Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

In the darkness, his eyes widened in terror as he vaguely saw the desk drawer slowly and silently opening. A pale, deathly pale woman's arm, tinged with a bluish-black hue, slowly emerged from the drawer, its long, sharp nails gleaming with a chilling light.

Then came the other arm.

Next, the head.

It was a face he would never forget—a face half-rotted, the white bone of the left cheek exposed, the right eye socket hollow, just a dark hole, while the left eye was cloudy and staring intently at him. The corners of the mouth were twisted upwards, bearing an extremely eerie and distorted smile.

He recognized that face! It was the mistress of the Chinese businessman he had driven to her death last year through despicable means! That poor woman, after her husband went bankrupt and she was forced into this situation by him, jumped off the roof of this building in despair and was smashed to pieces!

"You...you're dead?!" Jennings' voice had completely changed, filled with uncontrollable fear and disbelief.

The woman's broken lips moved, but the same eerie and mournful song still emanated from them. Her body was slowly "squeezing" out of the drawer, her limbs twisted and her posture bizarre, like a poorly pieced-together doll.

Jennings could no longer contain his fear and turned to flee. He smashed open the office door like a madman and rushed into the dark corridor. For some reason, the emergency lights in the corridor were off; only the green sign for the emergency exit in the distance emitted a faint, eerie glow. He ran frantically towards the stairwell, the singing following him like a shadow, as if pressed against the back of his neck, its chilling sound making him tremble.

He stumbled down the stairs, one floor after another. His heavy breathing and frantic footsteps echoed through the stairwell. But no matter how long he ran, the stairs beneath his feet seemed endless, stretching on and on. He clearly remembered that the building only had twenty-five floors, but he felt like he had run fifty, even a hundred. His legs felt like lead, and his lungs burned as if they were about to explode.

Finally, he couldn't run anymore.

He collapsed at the corner of the stairs, leaning against the cold wall, panting heavily. Sweat soaked through his expensive suit, clinging stickily to his skin, chilling him to the bone. The song was so close, as if it were softly humming right next to his ear.

He raised his head in despair and looked up the stairs.

Then, he witnessed a scene he would never forget.

Above the stairs, a dense crowd of "people"—no, those weren't people, they were ghosts! Countless twisted, mutilated, and hideous ghosts were pouring out from above the stairs, from the cracks in the walls, and from the corners of the ceiling. Faces he knew and didn't know, people he had oppressed, framed, and driven to their deaths, all appeared there, staring at him with empty eye sockets and venomous eyes.

"No...don't come any closer...please...don't come any closer..." he murmured, his voice so weak it was like a mosquito's hum, filled with desperate pleas.

But the ghosts had already swarmed down like a tide. Cold, ethereal claws gripped his body, and a bone-chilling cold instantly spread throughout his entire being. He could feel his soul being torn apart and devoured.

Jennings' screams echoed mournfully in the empty stairwell, filled with endless pain and fear, but soon the screams stopped abruptly, as if they had been forcibly cut off by an invisible hand.

The stairwell fell silent again, with only cold walls and dim light, as if nothing had ever happened.

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight struggled to pierce through the clouds and fall upon the Jardine Matheson building, employees arrived at work as usual. However, when they found Chairman Jennings' office door ajar and he did not emerge, an ominous premonition began to spread.

Several bold executives pushed open the door and went inside.

Then, they witnessed a scene they would never forget.

Chairman Jennings sat upright in his office chair, his posture even appearing serene. He wore a sharp suit, and his hair was meticulously combed. His expression was calm, with even a strange, satisfied smile playing on his lips. If it weren't for his cold, stiff body, anyone would have thought he was simply taking a nap.

The forensic doctor arrived at the scene quickly. After a thorough examination, the final conclusion was cardiac arrest, a natural death. There were no external injuries, no signs of poisoning, and everything was consistent with the characteristics of natural death.

But no one knew that Jennings' soul was currently imprisoned within He Damin's Soul-Refining Banner, undergoing the cruelest and longest refining process in endless darkness and torment, along with the souls of ninety-nine other equally deserving "enemy forces." The eerie smile on his face was merely the final solidification of extreme fear and despair.

Last night, in Hong Kong, there were seven other British executives who "died of natural causes" like Jennings.

The head of the Commercial Crime Investigation Department, who was all set to lead a raid on the Global Bank vault the next morning, was found dead in his bed, his expression calm, as if he were simply asleep.

The secretary at the Governor's Office who was secretly working for British banks and actively pushing for an investigation into the Global Bank died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his apartment. There were no signs of foul play at the scene.

The HSBC vice president who strongly advocated for joint pressure fell off a cliff at Victoria Peak during his morning run and was never found dead.

Several lawyers and businessmen who had been secretly stirring up trouble and eyeing the Global Bank also died quietly on the same night in various seemingly accidental ways. Car accidents, falls, sudden illnesses... each death seemed plausible, with no trace of human intervention.

The following week, Hong Kong was plunged into an unprecedented state of panic and chaos.

During the day, newspapers were filled with reports of various "accidental deaths." The front page was almost always dominated by obituaries. Car accidents, falls from buildings, sudden heart attacks, gas leaks, and even deaths caused by out-of-control trucks... The list of the dead consisted entirely of people who had harbored ill intentions towards Global Bank or He Damin, or who had played a dishonorable role in this crackdown.

Throughout Hong Kong's high society, especially among British-owned circles, a pervasive sense of insecurity gripped everyone. Clubs that once bustled with activity and laughter were now deathly silent, each face betraying undisguised fear and anxiety. They had no idea who would be the next victim of this "accident."

But the night is a true hell.

He Damin's fragmented soul, like the most terrifying ghost, silently roams every corner of Hong Kong. Those hostile elements who manage to escape the daytime "accident" will be tormented to death by the most terrifying nightmares in their sleep.

They would wake up screaming in their sleep, drenched in cold sweat, and then be horrified to find a disheveled, grotesque figure standing beside their bed. When they tried to call for help, they found themselves unable to make a sound and could only watch helplessly as the ghostly figure drew closer.

They will see their long-dead relatives return in rotten, twisted forms to demand their lives, crying out about the past when they were abandoned and hurt.

They will hear countless wronged souls wailing and cursing in their ears. Those voices are like maggots clinging to bones, burrowing into their brains, causing them to have mental breakdowns. Ultimately, in extreme fear and madness, they will either suffer cardiac arrest, jump off buildings to commit suicide, or end their lives in various other ways.

In just one week, Hong Kong's underworld and legitimate society underwent an unprecedented, invisible purge.

A third of the core members of the British Chambers of Commerce died overnight. The remaining members stayed indoors, fortifying their mansions like fortresses, and some even fled to the British mainland in the dead of night. They dared not utter a single word about "investigating the Global Bank" again, as if it were a curse that would bring death.

Among the gangs like He Sheng He, those who harbored resentment, attempted to challenge Chen Yaoxing's authority, or secretly colluded with the British, disappeared one by one. They vanished without a trace, neither alive nor dead. Their families searched everywhere, but found not a single clue. No one knew where they had gone; only He Damin knew that their souls had become the purest nourishment in the Soul Refining Banner. Chen Yaoxing, meanwhile, completely solidified his position within the gang, showing even greater respect and obedience to He Damin.

Even within Government House, rumors of hauntings circulated. It was said that the Governor, who had secretly supported the British Chambers of Commerce and welcomed the suppression of the Bank of the World, was tormented by the same nightmare for three consecutive nights. In his dream, he was surrounded by countless hideous ghosts, their cold hands reaching out to take his life. Each time, he would wake up screaming in extreme terror, only to find himself inexplicably lying on the cold floor of his bedroom, drenched in cold sweat, as if he had just been pulled from the water.

What terrified him even more was that one time he woke up to find a folded note on his bedside table. He unfolded it with trembling hands, and on it, written in crooked Chinese characters in a red handwriting that looked as if it were written in blood, was a line that read: “Mind your own business.”

From then on, the Governor's Office completely ignored the matter of the Global Bank. The joint application was quietly suppressed, and the Commercial Crime Bureau received vague orders to "act with caution." The balance of power in Hong Kong shifted dramatically within a week. The name Ho Ta-ming became a taboo, a shadow hanging over everyone. People whispered amongst themselves, speculating about his identity and fearing his methods, but no one dared to speak of him openly anymore.

On Victoria Peak, in the study of He Damin's villa.

He Damin sat cross-legged with his eyes closed. He wore a loose white training uniform, and a faint, almost imperceptible dark light surrounded him. The light rose and fell slowly like breathing, exuding an ancient and mysterious aura.

The Soul Refining Banner hovered three feet above his head, its surface swaying gently and emitting a silent hum. On the banner, the previously blurry ghostly figures became clearer, and countless faces struggling in pain could be vaguely seen. With each rotation, wisps of black mist escaped from the banner, then were absorbed into He Damin's body, transforming into pure soul power that nourished his Yang Spirit.

This week's "harvest" was remarkably successful. The Soul Refining Banner contained over three hundred more souls. These souls were all powerful and wicked individuals in life, filled with deep resentment and negative emotions after death; each one was the perfect nourishment for the Soul Refining Banner. They devoured and tore at each other within the banner, ultimately being forcibly refined by its power and transformed into the purest soul energy.

But what truly excited He Damin wasn't the increase in soul power brought about by these three hundred-plus souls. It was something else entirely—the conditions for the sixth advancement of the Soul Refining Banner were about to be met.

He could clearly sense that the soul power within the Soul Refining Banner had reached a critical point. The refined soul energy was condensing and compressing within the banner, undergoing a qualitative change. It was like a powder keg about to explode, needing only the last spark to trigger an unprecedented energy leap.

The key to this leap lies in integration.