Yanwei sighed, tilting his head. So much noise.
The screaming. The begging. The half-choked sobs of men and women who, moments ago, still believed they had a chance.
He grew tired of it.
"Silence."
The word cut through the air—no force behind it, no anger. Just a request. A casual suggestion.
But their bodies—already beaten down by **his presence, his existence—**obeyed before their minds could even process why.
The last strangled cries died.
Good.
Now, he could begin.
Yanwei exhaled, slow, pleased, then lifted a single hand—
And pulled.
A deep, sickening creak tore through the room.
Metal scraped against stone. Wood groaned under unseen weight.
And from nothing, from nowhere, it appeared.
Towering. Ancient. The Wheel.
At first glance, it was almost beautiful.
The wood was smooth—polished to an unnatural shine, as if hundreds, thousands, had run trembling fingers over it, clinging to it in desperation. The carvings along its edges were intricate—detailed, reverent, whispering of something old, older than any of them, older than fate itself.
But the cloth strips tied along its surface—those were new.
Torn from sleeves, from robes, from whatever fabric they could find. Each one a name.
Not real names. Descriptions.
"The red-haired man."
"The woman with the scar."
"The boy with the missing tooth."
Yanwei hummed, running his fingers along the wheel's surface.
"Crude, isn't it? But names are so personal… so limiting." His lips curved into something not quite a smile. "Why not let fate decide who you truly are?"
No one answered.
They couldn't.
Their bodies still wouldn't move. Their voices refused to come back.
For the first time since it began—there was only silence.
A true, heavy, unbearable silence.
And then—Yanwei spoke again.
"Now then… let's play a game."
Yanwei ran his fingers along the edge of the wheel, his touch slow, almost fond.
The wood was smooth beneath his fingertips, polished, well-worn—as if it had been used many times before.
He let that thought settle. Let them wonder.
Then, with a soft chuckle, he spun it.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound was light, almost playful, mocking in its steadiness.
The wheel turned.
And turned.
And turned.
No one breathed.
Not out of restraint—out of confusion.
The others had begged, screamed, whimpered for their lives. They had thrown away their dignity, their pride, their everything.
But now?
They didn't even know what they were supposed to feel.
The wheel was an unknown. It didn't fit into anything they understood.
A tool of fate? A test? A joke?
Fear was straightforward. A blade to the throat, a promise of death—those were things the mind could grasp.
But this?
Their brains stumbled over the uncertainty, trying to categorize it, to rationalize it, to make it make sense.
And because they could not—
They simply waited.
The wheel slowed.
The sound changed.
Click. Click.
Their stomachs tensed.
Not out of recognition, but out of sheer instinct.
Something about that slowing click made their skin prickle, made their bones tighten, as if their bodies already knew what their minds refused to process.
Then—
It stopped.
Yanwei's gaze flicked lazily to the chosen one.
He let the silence stretch. Let the weight of attention coil around the man like a tightening noose.
Only then did he speak.
"The man with the crooked nose."
A quiet pause.
Then, slowly, stiffly, the man blinked.
His breath hitched. Not in fear. Not yet.
But in sheer, utter bewilderment.
The others looked at him.
Nothing happened.
His heart thudded in his chest, too loud, too slow.
His lips parted—not to beg, not to scream, but to ask the only question running through his mind:
"What does that mean?"
The answer did not come in words.
Yanwei did not move. Did not shift.
But something else did.
A shadow rippled at his side, smooth as water, subtle as breath.
And then—
The corpse puppet stepped forward.
The man's body froze.
Not in terror.
Not yet.
But in something worse.
A deep, unnameable dread.
The kind that came before the fear. The kind that slithered through the bones and whispered in the marrow—
"Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is wrong."
The corpse puppet did not lunge. Did not rush.
It simply moved.
Its steps were slow. Deliberate.
It didn't look at anyone else.
Only him.
The man with the crooked nose.
He still didn't understand.
But his body did.
A shudder crawled up his spine, slow, visceral.
Goosebumps rose along his skin, one by one, a delayed ripple of realization.
Still, he did not beg.
Not yet.
Because he still thought—hoped—that this was a trick.
That if he just stayed still, if he didn't react, if he didn't let the terror sink in—
Then maybe it would pass.
Then maybe it wouldn't be him.
Then maybe he was mistaken.
The corpse puppet stopped.
It stood before him, its presence wrong.
Not in the way of monsters, not in the way of beasts—
But in the way of something that should not exist.
Then—
It jumped.
And the man did not have time to scream.
No warning.
No shift in stance.
Just—sudden movement.
One moment, it stood before him, still and silent.
The next—it was already there.
Jaws wide.
Teeth sinking deep.
The first sound was not a scream.
It was the wet crunch of bone giving way, of flesh parting too easily beneath something that should not have been able to bite that deep.
His skull did not simply break.
It caved.
A slow, grotesque collapse, as if his head were nothing but softened clay.
Then came the sound.
Not from him.
From them.
A choked gasp. A sharp inhale.
And then—
Chaos. The last remnants of the man with the crooked nose slid down the corpse puppet's throat.
A wet squelch. A slick, grotesque swallow.
Then—silence.
For one breath, two, three—no one moved.
No one could.
Their bodies—locked. Their limbs—stone. Even their eyes—frozen wide, unable to tear themselves away from the thing before them.
But the mind—
The mind was still awake. Still screaming.
Still understanding, far too late, that this—this—was worse than anything they had imagined.
A woman tried to gag—her throat lurched, her stomach twisted—but her body refused.
She could not double over. Could not heave. Could not even turn her head away from the sight.
There was only the feeling—that sick, writhing horror—crawling up her throat like a second, invisible hand strangling her from the inside.
Someone else tried to step back. His body screamed at him—run, run, run—but his feet would not move.
Not a twitch. Not a breath.
He could only stand there, muscles locked, shaking violently inside the prison of his own skin.
A cultivator—a man once known for his strength—collapsed.
Not by choice. Not by will.
His legs simply gave out, like a puppet with its strings cut. His knees hit the ground with a dull, helpless thud, his lips moving—whispering.
Not prayers. Not curses.
Just meaningless, incoherent words.
Trying to rationalize. Trying to make it make sense.
A sharp, cracked laugh rang out.
But it wasn't laughter.
It was hysteria.
The man who made the sound—once strong, once dependable—clutched at his own face.
His shoulders trembled. His lips stretched wide, baring his teeth in something that almost—almost—looked like a grin.
But his teeth chattered.
His breath hitched.
And the sound in his throat was wrong.
His body did not shake because of laughter.
It shook because something inside him had just—snapped.
"That's—not—he just—he just disappeared," the man rasped. "I blinked. I just—I just—"
His voice broke.
He pressed his forehead to the ground. Rocking. Rocking. Trying to convince himself he still existed.
Another woman—young, far too young—stood still.
Her mouth opened.
Not to scream. Not to sob.
Just—a breath.
It came out small. So small.
A single, hitched breath that carried all the weight of someone who had just realized—
She was not getting out of here.
That one sound—**that one, tiny, broken sound—**set it off.
Panic crawled through their bodies, sinking into bone, crushing against the silence.
A woman tried to claw at her own arms, nails digging in, dragging deep.
But her hands would not move.
A man tried to cover his ears, to drown out the wet, wet sound of the corpse puppet still chewing.
But his arms would not lift.
Another man tried to collapse into himself, to curl up like a child hiding beneath covers from a nightmare.
But there was no escaping it.
No covers.
No illusions.
Only the horrific, visceral truth.
The corpse puppet was still there.
Still chewing.
Still swallowing.
And Yanwei?
Yanwei only sighed.
Then—he smiled.
Now, they understood.
Yanwei laughed—a slow, quiet chuckle that stretched, deepened, until it was something rich, something utterly amused. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling like this was all some wonderful joke—like their terror was something to be savored.
Then—his fingers trailed along the wheel's edge once more.
"Shall we go again?"
With a flick of his wrist, he spun it.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound returned. Steady. Unyielding.
And just like before—no one breathed.
Except for one.
Yun.
Yanwei turned to her, his gaze settling on the only one who had not yet broken. Not fully.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out—fingers curling under her chin, forcing her head up, forcing her to watch.
"Look, my beautiful Yun." His voice was soft, almost gentle. Deceptive. "Don't avert your eyes. This is fate. This is truth."
The wheel spun on.