Chapter 14: The ghosts started fighting.

What does it feel like to be lying in bed in the middle of the night, slowly surrounded by ghosts?

At first, as more and more ghostly hands appeared around the bed and ghastly heads started rising in parallel, Sang Chen curled up under his blanket, body stiff, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

But by the time the third ghostly head popped up, the whole thing started to feel so absurdly low-budget that the sheer ridiculousness of it suppressed his growing fear.

The ghosts here, much like the decor of the house, were copy-pasted duplicates.

One after another, ghostly hands landed by his bedside. It seemed like a lot of ghosts, but in reality, there were only two types: one was a pale-faced male ghost in a deep blue robe with long black hair, and the other was a female ghost in a red dress, with blood-red lips and hair half-covering her face.

These two types of ghosts repeated over and over, at least ten of each, crawling towards his bed one by one.

They all had long black hair, and slowly, Sang Chen’s bed was being swallowed by a sea of black strands.

Noticing how eerily identical they were, Sang Chen strangely felt much less afraid. He watched as the ghosts crawled onto his bed, either lying down or sitting, eerily fixated on his stomach.

Sang Chen held his breath as much as possible. Every time he exhaled, his stomach would rise and fall slightly, and with each subtle movement, the ghosts inched closer, their faces nearly pressing against his abdomen. The air grew colder and heavier with an ominous chill.

One ghost turned its head and started crawling towards his face.

Going by the traditional ghostly etiquette—where ghosts supposedly couldn’t harm someone under a blanket—Sang Chen kept his head inside, only peering through a small gap. That gap was now completely blocked by a pair of pitch-black, pupil-less ghostly eyes.

“…”

Then, the ghost lifted his blanket.

It didn’t follow the rules.

It kept moving closer, its face nearly touching his, and a ghostly hand reached toward his mouth.

A freezing sensation pressed against Sang Chen’s lips. The next second, that ghost was suddenly flung to the ground by a female ghost, who then moved in closer—only to be thrown out by another ghost.

One ghost lunged, another hurled it away. Then another. And another.

The ghosts started fighting.

“…”

Unlike human fights, ghost fights didn’t come with the sounds of physical impact, but they were full of force and ice-cold energy. Some ghosts got tossed onto Yan Mo’s bed—not enough to wake him. Others landed next to Gu Ziyan, jolting her awake from the sheer chill.

The moment she opened her eyes and saw a ghost sprawled beside her, she thought her worst nightmare had come true. Her eyes rolled back, about to faint from fear—until she realized the ghost looked just as startled and bolted away in an instant.

Dazed, she turned her head and saw Sang Chen’s bed absolutely swarming with ghosts. Letting out a piercing scream, she scrambled off her bed. “AAAAHHHHH! Mao Ziyu, save Sang Chen!!”

Mao Ziyu, whom no ghost had even looked at: “…”

Maybe take another look—does he really need saving?

Gu Ziyan, seeing Mao Ziyu wasn’t moving, screamed again and lunged to pull Sang Chen off the bed. As she reached for him, a faint white glow flickered around her arm, dispersing the ghosts as she grabbed Sang Chen’s wrist.

The moment she pulled Sang Chen upright, every ghost in the room vanished.

Gu Ziyan was still screaming: “AAAAAHHHH! AAAAAHHHH! RUN! JUST RUN!!”

“…”

A minute later, the four of them sat on their respective beds—some dazed, some deep in thought, some silent, some struggling to stay awake.

Mao Ziyu was the first to speak. “First, Sang Chen, I think there’s something seriously wrong with your stomach. Second, Gu Ziyan, I think you’ve awakened an anti-ghost ability.”

Sang Chen added, “Or maybe she awakened a purification ability.”

He recounted what he had witnessed the night before, successfully shifting the attention to Gu Ziyan.

Gu Ziyan looked bewildered. “An ability? Purifying ghosts?”

Mao Ziyu explained, “Some players awaken abilities in these games. If the system didn’t notify you about yours, it means you’ve got a high-level ability—one that’s more complex and requires you to figure out how to use it yourself.”

Then, he turned to Sang Chen, who met his gaze with a perfectly blank, utterly clueless expression.

Mao Ziyu continued, “Abilities usually align with a person’s traits. Like me—I have a bit of a romance brain, so my ability is literally ‘Love Drunk.’ As long as I like someone, I can make them fall in love with me. Doesn’t matter if they’re human, ghost, or demon. As long as they have life and emotions, it works.”

Gu Ziyan’s mouth fell open in shock.

Mao Ziyu studied her thoughtfully. Gu Ziyan was slender and beautiful. Even after a day and night without freshening up, with smudged makeup, she still had an undeniable charm. She was kind-hearted, always treating people well, and even in danger, she would try to help others—like the classic saintly female protagonist trope.

Mao Ziyu speculated, “Could your ability be a ‘Holy Aura’? If Sang Chen says you can purify ghosts, that fits the idea.”

Gu Ziyan made a small sound of realization. “Possibly? Not gonna lie, people have called me a saint before, but I never thought it’d become a literal ability.”

“…”

Mao Ziyu then turned to Sang Chen again, uncertain about his stomach. He’d seen plenty of weird abilities in this game, but an ever-expanding stomach? That was a first.

If abilities matched personal traits, then what would Sang Chen’s be? A piggy bank? A money pouch?

Sang Chen was also considering this new angle—if the game assigned abilities based on personal characteristics, then what did his mean? If his stomach was absorbing people’s resentment, hostility, and other eerie, negative energies, then…

Two words popped into his mind.

Punching bag.

Sang Chen: “…”

Having spent years as a pushover in real life just to scrape by, enduring all kinds of grievances, Sang Chen quietly had a mental breakdown.

So, this was how the game saw him? Damn, it was spot-on.

The only difference was that, in real life, he absorbed people’s anger, while here, it was resentment and malice. But really, wasn’t human anger often laced with spite, resentment, and hostility anyway?

Mao Ziyu glanced at Sang Chen’s stomach again, unsure. Since Sang Chen wasn’t saying anything, he didn’t press the issue.

Abilities were survival tools, often tied to a player’s personal secrets. If Sang Chen didn’t want to talk about it, that was completely normal—and smart.

Ten minutes later, the four of them lay back down.

According to other players, once the ghost under the bed disappeared, it wouldn’t return, so they didn’t need to worry about another attack.

Sang Chen, however, still couldn’t fall asleep. He curled up under his blanket and, using the last bit of battery on his phone, shone the light on his stomach.

For the first time, he truly faced its growing size.

A raised pattern twisted across his swollen belly—two lines, one red, one black, both glowing faintly, as if they were slowly shifting beneath his skin.

If someone lifted his shirt right now, they’d immediately notice how unnatural it looked. Those two flowing lines alone were eerie enough.

If only he could make them disappear.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, the lines faded, sinking seamlessly into his skin.

The sensation was strange—like he was controlling his ability for the first time.

His mind spun with questions. Did the two colors represent different kinds of energy? If that was the case, then were they meant to be used in different ways?

Outside, the air in town felt like it was being swallowed by the ink-black night. The darker it got, the thinner the air became.

Drowsy from the suffocating atmosphere, Sang Chen tried to think, but his thoughts drifted into the haze of sleep before he could reach any conclusions.

When he woke up, it felt like only minutes had passed. In reality, the sun was already up. He had slept for hours, but the suffocating air had left him with a pounding headache, making it feel like he’d barely rested at all.

Yan Mo was still asleep, while Mao Ziyu and Gu Ziyan were nowhere to be seen. They must have gone out searching for clues.

Sang Chen struggled to get out of bed, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Just standing up made him nearly black out. He had to clutch the edge of the bed for a long time before he felt steady enough to take a step.

The town was drowning in thick gray fog, suffocating and impenetrable.

After searching the room and finding no sign of Mao Ziyu or Gu Ziyan, Sang Chen pushed open the door and stepped outside, hoping to spot them in the courtyard. But the fog was too dense. He could barely see a few feet ahead, let alone make out any distant figures. His throat burned, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and every breath was a battle.

He took a few more unsteady steps forward, passing through the courtyard and out the main gate. Still, no sign of them.

He didn’t dare go any farther. In this kind of environment, wandering into town alone was too risky. So, he stood just outside the door, scanning the area as best as he could and forcing out a few hoarse calls of their names.

No response.

Sang Chen crouched down, trying to catch his breath. The world around him was nothing but an endless expanse of gray. No people. No voices. It felt like he was the only one left.

Then, suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine.

He whipped around to look behind him—

The door was gone.

His breathing grew heavier, more frantic—like a dying man gasping for air after someone pulled the plug on his ventilator.

Clutching his down jacket, he scanned his surroundings.

Before, even through the fog, he could at least make out the outlines of houses and dead trees. But now?

Nothing.

No buildings. No courtyard. Not even the bare white walls of the inn.

Just an endless, colorless void.

No doors. No signs of life.

Only the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Ignoring the searing pain in his lungs, Sang Chen bolted toward where the door had been, running full speed—

Nothing.

He turned and ran in another direction, then another, pushing himself forward until he was dizzy from lack of oxygen—

Still nothing.

No doors. No people.

He collapsed to the ground, struggling to squeeze out what little air remained in his lungs.

“Mao Ziyu!”

“Gu Ziyan!”

“Yan Mo!”

“Yan Mo!!”

His voice cracked, but he kept shouting, throat raw, pain lancing through his chest until his eyes stung with tears.

“Yan… Mo!”

“Yan… hff, hff… Mo—hff, hff—”

The gray fog swallowed everything. No familiar sights. No way to find anyone. It was as if the world had abandoned him.

Blinking rapidly through the burn in his eyes, his muddled mind latched onto something—

Zhang Guan’s words from before.

“This is for your own safety. You need to take responsibility for your life. Have you ever imagined a fear so deep it shakes you to your core?”

Of course he had.

He was terrified of losing his job. Terrified of having no money. That had been his biggest fear for years.

But just now, crouching alone in that suffocating fog, another fear had surfaced—

A memory, buried deep.

A child, standing outside a locked door.

A mother who had thrown him out.

No matter how hard he pounded on that door, he couldn’t find his way home.