Chapter 60: Setting Sixty
Setting Sixty: Supernatural Research Club (Part 13)
Shan Ziwei’s eyes flew wide open. Though stinging from the blood, they clearly reflected the handsome face inches away.
Host was helping him.
His eyes slowly reddened—in the blood, like a beast about to break free.
Yes—Host was helping him.
Even as Host pried open his mouth, even as he gripped his jaw, even as his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, even…
Host was just delivering oxygen to him.
His feeble reason protested—and was drowned by a storm of desire.
Host’s grip on the back of his head loosened. He didn’t need to hold on anymore—the one in his arms was no longer trying to escape.
Shan Ziwei pressed against Host, his white hair swaying in the blood. He clawed at Host’s black hair like a creature draining life force, greedily taking oxygen and saliva from Host’s mouth.
The warm blood enveloped them. He trembled, submerged in a suffocating pleasure—and a desperate self-abandonment.
He’d tasted this ecstasy in the Topsy-Turvy Chessboard. Perhaps because he’d experienced it before, he didn’t completely lose his mind this time—a sliver of awareness remained, swaying precariously in the storm of desire.
But that sliver made it all the more despairing.
He could clearly feel the pleasure it brought him. He loved it, loved it so much he lost control. He’d always blamed his body, his condition—but his body and condition were part of who he was. If his body liked it, then he liked it—regardless of the situation, regardless of the person.
—Even with Host, another man like himself.
His last shred of awareness sank into the sea of desire. He swallowed Host’s saliva, his trembling hand slipping under the black-haired youth’s clothes, touching the defined lines of his abdomen.
He wanted it… wanted it so badly…
“Guh…!”
The calm blood erupted into waves as a dripping white-haired youth struggled up, coughing painfully by the tub.
Thinking of the ghost—wherever it was—he stifled his sounds. Water ran from his nose, burning uncomfortably.
His body felt awful—but he needed that. Experience had proven that pain was the best remedy for desire. He was grateful for his overactive body: he’d been so lost in the moment that he’d forgotten they were underwater, running out of oxygen and breathing through his nose—only to inhale blood.
Splash.
A small sound from behind. He stiffened, scrambled out, and fled without looking back.
“Sorry-thanks-disturbing you—!”
The black-haired youth sat in the bloody water, thumb tracing his slightly swollen lip. His crimson tongue swept across it, curling into a smile of keen interest.
He burst out of the bathroom. He’d rather run into a ghost than stay with Host.
The corridor was empty. He ran into the bedroom next to the bathroom, glaring at his own right hand in frustration. His fingertips still tingled, still burned—as if still savoring the firm abdomen, the defined v-lines… Stop!
His mind was a wasteland. How could he explain this? It was inexplicable!
His hand had almost grabbed the man’s pants!
“…GFanzi?”
He looked up to see Hyacinth emerging from a wardrobe.
She pushed up her glasses, frowning at his disheveled state. “I’m using this spot.”
Her meaning was clear: find somewhere else.
He didn’t mind; her focus on the task was better than asking questions. He shook off the lingering sensations.
“I’ve got an idea.” He told her. “We can cooperate.”
He explained that sound attracted the ghost. She thought for a moment, then said: “You mean, if any of us is in danger, we make noise to draw it away?”
“Not just us—everyone.” He said. “The phone draws the ghost too—whoever answers is in danger. If we cooperate, it’ll be much safer.”
“And we don’t have to make the noise ourselves. We can set up sound traps—alarms, timed to go off elsewhere, so we don’t have to risk ourselves.”
Hyacinth looked at him oddly: “You really are… quite good.”
The unexpected praise made him a little embarrassed. At least he’d salvaged some pride for his 21st-century gaming status.
Hyacinth agreed. She walked to the nightstand: “I remember an alarm clock here.”
He took the chance to look around. It was a typical boy’s bedroom—a desk and bookshelf with models and magazines. Two cabinets: the wooden wardrobe Hyacinth had used, and a metal cabinet that looked like storage.
“This is the servant’s room.” Hyacinth said, picking up the alarm.
“The servant’s?” He was surprised. “His room is… really nice.”
It was almost as large as the master bedroom, with fine furniture—not at all a servant’s quarters.
“There’s a calligraphy notebook on the desk—the handwriting matches.” She paused, then added: “I also found his diary here.”
She pulled out a brown book marked “Diary.” He took it—it had a combination lock, needing a 4-digit code.
Earlier, diary pages had been scattered around, containing story clues. This complete diary required a code—meaning it held crucial information, possibly the key to the final ending.
He examined the lock—four digits.
Had they seen any number hints?
He returned the diary, and they searched the room again. Opening the metal cabinet, he found cleaning supplies—mops, basins, brushes. This really was the young servant’s room.
He was considering how to use these to set up sound traps when the phone rang.
“RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~”
He and Hyacinth exchanged shocked looks—too soon!
The Ghost Call had rung four times before, roughly every hour. This time, less than 30 minutes had passed.
A dark thought struck him: would the interval keep shortening? Would someone always have to stand by the phone—during a life-or-death game of Hide and Seek?
“It’s Milk Tea’s turn.” Hyacinth’s hand twitched toward her glasses. She suddenly flinched and scrambled back into the wardrobe: “The ghost is coming—”
“Kaka~ kakakakaka~~~”
The ghost’s hideous laughter descended the stairs, still chanting its death song.
“Pluck out my eyes, I can still see you… plug my ears, I can still hear you…”
He pressed himself against the wall by the door, listening to the ghost pass on the other side. Swallowing his fear, he eased the door open and peered out.
From the northeast corner, he couldn’t see the living room—but he immediately spotted the master bedroom’s door, also cracked open, revealing Milk Tea’s pale face.
She stared blankly toward the living room, her expression filled with conflict.
The worst-case scenario: the ghost had reached the phone first, waiting for the players to come.
According to their agreement, Milk Tea had to answer within a minute—even if the ghost was there.
She didn’t know sound could lure it away.
He grabbed the alarm and opened the door, catching her attention. He gave her an encouraging gesture, then ran full-speed to the second floor, to the farthest guest room. He set the alarm to ring in 10 seconds, opened a cabinet to hide it—and found Crimson Rose inside.
They stared at each other in shock for a second. He snapped out of it: No time—
He said nothing, ran to the study room across the hall, and shoved the alarm into the podium cabinet.
That wasn’t enough. Without catching his breath, he ran back to the second-floor landing and shouted with all his courage:
“I’m here—come find me—”
Click, click, click, click-click-click-click—!
His voice echoed through the mansion. The ghost reached the first-floor landing almost instantly.
So fast!
He couldn’t make it to the recreation room. He dashed into the study on the right and hid in his original spot, heart pounding.
Did it see me? Did I close the door? Did I really set the alarm?
Cold sweat ran down his face. Under the shadow of fear, his thoughts were a mess.
“Kaka~ goo-good, I-I-I’m coming to find you—”
The ghost’s voice, right outside, froze his thoughts. His dilated pupils reflected a long, pale, skin-covered hand holding a filleting knife—and in the blade’s reflection, a distorted face grinning at him.
His soul groaned under the strain. He thought, numbly: It’s caught me.
A second or a century passed—then a sound from far away, not loud, pulled him back from the brink.
“Bzzt… three bears live in a house, Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bear…”
The alarm.
The cheerful song immediately drew the ghost’s attention. It stopped reaching under the desk and staggered out of the study.
He crawled out, limp and numb.
Even knowing it was a game, even knowing death wasn’t real—facing that thing was still terrifying.
But it had worked.
“RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~”
He came back to his senses—the ringing hadn’t stopped.
Why hadn’t Milk Tea answered?
He hurried to the door and peered down the corridor, glimpsing the ghost at the far end.
It had been lured away—so why hadn’t she answered? What happened?
Then he realized something worse—how long had it been?
Then he heard the scream.
“AAAAAAHHHHHHH—!!!”
It was Hyacinth.