears she had shed… was the paper of those letters.

Ming Siyu did well in her exams. She had recently been accepted into her dream university, and her parents had even given her a travel fund as a reward.

Excited, she finally called the number she had saved for years—the one she had pinned at the top of her contacts but never dialed before.

A cold, automated voice told her: “The number you have dialed has been deactivated.”

Panicked, she sent a letter instead, paying extra for express delivery. She waited. And waited. But no reply came.

Only then did she understand why people no longer wrote letters. The helplessness of waiting for a response that might never come was unbearable.

Desperate, she made a decision—she would go to Shanhai Street and find Xia Zhifeng herself.

Instead of finding her friend, she found a bag of her own unopened letters in a fruit shop.

The letters were sealed with wax, never once opened.

“What… what happened?” Ming Siyu’s voice shook as she stared at Wang Ying, her eyes turning red, pleading without realizing it.

Please, tell me she just moved. Just tell me she moved away.

Wang Ying sighed. “Xiaofeng was diagnosed with cancer in her second year of high school. She had to drop out and undergo treatment. She fought hard, but… she didn’t make it.”

“Before she passed, her aunt—heartbroken—decided to leave the country. She gave me these letters, asking me to send them to you on schedule. She said… a promise between young hearts shouldn’t be broken.”

“Xiaofeng had planned to write a year’s worth of letters in advance… but by then, she was too weak. She only managed seven. And all your letters… were sent to me instead.”

“I thought after all this time, with no letters between you two, you’d stop writing. We wanted you to slowly forget and never have to know the truth.” Wang Ying wiped away her own tears, reaching out to pat Ming Siyu’s head. “But I didn’t expect you to be so stubborn—not only did you keep sending letters, but you even came all the way here the moment you graduated.”

“No… that’s impossible.” Ming Siyu’s face had gone deathly pale.

Wang Ying dabbed at her tears and gently coaxed, “Sweetheart, I know this is hard to accept, but the truth won’t change. Since you’re already here… do you want to visit Xia Zhifeng’s grave?”

“No, Auntie, wait…” Ming Siyu fumbled with her backpack, pulling out a stack of letters. Her hands trembled as she forced the words out. “You said you only sent out seven letters for Xiaofeng. Then… who sent me the rest?”

Her mind reeled.

Back in senior year, there was a time when Xia Zhifeng’s letter was late—really late. It happened to be when her grades were slipping, and she was drowning in anxiety, staying up night after night to cram. She lost several pounds in just a week.

Then, finally, the letter arrived. Two full pages of patient, comforting words, urging her to take care of herself, to eat properly, to not let temporary setbacks shake her confidence. It was like being shaken awake from a nightmare, and after that, she pulled herself together.

And from that moment on, Xia Zhifeng’s letters never arrived late again.

But now that she thought about it… the slightly worn envelopes, the way the paper always felt cold to the touch—wasn’t that the biggest problem?

Where had those letters been sent from?

The underworld?

Wang Ying stared at the letters stuffed inside Ming Siyu’s backpack, unsure how to even begin making sense of this. “Did anyone else know you two were pen pals? Maybe someone else sent them?”

“No one,” Ming Siyu whispered, shaking her head. She tore open one of the letters and shoved it toward Wang Ying. “Look, this is Xiaofeng’s handwriting. No one else could copy it this perfectly.”

Wang Ying felt another wave of sorrow welling up—this poor child.

She took the letter and looked at it.

And then her heart nearly stopped.

“Sweetie… there’s nothing here.”

The letter was blank.

Not a single word.

Ming Siyu’s breath hitched. She stared at the empty page, her mind unable to reconcile what she was seeing.

The tears came in a flood, spilling down her face, no longer something she could control.

Seeing this, Wang Ying didn’t have the heart to worry about whether this was terrifying or not. She pulled the girl into a hug and patted her back, trying to comfort her. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Listen—TaoTao’s shop was selling ginger scallion chicken the other day, and I overheard something. Apparently, the comic artist who lives on our street is actually a Taoist priest. Maybe we can go ask him what’s going on.”

Ming Siyu blinked through her tears, momentarily thrown off.

Wait. What?

A Taoist priest… who’s also a comic artist?

How was that even a thing?

Was everyone in the world suddenly working multiple jobs now? Was she supposed to double-major in college just to keep up?

The thought only made her cry even harder.