Chapter 54

Chapter 54: Setting Fifty-Four

Setting Fifty-Four: Supernatural Research Club (Part 7)

Shan Ziwei was led downstairs by Host to retrieve the mirror in a daze.

Finally alone, he stewed for a moment before speaking: “Next time… if you need to role-play a relationship, could you give me a heads-up?”

Another few of those and his old heart wouldn’t take it.

Host glanced at him and nodded silently.

That look made him uneasy. Host’s reasonableness only made him feel guiltier—Host hadn’t done anything wrong, and his action had conveniently solved the contact problem.

The white-haired youth walked quickly toward the mirror at the master bedroom door and threw out an awkward: “Thanks for earlier…”

Host’s low, firm voice followed.

“You’re welcome.”

For some reason, that “you’re welcome” made his heart clench again. He felt like he’d made a very stupid suggestion—one whose bitter fruit he’d be crying over later.

They carried the mirror back to the recreation room. Entering, he found the girls gathered around the bar, apparently passing something around.

“Good work.” Tapioca would usually have greeted them, but now she kept her distance; Mystic Garden was clearly keeping their anti-male stance. So it was Milk Tea who spoke: “Come see—we found a diary page here.”

A diary?

He unconsciously touched his nose. This horror Chessboard was such a classic—the formulaic tropes were all present: the occasional jumpscare, the protagonist’s flashback, ubiquitous diary entries/information reports, strewn-about interlocking keys (find C’s key in A room, B’s key in C room, etc.), NPCs who need help but always give puzzles…

These tropes brought back memories. Horror puzzle games weren’t unfamiliar to him. In the 21st century, if you were a game worker looking to make money, your options were: become a competitive pro player and enter offline tournaments, or become a game streamer—live streaming or making gameplay videos. Horror games were a popular genre; audiences loved watching streamers scream in terror.

This particular sufferer couldn’t show up at offline competitions, so he took the second path. He’d done plenty of horror game streams—that was how he’d practiced voice-changing, for voicing different characters. He was very familiar with these classic horror tropes. But what had been old hat on a screen became devastating in full-immersion. Take the head-lamp—in the past, it was just a jumpscare image or a 3D model. Now, you had an actual severed head dangling before you—sights, sounds, smells included. How could you compare?

As he lamented the changes, a memory flashed—he suddenly realized why it felt familiar! This house’s layout was very similar to a horror game he’d once played!

He hadn’t noticed right away because he’d seen it as a 2D top-down view, and the mansion’s full layout wasn’t clear yet.

He watched Milk Tea hand the diary page to Host, hesitating to speak.

On second thought, it wasn’t exactly the same—that horror game had three floors, Manda Mansion only two. The rooms roughly matched, but the evidence was still thin. He’d wait until they’d seen more rooms.

Host skimmed the page and passed it to him. Still shaken by his sudden insight, he took it absently—and froze.

[XX/XX, Day X, Overcast
This is my first time meeting the young master—so nervous.
I prepared a lot, but I still messed up…
He was wearing such a scary mask—I was too frightened to speak.
Madam said he has a strange illness—can’t get too close to people, breaks out in rashes. That’s why he usually doesn’t leave his room and covers himself completely when he does.
I can tell Madam and the Master are a bit afraid of him—they don’t know how to interact with him.
From now on, I’ll have to serve someone like that…]

“A servant’s diary,” the girls had already started discussing. “So it was the child who was sick—that explains the outfit.”

“Sick, never leaving his room, isolated.” Hyacinth listed. “Over time, his personality would warp, his behavior become strange, hostile to the outside world.”

“—Which led to the ‘matricide’.” Crimson Rose took over. “From the servant’s diary, his relationship with his parents wasn’t good.”

He listened to their discussion, his heart breaking open—letting out a sour ache that numbed his insides.

Personality warped, behavior strange… of course it was. Because he was isolated, because he never went out, because he was sick.

But had anyone asked him? Asked if he wanted to be isolated, to stay inside, to be sick?

He shut his eyes hard, forcibly separating the “young master” in the diary from himself.

No matter the reason, what “he” did to his mother was inexcusable.

“Fanzi? Fanzi?—GFanzi?”

He snapped back to reality. Looking at Milk Tea, his voice hoarse: “Sorry—spaced out there.”

Milk Tea smiled understandingly, glanced at the black-haired youth staring at the white-haired youth’s back, and repeated her question.

“We have the game props and venue—Fanzi, can you explain the rules of Mirror Ghost?”

“Yeah, okay.” He gathered himself and began.

Mirror Ghost had many versions in the 21st century; he’d explain the one he knew: everyone forms a circle around the large mirror, positioned so they can all see each other. Note the mirror’s location. After getting in position, the first person—starting with a girl—blows on the back of the next person’s neck…

He trailed off. The others looked at him quizzically.

This particular sufferer suddenly realized that this “spiritual game” might be his fatal weakness.

Why did it have to involve blowing on necks?! Couldn’t it be anything else?! QAQ

“And then?” Milk Tea prompted, clearly fascinated.

He continued, face pale: “…The person who was blown on blows on the next person, and so on. Everyone keeps walking around the mirror. When someone feels two breaths on their neck, they say ‘It’s here,’ and everyone looks at the mirror at once.”

There was no stopping now. He rushed through the taboos: “Remember—don’t make loud noises, don’t peek at the mirror, don’t move until it’s your turn. No matter what you see, don’t look away, don’t run. Stare at the mirror for at least 5 seconds, then say ‘Go’ and turn around.”

Milk Tea listened with gleaming eyes. When he finished, she asked curiously: “Fanzi, have you played it before?”

He shook his head: “No—I’ve only heard of it.” If he’d played it, he wouldn’t be digging his own grave like this—already dreading his Heart SP.

“As long as we follow the rules and don’t break taboos, no one should die.” Tapioca was relieved. “I was worried about casualties—spiritual games are such risky business.”

Indeed, spiritual games were just ways to court death. They didn’t want to risk, but the “Supernatural Research Club” setting made them risk-happy.

Rules clear. Now the question: how to position themselves?

The four girls looked meaningfully at Shan Ziwei and Host—that earlier threat still fresh. Under their gaze, he self-consciously stood behind Host. Someone had to be in contact with him. The girls exchanged looks, and eventually Milk Tea stood behind Shan Ziwei. When Host looked at her, she raised her hands in a gesture of mock innocence.

“I know—he’s yours.”

Shan Ziwei: …Whimper.

Tapioca stood behind Milk Tea, then Crimson Rose, then Hyacinth, with Host at the end—completing the circle.

“—Everyone in position?” Crimson Rose looked around and gave the start signal: “Then, let’s begin.”

As her voice fell, the light above them flared. He squinted—it was blinding, the over-bright purple-red light drenching everyone in blood-red like flesh-monsters melting in crimson, making their skin crawl.

In this unnerving atmosphere, Hyacinth moved first. She jogged to Crimson Rose, paused, then Crimson Rose moved…

He caught a glimpse of the mirror and looked away. Honestly, he could only recognize who was moving by memory—in that blood-like red light, even silhouettes were blurry.

Footsteps approached from behind, then a light breeze brushed the back of his neck.

Huff, huff—

Nervous, Milk Tea’s breath was a little ragged. The warm air pulsed against his neck. Though prepared, his body still stirred.

He couldn’t wait to move forward, blowing all his urgency and agitation onto Host.

Host paused—not running, but walking unhurriedly to stand behind Hyacinth, completing one cycle.

What followed was a monotonous loop. Everything was silent; with lives on the line, everyone obeyed the rules. But the silence itself became a pressure. No one could speak—just mechanically run, blow, wait, run, blow, wait… over and over.

Everyone realized the horror: if “that thing” never blew that second breath, would they be trapped in this cycle forever?

Time trickled by. No one was running anymore—everyone was exhausted. The blood-red light was unbearable; though their companions were near, they felt impossibly distant.

How many minutes now? Twenty? Thirty? An hour?

Tapioca’s sluggish mind was close to breaking.

How much longer? When would this end?

Her fear of “that thing” had even turned into anticipation—like a prisoner on the guillotine, the blade’s delay more agonizing than death itself.

As for Shan Ziwei, his situation was hard to judge. He was tired—mentally drained—but his body, fueled by his condition, was unbearably agitated. In a way, the condition distracted him from the hopeless cycle.

The heat coursing through him, combined with the red light, made him feverish. Perhaps he was so warm that when the person behind him breathed, their icy breath made him shiver.

So cold—

He suddenly realized something was wrong. The person behind him should be Milk Tea—but this figure was much taller, enveloping him completely.

His hairs stood on end. As he was about to bolt, another icy breath passed over his neck.

His body twitched involuntarily.

It wasn’t really a breath—it was more like someone had leaned in and licked his neck with a soft laugh:

Heh.