Chapter 72: Cloud Mirror

By the time the others arrived, all they saw was a ripple across the courtyard’s mural. They instantly understood—Lin Kuo had snatched the roster and slipped into the painted scroll.

Some players tried smearing their blood onto the mural, but unless you were part of Lin Kuo’s team, you couldn’t enter—even if the scroll’s activation window was still open.

Duan Qiu cursed non-stop, his anger burning hotter every second. He turned his fury on Guo Huai.
“Why the hell did you call him over?! If you hadn’t, none of this would’ve happened!”

Guo Huai’s face was just as dark. He held back his temper and said coldly,
“You really don’t understand why I called him? And now you’re blaming me?”

“Damn it!” Duan Qiu spat.

Of course he knew Guo Huai’s reasoning. Lin Kuo had been alone; as another initiator, he could’ve been forced to mark names in the roster for them.

Guo Huai took out the calligraphy brush. “Relax. At least the pen’s still here.”

That calmed Duan Qiu a little. He muttered,
“Fine, we’ll wait here. I don’t believe for a second that he won’t come out.”

No one dared to let their guard down. The roster was in Lin Kuo’s hands, and even though they had the brush, no one could guarantee that using something else to mark names would work.

Guo Huai frowned at the mural. “…‘Cloud Mirror’? He won’t die in there, will he?”

Duan Qiu looked too. The painted ghost called Cloud Mirror was striking—not because of vibrant colors but because of its stark lack of them. It was drenched entirely in ink-black, radiating suffocating sorrow. Also known as the Mirror Demon, this ghost specialized in illusions. Its illusions were not only hyper-realistic but steeped in tragedy. Many players had drowned in its stories, unable to distinguish illusion from reality, and had remained trapped in the scroll forever. Among the Hundred Ghosts, Cloud Mirror ranked fifth.

“If I remember right, that’s under B Zone?” Duan Qiu said icily. “Then he’s probably dead. And he’ll drag us all down with him!”

Guo Huai took a deep breath. “Don’t be so pessimistic. Even if he dies, we won’t necessarily be affected.”

Duan Qiu sneered. “Really? If he dies in there, who’s going to get the roster back? If it stays locked inside forever, Hundred Ghosts Scroll loses its entire secondary appeal. What do you think the system will do then? And don’t forget, nothing says only the pen in your hand can mark names.”

Guo Huai had only been trying to comfort himself. Now that Duan Qiu had ripped away that illusion, all he could say was, “Then we wait.”

As Duan Qiu said, Lin Kuo hadn’t just taken the roster—he’d taken the dungeon’s highlight moment too. From the instant he grabbed it, the official livestream camera locked onto him. The chat barrage nearly exploded:

[This initiator? Reckless much.]
[His reflexes are insane—he actually snatched the roster from a group of Upper City players.]
[AAAAA Dog Streamer!!!]
[Dog Streamer yyds!]
[Dog Streamer, pride of the Lower City!]
[I’ve opened “Group Rewards,” Lower City comrades, let’s gooo!]
[On my way!]
[What’s “Group Rewards”? Never heard of it.]
[Figures. Lower City scum can’t afford items alone, so you all pool money together, huh?]

Inside the scroll, as tension and resentment weighed heavy on everyone, a clear “ding” chimed from above. Both those within and outside the scroll heard the mechanical system voice:
“A ‘Flower Shower’ item, collectively purchased by one thousand Lower City viewers, has been successfully delivered to Player ‘Lin Kuo.’ Please accept.”

Petals cascaded down from the sky within the scroll. Every surviving participant could see it. Lin Kuo turned his head and watched a rain of blossoms fill the air. When it ended, glowing words appeared in the sky:

Dog Streamer, Eternal God!

Lin Kuo: “…”

He was speechless for a moment. He pocketed the roster, brushed the dust off his clothes, and whispered softly, Thank you.

It wasn’t just gratitude for their support. If he could see the flower shower here, then Sheng Wen and the others would see it too—and they’d know something had gone wrong.

That worry off his shoulders, Lin Kuo finally turned his attention to his surroundings.

Something was wrong.

Ahead stood countless mirrors. They were positioned to reflect him, yet none showed his image.

He walked closer. Each step echoed with a hollow clang, followed by faint cracking sounds. Looking down, he realized he was standing on a giant mirror.

This mirror did reflect him—but when he looked down, the Lin Kuo in the glass was looking up. His reflection wore a face full of urgency.

Lin Kuo froze. The mirrored “him” pounded on the glass and pointed upward. Lin Kuo instinctively looked up—just in time for a pair of hands to reach down and yank him through.

The world spun violently. He landed hard, barely steadying himself when he heard glass shattering above. He glanced up. Another “Lin Kuo” peered down silently from a mirror overhead, expressionless.

Then hands reached down for that Lin Kuo. Without thinking, Lin Kuo tapped on the mirror beneath him, gesturing for the reflection to look up. The mirrored Lin Kuo obeyed—only to be grabbed and pulled upward by the hands.

As the reflection vanished, Lin Kuo gave a quick tug on the glass—and the world spun again. He was back at his starting point.

The mirror beneath him cracked ominously.

He stomped hard.

The glass shattered beneath his feet. He plunged downward.

The mirrored Lin Kuo below clearly hadn’t expected that. Their eyes met. The “fake” Lin Kuo dove into a mirror ahead. Lin Kuo followed without hesitation.

This new mirror world wasn’t abstract or eerie, but unsettlingly familiar: a cityscape outside the window, clearly Upper City, not his own B Zone neighborhood.

The scroll was a dungeon within Hundred Ghosts Scroll. Its only difference from other dungeons was its silence: no guidance, no rules.

Lin Kuo stood still, thinking: Which ghost did I trigger? And how does it want me to die?

A voice called from behind.
“Chen Yi.”

Lin Kuo turned to see a stranger—a man carrying pastries, their scent telling Lin Kuo they were Chen Yi’s favorite. Yet disgust welled up inside him, and he heard himself say, “I don’t want it.”

The voice wasn’t his. It sounded like Zhang Yi’s.

Suddenly, Lin Kuo was no longer in control. His body moved on its own, lying down and curling under a blanket.

A finger poked his back. Irritation flared.

“Come on, eat. It’s expensive—just this much cost two thousand points,” the man coaxed.

Lin Kuo didn’t move. Another poke.

“Chen Yi, I—”

“Shut up already, Zhang Yi!” Chen Yi roared, throwing off the blanket.

Lin Kuo froze. The man’s face reflected in his own eyes: Zhang Yi.

Realization struck. Lin Kuo wasn’t losing control of his mind—he was sharing Chen Yi’s perspective, reliving his emotions.

For the first time, Lin Kuo was meeting the real Zhang Yi.

Zhang Yi was warm, persistent, and annoyingly patient. Chen Yi was depressed, bitter, and drowning. They bickered, fought, and bled together. Day by day, Zhang Yi tried to pull Chen Yi back from the brink, bringing food, joking, tending his wounds, even lending him points to buy time.

Then Zhang Yi entered a dungeon—and never returned.

When strangers arrived to claim his now-vacant room, Chen Yi snapped. Rage consumed him, and he was thrown into solitary confinement for attacking a system agent.

Upon release, Chen Yi made a choice. He would become Zhang Yi.

Whether it was to honor Zhang Yi’s memory or because he’d finally found a reason to live, Chen Yi took Zhang Yi’s name, his diary, his goal: to help Zhou Mu, Zhang Yi’s younger brother, survive and escape the walled city.

He wrote in the diary:
[X Year, X Month, X Day]
Unlocked a Four-Star dungeon. Met someone who told me of the S Zone. If I can unlock the S dungeon, I can leave the city. It’s far away, but at least there’s hope. Today I miss… Mu Mu.

Zhang Yi had never recognized Zhou Mu’s handwriting or dared reveal himself in Zhou Mu’s livestream. Not because of cruelty, but because he didn’t even know what Zhou Mu looked like.

When he closed the diary and stepped out of the room, Lin Kuo was wrenched from his perspective. He gasped, clutching his chest. It felt as if a piece of his heart had been torn away.

Zhang Yi paused at the doorway, turning to him with a soft, coaxing smile.
“Come with me. Follow me down, and the pain will stop.”

Sweat dripped from Lin Kuo’s forehead. He struggled to raise his head.

Zhang Yi looked almost hurt.
“What, is my story not worth sinking into?”

Lin Kuo’s voice trembled with venom. He knew the figure before him was no human.
“…Get lost.”

Zhang Yi’s smile widened into something twisted.

The ghost morphed, his features melting into Sheng Wen’s face.
“Then maybe,” he whispered, voice dripping malice, “the next story will be irresistible. No—inevitable.”