Little Pink Starfish

As usual, Yuan Yuanyuan was doing her daily training. She started with a round of Earth Burrow Technique and Sky Leap Technique, then reviewed some of the demon arts she had learned. After that, she withdrew her demon aura and began a set of sit-ups.

Fifty reps per set. After three sets, she flopped down like a corpse. But after lying there for a while, she decided that slacking off was too lame and got up again with a grimace to continue.

When her demon energy coursed through her, she could flip around effortlessly. But as someone who used to be human, she didn’t really trust that kind of power.

So she kept doing sit-ups. She’d been at it for about two weeks now… and maybe her abs were starting to show a little? Yuan couldn’t tell if it was real or just her imagination. She was doing it kind of blindly, but even unscientific training seemed to have some effect.

Grinding through three more sets, she looked like she’d just been dragged out of a river. Most people would have collapsed by now. But even though she wasn’t using demon strength, her natural recovery was still excellent, so she just kept going.

If she were all alone, Yuan probably would’ve been content living as a salted fish. But after reading that arc in Demon Chronicles about Yi Qi himself, she suddenly wanted to do something more.

She could throw away her own reputation, but… she didn’t want to drag Yi Qi down.

“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine…”

By the fiftieth rep, she collapsed again. She lay there a while, then bit her lip, sat up, and forced herself to finish the last few. By the end, she was staggering like a zombie. Her abs felt like someone had poured a bottle of vinegar over them—sore and burning.

This was classic willpower-overload mode. Any senior student grinding through endless mock exams would know the feeling.

Just as she was halfway through cleaning up, she heard a knock at the door.

Sweaty and disheveled, she figured it wasn’t a good time to see people. So she decided to just peek through the door and dismiss whoever it was quickly.

Standing outside was a demon woman—very beautiful.

Yuan cracked the door open and looked through the gap without fully letting her in. She could tell instantly this visitor wasn’t here to buy clothes. So she sized her up and asked, “You here to shop?”

“No,” the woman replied calmly.

“Yeah, figured.” Yuan stepped back inside. The woman entered, each step graceful and elegant.

Even a straight guy would find her stunning—probably more so than Yuan did. Unfortunately, Yuan was still holding shampoo, body wash, a towel, and slippers. She finally interrupted the woman’s slow perusal of the room, saying, “Uh, so we’re about to close. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“There’s no need to rush someone out like that,” the woman replied, smiling slightly.

“Well, just say whatever you came to say. I’ve got stuff to do,” Yuan said.

What the hell is this place they assigned me? Every weirdo can just walk right in. I need a new house.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but then fell silent—like she was hesitating.

Yuan’s hair stood on end.

She waited a moment. When the silence dragged on and her sweat had already dried, she finally muttered a spell and disappeared underground. She didn’t even bother locking the door.

Let them come in if they want. There’s nothing worth stealing anyway.

After three such incidents, Yuan started to sense that something was seriously off. Her gut was telling her something, so she avoided the shop altogether for a few days, hiding out in her safe house.

On the third day, she snuck back to check the place… and was stunned by the array of demonic auras inside. She sniffed carefully—so many different perfumes. All kinds of feminine scents filled the room.

Shaken, she bolted back to her house for another two days.

She didn’t go back to the store. She stayed home, reread some manga, tried to reset her brain.

Xiao Ying was about to take the college entrance exam. One day, Yuan heard a knock—Xiao Ying’s mom, bringing soup. Yuan was overwhelmed by the gesture and thanked her repeatedly.

Between that and the hundreds of sit-ups, Yuan was too sore to move.

After recovering a little, she logged into the forum again and saw some of the chatter:

[If trickster demons can actually operate like that, then maybe they really can make a decisive difference in battle. We all know that when a major demon dies, the whole group’s power drops drastically.]

[Even my trickster arts teacher said it’s unlikely. Probably just dumb luck.]

[Well, the logic holds up… but executing it is insanely hard. You’d need excellent trickster footwork, a lot of guts, and experience…]

Yuan thought: Isn’t that normal? In that situation, charging in felt totally natural to me. Turning and running would’ve been the real mistake.

People couldn’t seem to understand how perfect that opportunity had been—how naturally it had all fallen into place. And because of that, they treated it as if it were some kind of miracle.

Confused, Yuan went online to dig up more about trickster demons.

These were the most feared demons in folklore. They passed through walls silently, crept up behind you, slit your throat, or dragged you into inescapable illusions. Basically, they were the stuff of urban legends.

One article compared them to dream demons, who use sleep-based techniques. But in large-scale combat, dream demons were weaklings—fragile and easy to crush. Even if their magic was strong, they couldn’t withstand brute force.

On crowded battlefields, illusions only worked on a few people at a time, and with everyone watching each other’s backs, there was little room for stealth tactics. Trickster demons had to stay in the rear, relying on obscurity to function—often needing others to protect them.

Only very powerful trickster demons could pull off instant kills on enemy commanders. But the skill threshold was so high and the average power so low that most gave up the path. After the Second War, trickster demons suffered heavy casualties. Many turned to other arts—like demonfire.

It was flashy, mindless, and destructive—what’s not to love?

But… if someone could pull off what the video showed…

Yuan stared at the stats—trickster demons who tried to fight in war zones and got slaughtered.

The most infamous case was from the Second Demon-Human War. A squad of elite tricksters was sent to mess with the enemy using illusions. When the enemy broke through, half of them died.

Just reading about it made her shiver.

[I feel like we might be witnessing history here… Anyone else get that vibe?]

[We’ve always talked about their illusions, but we overlooked their mobility. Tricksters are supposed to be ghosts—but they rarely get close enough.]

[Eh, maybe it was just a one-time fluke. What’s there to hype?]

[I’m telling you—if Yuan can pull that off again, I’ll worship him.]

No! Don’t worship me! It really was a fluke!

Yuan stared at the screen, pale-faced. She hadn’t understood the implications before, but now she was freaking out. Everyone was hyping it like crazy.

“New generation of trickster leaders.” “Revolutionizing trickster combat.” Posts were even popping up in human Taoist forums.

The name “Trickster Demon”—【诡妖】—was everywhere.

What kind of stupidly dramatic name is that? Yuan groaned.

But the truth was, the moment anyone said “Trickster Demon,” people thought of her.

Even if they called her something dumb like “Trickster Egg,” she’d still have to accept it. Because names weren’t chosen by the person—they were decided by the public.

A meme spreads, people latch onto it, and boom—it becomes your title. Like the “Three Legendary Ninjas.” Say something once, and it sticks.

Her main concern?

She kept seeing lines like: “If Yuan does that again, I’ll blow him up with praise!”

Stop! I really can’t do it again!

She felt like dying on the spot.

Then, a chill ran down her spine.

Ji Qiu… wouldn’t draw this, right? Probably not… right?

Because if he did, this would be like that phrase from Dream of the Red Chamber: “pouring oil onto a blazing fire.”

Back then, she thought that phrase was ominous. It still was.

Like a roast duck about to be skewered.

That night, Yuan had a nightmare. In it, people carried a giant straw effigy labeled “Big Boss” onto a high stage. It looked familiar… too familiar.

A crowd below shouted “URA!” like some strange cult. Then they lit the straw figure on fire—so brightly, so beautifully.

Yuan woke up screaming.

Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling.

Couldn’t sleep.

She got up and started doing push-ups.

Elsewhere, in a small wooden hut, Liu An read some messages on his phone. Then he turned it off and looked painfully at a mirror by his bed.

【A certain old acquaintance asked me to deliver something to you. I’ve done that now.】

“What acquaintance? Can you be more specific?” Liu An muttered, rolling his eyes at the lipstick-written words on the mirror.

He wiped them away with a tissue—awkwardly.

Of course it was awkward—his chest was wrapped in thick bandages.

【If I told you, it’d ruin the mystery.】
【But you should prepare yourself mentally. It’s not a happy tale. The beginning is tragic—and the ending, even more so.】

“So basically… just a shitshow, right?” Liu An nodded. “Then at least give me a clue about what I should do next?”

【Train well.】
【And wait. Soon… all those people and things from the past will come knocking.】