Chapter 4: Not a Single Normal Person in This Room

Shi Jinshui’s team had five players in total, and they were by far the most eye-catching group. Each of them wore brightly colored clothing—Shi Jinshui in purple, the guy who had just screamed in green, and the other three in red, yellow, and blue.

San Chen wasn’t sure if this was just their team’s style or if there was some deeper meaning behind it. If he’d known he was entering a horror game, he would’ve worn the dullest color possible—something that would let him blend into the crowd and disappear. Then again, even in real life, he rarely wore anything flashy.

The first thing he saw when he heard the scream was a bright red blur in the distance. For a second, he thought it was just a flag hanging by the side of the road.

It wasn’t.

As they got closer, he realized it was a man dressed in red—his head impaled on the iron fence by the road, his entire body slumped forward over the bars.

They hadn’t even been in the game for half an hour, and already, a player was dead. The way he died was gruesome and unnatural.

A sharp iron spike had pierced through his head, entering from his left ear and exiting through the right. Blood dripped down his hair, staining it a deep crimson. His head looked like a hawthorn berry skewered on a stick, a grotesque version of a candied hawthorn treat.

His eyes were wide open, frozen in shock. It was impossible to tell if he was surprised by the fact that he had died just like that—or if he’d seen something else, something no one else had noticed.

Gu Ziyan turned pale at the sight. She trembled as she instinctively stepped in front of San Chen as if shielding him from the horror.

Mao Ziyu frowned. “What the hell happened? How did he die?”

Shi Jinshui’s expression was dark, clearly displeased. “I wasn’t looking at him at the time. When I heard the noise and turned around, his head was already skewered. Wang De saw it happened. Wang De, explain it again.”

Wang De—the man in green who had screamed—was still shaken. His voice trembled as he spoke. “I—I was just chatting with Cai Chang. We were both in a good mood and then… he suddenly slipped. His head hit the fence, just like that.”

The snow on the town’s streets had partially melted, making the slush even more slippery than fresh snow. A fall like that wasn’t impossible.

But was it really just an accident?

“You guys were walking forward, right?” Gu Ziyan asked, frowning. “If he slipped, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to fall forward or backward? How did he end up falling sideways, and just at the right angle to get impaled through the ear?”

Wang De swallowed. “He—he lost his balance trying to steady himself. He staggered and ended up falling to the right.”

Gu Ziyan raised her arms as if she were about to test it out for herself, but before she could, Mao Ziyu casually reached out and pulled her back by the arm. His eyes were still curved into that perpetual crescent-moon shape, smiling as if nothing could faze him.

“You got a death wish?” he asked lazily.

Gu Ziyan immediately dropped the idea and stood obediently beside Mao Ziyu, quietly observing instead.

The man in the soaking wet black clothes finally spoke. “Did he do anything unusual? Something that might’ve broken the rules?”

“If anyone broke the rules, it was Wang De,” Shi Jinshui replied. “He kicked at that ridiculously loud car earlier and even spat at it. But Cai Chang? He didn’t do anything.”

Wang De shivered and shrank back, crossing his arms as he huddled closer to Shi Jinshui.

Judging by the circumstances, there were no clues to be found in Cai Chang’s death. It looked like nothing more than an accident.

Some teams started to leave. San Chen glanced over and saw Yan Mo yawning so hard his eyes were watery. Taking the hint, he said, “Should we head out too?”

There really wasn’t much else to see. Mao Ziyu nodded, and the four of them turned back.

On the way, Mao Ziyu mused, “A person’s ears aren’t directly connected—there’s a eustachian tube in between. That fence spike went straight through, from one ear canal to the other. What are the odds of that?”

Gu Ziyan raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you know a lot about anatomy. Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I know one. Played a few games with him before.” The mention of this doctor made Mao Ziyu’s usual smiling expression shift into something harder to describe. He didn’t seem eager to elaborate and quickly changed the subject. “What do you guys think?”

San Chen didn’t answer. Instead, he clamped his hands over his ears. He looked young, his face barely the size of a palm, framed by the fluffy white fur lining of his puffer jacket. With his neck shrunk down and his ears covered, he looked just like a sulky kid refusing to listen to their parents or answer a teacher’s question.

Mao Ziyu squinted at him. “…What are you doing?”

The guy had a kid on the way, yet he still had a way of poking at people’s nerves.

San Chen muttered, “My ears hurt.”

Gu Ziyan immediately copied him, covering her ears. “Same. First, that car horn practically stabbed my eardrums, and then we had to see Cai Chang die like that. I’m probably gonna have ear pain in my dreams too.”

Mao Ziyu’s crescent-moon eyes sharpened into slits. Suddenly, a connection clicked into place.

First, they passed by that strangely loud car—its horn was so deafening that everyone’s ears ached, except for that pretty boy. And right after that, a player was impaled through both ears.

Was the ear pain a warning?

A hint that the next death would involve ears?

Gu Ziyan had already dropped her hands, but San Chen was still covering his ears. It wasn’t clear whether he was still in pain or just trying to keep warm.

If they had kept their hands over their ears after the car passed and if they had actively protected their ears—would Cai Chang still have died?

Back at the scene, everyone’s focus had been on whether his death was an accident. Not a single person had considered the connection to ears.

Mao Ziyu slowed his pace and glanced at San Chen again. His neck was still tucked into his fur collar, hands pressed firmly over his ears. With most of his face hidden, he looked nothing like a player trying to be clever—just another ordinary, timid newcomer.

That was how he had been when they first boarded the Time Train, too—the most unremarkable of the three new players. Quiet, practically invisible. If every team had to bring a rookie, he was the one nobody would have picked.

Had he actually figured it out? Or was he really just in pain? Or was he using it as an excuse to avoid answering?

San Chen shrank further into his fur collar. Rule number one for a good underling: if you think of something before the boss does, don’t say it outright—drop hints, and subtly guide them to the idea instead.

That way, if it turned out to be wrong later, the boss wouldn’t blame you for it.

This was San Chen’s first time entering a game after boarding the Time Train. He didn’t know how difficult these games could get. He wasn’t sure if the death rules were really that straightforward.

Let the big boss make the call.

On the other side, Wang De and a teammate carefully pried Cai Chang’s corpse off the fence. Wang De slung the body over his back, following cautiously behind Shi Jinshui.

Shi Jinshui hadn’t said a word the entire time, barely even breathed. He knew he had messed up again. Shi Jinshui had warned him before—he could disrespect other players all he wanted, but he had to respect everything within the game world.

Kicking a car for no reason, and spitting in the middle of town—both blatant signs of disrespect. He was too used to acting that way in the real world, and old habits were hard to break.

Finally, Shi Jinshui spoke. “Tonight, we’re bringing San Chen in for a little… study session.”

“Got it!” Wang De perked up immediately, nodding. Then, hesitating, he asked cautiously, “Is there something wrong with him?”

Shi Jinshui hummed in agreement. “I can’t see through his belly. Whatever’s inside him, it’s not a kid. Must be some kind of special ability, maybe one he doesn’t even know he has yet.”

He let out a short chuckle. “He’s got a good act going, I’ll give him that.”

Wang De stiffened. Then, almost instantly, his expression twisted with jealousy.

In this game, players had a chance to awaken abilities. These powers varied wildly—some were so terrifying they made people shudder, while others were utterly useless, barely better than a party trick. But one thing was certain: any ability was better than none.

Not every player was lucky enough to awaken an ability. And among those who did, only a handful were fortunate enough to awaken one in their very first game. Some players didn’t even realize they had an ability until the moment they were dying—only for it to be too late to save them.

The game encouraged players to explore, use, and develop their abilities. However, for complex or powerful ones, the system didn’t always notify the player right away. Instead, it silently observed them throughout the game. Only after the round ended would the system decide—either formally granting the ability or taking it away.

Players called this period the “Ability Qualification Test.”

For simpler or weaker abilities—like enhanced hearing—there was no need for exploration or secrecy. The moment a player awakened one, or the moment they noticed something was different, the system would inform them. These minor abilities didn’t require a qualification period.

San Chen’s ability was tied to that strange belly of his. He wasn’t even aware of it yet, which meant it was some kind of complex, high-level ability. And he had it right from his first game.

Meanwhile, Wang De had struggled through multiple rounds without awakening even the weakest of abilities.

But it didn’t matter. If the boss had his sights on San Chen, then that kid would never truly get to use his ability. Shi Jinshui wouldn’t let a future powerhouse walk out of this game alive.

This wasn’t their first time doing this. They had a system—eliminate the geniuses before they realized what they were, before they figured out how to use their powers. Bury them in their very first game.

The woman walking beside Shi Jinshui spoke up. “But he’s with Mao Ziyu’s team right now. If we make a move on him, won’t—”

“This game doesn’t seem to have ghosts,” Shi Jinshui scoffed. “And without ghosts, what does Mao Ziyu even count for?”

He took a few steps forward, then added, “Still, don’t confront Mao Ziyu head-on. They’re definitely taking turns keeping watch. We’ll grab San Chen when it’s his shift.”

“So… are we going to sleep now?” Mao Ziyu asked, glancing at the other three, who were already tucked under their blankets, sitting on their soft beds like they were ready to call it a night.

For safety reasons, they had originally planned to stay at a hotel. But there weren’t any hotels in town—not even a cheap motel. They had tried begging for a place to crash, but every single resident coldly turned them away. In the end, they had no choice but to stay in an abandoned house.

The house had plenty of empty rooms, but splitting up was a terrible idea. Four people, four separate rooms? That was just asking for trouble. So instead, they had dragged four beds into the spacious living room and decided to sleep together.

Yan Mo was the first to respond enthusiastically. “Goodnight, everyone.”

Maybe it was because of whatever was inside his belly, but the moment San Chen lay down, an overwhelming drowsiness hit him. Half-asleep already, he mumbled, “Night…”

Gu Ziyan glanced at her fellow teammate, a tall and handsome veteran player, a seasoned pro. Being around him made her feel safe. “Feels like being back in a college dorm… Goodnight, guys.”

The four of them lay down almost at the same time, cocooning themselves in soft blankets.

The air in the room carried a faint, unpleasant smell. It wasn’t overpowering, more of a lingering stench—like the accumulated stink of urine and feces that had been there for a long time. It blended with the damp, musty air, just barely noticeable but still tolerable.

As soon as San Chen lay down, he realized his body might have become more sensitive than before. The smell made it a little hard to breathe, leaving him feeling stuffy and uncomfortable. Despite being so tired, he couldn’t fall asleep.

He hesitated. Should he get up and open the window? But that meant leaving the safety of his blanket.

Rule of the Ghost Realm: Ghosts do not harm those wrapped in blankets.

San Chen turned his head toward the window. Beneath the blanket, his hand clenched instinctively.

The curtains were half open. Outside, the low-hanging sky was completely dark—no moon, no stars. The only source of light was the dim glow of a small pumpkin-shaped nightlight in the living room. And in that faint, flickering glow, something moved.

Yan Mo didn’t know about the Ghost Realm’s rules. One of his hands dangled over the side of the bed as he slept.

From beneath the bed, a withered, corpse-blotched, grayish-purple hand slowly reached out, inching toward his hanging hand.

San Chen held his breath.

That hand—it had to be ice-cold and stiff. Maybe even a little sticky. He imagined what it would feel like—dozing off, arm casually hanging over the edge of the bed, only to suddenly grasp something like that.

A chill ran up his spine. Every hair on his arm stood on end.

If Yan Mo felt it—if he touched that unnatural, dead, clammy hand—he’d definitely wake up gasping, maybe even flailing in pure horror.

The ghostly hand made contact.

Yan Mo was tall, with long fingers, his skin pale and cool-toned under the light. The stark contrast between his living, human hand, and the corpse-like, gray-purple ghost hand was jarring.

No reaction.

The ghost hand curled around Yan Mo’s fingers, its withered, wrinkled skin tightening. It had a strong grip.

Three minutes passed.

There’s still no reaction.

The ghost hand gave his hand a firm shake. Its nails scraped faint red marks onto Yan Mo’s skin.

No reaction.

“…”

“…”

San Chen’s eyes darted toward Yan Mo’s bed.

Beneath the blanket, there was a slow, steady rise and fall.

He was still fast asleep.

“…”

It had to be his imagination. Otherwise, why did it feel like that already stiff ghost hand had somehow become even stiffer?

San Chen put himself in the ghost’s shoes.

A newly spawned ghost in the game probably wasn’t the final boss—just some low-level grunt doing its job. And its job? Scaring people. But the poor thing had run into these people.

Tough luck.

Working while alive? Hard. Working after death? Still hard.

The ghost kept at it, gripping tighter and tighter until its hand grew even more rigid.

For a full thirty minutes, the ghost hand remained frozen in place.

Then, it slowly withdrew under the bed.

A moment later, the same hand appeared under Gu Ziyan’s bed.

Unlike Yan Mo, Gu Ziyan probably did know the Ghost Realm’s rules—both of her hands were safely tucked under the blanket. The ghost hand inched out from beneath the bed, creeping forward.

San Chen didn’t dare look at first. If he made eye contact, the ghost might notice him.

But when the ghost turned its back to him, crawling onto Gu Ziyan’s bed, he finally risked a glance.

The ghost wore a dark robe—black, maybe navy, hard to tell in the dim light. Long, wet hair dripped water onto the sheets as it climbed onto the bed, and it didn’t stop there.

It floated.

Now hovering face-to-face with Gu Ziyan.

The moment she opened her eyes, she’d be staring directly into the face of something, its damp, stringy hair draped over her neck.

San Chen pictured it in his head and immediately felt like his heart was about to give out.

The ghost inched lower. Its dripping hair was just about to brush against Gu Ziyan’s skin when—

A soft glow burst from her body.

It wasn’t blinding, but it radiated a kind of overwhelming brilliance, as if a holy aura had wrapped around her.

For a second, the ghost stopped.

San Chen’s brain short-circuited.

The first word that popped into his head—one that had been so overused it had practically become an insult—was: Saint.

The glow held the ghost in place.

Somehow, its face didn’t even look that terrifying anymore. If anything… it almost seemed kind of holy.

“…”

It didn’t last long.

Soon, the ghost hand reappeared—this time under Mao Ziyu’s bed.

Unlike Yan Mo, Mao Ziyu wasn’t careless enough to let his hand dangle over the edge. But he did leave one arm outside the blanket, resting just near the edge of the bed.

Maybe the ghost was still frustrated from its failed attempt with Yan Mo, because this time, it didn’t bother with the slow, creeping approach. It grabbed his hand outright.

San Chen figured Mao Ziyu wouldn’t be as completely oblivious as Yan Mo. No way he wouldn’t notice a ghost gripping his hand.

Sure enough—

Mao Ziyu grabbed the ghost’s hand back.

Then, in one swift motion, he pulled the ghost onto the bed, half-embracing it as he gazed at it with an affectionate smile.

His eyes were practically smoldering.

The ghost’s rigid, gray-white face slowly flushed red.

“…”

Mao Ziyu tucked the ghost under the blanket with him.

What the hell were they doing under there?

San Chen stared blankly at the ceiling. After watching this ghost crawl under three different beds, he had only one conclusion—

There’s not a single normal person in this room.

Except him.

Then, as if to remind him of its presence, his belly let out a small, ominous growl. He touched his stomach.

…It had gotten bigger again.

“…”