Shang Jingyan’s shot was a tribute to a classic scene from an old foreign horror film—one that had haunted the childhoods of countless people. And just like back then, it still sent chills down spines here.

A common horror trope is the distortion of normal perception—something behaving in a way it absolutely shouldn’t. A person crawling on all fours when they should be walking upright, a supposedly innocent child wearing an unnervingly adult expression, a lifeless doll suddenly moving on its own… That eerie, grotesque absurdity gets under your skin, triggering the deepest kind of discomfort.

The Second Young Master’s hairpin had fallen out due to gravity, and his hair cascaded down, dragging along the staircase. Blood seeped from his joints, leaving crimson handprints wherever he touched.

Every step he crawled, his body creaked with the sound of bones snapping. His face twisted upward, pulling into a vacant, chilling grin.

[His hair! I see his hair!]

[It’s inside his joints… inside his eyes too! Strands and strands of it—ahhhh!]

[The hair is controlling his body!]

Ao Qingxue cringed, her eyes twitching as if they ached in sympathy. “…This is the most immersive ‘shared experience’ I’ve ever had—and it’s not even in a full-dive VR game, but in Director Shang’s short film!”

The crowd below panicked, scrambling in all directions as the “Second Young Master” scuttled down the stairs at an unnatural speed.

The hair, unfamiliar with how to properly operate a human body, stumbled as it stood up. Realizing the head was facing the wrong way, it forcibly twisted the Second Young Master’s skull a full 180 degrees. His head drooped, hanging limp on his neck like a broken puppet.

But the body was unsteady, staggering a few steps before collapsing to the ground, muscles twitching in restless agitation as it attempted to crawl forward again.

Master Gao, witnessing the horrific scene, trembled violently before his eyes rolled back, and he fainted on the spot.

[Holy sh*t, why is this both terrifying and weirdly funny?!]

[He’s done for, no doubt about it. Head’s completely busted.]

[My own neck hurts just watching this—ugh!]

Gao Xiaoyun was frozen in terror, her face pale with shock. Just by looking at her expression, one could practically hear the frantic thoughts racing through her mind: Is… is this the method that Gu Lang was talking about?!

Luckily, in the chaos, no one noticed her reaction.

The hair, seemingly dissatisfied with this failing body, decided to abandon it in search of a new host.

A tiny hole had opened at the Second Young Master’s temple—like a gunshot wound. But instead of blood, a thick, endless tide of black hair gushed out, unfurling like a flood.

—So that’s why he always complained about his headaches. His brain had already been gnawed away by this thing—how could it not hurt?

“Ahhh! Stay away! Don’t come near me—!”

At that moment, one of the maids, driven to the brink of terror, panicked and knocked over a lampstand.

The spreading hair was just about to reach her skirt when the flame licked at it—and instantly, a portion of it burned away. The strands recoiled, shrinking back as though in pain.

“It’s afraid of fire!”

Among the onlookers, a Taoist priest hired by the Gao family suddenly shouted in triumph, as if grasping a lifeline. “Don’t be afraid—burn it! Use fire!”

That night, sleep was out of the question.

Someone rushed to the kitchen and brought back a jug of oil. In an instant, the flames roared to life, consuming the hem of the Second Young Master’s once-elegant robes.

“My son—my son! You murderers, all of you!”

Master Gao had come to at some point, only to witness his son’s body being swallowed by fire. He wailed in anguish. “Stop! Stop this at once!”

But no one was about to risk their own lives just to follow his orders.

His cries of grief were soon drowned out by the roar of the flames.

The climax had passed. The camera slowly pulled back. The fire had begun to spread to the wooden beams of the mansion, creeping toward the central courtyard.

In the background, voices screamed, “Fire! The house is on fire! Get water—hurry!” Their shouts blended with the chaotic sounds of running footsteps.

The screen faded to black.

Ao Qingxue stirred slightly, realizing she had been frozen in place for a long time. Her fingers felt ice-cold.

Then, in the dead silence, the wailing sound of a suona flute echoed.

The scene shifted.

Yellow funeral paper fluttered through the air. The mournful, piercing sound of funeral music sent shivers down the spine.

It was early summer, yet the sky was eerily overcast. The entire Gao residence was draped in a ghostly sea of white mourning clothes.

This was the funeral scene from the trailer. And now, the audience finally knew—the one in the coffin was the Second Young Master.

The fire had gutted nearly half of the century-old Gao estate. Charred wood and rubble lay scattered, the mess yet to be cleaned up. The damage, coupled with the funeral proceedings, cast an even deeper shadow over the once-prosperous household.

Blackened beams jutted out, stark against the sky, like the exposed bones of a giant corpse.

Because of the supernatural events, many of the maids and servants had quietly fled, unwilling to risk their lives. The Gao family’s masters were too drained to bother stopping them.

Dressed in mourning white, Gao Xiaoyun carefully pushed open a window on the second floor. She peered at the funeral procession below, her hand tightening around a comb, her expression unreadable.

[Gu Lang’s prediction was spot on. No one’s thinking about forcing her into marriage now.]

[In a twisted way, I guess that’s a good thing… but damn, what a terrifying way to help. Good thing Gao Xiaoyun had no real bond with her brother, or this would’ve broken her.]

[I don’t trust anyone anymore. I swear Gu Lang has his own agenda—QAQ]

[That comb he gave her… Did he plan all this from the start? Was it meant to help her take down the Gao family?]

[Very possible. If the comb could kill the Second Young Master, it can kill others too. What’s his endgame? Is he trying to wipe out the entire Gao household?]

[Wait, what about the hair? If everyone here is fine, does that mean it’s gone for now? But you know it’s coming back to wreak havoc later…]

The barrage of comments echoed Gao Xiaoyun’s own thoughts. She slowly slid down against the window frame, murmuring, “Only you… only you can comfort me now, comb…”

Meanwhile, Master Gao, devastated by his son’s death, had visibly aged overnight. Even his once-round belly had shrunk.

After returning from the funeral, he clutched his wife’s wrist, his voice trembling. “Our family has prospered for a hundred years. Never—never—have we encountered such an unholy disaster! And yet now, bizarre misfortunes keep happening, culminating in my son’s death! I’ve thought long and hard, and there is only one possible cause…

“The only variable is San Niang. She brought this evil into our home!”

His words dripped with venom, clearly a conclusion he had been brooding over for a while. “I will hire the most powerful exorcists to cleanse this house of evil!”

Then, with tears streaming down his face, he sobbed, “My son’s body is incomplete… he will be so lonely in the underworld… My love, should we find him a companion?”

[Wait… is he suggesting a ghost marriage?!]

[WTF?! Dude, you’re scarier than the hair monster!]

[This is not gonna end well. Calling it now—someone’s getting offed. Lighting a candle in advance.]

Ao Qingxue sucked in a sharp breath. The screen went black as soon as that last line was spoken, and the words “Episode 2 – End” appeared in the center.

She immediately felt like she was crawling out of her skin. “It ended just like that?! Again?!”

She wished she could time travel straight to the series finale and binge-watch the whole thing in one go!

–

Even from a pure storytelling standpoint, Rouge Comb was suspenseful and gripping enough. Normally, interstellar audiences watched dramas while anxiously tracking the romantic progress of the leads, but this was the first time they were on edge over the heroine’s actual survival.

On the Evergreen forum, a thread had climbed to the top of the trending list:

[If You Were Gao Xiaoyun, How Would You Survive in a World That’s Both Medieval and Haunted?]

[This is survival on hell mode!]

[After watching Episode 2, Eldritch God doesn’t even feel scary anymore. The world of Rouge Comb is the kind that actually eats people…]

[What on earth goes on inside Director Shang’s head? Three projects, three completely different ways to terrify the audience.]

…

Rose Heart.

Shang Jingyan lounged on a beach chair, wearing sunglasses and letting the sea breeze wash over her. A glass of rose-infused sparkling wine rested casually in her hand, the picture of leisure.

This planet had both a castle rose garden and a beach, making it the perfect place to recreate scenes from Eldritch God. Not far away, the waves lapped at the shore, white gulls soaring in the sky.

She said, “You’re famous now, You Yao.”

On the holographic screen, You Yao’s expression twisted into the very definition of suffering. “Thanks a lot, Director Shang, but I really didn’t need to know that.”

—The ill-fated second young master of the Gao family, the poor side-character with the most spectacular death in Rouge Comb, was played by none other than You Yao.

When he first got the script, he’d stayed silent for a full three minutes before storming over to Shang Jingyan to demand, Why does this have to be done with real actors?!

He only had three scenes in total. The first was him acting like an arrogant young master and whining about a headache. The second had him running for his life, completely disheveled, being chased by hair. And the third? Crawling backward down the stairs.

And, of course, the most difficult scene—his death. Shang Jingyan hadn’t been lying about that.

Wouldn’t AI be a better choice for this?!

But Shang Jingyan was a perfectionist. With every other actor, including the extras, being real people, using AI for a significant supporting role would stand out like a sore thumb.

The first Eldritch God hadn’t had the budget, sure. But now that they had money, why not aim higher?

So she’d used every trick in the book to keep You Yao on board. And in the end, his scene became the most terrifying moment of Episode 2.

“Cheer up. A lot of viewers are using your expressions as reaction memes now. That’s a kind of fame too,” Shang Jingyan said seriously. “They’re all saying your… uh, crawling was top-tier acting.”

—Some viewers had taken the moment when he flailed on the stairs after his fall, edited out the bloodstains to make it less gruesome, and added a caption: Crawling through the darkness like a lunatic.

It had unexpectedly gone viral, sending the entire interstellar web into fits of laughter.

You Yao: “…”

He was devastated. Of course it looked good! He’d practiced crawling for half a month just for that scene!

His striking golden hair and blue eyes gave him an exotic look, but his features still leaned slightly Eastern. With a change in hair and eye color, he blended into the Rouge Comb setting just fine.

But right now, no one cared about his striking good looks. The only image people had of him was his bloodied, foolishly grinning face.

You Yao let out a long, weary sigh before changing the subject. Flashing a cheeky smile, he asked, “Director Shang, how about playing Building 18 with me later? I’m too scared to play alone, but watching it is driving me crazy—I just have to try.”

If he could get the Dreamweaver herself to accompany him, wouldn’t that mean an effortless clear? Just thinking about it made him excited.

“I have a meeting later,” Shang Jingyan rejected him outright. “No time.”

“A meeting? With who? Aren’t you on vacation? Why do you sound like you’re still working…”

Before he could finish, she hung up on him.

Her holo-assistant chimed in: “Schedule reminder: You have a meeting with a ‘potential business partner’ at 2 PM. One hour remaining. Please prepare in advance.”

Shang Jingyan’s meeting tonight was with the owner of Rose Heart.

She’d looked it up online—Rose Heart was under the Xue family’s tourism empire, and more specifically, it was currently managed by their eldest daughter, Xue Jiang.

At 27, Xue Jiang was an only child. Given the interstellar human lifespan of 160 years, she should have had decades under her parents’ protection before taking over Xue Tourism.

But last year, her mother, the reigning CEO, died suddenly in an air accident. Xue Jiang had been forced to drop out of school and take the reins in a crisis.

From Shang Jingyan’s research, it was clear that Rose Heart’s performance was crucial to Xue Jiang’s ability to secure her position as the next head of the company.

Which explained why, in recent months, she had been making bold moves—like turning part of the planet into a Eldritch God-style horror attraction.

So far, the results were impressive.

—But Shang Jingyan believed it could be even better.

You Yao wasn’t wrong. She really was working while on vacation. The “workaholic” label had followed her all her life, and it looked like this reincarnation was no exception.

Not only that, but before her meeting, she even had to act as an online GM.

Shang Jingyan had discovered that her spiritual power had a useful perk—it let her multitask effortlessly. Just now, while chatting with You Yao, she had also been running Building 18 as its online GM.

Compared to the “cloud audience” watching the live broadcasts of her short dramas, Building 18 had even more “cloud players.”

Since full-dive VR horror was an experience, many players didn’t have the guts to play themselves and only watched streamers take the plunge.

Right now, the two most popular streamers were Azure Snow and Lu Zibing.

Both had explored Dorm 3 and found key items, but they had chosen different playstyles.

Ao Qingxue had opted for the “Follow Mode,” focused on logic and deduction. Her analysis was sharp, and even when faced with ghostly students, she remained unnervingly calm. Her viewers felt reassured—if she wasn’t scared, they weren’t either.

Lu Zibing, on the other hand, had picked “Experience Mode,” which basically meant watching him panic for entertainment. Everyone was betting on when he’d cry from fear next.

Shang Jingyan took a sip of her sparkling wine. A flicker of light in her mental vision told her—

Lu Zibing had just logged in.

–

Gamma Star System

After screaming his way out of Building 18 last time, Lu Zibing had spent two whole days playing romance sims to recover before daring to log back in on a bright, sunny afternoon.

[…And now, our brave streamer is back after watching Rouge Comb at midnight.]

Lu Zibing took a good look at “himself” in the mirror. The character model for Langzhu, the female protagonist, was stunning—down to the small red mole at the corner of her left eye.

He couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “I wonder if this game has a romance route?”

Lu Zibing had a habit of playing female protagonist games during his livestreams. His thick northeastern accent combined with interactions with male characters always made for peak comedy.

The chat lit up:

[With Director Shang at the helm? You better not get your hopes up for any romance (lighting a candle for you).]

“I don’t buy it. How could a game have zero romance elements? Even the protagonist of Rouge Comb had a lover!”

He arrived at the school, and sure enough, just as chat had predicted, the gameplay so far was totally mundane. But when he entered the office, his eyes lit up. “This guy has to be a romance option!”

Next to the female protagonist’s desk sat a refined young male teacher in a crisp white dress shirt. When he saw Lu Zibing approach, he looked up and greeted him with a polite nod. “Good morning, Principal Lang.”

He smiled—like the first thaw of winter melting into spring.

Lu Zibing caught sight of the bold Song font labeling his name: Lin Huailu.

[Give up, streamer. It’s a dead end. Players have tried multiple times—no secret route to be found.]

[But he totally seems to like the protagonist! When I dropped some files, he even made extra sure our hands brushed when he picked them up. Scheming bastard!]

[Are you sure you’re not imagining things? As far as the game’s logic goes, he shouldn’t even know the protagonist yet. Still, with modeling this detailed, he’s bound to be important.]

Lu Zibing made a mental note. I’m focusing on Lin Huailu from now on.

He wandered around the office for a bit, but the sheer amount of text on the documents made his brain hurt. On a whim, he asked, “Hey, do you guys think I can just head straight to Building 18?”

[?? Streamer, calm down. What’s going on in that head of yours? You’re supposed to introduce yourself to the class next and lead a homeroom session.]

[You can’t go there yet! It’s a locked area.]

[Uh… actually, not exactly. Some players managed to climb over the fence, but the second they got in, they felt this intense chill. Everyone who went in turned right back around.]

Lu Zibing had a rebellious streak. What started as a passing thought quickly turned into an obsession. “Now I have to go. Maybe I’ll even glitch through something.”

No sooner said than done. He rushed downstairs so fast he nearly crashed into a student.

“Whoa!—Sorry, sorry!” Lu Zibing apologized, but then his stomach dropped.

It was another long-haired girl.

Her hair was a mess, clearly cut with a pair of scissors by an unsteady hand. Her school uniform had a gaping tear across it, exposing the mesh fabric underneath.

She was tall, her uniform pants too short at the ankles, leaving her skin bare against the lingering chill of early spring.

“You’re… Lin Xiaomei?” Lu Zibing spotted her name on her student ID. He remembered it because out of all the names on the class roster, hers was the simplest and most generic.

Lin Xiaomei seemed skittish. She peeked up at him once, muttered a quick “Sorry, Teacher,” then ducked her head and scurried away.

A prompt popped up on his control panel:

[You bumped into a student and remembered you should be organizing morning reading. Explore Building 18 later when you have more clues.]

Lu Zibing couldn’t care less. He bolted forward. “Nah, not happening. Who wants to organize morning reading? I’m breaking in!”

—

Control Room.

Shang Jingyan: “?”

Why was he so damn stubborn?

She still hadn’t fully grasped just how much players loved to throw themselves into danger.

If a map marks a restricted area, it must be explored. If something is off-limits, it must be broken. If a cliff will definitely kill you, it must be jumped from. There was no limit to what a player would try—only to what a game designer could anticipate.

She had even placed Xiaomei there as a subtle warning. But this fool had blown right past it.

“Well, can’t be helped…” Shang Jingyan sighed, then smirked. “Guess it’s time to put my little prank to good use.”

She had never expected anyone to actually trigger that easter egg.

X71: “?”

He thought she was sighing out of frustration.

Turns out, she was mourning Lu Zibing instead.

—

Ignoring the blood-red warning windows flashing, Lu Zibing barged straight into Building 18.

He climbed over the fence, and sure enough, a bone-deep chill swept over him, making him shudder.

[Holy crap, streamer, I take back all those times I called you a coward. You’ve got guts!]

[Not gonna lie, now I’m curious. What happens if you go in early?]

[Do it, do it! I want to see absolute carnage.jpg!]

In just a few minutes, chat had gone from discouraging him to full-blown egging him on. Lu Zibing clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering and scanned the area. The main doors were locked, but one of the windows didn’t have security bars.

So he grabbed a rock and smashed it open.

The inside was a long, narrow hallway, dimly lit and cluttered with storage junk. He had to sidestep his way through.

If this were any game from Shang Jingyan’s past life, experienced players would know: tight spaces with obstructed vision like this? Prime jumpscare territory.

But neither Lu Zibing nor chat had their guard up. He strolled in like he owned the place.

Right until he was halfway down the hall—when something brushed against his face.

It was soft. Wispy.

“Huh? Black threads?” Lu Zibing looked up.

Straight into a blood-red face.

He shrieked on instinct.

It wasn’t threads.

It was hair.

[OH HELL NO, NOT HAIR AGAIN!]

[Rouge Comb trauma flashbacks intensifying!]

[WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! THERE’S A MONSTER IN BUILDING 18!]

Chat exploded. The creature had a humanoid body, but a long, bare, rat-like tail. It clung to the ceiling on all fours, its movement eerily spider-like.

Worst of all, its skin was deathly pale—but its face was skinned raw, a blood-drenched rodent skull with exposed, unblinking eyeballs staring right at Lu Zibing.

“AAAHHHH!!—I’M RUNNING, I’M RUNNING, OKAY?!”

Lu Zibing immediately chickened out, turned tail, and bolted—screaming all the way.

Too bad two legs couldn’t outrun four. He didn’t make it 20 meters before he died.

Respawn.

He found himself right back at the starting point. A message popped up:

[You entered Building 18 and got trapped inside. Defeat the monster to return to normal life. Good luck!]

Before he could even finish reading it, he was slaughtered again.

His soul left his body. “How the hell is this playable?! The difficulty’s insane!”

Chat: [You picked hell mode, buddy.]

Lu Zibing: “…”

If he could time travel, he’d go back and slap his past self. Twice.

After several more miserable deaths, he finally calmed down enough to start using the hallway’s clutter as weapons.

Brandishing a mop like a spear, he roared, “COME AT ME! I REFUSE TO LOSE!”