Chapter 11: We’re the Intruders

Li Yinan pondered for a long time before barely managing a few scattered thoughts.

She asked Lin Kuo uncertainly, “Could it be that Wang Miao and the other one thought the piano room was safer?”

Lin Kuo was looking at his phone.

About half an hour had passed since he sent the last message to Sweet as the Wind, but she still hadn’t replied.

This made Lin Kuo worry.

He didn’t understand the Walled City’s points system and didn’t know whether, as the bullet chat had suggested, Sweet as the Wind would truly be in mortal danger after spending such a large number of points.

Seeing Lin Kuo holding his phone and staring blankly at the screen for a long time, Li Yinan cautiously asked, “Boss, what’s wrong with you?”

Lin Kuo came back to his senses, tightly pursed his lips, and blinked, suppressing the worry in his eyes. “Nothing.”

Although he said that, Lin Kuo still left another message for Sweet as the Wind:

[Lin Kuo]: Please contact me when you see this message.

After sending it, Lin Kuo uneasily set his phone aside and asked Li Yinan, “What were you saying earlier?”

Li Yinan repeated, “Did Wang Miao and Zhu Hai choose to stay in the piano room because they thought it was safer?”

Lin Kuo nodded.

The answer was already laid out plainly before them—what other reason could there be for Wang Miao to knowingly walk into danger?

Li Yinan suddenly grew indignant. “I’ve never been this speechless. What kind of people are they?! …Boss, was our previous room really the safest?”

Lin Kuo shook his head. “Not necessarily.”

In the corridor, the words he had meant to say before being interrupted by Liang Sihong were actually:

I’m not sure if this bedroom will still be safe tonight.

Obviously, Liang Sihong had also guessed Wang Miao’s intentions, which was why he had encouraged Lin Kuo to agree to the room switch.

Just then, a Walled City Chat notification sounded.

Hearing this tone, Lin Kuo immediately knew it was a reply from Sweet as the Wind.

While waiting, he had figured out how to set a unique notification tone for her.

He opened the message.

_______________________________________________________________

[Lin Kuo]: Please contact me when you see this message.
[Sweet as the Wind]: Acknowledged~
[Sweet as the Wind]: I was just taking a shower. What’s wrong, big brother?

_______________________________________________________________

Lin Kuo breathed a sigh of relief.

Immediately after, more messages poured in:

_______________________________________________________________

[Sweet as the Wind]: Special concern?
[Sweet as the Wind]: Heh, men.

_______________________________________________________________

“…”

Sweet as the Wind had likely continued watching the livestream and heard the custom notification tone when his message came in.

Lin Kuo’s ears turned slightly red.

He felt that the repeated punctuation carried a deeper meaning, as if she wasn’t exactly pleased or welcoming of this special concern.

He quickly began to type out an explanation.

But Sweet as the Wind coldly sent a final message, telling him to focus on clearing the instance.

With that, Lin Kuo had no choice but to delete his half-typed explanation from the input box, one character at a time.

Staring at the empty input field, a huge question mark rose in his mind.

Was Sweet as the Wind… angry?

Lin Kuo felt a bit regretful and lost.

He had just wanted to thank her—he hadn’t meant to upset her.

He quietly canceled the unique notification tone and sincerely apologized in his heart for acting so abruptly.

Setting his phone aside again, his gaze fell on Sweet as the Winds’ avatar.

Lin Kuo took commissions for avatars, and the cartoon avatar she used looked very much like his art style.

It reminded Lin Kuo of his own work.

Aside from the commercial illustrations he did for income, he had many other unpublished pieces.

These included casual doodles and emotional pieces.

What were emotional works?

Drawings created when he was happy. Drawings created when he was sad.

When he felt the lingering fear of nearly being tricked out of all his savings—he drew to soothe himself.

Though these artworks were deeply personal and emotionally charged, they had a calming effect on him.

So, rather than saying last night’s Canon was filled with panic, it would be more accurate to say that the one playing Canon was panicking—trying to use music to soothe their own fear.

But what about after it quieted down?

The world changes constantly.

You can’t always face challenges with the same method.

It’s like encountering a bottomless pit.

You try to jump across it, only to fall, ending up filthy and battered.

You’re surrounded by darkness, and fear sets in. You sing to cheer yourself on.

But what about the second time?

Would you still charge in recklessly?

You have other options now—like going around it.
Or… filling it in.

Wang Miao and Zhu Hai were in a dire situation.

Whether they could turn misfortune into fortune now depended, as Liang Sihong had said, on their own choices.

It all depended on whether Lady Luck would smile on them.

The next day, someone knocked loudly on their door.

Lin Kuo opened his eyes and heard the noisy voices outside.

The scar-faced man was calling out to them, his tone trembling. “Hey… wake up…”

Liang Sihong’s voice was heavy. “Lin Kuo, it’s us.”

Lin Kuo got out of bed and opened the door.

The trio standing outside had pale faces.

Liang Sihong’s voice was hoarse.

“Something’s happened.”

Lin Kuo paused a moment and asked, “Who?”

Liang Sihong swallowed. “Both of them…”

“Where?”

“Still in the room.”

Just as dawn broke and the night’s ban lifted, Liang Sihong had checked on Wang Miao and Zhu Hai. The door was open. The two who had been lively yesterday now lay lifeless on the floor. Blood trailed along the tile cracks toward the doorway.

The scar-faced man’s legs were trembling.

The girl who had been with them screamed non-stop.

Knowing those two were useless, Liang Sihong turned and went to find Lin Kuo.

Now, the five remaining group members arrived at the piano room.

Before even entering, Lin Kuo caught the overwhelming scent of blood—mixed with an acrid, ash-like smell, as if someone had emptied an old ashtray.

Once he got used to it, Lin Kuo glanced into the room.

Zhu Hai lay collapsed by the door, his chest soaked in blood.

His hands clutched at his chest, as though gripping a sword that was no longer there.

The Polaroid had rolled off to the side, its corners visibly damaged.

Lin Kuo turned to Liang Sihong. “See if it captured anything.”

After giving the instruction, he stepped inside to check Wang Miao.

Wang Miao had died on the bed.

Lin Kuo wasn’t a forensic doctor, but even he could see Wang Miao had died a far more painful death.

What stood out was the terror he had felt before dying—and how fast he died.

The bed was soaked in blood, sheets twisted, the mattress exposed.

Wang Miao had clearly struggled.

He had been forced into a corner of the bed by something, and had no way to escape.

Unlike Zhu Hai, Wang Miao’s hands were open, holding a black, gooey substance.

Lin Kuo leaned closer.

The stench of ash hit him hard, and he choked.

His coughing stirred up a fine layer of ash on Wang Miao’s body.

He took half a step back, regaining control, and turned to look at Zhu Hai.
He too had that same layer of ash.

Lin Kuo looked at the Polaroid in Liang Sihong’s hand.
“Any findings?”

“Yes. Let me print it.”

Liang Sihong operated the device, and a film slowly emerged.
After waving it to dry, he stared at it in confusion.

“Give it to me,” Lin Kuo said.

Liang Sihong handed it over.

Lin Kuo took one look and furrowed his brow.

“Is it… a ghost?” Li Yinan asked, huddled with the other girl.

Lin Kuo handed her the photo.

She braced herself for horror and squinted.

Then froze. “This is… a person?”

Zhu Hai had taken a photo right as the door opened.

The image showed three people.

A middle-aged man with a goatee stood at the front, dressed oddly.

Behind him were a man and a woman.

The woman looked terrified.

The man held an urn, his expression filled with resentment.

The goatee-wearing man appeared calm—almost smug, like he had come to capture something.

On closer look, he was holding a peach wood sword, and the urn had strange, sacrificial patterns.

Lin Kuo asked Li Yinan, “What does this make you think of?”

She blurted out, “It looks more like… like a Taoist priest coming to catch a ghost.”

Lin Kuo was stunned.

Liang Sihong looked uneasy. “You mean… could it be…” He didn’t finish.

The mismatched breakfast portions.

The freshly carved peach wood doors.

The butler’s terrified glances.

The piano soothing itself with Canon.

Lin Kuo remained silent for a while.

Then said, “We are the intruders.”

The scar-faced man choked. “What do you mean? We’re the ghosts?”

A wave of absurdity swept through them, dragging up all their buried fear and confusion. Everyone felt dizzy and overwhelmed.

Lin Kuo looked at the piano.
The thought that had eluded him last night had finally arrived.

That’s right.
The piano was in that bedroom.
Which meant it belonged to the room’s original owner—not to him or Li Yinan.

Though shocked, Liang Sihong focused on survival.

He revised Lin Kuo’s earlier conclusion.

“If we’re the intruders, then they’re not called Henry Lee Lucas or Ted Bundy. We don’t need to figure out their crime methods anymore. Instead, we should think about how to avoid being eliminated by the real owners of this villa. That must be the theme of this survival instance—The Intruder.”

Lin Kuo said nothing.

He remembered the book he found in the study—Goethe’s Maxims and Reflections.

The page had read:
The senses do not deceive us; it is our judgment that deceives us.

Peach wood wards off ghosts.

So the intruder is the ghost.

In The Morgue instance, S identified the ghost, but people still died—because ghosts had specific kill conditions.

Everything they’d concluded was based on personal judgment warped by perception.

Lin Kuo agreed with the “Reflections”… but something still felt off.

“Give me the Polaroid.”

Liang Sihong hesitated, but handed it over.

Lin Kuo took a photo of Zhu Hai’s body.

The film developed.

He looked at it.

“It showed something.”

Liang Sihong flinched.
“They’re still here?”

“No.” Lin Kuo handed it over.

The photo showed a peach wood sword stuck in Zhu Hai’s chest.

He said calmly, “This item only captures ghosts, right?”

Liang Sihong argued, “What’s the use of this? To prove we’re not ghosts? It doesn’t matter. We can’t see them, they can’t see us. We’re ghosts to them too. Of course their stuff can be photographed. It’s a bonus gift from a level-one food item. The Main God System isn’t as weak as you think.”

Lin Kuo couldn’t bear to hear Liang Sihong praising the system.

He snatched back the film and mocked, “Really? Does your beloved Walled City have a therapy room? I suggest you get treatment for Stockholm Syndrome after the instance ends.”

“…”

Before Liang Sihong could refute, a beep beep sound rang out in the air, followed by a mechanical female voice:

“Detected that streamer Lin Kuo has shown contempt for the Main God System. Room manager, please determine the punishment.”

Lin Kuo sneered. “It’s all trash.”

Everyone froze.

Li Yinan, frightened, shouted, “Boss… don’t say anymore!”

The bullet chat exploded:

_______________________________________________________________

[Ahhhhh, finally, this scene!]
[Room manager, you heard that? Where’s the punishment?!]
[Room manager, punish him! This dog streamer needs a lesson!]
[Room manager has issued a punishment: Forceful spectating.]
[I’m so freaking excited!]

_______________________________________________________________

The mechanical voice continued:

_______________________________________________________________

“Punishment granted: ‘Heart-to-heart talk’. Duration: 20 minutes.”

[?]
[A talk? Seriously?]
[Room manager, come out and get beaten!]
[This punishment’s too soft!]

_______________________________________________________________

The livestream paused, and Lin Kuo was pulled from the instance into another space.

He hadn’t even found his footing when a crisp, pleasant male voice rang out:

“Little streamer, let’s have a talk.”