Chapter 157: No Way Back on This Journey (7)
The middle-aged man had been walking along the highway for a long time.
Strangely, this road seemed to have no end.
Darkness swallowed the path ahead.
A monster opened its huge mouth, revealing hideous, foul-smelling fangs. And the highway—it was its long tongue.
The middle-aged man hadn’t noticed it, but at some point, all sounds of animals had vanished. All that remained was the wailing wind rustling through trees and valleys, like ghostly cries, and the scorched smell of burnt straw from the farmland.
He was beginning to feel exhausted.
Letting out a long breath, he casually threw his heavy backpack onto the side of the road, then slumped down onto the ground, panting and wheezing like a pig.
Because of his rough movement, the overstuffed backpack spilled open, revealing electronic devices, clothes, and watches.
If Lu Xingxing, the most fashion-forward of them all, had been there, he would’ve instantly recognized that those clothes and watches were all trendy new releases from that year—expensive and stylish.
No matter how one looked at it, they didn’t match the middle-aged man’s appearance at all.
But the man couldn’t care less about any of that.
The cold wind turned his sweat clammy, making him shiver from the chill.
And then, when he saw the familiar sign on the opposite side, he suddenly remembered… He had complained earlier about not seeing the highway entrance, and he had seen that very road sign before. The place name on that sign—it was exactly the same as the one he was seeing now.
But… how could that be?
It had been at least half an hour since he saw that sign!
Slowly, fear crept onto the middle-aged man’s face. He finally sensed that something was wrong.
Cold sweat broke out across his back, and all the things he had ignored started flashing through his mind again.
Along his entire walk—besides that convoy—he hadn’t seen a single car!
Even though the road to his hometown was remote, surely there should’ve been at least some passing vehicles.
And then there was the endlessly long road, the signs that kept repeating…
In a panic, the man grabbed his backpack, no longer calm, and began walking quickly in a flurry.
He glanced around nervously, his fear widening his eyes, flaring his nostrils, and making his breathing loud and labored—like a broken bellows wheezing.
Now that a seed of terror had been planted in his heart, the middle-aged man became startled by every little rustle. Even the wind stirred his nerves, and he would glance around frantically at the slightest sound.
His steps grew faster and more erratic. He even stumbled several times, nearly falling flat on the road.
At last, when he saw the same road sign yet again, the fear completely shattered his mental defenses. Without a second thought, he broke into a desperate run, trying to escape from this seemingly endless road.
Rustling noises reached his ears.
In the darkness, pairs of red eyes began to open one after another. Vacant and soulless, they glowed faintly.
They floated in the pitch-black forest like red lanterns, bobbing and drifting in mid-air—flickering lights in a boundless sea of darkness.
**”CLANG—!”**
A gong was struck, the trembling echo trailing off in the distance. The sound was long and disoriented, like something not of this world.
The crisp sound pierced the soul, instinctively repelling all spirits.
Withered, yellowed weeds were pressed down by an unseen weight, as if something heavy was walking through them.
The forest rustled—**”crackle… crackle”**—leaves shuddering violently as if blown by a cold gust.
A procession of unseen things passed through the forest, crunching dead leaves beneath their feet.
Wherever they passed, all signs of life vanished. A ghostly aura spread behind them.
The moment the middle-aged man heard the gong, a chill swept down from the top of his head, spreading all over his body.
He froze on the spot, cold sweat streaming down his forehead.
But the terrifying pressure came crushing down from behind him. He wanted to run, but his stiff legs refused to move. In his heart, he screamed in fear, but other than widening his eyes so much they nearly popped out of their sockets, he couldn’t move at all—he couldn’t escape.
A cold wind blew from the forest, carrying a stench of blood and rot.
The gong led the way, and iron chains dragged along the ground.
**”Clatter…”**
**”Clatter…”**
That soul-piercing cold drew closer and closer—almost right behind him.
The man swallowed hard, trembling as he forced himself to turn his head, desperate to see what was behind him.
His neck creaked as he slowly twisted it back, the sound of bones grinding together echoing in his ears.
But before he could brace himself, his eyes met a pale face.
It was completely devoid of blood. The lips were a sickly white, and the eyes had no pupils—only solid, ghastly whites. Blood vessels spread like fine cracks from the edges inward, forming an eerie and terrifying pattern.
It was standing directly behind him, almost pressed against his back, and who knew how long it had been there.
The distance between them was so close their faces nearly touched. The man could clearly feel the chill from behind him and the deathly stillness in those eyes.
At that moment, the middle-aged man felt his heart stop.
Then, driven by sheer survival instinct under the overwhelming terror, he let out a blood-curdling scream and bolted forward in blind panic.
“Ahhhhhhhhh——!!!”
“Ghost! A ghost!!!”
The pupil-less eyes twitched. Then, suddenly, the eyelids flipped, turning from pure white to solid red.
That bloodless face slowly twisted, eyes locked straight on the direction in which the middle-aged man had fled.
Then it rose on its tiptoes and floated lightly forward.
Iron chains were shackled to its feet, grinding into wounds so deep the bone was visible. The foul, bloody stench of its dripping blood marked the entire path it walked, dragging the chains along as it moved.
Its body was wrapped in iron chains, from neck to limbs. The chains cut deeply into its flesh, curling the skin away to reveal stark white bones underneath.
But it seemed completely unfazed.
Perhaps… after centuries in torment, it had become accustomed to this excruciating pain.
First came one humanoid figure, faintly stepping onto the highway. Then a second. Then a third…
They stretched endlessly into the distance.
More and more shadowy figures emerged from the dim mountain forest, their blood-red eyes fixed ahead, following the path of the ones before them.
Their eyes were vacant, their faces deathly pale like paper, utterly devoid of color, wrapped in an aura of death. They knew nothing else except to blankly trail after the figure ahead, mechanically lifting their stiff limbs to move forward.
Wherever they passed, a trail of stinking blood followed.
The semi-transparent figures overlapped heavily, flickering red light glowing faintly and deeply in the darkness.
And beside that procession of red silhouettes, followed rows of indistinct white figures.
They wore tall white hats and had white paper masks covering their faces, making their appearances unrecognizable.
Only when the wind blew and lifted the paper slightly could one catch a glimpse of their bloodless pallor.
On that desolate highway, ghostly shadows crowded the road, the surrounding mountains and mist completely silent and still.
Only the sound of chains and gongs echoed through the darkness.
…
When Zhao Zhen regained consciousness from the searing pain, it felt like there were weights as heavy as a thousand pounds pressing down on his eyelids. No matter how many times he tried, he simply couldn’t open them.
His mind slowly cleared.
He remembered, just before blacking out, the last thing he heard was Yan Shixun’s urgent warning, followed by the overturning of the vehicle, things clattering and falling, and the terrified screams of the people nearby…
He remembered, he had tried to reach out to catch Song Ci, who had been thrown from the other side.
But the young master had been terrified out of his mind, completely unable to control his movements, flailing wildly like some auto-defense mechanism, hitting out at anything or anyone near him.
Naturally, Zhao Zhen didn’t escape unscathed—he got slapped by the young master, and his head was slammed with a “thud!” straight into the car window behind him.
The pain was so intense that everything instantly went black.
He couldn’t remember what happened after that.
Zhao Zhen gave a bitter laugh in his heart, gritting his teeth as he thought: next time he saw Song Ci, he was definitely going to grab him and give him a proper beating—just like Brother Yan always did with Jing Xiaobao.
He had only wanted to help the young master, and in the end, who knows if he’d helped at all, but he himself had ended up knocked out.
What kind of ridiculous situation was that…
Zhao Zhen rolled his eyes around, still worried about the others and what might’ve happened while he was unconscious.
So he clenched his teeth, gathering every bit of strength he had, and forced his eyes open.
Then Zhao Zhen realized—he was somehow sitting properly in a seat, with a seatback right in front of him.
But something about what he was seeing… felt strange.
It was like everything in his view had been rotated ninety degrees. His brain struggled to make sense of what it was seeing and instinctively rejected the image as illogical.
Zhao Zhen looked around in confusion, and soon realized he was still inside the car. Cold wind blew in from the shattered windows, broken glass shards littered the ground, and various miscellaneous objects were strewn everywhere, mixed with the broken pieces of glass—utter chaos.
And then, a few minutes later, it finally clicked why it had all felt so strange.
—Because right now, it was as if he were sitting on a wall.
The floor of the car, where the seats were bolted, was now vertical.
Apparently, the vehicle had really overturned—just like he remembered.
Zhao Zhen’s heart jolted. He quickly tried to get up to check on the others.
He had just spent all that effort looking around, but saw only himself inside the car. The others… were nowhere to be seen!
But because he had essentially been sitting on the wall, his mind hadn’t yet adjusted. The moment he got up too quickly without thinking, he came crashing down hard to the ground.
Zhao Zhen let out a muffled groan, pain flooding his brain until it blanked out for a moment. His mind buzzed loudly, and it felt like his back had been broken in half. His face twisted into a pained grimace.
He’d already injured his back badly from overdoing it during filming—wire work and action scenes had wrecked his waist. And now, with this fall, it felt like his life was flashing before his eyes.
For a moment, he even suspected he might have been split in two.
Trying to laugh through the pain, Zhao Zhen lay flat on the ground, waiting for the agony to pass.
Meanwhile, viewers watching the stream had seen Zhao Zhen’s feed go black for two full minutes before it finally lit up again.
The moment the stream resumed, all the anxious viewers waiting by his screen saw him lying on the ground—he clearly didn’t look great.
Some viewers were extremely worried: [Oh my god! Zhao Zhen looks terrible— is he okay?]
[That crash was way too serious… Don’t tell me he’s been seriously hurt? What if a metal rod or shard pierced him? I’m so worried.]
[Don’t worry! I already called the official hotline. The lady on the line said the rescue team’s already on the scene, and we shouldn’t panic.]
[Huh? The crash just happened—how could they have arrived in only two minutes? I’m confused.]
[Maybe the Taoist flew in on a sword (just kidding), or maybe the show was prepared in advance. Honestly, this program is more intense than any action movie I’ve seen.]
But soon, some viewers noticed something was off: [Wait a second! Zhao Zhen is still in the car? Then why didn’t Brother Yan see him when he went inside?]
After the first person pointed it out, more and more viewers followed that line of thinking and realized something was wrong.
[Yeah! Zhao Zhen was right there in the car, but when we watched Brother Yan’s screen earlier, there was clearly no one inside… I’m getting goosebumps. What if there are invisible people in *my* house too…]
[Crap! Don’t say that! This kid is still alone in the classroom and hasn’t come out yet. I don’t even dare leave the building. How am I supposed to cross campus and get back to my dorm?!]
[Wait… I just remembered someone else. Earlier, on the main screen—wasn’t there that guy whose face was covered in knife wounds? Do you remember? His sitting posture looked exactly like Zhao Zhen’s! They were both sitting on the wall.]
Someone reacted in panic: [Holy crap—then is Zhao Zhen even alive right now?!]
[That position definitely isn’t something a normal person could sit in! I just tried climbing up a wall and got yanked down by my mom—she said if I kept it up she’d “take the roof off the house.” …Truly a tragic story.]
[No doubt about it! A normal person couldn’t do that!]
[So… what exactly happened over there?]
The viewers all looked at each other in confusion, completely clueless.
Meanwhile, Zhao Zhen—who everyone was worried about—had completely forgotten about the split screen. He was still quietly waiting for the pain to subside.
His vision, which had blurred from the pain moments ago, was now slowly clearing up again.
From this awkward angle, Zhao Zhen suddenly caught sight of a pale, lotus-like hand wearing a luxury decorative ring.
Song Ci!
Startled, Zhao Zhen immediately forgot about the excruciating pain in his lower back. He scrambled up from the ground without a care for his appearance and rushed toward the seats on the other side.
With his movement, the blanket that had been draped over the seat slipped off, revealing the person who had been hidden underneath.
It was Song Ci.
But the young master’s current condition could hardly be called good.
He was stuck in an unbelievably tight spot, wedged between the seat and the car frame. His delicate body fit precisely into that narrow gap.
What was worse, his neck was caught against the metal bar that fixed the seat to the floor. A slight movement would tighten the pressure around his throat.
Zhao Zhen lay beside him and stared for a long time, at a complete loss.
In such a narrow space, if it weren’t for Song Ci’s picky eating habits and his refusal to exercise, which left him so thin and frail, he likely wouldn’t have just gotten stuck—he might’ve been cut into pieces.
Even as the shock lingered, Zhao Zhen wanted to pull him out but had no idea where to start.
It was easy going in, but getting him out was another story.
Especially when he had to avoid causing any further injury. One wrong move, and Song Ci might get scraped by the metal edges and hurt.
If that happened, the young master would definitely throw a fit.
Zhao Zhen glanced around and realized that besides him and the young master trapped in the gap, no one else was in the car. His heart began to race with anxiety.
He remembered catching the young master in a panic earlier. The others must’ve been too far away or out of view, so he hadn’t paid attention to what happened to them.
Now, seeing no one else around, a chilling thought crept into his mind.
But the fact that **Yan Shixun** wasn’t in the car either helped calm him a little.
Maybe Brother Yan was with the others?
With Brother Yan around, nothing too terrible would happen.
Zhao Zhen steadied himself and, after roughly analyzing the layout of the narrow space, came up with a basic rescue plan. Forcing himself to stay calm, he reached in—one hand gently supporting Song Ci’s head to prevent it from hitting anything, and the other slowly working to shift him out of the gap, inch by inch.
It was a delicate and meticulous job. After several minutes, he had barely made any progress, and Zhao Zhen was already drenched in sweat.
That’s when something unexpected happened.
Because of his nervousness, Zhao Zhen’s hands were warm. Where his skin touched Song Ci’s icy skin, it became the only source of warmth in the cold autumn night.
Song Ci murmured faintly, then slowly regained consciousness and opened his eyes.
Zhao Zhen immediately broke out in a cold sweat.
“Don’t move!”
Zhao Zhen barked sharply, eyes fixed on the metal rod pressing dangerously close to Song Ci’s neck.
Due to the crash, the metal rod was damaged, and its jagged edges were sharp and dangerous—just brushing against them could tear the skin.
And with how tightly Song Ci was wedged in that narrow space, Zhao Zhen had little room to maneuver. A slight slip, and those sharp edges could slice into Song Ci’s delicate neck.
As soon as Song Ci opened his eyes, still unaware of the situation, Zhao Zhen’s fierce shout hit him squarely. The young master immediately became upset, his temper flaring.
“What did you say? Zhao Zhen, how dare you yell at me!”
The moment Song Ci spoke, the skin on his neck expanded slightly, brushing against a sharp edge, and immediately left a thin trail of blood.
Zhao Zhen’s pupils contracted, and his fingers trembled.
A burning pain flared up on Song Ci’s neck.
The pain brought his mind into clearer focus. A beat later, he finally realized that something was off about his current position.
He noticed that his view was completely blocked by leather seats above him, and all he could smell was a mix of rust and leather. On top of that, the wound on his neck gave off a faint scent of blood. All these harsh smells blended into something so nauseating that it made his head spin.
But he finally understood that he was in a very bad situation.
Judging by Zhao Zhen’s actions, he seemed to be trying to save him.
So, Song Ci pressed his lips together and obediently stopped talking.
With Song Ci finally cooperating, Zhao Zhen managed—after quite a bit of effort—to safely pull him out of the narrow gap.
Song Ci sat on the floor, supporting himself with his arms. His whole body felt like it had been run over by a truck—trembling and completely drained of strength.
He raised a hand to touch his neck, and his pale fingers came away stained with blood.
Zhao Zhen shook his head helplessly. “That’s why I told you not to move.”
Only after being pulled out did Song Ci get a clear look at just how dangerous that narrow gap was. One wrong move, and it could’ve ended in a bloody mess.
His heart was still pounding from the close call, and he genuinely felt grateful to Zhao Zhen for rescuing him.
But just as he was about to express his thanks, Zhao Zhen spoke first—and irritated him.
So the words of gratitude transformed into a complaint: “I had just woken up, didn’t know what was going on—totally normal, right? Couldn’t you have given me a proper warning? Do you have a mouth just for eating?”
Song Ci shot him a glare that lacked real menace and extended his hand. “Aren’t you going to help me up? Can’t you see I can’t get up on my own?”
Zhao Zhen: “…”
He didn’t bother arguing with the young master and silently bent down, pulling him up from the floor without complaint.
Song Ci’s legs were so weak they were practically noodles. Even with help, he stumbled a few steps, accidentally stepping on some debris on the ground.
“Pfft!”
A sound like a balloon bursting echoed through the car.
Zhao Zhen quickly looked over in alert, but Song Ci froze on the spot.
He could clearly feel that… he had just stepped on something and crushed it.
It was elastic, yet soft and sticky—like something had just been squashed and its insides spilled out…
Leaning on Zhao Zhen’s shoulder for support, Song Ci turned his head to look down at his feet.
One glance, and his face turned green.
—Under his foot was a pile of flesh and blood.
Amidst the mess of red, there were also round, white objects—already crushed in half.
Blood and tissue clung to Song Ci’s shoe and had even splattered onto his pants.
The scent of rust spread heavily through the air.
Just as Song Ci’s stomach began to churn with nausea, the viewers from before the split screen didn’t feel much better either.
[What the hell is this?! That red-and-white, sticky, gooey mess—I’m about to throw up!]
[Damn it! I actually threw my phone across the room, it’s that disgusting. I feel gross all over now, like I’m covered in something slimy.]
[Um… after looking closely, I think—maybe—this blob… might be an eyeball?]
[Ugh!!!]
[…I just came back from puking, thank you very much, friend. Now I’m running to the bathroom again.]
[Congratulations. My favorite food—fish eyes—is now my biggest nightmare. *Gag!* I’m never eating animal eyes for the rest of my life!]
Fortunately, Song Ci wasn’t part of the inner circle of celebrities. Compared to the other guests, his camera feed had always been rather lukewarm and low-traffic.
Half of his subscribers were actually bought by his CEO older brother from the entertainment company, who was worried his younger brother might get eliminated under the bottom-ranking rule and throw a tantrum.
So, in comparison to the others, not too many people had seen this scene unfold on his split-screen.
Inside the public opinion control room, a wall was filled with screens—big and small—showing the main livestream, individual camera feeds, and real-time social media sentiment analysis.
Several of the screens were still black, indicating that some individual camera feeds hadn’t resumed streaming yet.
The leader of the public opinion team stared at Song Ci’s feed, face just as green as his.
He felt like the lamb offal soup he’d had for lunch was churning in his stomach.
There were lamb eyes.. in that soup. And he’d eaten them.
At this moment, the public opinion leader was full of regret. If it weren’t for the fact that his subordinates were around, he would’ve run off to vomit on the spot!
The footage of a human eyeball being crushed underfoot had disgusted many people.
The public opinion leader, in particular, had this horrifying illusion that he had just eaten a human eyeball. That thought made his face go even paler.
A subordinate nearby, worried he might suddenly collapse from overwork, rushed over to check on him.
Meanwhile, Song Ci was completely unaware that everyone else had been grossed out too—otherwise, he might’ve found some strange comfort in that.
He suddenly turned and collapsed into Zhao Zhen’s arms, his voice shaking from nausea. “Zhao… Zhao Zhen… hurry, get it off me!”
Zhao Zhen looked at Song Ci, confused and still not sure what was going on.
Then he saw Song Ci refusing to even look back, frantically pointing at his own feet, voice cracking with panic. “Look at my feet, you idiot!”
Zhao Zhen looked down—and was caught off guard by a lifeless eyeball staring up at him. His scalp tingled.
“…”
He was a grown man, 1.8 meters tall, but even he was stunned by the sight of an eyeball crushed into bloody pulp.
Fortunately, Zhao Zhen was a tough guy. He’d eaten raw lamb meat and even bitten into live fish for film shoots. Once he got past the mental hurdle, he managed to steady himself.
He grabbed a corner of a nearby rug, using his shoulder to support Song Ci’s trembling body as he slowly crouched down, forcing himself to pick up the eyeball wrapped in the cloth.
But even through the thick fabric—despite knowing logically that the blood and tissue couldn’t seep through—it still felt disgustingly sticky in his hand.
Zhao Zhen looked at the eyeball for a couple of seconds and sensed something off. “This is a human eyeball… but whose?”
Song Ci’s shoulders stiffened, and he looked at Zhao Zhen with terrified eyes. “You mean… someone’s eye got hurt?”
The young master’s eyes turned red immediately.
He’d noticed it ever since they were pulled out of the wrecked vehicle—it was just him and Zhao Zhen in the car. No one else was there.
But now an eyeball had appeared… what if one of the other guests had been injured during the crash and this had fallen out? If it was still intact, maybe it could’ve been reattached in surgery once rescue arrived.
But because of him, all of that was ruined now.
Song Ci was overwhelmed with guilt, too distraught to even feel scared or disgusted anymore. He hurried to tug the blanket from Zhao Zhen’s hands.
“Let me see. Whose is it? Whose eye is it?!”
His voice trembled. “I’m sorry, I caused this…”
Zhao Zhen stared at the young master in disbelief, then looked back down at the eyeball in his hand.
He wasn’t a professional, but after several episodes of filming, he’d become familiar with everyone in the production crew—he had their faces committed to memory.
This eyeball was severely damaged, but something about it didn’t match any of the people who’d been in the vehicle.
—As odd as it sounded, aside from the crew and driver, everyone in the car was either a celebrity or incredibly good-looking. Their eyes were all attractive.
But this eyeball clearly didn’t match.
If it belonged to the variety show celebrity, the eyes weren’t that big. If it were the driver’s, the eyes would’ve looked older, with that age-yellowed tint.
Zhao Zhen forced himself to calm down, going over each person in his mind—but none of them matched.
So then… where had this eyeball come from?
As Zhao Zhen puzzled over this, a viewer suddenly screamed after recognizing the eyeball.
[Did I see that wrong, or did the same eyeball appear in Brother Yan’s split-screen too?!]
[After what you said, I braved the nausea and rewatched it. Yes! Even though it got squashed and almost made me puke again, it looks just like the one in Brother Yan’s hand.]
[That’s weird… did Brother Yan also pick it up from the car? Are there two of them? Otherwise, how could Brother Yan have one, and there’s still one here?]
[AAAAHHHH!! Someone who just watched the main screen, please tell me! If you saw it, you’ll definitely recognize where that eyeball came from. They’re a pair, damn it! Humans have two eyes!!]
[Sh*t! I remember now! That creepy boy—his face had both eyeballs fall out! Those bloody, gaping holes in his eyes almost scared me to death!”]
[…What just happened? I remember falling asleep with my tablet during a relaxing midday break, the show still playing under a sunny and clear sky. But when I woke up, I was face-to-face with an eyeball? Damn it, it’s pouring outside my house now, and I’m curled up in bed, trembling in fear, sobbing…]
[Wait, that doesn’t make sense. If it were just a single eyeball, then Brother Yan shouldn’t have missed it, right? I clearly remember how meticulously he searched—like a full sweep. Could something still slip through that?]
[Maybe… Brother Yan just overlooked it?]
The viewers debated in confusion for a long time, unable to figure out why the same eyeball appeared both in front of Yan Shixun and Song Ci.
As for the owner of the eyeball shown on the main screen, they speculated endlessly, tangling their thoughts into knots—yet remained utterly clueless.
Afraid of frightening Song Ci, Zhao Zhen hurriedly wrapped the eyeball in a blanket, stuffed it into a random tote bag he found nearby, then helped Song Ci prepare to climb out of the car.
Since the vehicle had overturned, the only way out was to jump from the top. Zhao Zhen had to put in quite a bit of effort to pull the frail young master out of the car.
Once they got out, Song Ci looked at the panting Zhao Zhen and averted his gaze awkwardly. “I’ll start working out when I get back.”
His dad had criticized him more than once, complaining that his skinny arms and legs weren’t manly enough. But every time, his older brother stepped in to defend him, saying that any body type was fine, that their son looked good no matter what. What kind of father finds fault with his own child?
That line of reasoning shut everyone else up. With his brother backing him, Song Ci happily lounged on the couch playing games. Exercising? Way too tiring—he wanted no part of it.
But now, seeing how exhausted Zhao Zhen was from dealing with his weak constitution, Song Ci felt rather unhappy with himself for becoming a burden to someone else.
Still gasping for air, Zhao Zhen didn’t quite catch what he said. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything. You must’ve imagined it,” Song Ci replied with a deadpan face. “Did the others get thrown out?”
When he saw the broken car windows, Song Ci had already started suspecting it.
After all, Zhao Zhen caught him, but the others—thrown by the momentum—might’ve been flung in the opposite direction, smashing through the glass. That possibility couldn’t be ruled out.
Zhao Zhen had his own doubts too, but agreed to check the surroundings with Song Ci.
It was better than just sitting around doing nothing.
Meanwhile, at Binhai University.
After leaving the lab, Cheng Jing brought back dinner to his dorm. As soon as he opened the door, he heard someone dry heaving inside.
He instantly paused in his tracks, tempted to turn around and eat in the cafeteria instead.
But his sharp-eyed roommate spotted him. “Dad Cheng! Is that my dinner you’re carrying?”
Cheng Jing had no choice but to walk in.
Since senior year was winding down and fall recruitment was over, most students already had plans. If the professors didn’t remember to call them in, they were either busy in the lab writing their theses—or, like his roommate, holed up in the dorm playing games.
Cheng Jing was the former.
After failing to get a guaranteed graduate school spot, he had to seriously prepare for entrance exams, hoping to attend the same university for grad school as the person he loved. So, he spent most of his time in the lab or the library, earning the respect of his classmates.
What was once joyful gaming had now become anxious gaming.
If it weren’t for his roommate messaging him, Cheng Jing wouldn’t have brought dinner back on the way—he had originally planned to go straight to the library.
“Cut down on the gaming.”
Cheng Jing couldn’t help but chide.
His roommate cheerfully held up the tablet. “I’m not playing. I’m watching a livestream.”
Seeing Cheng Jing’s indifferent expression, the roommate had a sudden realization. “You’ve been so busy, you haven’t paid attention to recent news, have you? There’s this variety show that’s insanely popular—it’s way better than the horror movies I usually watch.”
His gaze landed on the fried meatballs in the dinner bag, and suddenly he remembered the eyeball from earlier. His face instantly turned green, a little queasy.
He now had an aversion to all spherical food!
Under his roommate’s passionate recommendation, Cheng Jing reluctantly glanced at the tablet.
Then, his body froze.
The campus internet was terrible, and the tablet had only managed to load a single frame before freezing.
It showed a young man’s face, covered in knife wounds, with nothing left but two bloody sockets where his eyes should be, staring straight into the camera.
The image was horrifying and grotesque. Just meeting that eyeless gaze gave one full-body goosebumps.
But Cheng Jing was frozen for another reason entirely.
“Dad Cheng? Did it scare you?” The roommate peeked at the tablet curiously. “That’s the person from the livestream I was talking about. Told you it was scary, right?”
“What livestream? Let me see that!”
Cheng Jing snatched the tablet in a panic, trying to enlarge the face blurred by poor resolution.
But the weak signal caught up, and the livestream resumed. The new shot showed only a trashed, empty train car.
That painfully familiar figure was gone.
His roommate, startled by Cheng Jing’s sudden intensity, meekly gave him the program’s name.
Watching Cheng Jing’s anxious behavior, the roommate muttered, “Besides your little boyfriend, I’ve never seen you get this worked up about anyone else. What’s going on, man? I didn’t know you were into horror stuff.”
Cheng Jing no longer heard a word his roommate said.
His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone and dialed the number he knew by heart.
But the response on the other end still said: Powered off.
Cheng Jing felt as if his heart had plunged into an icy abyss.
—
A middle-aged man felt darkness closing in on his vision. He had run so hard his lungs felt like they were going to explode, but he still didn’t dare stop.
He didn’t even dare to look back, terrified that behind him would still be that ghastly pale face. That moment just now had nearly driven him into a mental breakdown.
But what made things worse was that he saw someone else.
As he kept running, he spotted a shadowy figure standing ahead on the path, head bowed.
The sky was too dark—he could barely make out the figure’s outline. It looked like a man, but he couldn’t see the face clearly.
Caught between fear and a sense of imminent death, the man didn’t think too hard about why someone would be standing there.
Just the presence of another person gave him a false sense of hope—as if he were saved.
He ran toward the figure, shouting, “There’s something chasing me! Can you help block it for a bit…?”
He fell back into old habits, trying to use this sudden stranger as a human shield—something to buy him time to escape.
Whether the stranger died or not wasn’t his concern.
But before he could finish speaking, the figure slowly lifted its head.
From a distance, he hadn’t been able to see clearly. But now, up close—he saw everything.
The man’s face was crisscrossed with deep knife wounds, blood running down in rivulets.
Where his eyes should’ve been were just two gaping, bloody holes, staring at him with chilling emptiness.
What…!
How was this possible? Wasn’t that college student supposed to be inside the train car? And why was the flesh still on his face?
He’d clearly watched that useless college student die sobbing! The body was in pieces—how could he show up here now?
The more he thought about it, the more terrified he became. Goosebumps covered his arms, and cold sweat broke out all over his back.
Even the air he breathed in felt so frigid it made his lungs ache.
The man’s feet froze in place, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat.
The youth’s blood dripped steadily down his face. He slowly took a step toward him.
The man’s teeth chattered. He spun around and bolted.
“Ghost—Ghost!!”
His scream was hoarse, torn from sheer panic.
Elsewhere, Yan Shixun had been talking with Ye Li about how many times they’d passed the same sign when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
He turned around, his eyes sharp as he stared into the distance behind them.
Yan Shixun asked, “Ye Li, did you hear that? Just now—someone screamed.”
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