Xingwang Hotel
Chapter 361: Cheating
Wen Jianyan quickly hurried over to where Hugo lay.
He crouched down and asked in a low voice:
“Hey, are you okay?”
Hugo didn’t respond.
Under the dim light, his eyes were tightly shut, his face deathly pale—as if he had already stopped breathing.
Seeing this, Wen Jianyan’s heart tightened slightly. Holding the flashlight in one hand, he reached out with the other, fingers searching for the pulse at Hugo’s neck.
Beneath the cold skin, he could faintly detect a weak, fluttering rhythm.
Wen Jianyan let out a quiet sigh of relief. Good, still alive.
He withdrew his hand and began examining Hugo’s injuries.
His clothes were completely soaked in blood, the sight gruesome. From his chest to his abdomen, a massive gash had been torn open by something unknown, the edges ragged and still oozing fresh blood.
Wen Jianyan swiftly performed emergency止血 (hemostasis).
Once done, he turned his attention to the oil painting lying in the pool of blood beside them.
The lower edge of the painting was submerged in the thick, coagulating blood. The redwood frame seemed to have absorbed the blood, growing increasingly vivid in color. The painting itself was only half-finished.
On the canvas, Hugo’s face was rendered with startling realism, almost lifelike—but below the shoulders, the image remained blank, as though the artist had abandoned it midway.
Blood…
Wen Jianyan froze for a moment, recalling the pallid, bloodless faces of the gentlemen he had encountered earlier in the framing shop.
So, the portraits in this corridor are all “fed” by the blood of their subjects?
With this thought, his gaze returned to the oil painting in the blood.
But even though the lower half was completely soaked in Hugo’s blood, for some reason, the painting remained unfinished.
…Does the blood have to come directly from the body?
Considering this, Wen Jianyan crouched down and picked up the painting.
Despite its large size, it was surprisingly light, almost weightless.
He carried it over to the unconscious Hugo and, without flinching, pressed it against the freshly bandaged wound.
Even in his comatose state, Hugo’s body jerked violently. His already bloodless face twisted in pain, brows furrowing tightly.
As fresh, hot blood seeped from the wound, the redwood frame grew even more vibrant, as though drinking in the crimson. Wen Jianyan held his breath, watching intently.
The dark corridor was thick with the suffocating stench of blood.
Under Wen Jianyan’s watchful gaze, the half-finished portrait began to complete itself. The blank space below Hugo’s shoulders was slowly filled in by invisible brushstrokes.
Wen Jianyan exhaled in relief.
Looks like my guess was right.
This painting required fresh blood—directly from the wound—to “finish” itself.
But at the same time, a new question arose in his mind.
Wen Jianyan frowned slightly.
If…
…this place is just a remnant of the past, then a situation like this—one that can’t be resolved without Hugo’s direct involvement—shouldn’t exist.
Holding the frame with one hand, he glanced around.
The corridor was eerily silent. Apart from himself and the unconscious Hugo at his feet, there was no one else.
Wen Jianyan looked down and gave Hugo’s arm a careful nudge with his foot:
“Hey! Hey! Wake up!”
Perhaps due to severe blood loss, Hugo remained unconscious, unresponsive.
But under these circumstances, Wen Jianyan couldn’t help but wonder—
Was this really just a fragment of the past?
In truth, he had already begun questioning this back in the mask shop.
After all, the “real coins” he possessed had been obtained from the actual instance—yet they could still be used in this “memory.” Moreover, after testing it, he confirmed that the number of coins in his possession had indeed decreased.
That in itself was strange.
Which was why, after leaving the mask shop, Wen Jianyan had “suggested” the deal to Hugo—partly as payment, but also partly as a test.
A test to determine the true nature of this space.
And now, every clue, every tiny detail, seemed to point in the same direction—
This was not merely a “memory of the past.”
As time passed, the metallic scent of blood grew heavier. Then, something eerie began to happen.
The portraits lining the dark corridor—previously motionless—started to stir. Pale faces slowly turned, pairs of sinister eyes shifting to stare in their direction.
…Was it just his imagination?
Wen Jianyan snapped out of his thoughts, instantly on guard.
Or…
He couldn’t shake the feeling that these gazes were filled with a cold, ravenous malice—like hunger.
Under the weight of countless staring eyes, a chill crept down his spine.
Soon, the unsettling sensation was no longer limited to just the stares.
In the dim glow of the flashlight, some of the figures in the portraits were gradually fading, as though vanishing from the canvas—or perhaps…
…stepping out of it.
One after another.
Those pale, malevolent faces vanished from the oil paintings. Within the varying shades of redwood frames, the canvases that once depicted complete human figures gradually transformed into cold, reflective surfaces. Yet, these mirrors reflected nothing—
Instead, behind them lay only an abyss of unfathomable darkness, like empty black holes leading to unknown realms.
“Tap, tap, tap.”
Footsteps echoed from all directions.
Wen Jianyan’s hair stood on end, an overwhelming urge to flee surging through him.
Now he understood why Hugo had been so severely injured in this corridor, and why the Gentleman and Anise had acted with such caution—even as a team of two top-tier veterans, they had moved carefully, avoiding any reckless actions, and had even been outmaneuvered twice due to their excessive wariness.
Gritting his teeth, he looked down at the painting in his hands.
The artwork was in its final stages.
The redwood frame was now a vivid, saturated crimson, as though blood might drip from it at any moment.
In the portrait, Hugo’s face was startlingly lifelike, his skin rendered with realistic texture, his eyes seemingly gaining a spark of vitality as they stared silently out of the canvas. Below, his clasped hands were slowly emerging—the last blank space in the painting.
Almost there… almost there…
Wen Jianyan’s heartbeat accelerated, pounding so violently it felt like it might leap from his throat.
But just as the painting neared completion, the footsteps around him grew denser and more urgent, as though countless terrifying entities were closing in from all sides, rapidly approaching!
Cold sweat dripped from Wen Jianyan’s forehead as his fingers tightened reflexively around the frame.
The painting was finished!
He snatched it up and whirled around—
But he was too slow.
The footsteps were already upon him, so close they seemed just a few steps away. A chill shot up his spine.
Too late.
The ghosts were behind him.
Without warning, the footsteps stopped.
Silence fell, as though nothing had happened.
The corridor was deathly still once more. The only sounds were Wen Jianyan’s own ragged breathing and the thudding of his heart. Cautiously, he cracked his eyes open.
Darkness surrounded him. He could see nothing.
The flashlight lay at his feet, casting a feeble glow that did little to pierce the gloom.
But the footsteps, the looming shadows—all of it had vanished in an instant, without a trace.
Was it over?
Or—?
No time to dwell on it now.
Wen Jianyan didn’t hesitate. He sprinted to the nearest wall and pressed the painting against it—
Though there were no hooks, the moment the back of the frame touched the surface, it adhered seamlessly, as though merging with the wall itself. An invisible force wrenched it from Wen Jianyan’s grip.
On the canvas, Hugo’s image began to fade.
Just like the others.
The moment it fused with the wall, Hugo’s portrait, too, became a mirror—its surface cold and smooth, its depths an impenetrable void.
Had it worked?
Wen Jianyan blinked, uncertain. He leaned in slightly, peering into the dark frame.
The depths were pitch black, revealing nothing.
Wait—not entirely nothing.
Something in the darkness caught his eye, drawing him closer despite himself.
This wasn’t pure, empty blackness. Instead, a strange, viscous substance seemed to flow within it, shifting sluggishly under his gaze. The texture was… oddly familiar.
“…”
Wen Jianyan took a slow step back, putting cautious distance between himself and the mirror.
He glanced at the other paintings.
Hm. No real difference.
So it probably worked.
With that thought, he turned to leave this cursed place—
But the moment he turned around, he froze.
At first glance, nothing had changed from when he’d arrived.
And yet, everything was different.
The darkness had receded slightly.
He could now faintly make out the space around him.
Where he had stood moments ago, the corridor was now packed shoulder-to-shoulder with shadows—countless figures standing rigid and motionless, as though their movements had been abruptly halted. Their pale faces and hollow eyes left no doubt about their nature.
Ghosts.
Hugo still lay unconscious on the ground, his body motionless in a pool of blood, lifeless.
And beside Hugo stood a figure.
Or rather—
A god.
A man with black hair and golden eyes stood there, his pale skin inscribed with intricate, spell-like patterns that vanished beneath robes woven from shadow. His expression was cold as he gazed down at the dying human at his feet.
Wen Jianyan: “…”
A searing heat erupted beneath his skin.
For some reason, he sensed a strange, unsettling danger.
As if sensing his stare, the figure slowly lifted his gaze—locking eyes with Wen Jianyan.
“…”
Wen Jianyan felt as though needles were pricking his back.
Damn it.
Why does this feel like getting caught cheating?
Hahaha will wuzhu recognise him though. So Hugo is not wuzhu or will wuzhu invade Hugo’s body??