While sprinting down the corridor, Zhou Qi’an deliberately slowed his pace a little.
He wanted, if at all possible, to personally kill the swimming center’s manager. The ghost market management rights came second—what Zhou Qi’an valued more was this “status.”
For players, becoming a boss must come with certain bonuses.
For example, at the Other-Experience Hall, the system prompted that his physical attributes would be slightly enhanced.
News of the holy artifact could be exposed at any time, and there was also that whaler’s association lurking in the dark doing who knew what. Zhou Qi’an had no interest in building a faction. Merely safeguarding those around him already stretched him thin.
“Absolute individual power is enough to command everything.”
On this point, Zhou Qi’an actually agreed with Shen Zhiyi.
Sliiide… sliiide…
A massive shadow moved along the ceiling, shapeless, making a scraping noise that set the teeth on edge.
A moment ago, that shadow had been half a beat slower than Zhou Qi’an. Now, sensing its prey had slowed down, it was overjoyed and immediately lunged to seize the opportunity:
“Die—”
It was hard to describe that voice; it sounded as if the throat was stuffed with some swollen mush—only wind squeezing through pinholes, barely forming a word.
Zhou Qi’an snapped on the rescue beacon he’d snatched from the ghost.
In the dim corridor, the shadow’s traces darkened, making it easier to judge the monster’s location. As the black mass surged, Zhou Qi’an’s footwork was precise. He didn’t dodge completely—he left just half a shoulder within the range of attack.
Blood burst from his arm. A soft, segmented appendage—more nauseating than the blind eel—punched through skin and flesh in an instant.
“Hell.”
The pain made him hiss.
As the distance closed, he finally saw the manager’s grotesque face—and those greedy eyes.
…It was like a pancake spread flat, several times the size of a normal human face.
Pushing its advantage, the monster’s soft limb, already buried in skin, began to release toxin, trying to dissolve the prey’s flesh and blood.
Suddenly, a bright smile reflected in its murky pupils.
It was used to seeing prey wail in pain before death; that inexplicable smile slowed the creature’s movement by half a beat—and in that fraction of a second, a blinding golden light stabbed both huge, bulging eyes.
Zhou Qi’an gripped the harpoon in his left hand. Paired with that smile, he looked more like the reaping specter.
No life, however tenacious, survives the rule’s debuff after a violation—especially with the hair assisting the manager’s killings currently being yanked hard at the entrance by his boss.
That head—
“Is 100% ours.”
[Your HP has dropped by 40.]
At the instant the sacred weapon pierced the monster, the massive body seemed to melt. Chunks of flesh shook loose in a frenzy. Filthy blood slid over his lenses, blurring his vision. He merely swayed, then steadied quickly.
This time the blood loss was heavy, yet the dizziness was slightly less than before.
“Body’s improving—hematopoiesis seems stronger too…”
Each shop’s owner has certain special traits. As a player already stacking skills, the game wasn’t likely to hand him god-tier abilities anew.
Only boosting physique wouldn’t break balance.
As the clots pattered down, Zhou Qi’an took a small step back and used his white ribbon to neatly wipe the lenses clean.
The satin-like cloth drank in blood and gore as if by absorption, and his glasses were spotless again.
Zhou Qi’an set them back on his nose.
Looking at the ruin on the floor, he asked, kindly, “Friend, where exactly is your neck?”
Hard to cut and bag it otherwise.
The manager was now basically a puddle—shattered chunks of fat heaped together, with only a pair of blood-red eyeballs gleaming in the middle.
With venomous hatred, it abruptly severed its hair—what remained bristled and stabbed toward Zhou Qi’an.
As the hair drew near, Zhou Qi’an neither ducked nor dodged… Moments ago, he had seen the door opening.
That meant the boss was about to enter.
The door did not open—it burst apart in four directions.
Speed wasn’t the boss’s specialty; he still stood on the threshold. But from Zhou Qi’an’s vantage, it was clear that the blood on the floor was frosting over bit by bit.
Yin energy is a monster’s most honest measure of strength. Zhou Qi’an’s back tightened from the cold.
The hair that had swaggered seconds before withered, its luster going dry and brittle. The dying monster, unwilling to concede, tried to force the hair to strike again—but the hair’s attack speed now was comparable to a tractor.
A bored voice came from behind: “What are you dawdling for?”
Zhou Qi’an gave a dry laugh.
The white ribbon whipped out.
It was born for strangling necks.
It did not disappoint. It circled once around the monster’s body, and with an unwilling roar from the manager, it locked onto a section, knotted itself twice, and tightened.
Facing the manager, Zhou Qi’an asked, “There was a drowned corpse—where did you hide it?”
The answer was a curse squeezed out with its last strength: “Die… die a miserable death…”
Towering over it, Zhou Qi’an dangled the Other-Experience Hall key deliberately, then crouched and rummaged through the meat. Amid the sickly squelch, a fine, pale hand pulled free.
In his palm lay a bronze key.
At almost the same moment, the ribbon finished its savage garrote.
The drooping, deformed head twitched. In the last reflection of those eyes flickered the shadows of two keys—dying with eyes open.
“I gave you a chance for last words; you didn’t value it.”
Many fierce ghosts go to the grave with regrets, simply because they never get to speak at the end.
[You have killed the director of Pool No. 33.]
[You have obtained the operating rights to this shop.]
[Your physical attributes have increased slightly.]
As before, there was also a “letter to the future proprietor,” the contents mostly similar.
A contemplative crease touched Zhou Qi’an’s brow. The ghost market was remarkably generous with shop rights—it almost made him feel “flattered.”
“Ah—”
A small gasp broke his thoughts.
Yuan Nianshu had appeared several meters away at some point.
The ruckus earlier was huge; Chen Su had sent her to check, planning to also see if there were any remains in the corridor. The game loved its “hidden in plain sight” tricks—stashing things right where they were easiest to overlook.
What she saw instead would be seared into her mind forever:
Two men, smartly dressed, one holding the barbecue shop owner’s severed head with faint impatience on his face; not far away, the young man’s deformed head trophy was still fresh—its yellow-brown blood had splashed his white canvas shoes, filling the air with rot.
In the bare corridor, the two of them looked more demonic than the demons.
Zhou Qi’an looked up first. “Done with the mission?”
Yuan Nianshu stared, then shook her head, only managing, long moments later, “…Not yet.”
“Medicine,” Zhou Qi’an said, evenly.
Half his arm looked ruined—blackened blood, toxins spreading. The blood trickling over his nails gave off an unspeakable wrongness.
Faced with that image, of course she had some!
Yuan Nianshu handed over the last of her healing supplies. “It can speed wound closure, but the poison…”
“Enough,” Zhou Qi’an nodded, satisfied.
Erase the wound and Shen Zhiyi would have nothing to say. He still remembered the man’s warning before Fengshui Village—as if, if he went too far, there’d be… alternative arrangements.
The floors, walls, ceiling—filthy water everywhere.
Zhou Qi’an pulled his leg from a chunk of flesh and headed out.
“Now that the director’s dead,” Yuan Nianshu said suddenly, “does that mean the mission…”
Zhou Qi’an said nothing.
She wasn’t the mole.
If she were, her calculation would be terrifying.
He had just taken the shop rights; the promised medical report would now be issued to him instead. That report contained the manager’s weaknesses. If she were the mole, she’d be eager to complete the mission now.
“Keep going,” he said.
He trusted Shen Zhiyi to handle the rest.
Third floor.
At some point, the moisture in the air dropped sharply. Whatever happened downstairs, the black hair threading along the walls stopped growing.
Sixth Master took out his phone to ask what was going on.
Shen Zhiyi raised a hand to stop him. “No need. I’ll get the safety report. You help them find the corpse.”
He understood Zhou Qi’an had once again used that “kill with nightmare-body” approach—hurt the enemy by a thousand, lose eight hundred.
Sixth Master blinked.
Was there even anything to find? The director was gone. Just open the door and take it.
But Shen Zhiyi stood in the doorway and didn’t move. His eyes held a thick, chilling gloom.
Avoid conflict where possible. Though annoyed, Sixth Master turned and left, messaging Chen Su for their status.
With the floor to himself, he only needed to wait for the photo task to finish, then clear the others out—the health report would only go to undercovers still inside.
It would benefit Qi’an—help him better understand his own condition.
His phone lit up.
A bright, energetic face filled the screen.
Outside, in the rain, under the eaves, Zhou Qi’an flashed a sunny smile. “The manager’s taken care of.”
The camera kept, ever-so-casually, panning over his body, all but framing a full-length—sleeves rolled high. Though his shirt bore blood, there were no wounds.
Shen Zhiyi saw through it at once: he was showing off.
Showing he wasn’t hurt.
But the more one shows, the more one lacks—and yet that rare, almost boyish, boast softened something in Shen Zhiyi’s chest.
No doubt, the man had counted on that, too.
Shen Zhiyi sighed lightly.
He’d just been urging himself to push Zhou Qi’an down the marauder’s path—to blaze through the journey as fast as possible—and now found himself hesitating again.
“Don’t let the others see my medical report.” Rain threaded his face; Zhou Qi’an’s lashes trembled slightly. “I don’t trust them.”
Shen Zhiyi nodded.
Whatever you say.
——————
Rain magnified all smells.
As it poured harder, the body was finally found. After taking the photos, Chen Su and the rest stepped out of the center with a long exhale. The game had indeed played “hidden in plain sight”—after circling, the body had been in the showers.
After that, inside the center, Shen Zhiyi became the second person—after Zhou Qi’an—to use the broadcast.
“Unauthorized personnel, clear out. In one minute, anyone remaining bears the consequences.”
The players had no choice but to file out.
Even mild-mannered Sixth Master was speechless. “What is he trying to do?”
Zhou Qi’an didn’t answer.
About five minutes later, Shen Zhiyi emerged. A patch of shadow clung behind him.
Seeing him, Zhou Qi’an said, “All three ghosts are handled.”
Since the heads hadn’t been delivered yet, the mainline still showed (1/3).
With the newspaper boss’s revenge fulfilled, that ghost would surely come for them soon.
“The most important thing now is to figure out how to deal with the newspaper boss.”
No one mentioned why the boss had turned on them. As Zhou Qi’an finished, Chen Su said, “We have to go into the newspaper ghost’s territory.”
Go inside, find a way to counter the boss, kill the newspaper ghost—that was the only way to end the instance’s greatest threat.
“If the newspaper ghost dies, what about the conglomerate?” Sixth Master asked.
Zhou Qi’an looked over.
After a few seconds of eye contact, Sixth Master smacked his forehead. “I’m being dim.”
By their earlier reasoning, the newspaper boss was monopolizing murder—the “employees” laid out in the lobby were corpses it had pulled out from hiding.
If the boss died, everything would resolve.
Zhou Qi’an briskly took out the bag Ying Yu had given him, stuffed both heads in, slung it over his shoulder, and said—while the others gaped:
“One more thing: the boss’s newspaper can devour heads and steal other ghosts’ abilities.”
With each word, the players’ faces darkened.
Don’t hand over the heads, and the next day a player would die at the Hao Hui Sha Group’s hands. Hand them over, and they’d only be strengthening the boss.
Zhou Qi’an took it in stride. “Until we find its weakness, this ghost is… unsolvable.”
The sort you can’t brute-force.
On the flip side, the heads were a buffer. Given the mainline required three kills, even if they handed in the last head, the boss likely wouldn’t wipe them out instantly.
There should be a brief window to struggle.
Chen Su nodded. “Right. And if all goes well, we’ll find a way out at the newspaper today.”
The air grew heavy.
Two days remained in the six-day survival instance. Who knew what could happen in that time.
The Fengdu Daily building was a ways off. On the way, Chen Su called the little girl and Qiao Song, telling them to meet at the entrance.
Zhou Qi’an locked the pool’s doors, took the rear, and reviewed the medical report Shen Zhiyi had gotten.
He skimmed the evolution notes; the priority was the weakness.
Normally, a human’s is the heart. But with five-star “fish,” Zhou Qi’an felt even a pierced heart might not be the end.
[Weakness: Eyes (Do you know how much it’s hiding in there?)]
“?”
Shen Zhiyi walked silent at his side.
He knew Zhou Qi’an’s body better than anyone. Once, all his strength had been sealed in his eyes—turning an evolver into an ordinary man—so as not to break the game’s fairness with an unlocked power. Use it, and he might be banned—or wiped.
He would never allow that. He had already divided that power into shallow and deep layers. Barring disaster, even if danger forced a surge, it would only be the shallow layer.
Zhou Qi’an had no idea his eyes had undergone such planning.
One more line on the report truly unnerved him: Your brain is experiencing memory anesthesia; ordinary anesthetics do not affect the central nervous system.
So that was the real reason for his “anesthesia while awake.”
“Memory anesthesia…” His knuckles tightened and blanched, but Zhou Qi’an kept all expression from his face.
Had someone tampered with his memories?
Or… could such a subtle, undetectable paralysis of memory really be done by a “human”?
They walked on in silence.
Fengdu Street’s drainage was atrocious. Rainwater pooled; step in it and it soaked trousers.
It was near lunchtime. Most tourists dashed into street-side restaurants to avoid the rain. Their small, hurried, rain-soaked group looked jarringly out of place.
They slipped along the street like specters.
Near their destination, a small figure stood ahead.
The little girl was already there, staring up at the building. The hound sat quietly beside her.
Rain masked no footsteps. Yan turned, with open puzzlement on her face.
On the phone, Chen Su had said two ghosts were already dead. If she didn’t know the players wouldn’t joke on this, she’d have questioned it outright.
Now, she couldn’t help but ask again, “The barbecue boss and the swimming center…”
“Dead,” Chen Su replied.
Yan said, “Not long ago, you were sending SOS messages.”
Chen Su glanced at the boss and Zhou Qi’an at the back. The meaning was obvious—someone had helped.
“What happened?” Yan asked.
“Don’t know.”
“How did they do it?”
“Don’t know.”
Silence.
For a split second, she wanted to ask on Zhou Qi’an’s behalf: Then what good are you?
She knew her own contributions so far had been limited.
“Don’t belittle yourself,” Chen Su said.
Strong-killing the swimming manager? Impossible for anyone but Zhou Qi’an—because only operating rights could make the director take the bait at all costs.
“You’re quite cheerful,” Yan said.
Putting “useless” so elegantly.
“…”
“Where’s Qiao Song?” Zhou Qi’an, having finished the medical report, spoke up.
No sooner asked than answered: a figure ran through the downpour with an umbrella—Qiao Song, in clean clothes.
Under everyone’s gaze, he shrugged. “The back wound won’t heal. I have to be coddled a little.”
Yuan Nianshu couldn’t help looking down at the lividity on her wrist—she understood completely.
Ignoring Yan’s and Qiao Song’s glances at his backpack, Zhou Qi’an brought them back to the point. “Now that we’re all here—let’s break into the newspaper.”
Incense in the brazier at the door burned without flame. The Daily offices were on the second floor. From here, the windows were shut tight. Inside, incomplete paper cutouts seemed pasted to the panes. Outside, the wall bore unnatural scorch marks.
Zhou Qi’an suddenly pressed his eyes. For a moment, he seemed to see a sheet of flame, like molten lava, sealed behind the windows.
Catching it, Yan asked, “You saw it too, didn’t you?”
The others stared. Saw what?
“Fire,” Yan said after a pause. “Real—and unreal flame.”
That was likely the death rule prepared for players.
“This ghost… is too hard to handle.” Zhou Qi’an sucked in a breath. “He set fire—so what do I set?”
“…”
__
Author’s Note:
Zhou Qi’an: Then I’ll just sing—you’re like a fire in the winter night—
Players: ?? We truly don’t understand.
