"Ah—!!"
The braided-haired boy screamed in terror, startling a flock of birds that flew away from the forest.
The middle-aged man immediately threw aside the iron shovel in his hand, grabbed his son’s mouth with one hand, and leaned close to his ear, warning in a low voice:
"Shh! Shh, shh, shh! Don’t shout! Don’t shout!"
The boy’s terrified eyes widened, his dark brown pupils trembling violently, reflecting the pale hand stretching out from the wet, soft soil. His entire body shook uncontrollably, like sifting chaff.
He was still too young. Though he had encountered creatures like giant rats or monstrous moths in various horror games, he had not yet built much immunity to such sights.
At this age, teenagers often carried a bit of juvenile bravado, treating such things as a god-given challenge or imagining themselves as the protagonist of some grand destiny, making them fearless.
But when it came to something like this—humans turning into "that" after death—no matter how many horror movies they’d seen, the fear rooted in their bones still prevailed. Especially now, as the scene before him perfectly recreated a frame from the horror movie A Wicked Ghost.
By contrast, his father, a gaunt, gray-faced man in his forties who always carried an expression of grief and rage, showed an unusual calmness at this moment.
He pressed his hand firmly over his son’s mouth, his eyes fixed on the stiff, upright hand reaching out from the soil, as if it had emerged from hell. His body radiated tension, every hair standing on end, cold sweat dripping down, but he remained composed.
To him, it was just a dead body. Far less terrifying than other strange things he had encountered.
After all, once dead, a person was just dead.
There’s an old saying: "Ghosts fear the wicked."
If he could kill someone when they were alive, what did he have to fear if they came back after death?
The pale hand began to wave, like a flag for summoning souls, or perhaps a venomous snake lying in wait to strike, ready to drag the father and son into the abyss.
Seeing this, the braided-haired boy whimpered in fear, muffled noises escaping from under his father’s hand.
The middle-aged man was sweating even more, but he stayed eerily calm. Leaning close to his son’s ear, he suppressed the tremor in his voice and slowly said:
"Don’t be afraid... don’t be afraid, Tao Tao. He’s just not completely dead. We’ll bury him a little deeper."
The boy’s pupils contracted, and his breathing suddenly quickened.
Fragments of past memories flashed through his mind:
A pitch-dark night, pouring rain, a desolate field.
A pale, wounded black-haired boy lying at the bottom of a muddy pit. Rain washed away the soil covering him, turning it to mud, yet shovelful after shovelful of wet dirt kept falling onto him, soon covering all but his pale nose and mouth that barely protruded.
"Dad, Dad… I think he’s moving?"
"Don’t be scared, Tao Tao. We’ll bury him a bit deeper."
The sound of wet soil landing on a human body echoed: "Thud. Thud."
"Thud… thud… thud…"
From then on, that sound haunted his dreams every night for an entire year.
The boy stared at the arm flailing in the air, his eyes trembling as if they might fall from their sockets.
His breathing grew heavier, more rapid.
He started to struggle desperately, trying to escape his father’s grip.
But the harder he struggled, the tighter the middle-aged man held on.
"Tao Tao! Tao Tao, don’t be afraid! We’ll bury him a little deeper, just a little deeper!"
As he spoke, the man held his son tighter with one arm while pressing his other hand over his mouth. With the iron shovel still in his grip, he half-dragged, half-carried the boy forward a few steps.
He paid no attention to his son’s increasingly frantic struggles, nor did he notice how there were suddenly two shovels at their side. He also failed to see the iron shovel’s surface, stained with blotches of blood hidden beneath fresh mud and dirt, or the dark traces of rust.
"Just a little deeper… bury him a little deeper, and everything will be fine... just a little deeper..."
"Mmph... mmph... mmph..."
The braided-haired boy kicked his legs desperately but couldn’t budge his father an inch.
The middle-aged man stared at the waving arm as blood-red veins filled his eyes, his once honest and simple face twisting into a grotesque grin. Perhaps, if he pulled the boy out now, he might still be alive... perhaps...
But—!
The man abruptly raised the iron shovel and brought it crashing down on the flailing arm.
"Die!"
The rain poured relentlessly.
Blood barely had time to splatter before it was washed into the muddy ground by the rain, as if it were a pot of rotting, boiling stew.
"...!"
Jiang Yan felt his hand just reach out before someone stomped on it hard, forcing him to withdraw in pain.
The torrential rain mixed with the soil covering his face, making the suffocating sensation even worse.
He had no doubt that within a few minutes, he would die again—this time from drowning in the muddy water.
At that moment, the voice of 663, which had been feigning dead silence in his mind, spoke up:
"Host, perhaps you could ask your follower for help."
Severe oxygen deprivation was making Jiang Yan’s brain sluggish, his thoughts muddy. He struggled to respond:
"A second-level instance doesn’t allow the use of items, right?"
From the other end, 663 seemed busy doing something—Jiang Yan could hear the frantic clatter of a keyboard. Its sarcastic tone teetered between irritation and collapse:
"Host, the rule says no items. It doesn’t say you can’t use the system! Wow, it seems your brain really is badly affected… damn it!"
Jiang Yan: "...."
Rose petals, as red as blood, danced wildly in the dense rain, filling every corner of the sharp-spired mathematics teaching building.
Screams, crying, and the continued booming explosions of “Bang! Bang!” threw the building into utter chaos. Teachers of various races began herding students out in a panic.
"Bang!"
Another one of Jiang Yan’s heads transformed into a rose bomb.
"What on earth is this?!"
A centaur teacher, while evacuating students, yelled in near hysteria.
"It’s a compulsion curse—a White Sheep compulsion curse."
An elderly elf with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses held a black magic book, his expression serious.
"White Sheep?" The centaur helped a student who had fallen during the evacuation, then raised his head to look at the elf in confusion. "I’ve only heard of humans having a Black Goat theory. What’s this White Sheep about?"
"When the entire herd is black sheep, then the black sheep becomes the white sheep," the elf replied, gazing at the roses flying chaotically in the rain. "These children made a wish to an evil god."
The centaur was about to ask more but was distracted by a corner of the hallway. His attention caught, he hurried forward on his four legs and, upon seeing a student huddled there, exclaimed in shock:
"Jian Hou?! Why aren’t you evacuating? What are you doing here?!"
Jian Hou didn’t respond. He sat curled up on the ground, shoulders hunched, holding something tightly in his arms.
Faced with the teacher’s question, he remained silent, staring blankly at the rose petals blown into the hallway by the wind and rain. His expression was lifeless, as though his soul had been stripped away.
The centaur paused, then gently rubbed Jian Hou’s head, asking with concern:
"What’s wrong? Are you hurt?!"
In moments of extreme vulnerability, people often display a strength that surpasses their will. But when a kind hand touches their shoulder, emotions can instantly collapse like a crumbling dam.
Jian Hou looked at the centaur teacher in front of him, his gaze shifting from blankness to helplessness. Tears burst from his eyes, and he shattered like a glass bottle, sobbing uncontrollably.
"What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Jian Hou?!" the centaur teacher asked, alarmed.
Not far away, the elf dean and several other teachers from different divine races, who were busy evacuating students, also heard the commotion. They hurried over, their concern evident.
The more they questioned, the harder Jian Hou cried.
He clutched tightly at the head of Jiang Yan in his arms, overwhelmed by despair. He hadn’t expected that in this eerie, dangerous horror game, after experiencing save-file crashes, separation from his companions, and the sudden death of his closest friend, the faint warmth and kindness he received would come from NPCs made of data.
What should he do... what should he do... Yan Yan...
Jian Hou felt utterly helpless.
He had known Jiang Yan since before they were born. They were delivered at the same hospital, by the same doctor, only moments apart.
Unlike Jiang Yan, Jian Hou had made many friends over the past 25 years. Yet no matter how many he met, Jiang Yan was always special.
Never had he imagined he’d witness Jiang Yan’s death right in front of him—especially in such a cruel manner.
What should he do? What should he do…
Throughout these 25 years, whenever something trivial came up between them, Jian Hou had always been the one to resolve it.
Especially since Jiang Yan was a total klutz at life. Before Yu Xiu came into the picture, Jian Hou had been the one taking care of all his daily needs, so much so that many of their friends thought their relationship was one-sided—Jian Hou giving more and compromising more.
But in reality, whenever any major decision loomed before him, it was always Jiang Yan who calmly analyzed and made the right choice for him.
Whenever he encountered serious trouble, it was always Jiang Yan who stepped forward to resolve it.
So... what now? What should he do now, Yan Yan?
Jian Hou cried harder and harder, his sobs turning more desperate with each passing second.
The teachers surrounding him were at a loss for how to console him.
It wasn't until he cried so much that his limbs weakened and his grip loosened slightly, causing a corner of Jiang Yan's head to peek out from his arms, that the teachers finally understood.
"Poor child..."
The elf dean let out a heavy sigh.
But Jian Hou didn’t care. He was utterly consumed by an overwhelming sorrow.
What should he do… Yan Yan!
"Old.. Old Jian..."
A familiar yet weak voice suddenly sounded in his ear, causing Jian Hou to lower his head in shock.
Could it be...
"Old Jian... cough, cough!"
The voice came again.
Jian Hou froze. He stared blankly at the shattered, porcelain-like head of Jiang Yan in his arms, his lips trembling as he tentatively called out:
"Yan... Yan Yan?"
The head didn’t move. Its clear, blue eyes remained lifeless.
Jian Hou's hope dimmed once more.
Was it truly just an illusion?
Had he been overwhelmed by grief...?
"Cough, cough... Old Jian... can you hear me?"
Jian Hou's eyes instantly lit up!