Chapter 41: Japanese Zhuge Liang
Information always left footprints. Whatever Direction Hao saw had just changed the map entirely. His face went ashen. He slowly lowered his tablet. The screen showed a freshly updated organizational chart.
“There’s been a development,” he said. His voice was hollow. “The head of the Li Group’s logistics and external visits department has been promoted, transferred to a new division overseeing their oceanic freight operations.”
Su Yao’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And his replacement,” Director Hao continued. The words tasted like ash. “Has instituted a full departmental review. All pending external visit requests, including our Form V-7 for the Lúnyù Polymer factory tour, have been voided. We have to resubmit. The new projected wait time is ten to twelve business days.”
The air around Su Yao’s fists shimmered with heat. A low, dangerous growl rumbled in her chest. “Let me get this straight,” she said. Each word was precise and deadly. “The fate of the spiritual ecosystem potentially hinges on us auditing a plastic factory. We are being stopped because a middle-management pencil-pusher got a better job and his replacement wants to make a point?”
“Systemic inertia is a formidable adversary,” Mizukume remarked. She appeared beside Director Hao and peered at the chart. “More resilient than any kijo.”
“We don’t have ten days!” Zhang Wei protested. He entered the room with a fresh stack of files. “Jinse is stuck in a celestial audit, the Yamato are consolidating who-knows-where, and this forger is probably shipping out his next batch of customized spiritual weapons as we speak!”
“I am aware,” Director Hao said, sinking into his chair. “But we can’t legally or physically force our way into a Li Group subsidiary without triggering a corporate and legal response that would make our current problems look like a minor inconvenience. Their lawyers are prolific.”
Su Yao closed her eyes, counting to ten in a language that had been dead for five millennia. The sheer, grinding stupidity of it was a unique form of torture.
“Fine,” she bit out. The word was sharp enough to cut glass. “Resubmit the form. But in the meantime,” her eyes snapped open, blazing with crimson light, “we’ll find another way to get their client list from rvery shipment that left that factory to every buyer of those specific masks.”
Director Hao’s fingers flew across his tablet, pulling up new shipping manifests and customs data. “The last major wholesale order for that specific mask SKU was placed six weeks ago. The buyer,” He squinted at the screen, as if hoping the words would change. “‘Neuralink Novelties & Collectibles,’ a subsidiary of ‘X Corporation.’ The purchase order was authorized by the CEO himself.”
He turned the screen around. The name on the document was Alan Mask.
Su Yao stared at the name. For a moment, the sheer, universe-mocking coincidence short-circuited her higher brain functions.
“Alan Mask,” she repeated. Her voice was flat. “The electric car and rocket man? The one who talks about uploading his brain to a computer?”
“The very same,” Director Hao confirmed, looking equally pained. “It seems his interests have diversified into cheap promotional masks.”
Zhang Wei buried his face in his hands. “Of course it’s him. Why wouldn’t it be? He probably bought ten thousand of them to give away at a launch party for his new cybernetic dog or something.”
Mizukume, however, looked intrigued. “The man who seeks to merge humanity with machines is also procuring vessels designed to merge mortals with ancient spirits. Their thematic synergy is provocative. Perhaps it isn’t a coincidence. It is possible that he, too, is a student of the same foundational research into soul-transference.”
“Or maybe he just has a weird guy on Etsy who finds him bulk deals,” Kitty muttered, unimpressed.
Su Yao took a deep, steadying breath that did very little to steady her. The path to averting a spiritual apocalypse now led directly to the Twitter account of a billionaire meme-lord.
“Fine,” she said. The word sounded like a death rattle. “Get me a meeting with Alan Mask.”
Director Hao looked like she had just asked him to lasso the moon. “Consultant Xiao, he’s one of the most inaccessible private figures on the planet! His schedule is booked years in advance! We can’t just—”
“I don’t care if he’s on his way to Mars,” Su Yao interrupted. Her eyes glowed with feral light. “Tell him we have a catastrophic existential threat that involves his recent purchase of plastic masks. He loves existential threats. It’s his entire brand. He’ll see us.”
She pointed a finger at the image of Alan Mask on the screen. “And if he doesn’t,” she added. A vicious smile touched her lips. “I’ll personally deliver one of his own rockets to his corporate headquarters. Through the front door.”
Zhang Wei, who had been idly monitoring a news feed on a wall-mounted screen, suddenly straightened up. “Uh, guys? You need to see this.” He turned up the volume.
On the screen, Alan Mask was on stage at a flashy tech keynote. His grin was wide and slightly unhinged. “...and they said it was impossible! They said ‘Alan, you can't deliver genuine, biologically integrated catgirls!’” The audience roared with laughter and applause. “Well, who’s laughing now?!”
The camera panned to a line of young women on stage waving shyly at the crowd. They had softly twitching cat ears and swishing tails that looked utterly, disconcertingly real.
Su Yao stared. Her jaw was momentarily slack. “No way. That’s just a spirit possessing a mortal body, right? A very specific, very dedicated type of spirit. They aren't even wearing masks...”
The implication hit her like a physical blow.
“What if the mask is only the trigger?” she said. Her voice was low and urgent. “What if it initiates the soul-bonding process, and once a certain spiritual threshold is crossed, the possession becomes permanent? The mask itself becomes irrelevant after the vessel and the echo are fused.”
She looked from the TV screen to the inert mask on the lab bench. “He bought the masks as initiation kits. And he’s already moved to the next stage. Those ‘catgirls’ aren't wearing masks because they don't need to anymore. The process is complete.”
Mizukume’s doll-like eyes were fixed on the screen, analyzing the catgirls’ movements. “The spiritual signatures are unstable. A turbulent, forced harmony. He is creating temporary, living exhibits. The decay rate must be significant.”
“He’s building a zoo,” Zhang Wei realized, horrified. “A zoo of mythological creatures. And is using the masks as the key to the cages.”
“That’s it,” Su Yao said. A cold fury settled in her gut. “We're crashing his party. Right now.” She pointed at the screen. “We find out where that keynote is, then we go there. Let’s ask Mr. Mask exactly what he thought he was buying, and who sold it to him.”
The factory was still a dead end, blocked by bureaucracy. Alan Mask and his unstable, mask-less catgirls were a glaring, public, and very current lead. The forger had found a client with deep pockets and no sense of self-preservation. Su Yao was about to introduce herself.
“We are in China. The keynote is in Neo Yokohama, Texas,” Zhang Wei said, pulling up the event details on his tablet. “Even with your power, cross-continental teleportation through heavily warded airspace isn’t exactly subtle. Or possible.”
Su Yao’s furious momentum hit a hard, practical wall. She glared at him as if he had personally invented national borders.
“There is, however,” Zhang Wei ventured cautiously, “another option. We could ask him.”
“He will not take our call,” Director Hao stated flatly.
“We will never know until we tried,” Zhang Wei said, turning to Li Xiu, who had been quietly observing. “Li Xiu. Your family’s corporation has holdings in his ventures, doesn’t it? You have a direct line to his executive office.”
Li Xiu, looking slightly surprised to be called upon, nodded. “Of course. We co-invest in several orbital logistics projects. I have his PA’s direct number.” She pulled out her phone, a sleek, custom-made device. “Should I send a message?”
“Do it,” Su Yao commanded, though she looked deeply skeptical. “But be vague. Use corporate-speak. Tell him a ‘supply chain anomaly’ has been detected in his recent novelty goods order from the Lúnyù Polymer factory. Frame it as a ‘joint vendor quality assurance issue.’ See if he bites.”
Li Xiu’s fingers flew across the screen with the practiced ease of a born heiress. She typed out a perfectly polished, impeccably polite message, framing it as an urgent yet discreet matter of mutual corporate interest.
They waited. The silence in the operations room was thick with Su Yao’s simmering impatience.
Less than a minute later, Li Xiu’s phone chimed. She looked at the screen. Her eyebrows rose in mild surprise.
“He replied,” she said.
“And?” Su Yao demanded.
“He says, and I quote, ‘Wild. The shipment was a sample batch from a new spiritual assets broker. Guy called himself ‘Abe.’ Said it would ‘unlock new forms of consciousness.’ Seemed legit. Invoice attached.’”
Li Xiu looked up from her phone. Her expression was one of serene accomplishment. “He also sent the invoice. It has a digital signature and a routing number from a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands.”
Su Yao stared at her, then at the phone, then back at her. The world-saving information they needed had been obtained through a polite DM from one billionaire to another.
“Abe,” Mizukume repeated. The name hung in the air. “How pretentious.”
“He just told you,” Zhang Wei said, stunned. “Just like that.”
“Of course,” Li Xiu said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “It’s just business.”
Su Yao let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. The forger had a name. Abe. He had been selling his soul-forging wares to a tech billionaire like he was moving surplus office supplies.
The path forward was suddenly, infuriatingly clear.
“Get me everything you can on ‘Abe’,” Su Yao ordered Director Hao. Her voice was a low growl. “It seems the most efficient way to hunt a soul-forging mastermind is to follow the money.”
The name ‘Abe’ hung in the air. Su Yao’s sharp eyes immediately caught the subtle shift in Mizukume’s posture. The clone had gone preternaturally still. Her usual eerie calm tightened into something more alert and personal.
“You know that name,” Su Yao stated. It was a statement.
Mizukume’s head tilted slowly. Her hollow eyes were distant. “Abe isn’t an uncommon name. But in this context, it carries a certain weight and a specific resonance.”
“What? Like Abraham Lincoln?” Zhang Wei interjected, scrolling through a database on his tablet. “The historical records are fuzzy, but some fringe texts suggest he was a vampire hunter. Could be him.”
Mizukume’s gaze slid to Zhang Wei. The look was one of pure, unadulterated contempt. “Not the mortal politician who fought the undead. I speak of Abe no Seimei.”
The name meant nothing to Su Yao. “Who is that? Another Japanese folktale?”
“He was the Onmyōji,” Mizukume explained. Her voice dropped into a reverent, almost wary whisper. “A Master of Yin and Yang. The most powerful diviner and exorcist in the history of my homeland. He commanded shikigami, manipulated fate, and advised emperors as a peer.”
“So,” Su Yao processed this, drawing a parallel she understood. “The Japanese Zhuge Liang.”
“A crude but serviceable analogy,” Mizukume conceded. “Where your Zhuge Liang was a strategist of armies and empires, Abe no Seimei was a strategist of the spirit world. The unseen was his battlefield.”
She turned her gaze back to the name on the screen. “If it’s he, then the scale of this operation is far grander than we imagined. He would be an architect. His goals would be cosmic.”
“But he’s been dead for a thousand years,” Zhang Wei protested.
“As was I,” Mizukume countered flatly. “As were you, in a manner of speaking,” she added, glancing at Su Yao. “Death is a revolving door for our kind, especially for one of his prowess. He could have easily orchestrated his own return. Or, he may have never left at all.”
A contemplative silence fell into the room. The mysterious ‘Abe’ was a potential historical titan, a figure of immense power and intellect, now operating in the shadows of the modern world.
“Japanese Zhuge Liang or undead American president,” Su Yao concluded, cutting through the speculation. “It doesn’t change what we have to do. We find ‘Abe.’ Then we ask him, very directly, to stop selling cursed masks to billionaires.”
Her eyes glinted. “Preferably before he decides to rearrange the very fabric of reality as his next business venture.”
Mizukume’s usual aura of detached amusement had vanished. It was replaced by a stillness that felt less like calm and more like a prey animal sensing a predator it could not hope to defeat.
“The Yamato, the man in the mask,” she murmured. Her gaze was fixed on some middle distance, seeing not the reconstructed headquarters but a landscape of ancient memories. “They are but instruments. If the hand guiding them belongs to Seimei, then we are stumbling into a game of Go that he began a millennium ago.”
She turned her hollow eyes to Su Yao. “The Yamato’ soul-farming, their multinational recruitment, and crude attempts to engineer a god in the Nue reeks of his methodology. He is always fond of systematizing the supernatural, turning mystery into a resource. The masked man is likely one of his many disposable shikigami, a lesser spirit given form and purpose as a tool.”
A rare, sharp emotion, something very close to fear, flickered in her depthless eyes. “I have no desire to face him. I am living proof of the chaos he tried to wipe out. To him, I am a bug to be pinned to a board. Just another ‘Dragon-level threat’ to be cataloged and contained.”
Mizukume took a step back. The gesture was so uncharacteristically hesitant it was more alarming than any threat she had ever made. “Our arrangement, landlord, was predicated on a manageable level of chaos. This is a cold, calculating order that grinds even calamities to dust. I wish to reconsider my tenure.”
Su Yao watched her. The ancient fox understood the echo’s terror on a visceral level. To be faced with one’s natural predator was one thing. To be faced with one’s natural curator was another.
“You think he’s behind the museum, don’t you?” Su Yao said, connecting the dots. “The classification system? The exhibits? It’s his life’s work. He’s cataloging the entire supernatural world.”
“It is the only thing that makes sense,” Mizukume whispered. “We are all just specimens in his collection now.”
Before Su Yao could respond, Zhang Wei looked up from his tablet. His face was grim. “The Yamato have gone completely silent. All their known spiritual signatures have vanished from our global monitoring network. It’s a recall.”
Realization hit hard as the pieces slammed together. The Yamato had been called home by their master.
“He’s consolidating his assets,” Su Yao realized. “Because he knows we’re getting close. Or because his real project is entering its final phase.” She looked at the terrified echo of a demon and the overwhelmed government agents. The scale of the enemy had just expanded to encompass history itself.
“You can run if you want,” Su Yao told Mizukume. Her voice was low but unwavering. “But he’s already got you in his database. There’s nowhere you can hide that he won’t eventually find you. Your only chance is to help me break his system before he finishes his collection.”
She turned to Director Hao. “Forget the factory and Alan Mask. Redirect every resource to finding Abe no Seimei. I don’t care if you have to dig up every ancient text, bribe every historian, and scan every satellite image of Japan for anomalous spiritual activity. Find him.”
The hunt for the Yamato and the masked man was over. They had found the source. And the source was a legend who thought of gods and demons as entries in a spreadsheet.
Director Hao held up a hand. His expression was that of a man desperately trying to inject sanity into a conversation that had long since left it behind. “Everyone, stop. Just stop for a moment.”
A weary sigh followed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are jumping to a catastrophic conclusion based on a single common name. The odds of a legendary figure like Abe no Seimei resurfacing after a millennium to run a global supernatural counterfeiting ring are astronomically low. It’s like assuming every ‘John’ is John the Baptist.”
He gestured vaguely at the world outside. “Zhuge Liang, the legendary Sleeping Dragon, one of the greatest strategic minds in history, is allegedly a Douyinr in Kyoto. He makes videos about fan collections and Three Kingdoms trivia, monetizing his niche knowledge. That is the far more likely path for a resurrected legend, assimilation.”
His gaze then settled pointedly on Mizukume. “No offense, but your own return has been largely contained to my sofa and a debate about anime. Why would Abe no Seimei be any different? Why would his grand plan involve, plastic masks and catgirls for a tech billionaire?”
Mizukume’s fear seemed to harden into a cold, sharp certainty. “You misunderstand his nature. Zhuge Liang was a commander of men. His ambition was territorial, political. Seimei’s domain was always the unseen. The cosmic order itself. He seek to categorize reality itself.”
Su Yao listened. The bureaucrat’s logic and the echo’s dread warred in her mind. Hao was right. It was a leap. But Mizukume’s terror was specific.
“Hao has a point,” Su Yao conceded, though it pained her. “We can’t bet everything on this being Seimei.” She turned to Mizukume. “But your concern is noted. So we operate on two tracks. We investigate ‘Abe’ as a modern threat, a brilliant, dangerous human sorcerer or a new player using an old name. But we also prepare for the possibility that it’s the real thing.”
She looked at the director. “Dig into the name of every ‘Abe’ with any connection to the occult, the artifact trade, or the Yamato. And you,” she said to Mizukume, “you’re going to give us everything you remember about the real Seimei. His habits, his weaknesses, and his obsessions. Just in case.”
Mizukume gave a slow, reluctant nod. The prospect was clearly terrifying, but Su Yao was right, hiding was no longer an option.
“Very well,” the clone whispered. “I will compile a dossier. But know this: if it’s him, he has already anticipated this very conversation. We aren’t hunting him.”
Director Hao sighed. The sound was heavy with the weight of budgets and existential dread. “I’ll get the research started and double the life insurance policies for everyone in this room.”