Wu Xian slowly opened his cold, heavy eyelids. Warm lamplight spilled into the room, gradually dispelling the chill in his body.
He was no longer in his detective agency.
Instead, he found himself in what appeared to be a small hotel room. The space was modestly sized: terrazzo flooring, pale floral wallpaper, blue-checked bedding, redwood furniture, a private bathroom, and an old television set humming faintly in the corner.
On the desk lay a single key, its label marked: Room 406.
Outside the window, everything was cloaked in pitch black. He could just barely make out the silhouette of a city—but there were no lights. No signs of life. The city felt… dead. From somewhere in the darkness, faint clapping echoed through the streets, accompanied by a sinister, murmured chant.
"So this is the Blessed Land. All those who vanished… were brought here?"
Thinking back to what he'd experienced earlier, Wu Xian was beginning to grasp what this place truly was.
The so-called "Blessed Land" resembled a large-scale survival game. Those who had gone missing were not truly gone—they had become unwilling participants. The hands that covered his eyes were like a cutscene. The shrine and incense earlier? That must have been the beginner's bonus.
The reality? Most of the missing had perished here in the Blessed Land.
And the rare few who survived... never spoke of it again, scarred too deeply by what they'd endured.
To confirm his theory, Wu Xian decided to step outside and explore.
But just as he reached the door, he stopped dead.
A sharp, iron-sweet scent—like rust mixed with syrup—filled his nostrils.
Blood.
He quickly leaned into the peephole.
A horrifying sight met his eyes.
A hotel attendant was suspended in mid-air, thrashing and contorted in terror. A massive hand had reached in from beyond the field of view, gripping the man's head like an iron vise.
The hand began to squeeze.
"No! Please! Let me—"
CRACK.
The attendant's skull exploded like a rotten tomato. The giant hand held the limp, twitching remains for a moment before withdrawing, the body disappearing from Wu Xian's view.
Wu Xian stood in silence for a long moment.
"Looks like... it's not a good night for going out."
Since he couldn't leave, he turned his attention inward.
He opened his coat—and frowned.
To prepare for this "missing person crisis," he had hidden a wide variety of weapons and tools on himself: knives, lighters, magnifying lenses, a ring concealing a razor, even steel wire.
But now, everything had changed.
Every item had become a delicate origami replica—paper-thin, colorless, fragile. Even the steel wire snapped at a mere tug.
Nothing from the outside world worked here. Everything—except his clothes and body—was useless in the Blessed Land.
His only asset was the Truefire Talisman.
It looked like an ordinary piece of yellow paper, inscribed with archaic Chinese characters, the texture rough and coarse. But according to the information now lodged in his mind, it was far from simple.
Like a child receiving his favorite toy, Wu Xian wrapped the talisman around his middle finger, eyes filled with anticipation. Following the mental instructions he'd received, he silently chanted:
"By starlight's path, Heaven's officer grants this charm!"
The paper ignited on its own.
The words "True Fire" flared briefly on his finger before vanishing without a trace.
This ritual was known as Imprinting.
The talisman was merely a vessel—the real power lay in the encoded divine instruction. Once imprinted, anything could act as its host.
Wu Xian studied his middle finger carefully, holding it upright like some ancient mage.
That's when he heard it.
Knock knock.
Knock knock knock.
The sound was dull—not like knuckles tapping wood. It was heavier, more unnatural.
He crept beside the door, crouched low, and pressed his ear against the wood. From that angle, he avoided being seen through the peephole or any door cracks.
He listened.
A woman's voice drifted in.
"Hello? Is anyone inside? Please, you've got to help me! He's gone mad—he's trying to kill me! Please, just let me hide for a moment…"
Wu Xian said nothing.
The woman's voice grew more frantic.
"Please, I'm begging you! I'm not lying—I'm the owner of this inn, my name is Yu Yinghua!"
"You're heartless! If he comes upstairs and finds me at your door, he won't spare you either…"
In just two minutes, the woman's tone shifted several times—anguish, pleading, desperation. Her words sounded sincere, full of emotion—anxious, sorrowful, terrified.
If you only listened to her speech, there was nothing wrong.
But Wu Xian was certain:
She wasn't human.
The problem lay in her voice.
He had pressed his ear directly to the door—yet he could only hear her speaking. No breathing. No footsteps. No sound of a body shifting or leaning against the door.
It was as if a woman were kneeling silently at his door…
...mechanically knocking her head against the wood.
Wu Xian held his breath. Inside the room, it was as quiet as the grave. Outside, the woman had also gone silent.
Right now, if even a needle dropped, he would've heard it.
Still crouched, Wu Xian didn't move.
Then suddenly—
BANG!
A dull thud struck the door—something heavy had slammed into it, followed by a low, dragging sound.
Wu Xian didn't need to see to imagine the scene: a grotesquely deformed woman pressed up against the door, her twisted body grinding against the wood. Her eyes fixed directly onto the peephole, her limbs twitching spasmodically as if in seizure, as she greedily sniffed the faint traces of the living.
After her fit of madness, the woman outside finally left.
The sound of her movement was a dry, rasping scrape—like a filthy mop dragging across gritty tiles. As the unsettling sound faded down the corridor, Wu Xian finally straightened up and let out a breath, retreating slowly from the door.
"What should I even call something like that… ghost, demon, or just… a malevolent spirit?"
This was the first time Wu Xian had encountered anything like this. The sheer horror of it—something that shattered his understanding of reality—sent shivers crawling across his skin, left his limbs trembling.
And yet, strangely… there was something oddly familiar about it all.
But just as he took two steps back, he froze.
His heart skipped a beat.
His shoulder had bumped into something.
He turned his head slightly—and saw the hem of a red dress draped over his shoulder… along with a pair of bare, feminine feet.
Slender, graceful, tendons and joints faintly visible beneath pale skin. The nails were neatly trimmed, smooth and round.
But the skin had turned a sickly bluish hue. A rancid smell of decay clung to it.
Clearly, the owner had been dead for quite some time.
Then, a low, sorrowful voice drifted down from above.
"I want to eat you… for a lifetime."
Wu Xian didn't need to look up.
He already knew.
There was a person hanging directly over his head.
His mouth twitched.
"Sister, we just met. 'A lifetime' is kind of a big commitment, don't you think we should get to know each other first?"
"I want to eat you… for a lifetime!"
The woman's voice shrieked again—sharper now, dripping with venomous hate. The sound pierced Wu Xian's ears, stabbing into his eardrums like needles.
"Great. That's the only line she knows."
Since talking was useless, Wu Xian started thinking about how to survive.
From years of horror films, he knew one thing: panicking or making sudden moves was a death sentence. Even standing still for too long could still get you killed.
His eyes darted left and right—until an idea hit him.
"She's hanging… so the rope holding her must be strong."
From a distance, the scene above his head was horrifyingly clear.
Suspended there was a woman dressed entirely in red. Her face was darkened with bruises, eyes bulging grotesquely from their sockets. A thick, blackened tongue lolled from her mouth, growing longer and longer—slithering downward like a snake.
Her face was twisted with malevolence. That monstrous tongue reached toward Wu Xian's neck, ready to coil around it—intent on choking him to death, twisting his face into the same grotesque rictus as her own.
But just as she was about to strike—
Wu Xian lunged and grabbed her feet!
Her little feet were ice-cold and reeked of rot. Disgusting.
But he clung tight.
Then, with a sudden surge, he lifted both legs and threw his full weight upward—hanging himself from her dangling body.
SNAP!
From the "Yuewei Caotang Notes," Volume 13:
"It is said among folk shamans that when a woman hangs herself wearing red, her spirit may pass freely through doors and halls, and even plague the inner chambers of palaces. The dead should not be clothed in red—red is the color of yang, the living. It resembles the soul while still in flesh. No one knows where this belief originated, but women trust it deeply. Thus, those who die with hatred often don red before they hang themselves… to ensure they return as vengeful spirits."