Wen Renxi stared intently at Han Jiao, ultimately leaving the butcher knife sheathed.

She was just a regular person, while these were “players” here to complete a mission. She didn’t know their full arsenal.

As players, they surely had skills and items. Though she was hostile, she couldn’t expose herself. She needed intel before striking.

They had hidden cards.

One thing Wen Renxi was sure of: their deaths here meant death in their real world. If they could respawn, they wouldn’t be so terrified. They had one shot.

No rush.

Han Jiao thought she was a player, which Wen Renxi could use.

“I know who you are. Stop pretending! You won’t fool me again!”

Han Jiao’s bluff faltered when she saw Wen Renxi’s teary eyes and red nose.

Tricked.

They’d all been tricked! Why was she crying? And so pitifully? Wasn’t she just acting tough?

Wen Renxi, tears streaming down her face, glanced at Han Jiao expressionlessly and went to the bed.

Was she crying?

Yes.

Not because she was sad. She wasn’t about to cry in front of Han Jiao. But she couldn’t help it.

Were her tear ducts this sensitive? Why was she tearing up so easily?

Wen Renxi sat on the bed, wiping tears and frowning.

She couldn’t let them take Zaoya.

Zaoya would die.

If she intervened, she’d face both the players and the whole village.

But she couldn’t ignore what was happening.

Too late to unsee.

What to do? They couldn’t take Zaoya. That was murder.

Her chance was after the escape. They’d all be searching. Han Jiao thought she was a player, and news would spread. To them, she was one of them—and a rival.

Her searching for Zaoya made sense, right?

It’d become an internal competition. Even if their goal was the same as Hu’s, the players needed to hand in a completed mission. They wouldn’t allow another person to catch Zaoya.

She could use that.

Han Jiao sulked, relaxing now that she knew Wen Renxi’s identity. She stopped hiding her abilities.

She went over her inventory, feeling reassured. Her rich cousin had showered her with items.

Something felt off, but she couldn’t place it.

She pulled out a tracking item.

Zaoya’s escape hadn’t happened yet—or maybe it had. Han Jiao wanted to lock on, find Zaoya fast.

Speed was key.

Soon, Wu Feng, one of Professor Huang’s assistants, knocked.

The bridal procession was here. The ceremony was starting.

Wen Renxi and Han Jiao followed Wu Feng to the front courtyard, packed with people with odd expressions.

It was Hu Jizu’s seventh-day memorial and his wedding.

Wen Renxi scanned the other players. They were tense, waiting for the palanquin.

Ten minutes later, music sounded.

“Let’s go! Rare sight!” Professor Huang rushed out, intrigued by the customs.

Wen Renxi followed, feigning curiosity.

The procession approached.

Leading was a white paper horse with a life-sized paper figure, representing Hu Jizu. Wen Renxi saw the figure clearly.

It had rosy cheeks, smiling oddly.

The musicians and palanquin bearers wore white, with red sashes. Behind them was a white palanquin with red tassels. The procession was bizarre.

Han Jiao gasped, looking at Wen Renxi, who was also watching intently.

The procession was like an ancient wedding, but… off. Instead of confetti, they scattered white paper money.

Hu stood at the gate, grief mixed with anger. Wen Renxi felt no sympathy.

The palanquin arrived. The paper figure was removed. A woman in white emerged, frail and pale, resisting weakly. A red cloth tied her to the paper figure.

“See? Different from a normal wedding,” Professor Huang explained. “This is what we’re here to study.”

“Got it, Professor. I’m taking notes,” Wu Feng said, holding up a notebook.

Wen Renxi saw the three female players’ faces darken. The villagers seemed fine, especially the women, some even envying Zaoya.

Hu’s dowry was huge.

Zaoya’s parents grinned.

“Lucky you, having a daughter like Zaoya.”

“Our Zaoya’s always been a good girl. She’ll take care of her husband,” Zaoya’s mother said smugly.

Han Jiao scoffed, ignoring them. She noticed Wen Renxi’s hand behind her back, gripping the knife hilt, ready to draw.

Wen Renxi tilted her head, looked expressionless, and wiped her tears again.

“Crying from anger?”

“Aren’t you angry?”

Han Jiao got no response until Wen Renxi turned to leave.

“Of course, I’m angry. But it’s none of our business.”

Just a horror game. They weren’t real. They were just trying to survive.

Qin Guoan, the man from the oxcart, sighed.

They were late; the ceremony had started. Hu and his wife sat at the head, as if it were normal.

“To the bridal chamber!”

The players tensed. Zaoya cried out.

“Dad! Mom!”

Her family smiled.

“The bride’s shy. To the chamber!” The butler ordered, and Zaoya was dragged towards an open coffin.

The stench was awful—the body had been rotting for a week.

Tears fell, but Wen Renxi was calm.

This is modern society. Murder is illegal.

Can’t kill them all.

Zaoya would escape.

Be patient.

As Zaoya was forced into the coffin, Wen Renxi finally drew her knife.

Then, chaos. The lid flew off, hitting the ground. A white blur, and Zaoya’s cries were gone.

Zaoya had escaped.