Chapter 6: “What’s the Deal with Your Ghost?”

Logically speaking, there was no way a grown man could fit down a toilet.

The opening was way too small. You couldn’t even fit a hand through it, let alone an entire adult.

And yet, the cold hard fact was—he was in there. That was the conclusion the dead man’s captain came to after putting on gloves and pushing his hair aside.

“Take the toilet apart.”

The team captain was a female player with long, curly hair, dressed in a silver, skintight leather suit. Beautiful and badass, she was the type to make quick, decisive calls.

When one of her teammates hesitated and called out, “Captain—” she immediately cut them off. “What, you wanna let Xu Feng die for nothing? How are we supposed to find more clues if we don’t take it apart? We’re not leaving his body in there!”

Since they were going ahead with it, the surrounding players instinctively backed away. A few at the front turned around—and one of them visibly flinched when they saw Sang Chen perched on Mao Ziyu’s shoulders.

Sang Chen: “……”

Mao Ziyu crouched down. “Ancestor, you planning to stay up there all day? Listen, I don’t care how much you like me, next time you cannot ride me like that.”

Sang Chen scrambled down at record speed.

As the group up front started dismantling the toilet, the player who had flinched earlier sidled up to Sang Chen and struck up an enthusiastic conversation.

“We had a ghost show up last night,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Crawled out from under the bed. Scared the hell out of us. You guys run into anything like that?”

Sang Chen instantly understood the reason for his sudden friendliness—he’d just seen him on top of Mao Ziyu. Everyone knew Mao Ziyu was a powerhouse. The fact that Sang Chen had the guts to ride on his shoulders? That must mean they’d gotten really close overnight.

Brother, you’ve got it all wrong, Sang Chen thought.

He was terrified too!

Who in their right mind would dare climb onto Mao Ziyu’s shoulders?

It was an accident!

At this point, explaining would only make things weirder, so he simply followed along with the conversation. “Yeah… something like that. What happened to your ghost?”

“Looks like every team had one,” the player muttered. “I asked another group earlier, and they had a ghost under their bed too. Seems like each room got one. And just like ours, theirs disappeared at some point. No idea where it went.”

So that’s how it is.

Which meant the ghost in their room must have disappeared too—probably right after Mao Ziyu stuffed it under the covers.

Of course, there was no way Sang Chen was going to spill that particular detail. It sounded way too much like some juicy, scandalous story about their team leader’s bizarre habits. Instead, he just said, “Ours disappeared too.”

“Man, what’s the deal with these ghosts? They just pop out to give us a little scare and leave? You think this guy died from fright? Otherwise, what’s the connection between ghosts and this game?”

Sang Chen had a feeling the guy was fishing for information—not because he thought Sang Chen was any kind of expert, but because of his temporary association with Mao Ziyu.

Sorry, but I’ve got nothing for you.

When they’d first arrived at Xiangyang Town yesterday, they’d thought it wasn’t the type of setting for a classic haunted village horror scenario. Cai Chang’s death hadn’t shown any obvious signs of a vengeful spirit at work either.

And yet, in the middle of the night, a ghost had crawled out from under their bed.

A textbook horror movie ghost—long black hair, sickly grayish-purple skin. The kind that wouldn’t look out of place in any number of scary films.

And it felt completely out of sync with the rest of this town’s atmosphere.

That ghost must have shown up for a reason—probably wanted to do something—but unfortunately, it had landed in a room with three complete weirdos. Whatever plan it had got completely derailed.

Which meant Sang Chen and his group knew even less about it than the others, with fewer clues to go on.

As they talked, the toilet up front had already been cut open.

The method they settled on was… unconventional, to say the least. One of the players—wielding a knife that defied Sang Chen’s understanding—carefully sliced through the toilet, the floor, and part of the sewage pipe.

To be extra cautious, the player took it slow, cutting bit by bit. But before they could even get a full cross-section, a huge wave of blood and flesh, mixed with the foul stench from deep inside the toilet, gushed out.

Sweat dripped down the player’s forehead as they worked. Their teammates kept layering mask after mask over their face.

Several players couldn’t take it anymore. Gagging sounds rippled through the crowd like a chain reaction.

Gu Ziyan was puking too, pale as a ghost, barely able to stand—but still remembered to pass Sang Chen, the “pregnant lady,” a tissue.

Even after fully cutting through, there wasn’t much else to see. Most of the flesh and blood had already poured out. A full-grown man getting sucked into a toilet obviously wouldn’t remain intact. His bones were shattered, leaving only a pile of broken fragments and mangled flesh.

“This has to be a siphon toilet!” someone blurted out.

Mao Ziyu: “Huh?”

Gu Ziyan looked just as confused. Yan Mo, even more so—his face was blank with exhausted bewilderment.

Sang Chen sighed and explained, “There are two types of toilets: siphon and direct flush. The key point here is that a siphon toilet… has suction. It pulls waste down the drain.”

Basically, the player was suggesting that the toilet’s suction had suddenly gone haywire—so powerful that when the victim sat down, it just sucked him in.

Mao Ziyu let out an ohhhh of realization. Then, “Wait, how do you know all this?”

“I researched the flushing mechanisms, water efficiency, drainage capacity, and odor prevention when I was buying a toilet,” Sang Chen replied matter-of-factly.

“…Damn, you’re thorough.” Mao Ziyu nodded approvingly. “I just bought the most expensive one. My mom always said, ‘If you don’t know quality, at least your money does.’”

Some poor soul in the crowd, who lived paycheck to paycheck, quietly broke inside. But just like when his boss once asked if 4,000 yuan a month was “enough” and why he was so eager to work overtime, he kept a straight face.

When you don’t have money, you do your homework.

If I can get the same result for a hundred bucks less, I’ll take it. If I can save some water, even better.

“I don’t think it was suction. I think it was a ghost.”

A female player offered a different theory. “Didn’t you guys run into one last night? There was a ghost in our room—a hand reached out from under the bed and grabbed people.”

“There was probably a ghost in the toilet too. When the victim sat down, the ghost stuck its hand out and dragged him in, bit by bit. That would line up with what happened last night. They might be the same ghost!”

If that ghost had really been in the toilet, then…

Sang Chen’s gaze quietly shifted to Yan Mo’s hand—the one that had been clutched and shaken by a ghost hand for a long, long time.

Then he looked at Mao Ziyu, who had personally wrapped the ghost up in his blanket for some up-close-and-personal bonding.

Yan Mo had slept like the dead, completely unaware that his hand had spent a solid half an hour being manhandled by a ghost.

Mao Ziyu, on the other hand, had voluntarily cuddled it.

Mao Ziyu didn’t feel as awkward as he thought he would. In fact, he was looking at him too.

Their gazes met for a brief second—then immediately darted away.

Sang Chen muttered, “Basic survival rule number one: never let your boss know you just witnessed his most embarrassing moment.”

Mao Ziyu: “Yeah, better if he never finds out. For all we know, that toilet ghost was trying to crawl into his mouth.”

Yesterday, Cai Chang’s death hadn’t left behind any useful clues. But since nearly every team had run into a ghost, most players leaned toward the theory that something was lurking in the toilet—something that had dragged the victim in.

The discussion carried on while the dead player’s teammates silently and grimly dealt with the remains. Maybe realizing this wasn’t the best place to be having a conversation, the other players slowly began filtering out, unable to stomach the stench any longer.

Sang Chen wasn’t sure how these game teams were formed. If they had always stuck together—surviving life-and-death situations over and over—their bond must have been something else. He glanced at the gruesome remains of the dead player again, then told his teammates a quiet, “Sorry for your loss,” before leaving.

As he stepped outside, he took the chance to observe the house.

The homes in Xiangyang Town all had the same gothic-style exteriors—pointed roofs, arched doorways—but the interiors varied depending on personal taste. The place they were staying in had a simple, modern design. This one, however, matched its eerie exterior perfectly—black walls, a solemn and oppressive atmosphere, punctuated by extravagant blood-red and deep purple decorations.

“The sharp honking sound we heard in town yesterday? Cai Chang died with both ears impaled on a fence,” Mao Ziyu said the moment they stepped outside. “Then last night, Xu Feng died in the bathroom. That was foreshadowed too. Didn’t you guys notice the smell in the air while you were sleeping?”

Sang Chen nodded. “Yeah, I smelled it.”

But honestly, this whole theory felt a bit like reverse-engineering an answer.

The honking yesterday had been so jarring, so ear-piercing, it made people feel like their eardrums were about to burst. But the bad smell in the room last night? It wasn’t anything that stood out. It didn’t even compare to the sewer stink from a few of the rentals Sang Chen had stayed in before. It was still within the range of “normal.”

Still, he didn’t argue. Mao Ziyu seemed pretty pleased about cracking the game’s death pattern, so why burst his bubble?

Maybe the first hint was always the clearest, and the ones after that got subtler. That theory made enough sense.

So Sang Chen pulled out his best corporate veteran expression—acknowledging the conversation without actually saying anything.

Mao Ziyu shot him a look like he’d just found a kindred spirit.

Following the golden workplace survival rule of no initiative, no responsibility, no unnecessary attention, Sang Chen returned a blank, clueless stare.

Then, as Mao Ziyu studied him again, he glanced in three directions other than his, pretending to look for someone. “Where’s Shi Jinshui and the others?”

Mao Ziyu answered flatly, “They’re dead.”

Sang Chen and Gu Ziyan both snapped their heads toward him in shock. Yan Mo just yawned.

“In this game, the real danger isn’t just the game itself. It’s the players.” Mao Ziyu’s tone was casual, but his meaning was sharp. “This isn’t a full cooperation scenario. There are complicated interests at play. Players killing other players? Happens all the time. You guys better be careful.”

The two newcomers immediately nodded, their faces grave.

Sang Chen quietly reaffirmed his commitment to being the most inoffensive, unremarkable background character possible in this game.

But before he could stop himself, he muttered, “He still had a foldable phone… wonder if—”

When all three of them turned to stare at him, Sang Chen cleared his throat. “I just meant it’s a waste—no, I mean, it’s kind of a shame. That phone was expensive…” He trailed off. “Never mind.”

“……”

Mao Ziyu hesitated, unsure what to say. “Uh… let’s go look for clues?”

Sang Chen lowered his head. “Sure.”

“Wait.”

A voice called out behind them. It was that stunning and effortlessly cool team captain. She tossed a small black disk to Mao Ziyu. “We used a surveillance device in our room last night.”

That meant whatever was on this disk likely contained footage of Xu Feng’s death.

Mao Ziyu frowned. “Then why didn’t you say—”

Arms crossed, the captain cut him off. “I know how this game works. A lot of players get excited when someone dies because death usually means clues. I hate that. Especially when they crowd around just to watch Xu Feng’s death, treating him like nothing more than a puzzle piece. He was just a kid. A pitiful one.”

Her voice, usually crisp and sharp with a smoky rasp, softened at the end.

Mao Ziyu had been about to ask why she was only telling them, but Sang Chen beat him to it. “What kind of person was he?”

The captain kept it short. “Orphaned young. Grew up bouncing between shelters and different households, barely getting by. Turned eighteen, found a job, got on a train, and ended up in this messed-up game.”

She didn’t seem interested in chatting any further. As a trade, Mao Ziyu shared some of their theories about the game’s death rules. She thanked them and left.

Sang Chen noticed her eyes weren’t wet, but the corners were tinged red.

He turned to Mao Ziyu. “Do most players have a team? Are teammates that important?”

“Yeah,” Mao Ziyu said. “The game itself is dangerous. The players in the game are dangerous, having teammates you can trust makes survival a lot easier. Some games even require teams. So, most players form squads. Even in game cities with guilds, those guild members still have their own teams. In the end, your teammates are the people you trust the most in this game.”

Gu Ziyan asked, “Do you have a fixed team?”

Mao Ziyu absently touched the snake-shaped ear cuff on his cartilage. “Mhm.”

“Then why didn’t you come in with them?”

“They’re all on break. After clearing a game, players get a rest period.” He casually dropped another game mechanic for them. “During the rest period, players don’t have to enter a game. We cleared one three days ago, so technically, I was still on break. But I’m the weakest in my squad, so I keep playing even during rest periods. You know how it is—when you suck at something, you just have to grind more.”

Gu Ziyan’s eyes widened. “Wait… you’re the weakest? Then your teammates must be—”

Even she had noticed how wary other players were around Mao Ziyu. That meant he was a big deal in the player community.

If he was the weakest in his team, then just how terrifying were his teammates?

Thinking of those guys, Mao Ziyu made a complicated face, then lowered his gaze to the small black disk. “Forget it. Let’s not talk about them.”

“Oh, okay.” Gu Ziyan dropped the subject immediately, even though she was dying of curiosity. Instead, she turned to Yan Mo and asked, “Yan Mo, do you have a team?”

Yan Mo: “No.”

Mao Ziyu frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. I bet tons of top-tier female players would love to team up with you.”

“……”

Yan Mo’s eyes, which were effortlessly more striking than any close-up of a TV drama male lead, flickered with a hint of thoughtfulness—before it was quickly drowned out by exhaustion. “Too much work to take care of them.”

“……”

Sang Chen suddenly started second-guessing his judgment of Yan Mo.

He’d assumed Yan Mo was a powerhouse—because back on the time-space train, right before entering a horror game, when every other player was at least a little tense… Yan Mo had been asleep. Completely unfazed. That was some serious big-shot energy.

But now, considering how he’d slept like a rock last night and the way he’d just brushed off forming a team, Sang Chen was starting to suspect that maybe… just maybe… Yan Mo was actually just a lazy, sleep-loving slacker.

As he wavered between “Yan Mo is a pro” and “Yan Mo is just a professional couch potato,” he noticed Mao Ziyu glancing at him with an odd look.

Then, he watched as Mao Ziyu sneakily pulled out a phone—a triple-fold model—and pressed the small black disk onto it.

“……”