3:00 a.m.
Thud. Thud, thud!
Heavy footsteps echoed outside the door, the sound growing nearer and nearer.
Fang Zhi gripped his crowbar tightly. The plastic bag covering his face hid his expression, but the slight trembling of his hands betrayed his true emotions—pure fear.
"This patient is different from the previous one," he whispered to himself, mimicking a clinical tone. "The virus has caused aggressive mutations. He must be subdued before any treatment can proceed."
Bang!
The door burst open with a single savage kick.
A monstrous figure stood before Fang Zhi. According to what Qi Zhiyong had said, this was no mere low-level wraith—it was a powerful, malevolent spirit, the kind no ordinary human could ever hope to face.
Fang Zhi trembled like a leaf.
It was the instinctual fear of prey at the bottom of the food chain when faced with a predator.
His mind flashed with images, like a spinning lantern playing scenes from his life—memories etched into his soul.
His family. His love. The honors he had earned.
And then… that one night.
That night, he had returned home like usual, stepping into the discounted apartment he'd proudly bought. But unlike before, his parents hadn't come out to greet him.
Confused, he'd searched the house—until he saw it.
A small cabinet leaking blood.
Panicked, he'd flung open the cabinet doors—only to find his parents grotesquely twisted, forcibly stuffed into the tiny space. Their limbs were contorted, their bodies crammed so tightly that not a sliver of air remained between them and the walls.
Two deformed faces smiled eerily at him.
"Son… you're home. This house… is really something, isn't it?"
As that horrific memory replayed in his mind, Fang Zhi stopped shaking.
Then, like a man possessed, he let out a deafening roar and raised his iron crowbar high, swinging it down toward the spirit's head.
Bang!
The massive hand of the spirit caught Fang Zhi's head mid-swing and slammed him to the ground. The attack hadn't fazed the entity at all, but Fang Zhi kept swinging, wildly, furiously, refusing to stop.
Under that crushing grip, Fang Zhi's face twisted in agony. Tears and blood poured from his eyes.
"I knew it… I've always known it was all real… But I had to keep believing there were no such things as ghosts…"
"Because if there are…"
"Then doesn't that mean it was my fault all along?"
Crunch.
Fang Zhi's skull was crushed.
The malevolent spirit shook its hand, flicking off the mess with a touch of confusion.
Where had this prey found the courage to charge at it?
Still, prey was prey.
Even if it found a bit of bravery, it only made the meal a little… chewier.
Wu Xian sat quietly by the wall, listening to every sound from outside his room.
When he heard Fang Zhi's final roar, he sighed and shook his head.
He had always thought Fang Zhi was just a coward with a big mouth—but he hadn't expected him to go out with such a fight.
Now that Fang Zhi was dead, the real game could begin.
After a while, Lu Yuzhu's phone vibrated. Wu Xian had preset an alarm on it. Without it, he wouldn't have been able to judge the time at all.
He stood up carefully and opened the door with extreme caution. Thanks to the pig intestine grease he had smeared on the hinges, the door made no sound at all.
The hallway was dark and heavy with a damp chill. Faint muddy footprints had yet to dry, and the flickering yellow lights cast long, twisted shadows along the walls. Just stepping into the corridor sent a cold shiver through Wu Xian's spine—every hair on his body stood on end.
It was deeply unsettling.
But the hallway… was empty.
There were no people, and more importantly—no spirits.
"Just as I suspected," he murmured, straightening his back.
Back at dawn the day before, he had observed the drying pattern of the muddy footprints and deduced that Yu Yinghua—the spirit—had disappeared about half an hour before sunrise. Since sunrise yesterday had been at 6:00 a.m., he had set the alarm for 5:30.
That meant the half-hour before dawn was a window of safety and secrecy.
It wasn't a 100% guaranteed theory—but for the sake of a bigger reward, Wu Xian had to take the risk.
He began inspecting each door.
Fang Zhi's had been busted open, and more than a dozen muddy handprints were smeared all over it. Clearly, Yu Yinghua had a deep grudge against him.
Then he noticed something else.
Room 408 had a fresh, still-wet handprint on its door.
That was Yue Mei's room.
That timid nurse… had already been marked.
Wu Xian paused for a moment, then began executing the next phase of his plan.
He carefully wiped away the handprint on Yue Mei's door, then dipped his hand into one of the still-damp muddy footprints on the floor. Turning toward Room 402—Qi Zhiyong's room—he pressed his hand firmly onto the door. Then, using a pen, he added a few subtle adjustments.
The result? A handprint nearly identical to Yu Yinghua's.
He had three goals in mind for doing this.
First of all, Yue Mei wasn't a bad person. Wu Xian thought she might still be worth saving.
Second, he wanted to test the logic behind how the malevolent spirit—this Da Sui—chose its victims. Did it target by handprint? Or by marked doors? Perhaps it tagged entire rooms… or even individuals?
And lastly—Wu Xian simply couldn't stand Qi Zhiyong. He wanted to cause him some trouble.
Qi Zhiyong had ordered him to investigate Lu Yuzhu's room, not to help him—but to use him. He'd wanted Wu Xian to shoulder all the risk while he reaped the rewards. Wu Xian had been cursed for his efforts, and what did he get in return? Nothing. Not even a thank-you. In fact, Qi Zhiyong had deliberately treated him differently, distantly.
That attitude confirmed it for Wu Xian: if there ever came a time when one of them had to be sacrificed, Qi Zhiyong wouldn't hesitate to throw him to the wolves.
So, Wu Xian figured, letting Qi Zhiyong take some risks to gather information for him now? Only fair.
Once all that was done, Wu Xian didn't return to his room.
Instead, he quietly made his way to Room 407—Fang Zhi's room.
It wasn't just about testing the spirit's movements. The real reason he dared venture out before dawn—
Was profit.
This window of time… was the best chance to claim everything in Fang Zhi's room for himself.
Stepping into Room 407, Wu Xian saw Fang Zhi's corpse lying on the floor, his head shattered—yet still clutching the crowbar tightly in his hand.
"Quick and clean. Not a bad way to go. Pretty lucky, actually."
If death was unavoidable, Wu Xian would rather go like Fang Zhi—fast—than suffer like Lu Yuzhu had.
He began searching the room quickly and thoroughly.
At one point, he came across a photo. It showed Fang Zhi with his parents—a family of three. The image of the father and mother had been rubbed so much it was now a blur.
But Wu Xian had no interest in Fang Zhi's family history. He tossed the photo aside and continued the search, sweeping every corner with precision.
He didn't find any idols this time.
But under the mattress, he discovered something else: three sticks of brown incense, emitting a faint fragrance.
As soon as he picked them up, a new entry appeared in his inventory:
"Aged Chinese Cypress Incense – Calms the spirit, reduces swelling and bruises. Comes in sets of three. Can be used for divine offerings."
"Tch."
Wu Xian clicked his tongue in disappointment. He had been hoping they could be used three separate times.
"Guess I'll get a bit more sleep. Gotta recharge—so I can have a little fun with Qi Zhiyong later."
Qi Zhiyong was furious.
His expression shifted unpredictably, rage simmering beneath the surface like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
"Why me? I've been so careful! Isn't it only when that woman notices you that the mark appears? Did I slip up somewhere?"
Wu Xian strolled out of his room, rubbing his bleary eyes, pretending to have just woken up. When he saw Qi Zhiyong's grim, stormy face—he couldn't help himself.
Pfft— he burst into laughter.
Qi Zhiyong spun around, glaring at him. "What are you laughing at?"
Wu Xian gave a sarcastic shrug. "I just thought of something funny."
Qi Zhiyong cursed under his breath and turned away, not wanting to waste time or energy arguing.
Wu Xian's taunt had been deliberate.
After everything Qi Zhiyong had done to him, how could he not take joy in seeing him suffer? But if he didn't show it—if he played it too calm, too cold—then Qi Zhiyong might start to suspect him of sabotage.
Better to let him see a bit of schadenfreude. It was human.