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In this room, there was definitely more than just the elusive Mountain Spirit and Xiao Mei. Zhang Long lay on the sofa, staring blankly as tears threatened to spill. All he wanted was a good night's sleep, but in that half-dreaming state, he suddenly noticed countless dark shadows appearing beside him. These beings, humanoid yet undeniably not human, circled silently around the sofa.
It was daytime, a bright and sunny noon, yet he found himself lying in a place more terrifying than a Haunted House, watching as ghosts surrounded him. Who could explain to him why there were ghosts appearing in broad daylight?
The culprit had left without a sound, just as quietly as these entities had emerged. The tightly shut doors and windows, along with the heavy curtains blocking out the light, mocked his carelessness. How could he have believed that Xiao Mei would let him sleep peacefully?
Forget it. Zhang Long stopped trying to struggle and simply lay still on the sofa, curious to see just how badly Xiao Mei would lead him astray.
The shadows continued to circle around the sofa, moving in endless loops as if he were a sacrificial offering on an altar, being used to pray for the arrival of the Ghost King’s blessings. What could a group of aimless spirits possibly ask of the Ghost King? To be reincarnated as humans? Or perhaps to become ghosts that would never be caught?
Feeling utterly disheartened, Zhang Long suddenly found solace. He closed his eyes, attempting to numb his body with darkness, convincing his brain that it was merely nighttime and time for rest. He imagined himself lying on the big bed in Jiang Family Courtyard, covered by the soft quilt with blue floral patterns that Uncle Meng had chosen for him, ready to drift off into dreamland.
After all these years, what kind of monsters hadn’t he encountered? Upon reflection, there weren’t many. This winter he would turn thirty; at this age of maturity, he had a girlfriend, his own house, and a stable job—what a wonderful life! He was merely here to help a friend through a tough time; saving a life was worth more than building a pagoda. He truly considered himself a great benefactor.
He felt so moved by his own noble actions that he couldn’t help but think of Xiao Mei again. What exactly was this child—who had returned from the gates of hell—trying to accomplish? Although he knew some insider information about that significant matter, no one had ever detailed it for him. Even Xiao Mei, who was supposed to be his good friend, never revealed too much.
Poor child! Losing his home at such a young age and even being abandoned by his master, living alone in this Haunted House for three years just for this day. He recalled that night three years ago when the frail figure knelt in torrential rain before the house for three days until Zhang Long finally carried him to the hospital while he was unconscious.
“Xiao Mei! Oh Xiao Mei!” Zhang Long couldn’t help but sigh. “Is this how you repay me?” Unable to calm down enough to sleep, he opened his eyes in frustration. He couldn’t swallow this grievance nor accept how badly he had been led astray. The chill brought by the spirits had already penetrated through his coat; his feet—once feeling cold—now seemed to have vanished entirely. Paralyzed by fear and coldness, he finally let go of reason.
His roar stirred the spirits into chaos; the once gently circling shadows began to boil with agitation. Some even came close enough that they brushed past his head—just a little lower and they could touch him directly.
Zhang Long felt as though breathing was becoming difficult, yet escape was impossible. Fortunately, he heard faint creaking sounds nearby; they didn’t seem like human footsteps.
Suddenly, the shadows froze in place, maintaining their grotesque forms without moving an inch. He looked around and noticed that a faint white mist had risen from the ground at some point, now binding all the shadows at their ankles.
It was the Mountain Spirit.
The Mountain Spirit—once divine but now trapped here by sorcery—had given up its godhood.
Spirits could consume other souls as materials for their cultivation. If deceiving and devouring humans could transform them into mountain gods, then consuming ghosts could make them even more terrifying entities than ghosts themselves.
As the white mist thickened, the ghosts began to scream; their shrill cries made Zhang Long feel as if countless hands were tearing at his ears. Some seemed intent on burrowing into his brain like woodpeckers seeking firewood.
Fortunately, this cacophony didn’t last long before hands covered his ears. Dazedly opening his eyes, he saw it was Xiao Mei.
The boy’s smile radiated an insanity Zhang Long had never witnessed before—as if those being devoured were merely cabbages. When Xiao Mei lowered his head to meet Zhang Long’s gaze, he saw a bloodthirsty emotion in those eyes that sent chills down his spine.
“Soldiers Block the Enemy, Water Covers the Ground; Water Comes, Earth Covers.” Since they wished to come here, then let them come without return.
Song Bunan didn’t know when he had fallen asleep; after waking up startled from falling into darkness, he took stock of his surroundings and spent quite some time confirming that he was indeed at home.
This dream was far more terrifying than before, the setting shifting from that house to the outside. He found himself bound hand and foot in a dilapidated courtyard, dressed in pajamas, with a pile of wood beneath him that reeked of gasoline.
Surrounding him were countless voices calling his name, some sharp, others low, all filled with deep resentment and bitterness, as if they wanted to drag him down to hell. The old woman behind him leaned on a cane, trembling as she stood nearby. In one hand, she clutched a matchbox, her voice quivering with each word that struck his heart like a hammer. She said, "Do you hear them? Everything here wants you. If I ignite you now, you will become part of this house—forever trapped in darkness as a ghost with no future."
As she spoke, she pulled a match from the box and struck it against the side. With a soft pop, a red flame appeared. The flickering flame danced at the tip of his nose, its heat searing against his skin, even causing his hair to curl from the intensity.
Who are you! He couldn't speak; his mouth felt glued shut. His bound body yearned to move but could not muster the strength; he could only watch helplessly as the old woman tossed the match toward him.
Everything seemed to transform into a scene straight out of a movie, the match spinning and falling through the air along with the flame moving in slow motion. He watched as his clothes caught fire, the red flames beginning to rage wildly.
"Return to where you truly belong; we are all waiting for you."
The old woman cackled like a skeleton rising from a coffin in a horror film. He couldn't hear what she said next because the flames had consumed everything before him; all he could see was red.
Why doesn't it hurt? A drop of boiling water would cause pain for ages, yet now he was clearly being burned—why couldn't he feel anything? In his panic, Song Bunan suddenly realized he could move his hands.
As if granted a reprieve, he desperately reached out to extinguish the flames on his body but felt himself plummeting as he stretched out his arms. This sensation was familiar; he had often experienced this when waking from dreams.
The flames followed him as they gradually extinguished in the rushing wind of his descent, and the scenery around him began to change. A blue chain flashed by, one he recognized.
When he awoke, his eyes were still blurry, resembling the static on an old television screen with no signal. Gasping for air, he gradually confirmed that he was indeed at home, in his own bed.
His first day at work was easy; without any assignments given to him, he spent nearly the entire day reading through materials at his desk. Only during lunch did he see brother Xinyi. When they returned home together that evening, feeling inexplicably sleepy, he was ordered to go to bed early and fell asleep almost immediately after lying down.
When he opened his eyes again, it was just past midnight.
Unable to fall back asleep quickly, he sat up and noticed the light streaming in through the curtains illuminating the Black Notebook on his desk. It had been days since he last touched it, yet it now seemed incredibly enticing.
He climbed out of bed and turned on the lamp, leaning over to see what else was inside.
[The Haunted House has both good and bad aspects; I believe you have encountered some of its evildoers. If you cannot recall when you met them, think carefully about any unusual occurrences in your life—that is your connection to this house. I believe you will find many answers within.]
[The Study Room is where I created the Magic Circle long ago; it is the safest place in this entire area. If one day danger arises within the house and you cannot exit through the front door, make sure to go directly into that study and wait for sunrise.]
[At eighteen years old, there will be trials destined for you. If you survive them peacefully, your life will no longer be fraught with difficulties; if not, it is fate that cannot be defied.]
[Wishing you safety.]
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