The three words "YOU WILL DIE" scrawled across the white paper in uneven, jagged strokes sent a jolt of confusion through Fei Youliang, his analytical mind grappling with the chilling message that bore no connection to his innocuous question about his future wife's name. He stared at the ink, the taped ballpoint pen still trembling in their joined hands, the bedroom's oppressive atmosphere thickening as the spirits tied to the twenty-four name tags, carried by Chen Ge somewhere above in his Doctor Skull-cracker outfit, seemed to pulse with malevolent intent. He had followed the Pen Spirit game's rules meticulously, ensuring no taboo questions about death were asked, yet the ominous phrase defied all logic, its stark presence on the paper a direct challenge to his skepticism. The room's preserved crime scene aesthetic—scattered papers, dirtied bedsheets, and the four chairs arranged in a tight circle—amplified the dread, the half-open door creaking faintly as if mocking his attempt to rationalize the supernatural. Fei Youliang's heart raced, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags weaving a web of terror that made the ritual feel far more real than any movie he had ever seen.
A sudden realization struck him, and Fei Youliang seized upon it to quell the rising panic, his voice steadying as he convinced himself of a rational explanation. "This must be one of the preset designs. No matter what question I asked, these three words were destined to appear," he muttered, his analytical mind piecing together a theory to dismiss the Pen Spirit's response as a cleverly engineered trick by Chen Ge. The confidence he had lost in the sealed classroom began to resurface, bolstered by the belief that he had uncovered the Haunted House's secret. The room's dimness deepened, the flashlight beams casting erratic shadows across the overturned furniture, the taped pen glinting faintly as if alive with the spirits' energy. The irregular circle drawn earlier on the paper now seemed like a prelude to this preset scare, the spirits tied to the name tags subtly influencing the atmosphere, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy making the room feel alive with unseen watchers, though Fei Youliang dismissed it as mere theatrics.
"The method to make these three words appear is interesting. Temporarily, I still don't understand it, but to amplify the fear factor, the boss has forgotten to take care of the situation's sense of logic," Fei Youliang explained, his voice carrying a renewed bravado as he elaborated on his theory, his flashlight beam lingering on the ominous phrase. "If it were any other visitor, they probably would have ended the Pen Spirit game or done something taboo to anger the Pen Spirit in their panic, and the appearance of these three words would have heightened their internal suspicion, thinking that the Pen Spirit had really appeared and allowed themselves to be feared. Unfortunately, their visitors today are the two of us. We have made no mistakes along the way, but the answer on the paper still comes up as irrelevant to my question. Therefore, this Pen Spirit game is nothing more than a scary trick." The spirits' presence, tied to the name tags, pulsed stronger, their energy weaving through the room's oppressive silence, the half-open door's faint creak a subtle reminder of the corridor's endless darkness, challenging his dismissal of the supernatural.
Fei Youliang's long explanation echoed in the dim room, but Zhu Jianing's lack of response gnawed at him, the silence from his teammate making him feel as if he were speaking to an empty void. "Xiao Zhu? Why is your hand so cold?" he asked, raising his head to find Zhu Jianing staring past him, his mouth agape and his features contorted in abject terror, his flashlight beam frozen on a point just behind Fei Youliang. The room's chill deepened, the taped pen trembling in their joined hands, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags amplifying the dread, their protective legacy from Mu Yang High School manifesting as an unseen presence that seemed to hover just out of sight. Zhu Jianing's icy grip sent a shiver through Fei Youliang, the bedroom's preserved crime scene aesthetic—scattered papers, rippling bedsheets—intensifying the sense of intrusion, the half-open door swaying lazily as if inviting something from the corridor's darkness to join them.
"What are you looking at?" Fei Youliang asked, his voice tinged with unease as Zhu Jianing's horrified expression unsettled him, the room's atmosphere shifting palpably, a new presence joining them that hadn't been there moments before. The taped pen quivered in his hand, the irregular circle and "YOU WILL DIE" on the paper now a haunting focal point, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags making the air feel heavy with unspoken warnings. A bad feeling surged in Fei Youliang's chest, his earlier confidence crumbling as he sensed the change, the bedroom's dimness deepening as if the light itself recoiled from the unseen entity. The half-open door creaked louder, the corridor's shadows seeming to pulse with life, the spirits' presence intensifying as if responding to Zhu Jianing's silent terror, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy turning the room into a stage for something far beyond a staged scare.
Fei Youliang's instinct was to turn and look, but an inexplicable pressure bore down on his back, freezing his muscles and rooting him to the spot, every nerve screaming in protest. "What's going on? What's behind this?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, the taped pen trembling violently in his grip as the spirits' energy tied to the name tags pulsed stronger, their presence manifesting as a suffocating force. Questions raced through his mind—fear of the unknown warring with the desperate need to see what had paralyzed Zhu Jianing with terror—yet the weight on his shoulders held him fast, the room's oppressive silence amplifying his dread. The dirtied bedsheet rippled faintly, as if something stirred beneath, the scattered papers on the floor whispering in the faint draft from the half-open door, the spirits' legacy from Mu Yang High School weaving a trap that made Fei Youliang's heart pound with a mix of curiosity and terror.
"Xiao Zhu, tell me, what are you seeing? What is behind me‽" Fei Youliang's voice rose, laced with desperation as a chill spread through his body, the cold seeping into his bones like he had been plunged into an icy cave, his skin prickling with goosebumps. Purplish bruises began to appear on his arms and neck, faint but unmistakable, as if invisible hands were grasping at him, their touch icy and relentless, the spirits tied to the name tags manifesting their displeasure through physical marks. The pressure on his back grew heavier, an unseen force seeming to press itself closer, as if trying to merge with his very being, the room's dimness deepening until the flashlight beams barely penetrated the gloom. The half-open door swayed, the corridor's darkness a void that pulsed with unseen watchers, the bedroom's preserved crime scene aesthetic amplifying the terror of the entity now sharing the space with them.
Opposite him, Zhu Jianing's face was a mask of horror, his eyes wide and unblinking as he summoned every ounce of strength to force out a warning, his voice barely a croak. "There's someone behind you!" The words sent a shockwave through Fei Youliang, the ambiguity chilling—did "someone" mean a figure on his back or standing just behind him? The taped pen quivered in his hand, the irregular circle and "YOU WILL DIE" on the paper now a grim prophecy, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags intensifying the room's dread, their protective legacy from Mu Yang High School turning the ritual into a confrontation with the supernatural. The half-open door creaked louder, the corridor's shadows seeming to writhe, the bedroom's oppressive silence broken only by Zhu Jianing's ragged breathing, the unseen entity's presence a suffocating weight that made the air feel thick with menace.
"Behind me?" Fei Youliang repeated, his mind reeling as he tried to process the warning, his analytical brain churning through possibilities—actor, trick, or something far worse—while the pressure on his back grew unbearable, the bruises on his skin darkening as if the invisible hands tightened their grip. Before he could react, Zhu Jianing leapt to his feet, his large frame shaking off Fei Youliang's hand with a desperate jerk, the taped pen clattering against the chair as he bolted for the half-open door, his flashlight beam swinging wildly. He didn't hesitate or glance back, his footsteps pounding down the corridor, the darkness swallowing him as he fled, leaving Fei Youliang alone in the bedroom's suffocating gloom. The spirits tied to the name tags pulsed stronger, their energy converging on the abandoned ritual, the room's preserved crime scene aesthetic amplifying the terror of Zhu Jianing's sudden abandonment, the half-open door a silent witness to his escape.
Fei Youliang sat frozen on the floor, his mind reeling from Zhu Jianing's abrupt flight, the taped ballpoint pen now inexplicably stuck to his hand, its rough casing clinging to his skin as if fused by an unseen force. No matter how he shook or pulled, it refused to budge, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags making the pen feel alive, its quivering intensifying in the room's oppressive silence. Suddenly, his arm stiffened, as if seized by an external will, the pen moving on its own across the blank paper, scratching out "YOU WILL DIE! YOU WILL DIE! YOU WILL DIE!" in jagged, blood-red ink that seemed to bleed into the surface, the words a relentless curse. The room's chill deepened, the half-open door creaking shut, trapping him in the bedroom's darkness, the spirits' presence overwhelming as they manifested through the pen's frenzied writing, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy a force Fei Youliang could no longer dismiss as a trick.
The repeated curses filled the paper, each stroke more violent than the last, the red ink glistening wetly under his flashlight, as if drawn from some unseen source, the spirits tied to the name tags weaving a nightmare around the abandoned Fei Youliang. Zhu Jianing was gone, his footsteps a faint echo in the corridor, leaving Fei Youliang as the sole target of the ritual's wrath, the taped pen now a conduit for the supernatural forces he had scoffed at. He was certain he hadn't moved his hand, the pen's autonomous scrawl undeniable proof that something else in the room—something tied to the twenty-four name tags—was controlling it, the bedroom's preserved crime scene aesthetic amplifying the horror, the half-open door now fully closed, sealing him in with the entity he could feel but not see, its presence a suffocating weight that threatened to consume him entirely.
Even in the face of the chilling terror that gripped the Pen Spirit room, Fei Youliang clung to his composure, his adrenaline-junkie nature refusing to buckle under the weight of fear, his unwavering belief in the rationality and logic of science anchoring him against the supernatural dread. The repeated blood-red curses—"YOU WILL DIE! YOU WILL DIE! YOU WILL DIE!"—scrawled across the white paper by the taped ballpoint pen, now shattered in his hand, were unnerving, but he dismissed them as an elaborate trick, a clever manipulation by Chen Ge to unsettle visitors. The bedroom's oppressive atmosphere, with its preserved crime scene aesthetic—scattered papers, overturned furniture, and the four chairs arranged in a tight circle—intensified the moment's dread, the spirits tied to the twenty-four name tags, carried by Chen Ge somewhere above in his Doctor Skull-cracker outfit, pulsing with a malevolent energy that made the air feel thick with unseen watchers. The half-open door creaked faintly, the corridor's darkness looming like a void, but Fei Youliang's mind raced to rationalize the experience, refusing to accept the possibility of a real Pen Spirit, his heart pounding as he fought to maintain his analytical edge in the face of the room's escalating horrors.
Fei Youliang's mind churned with explanations, his voice steady as he muttered to himself, "The thing that Xiao Zhu saw is probably some 3D imaging. Since the chairs are arranged in such a manner, it means that the position of the Pen Spirit game is constant. With the careful manipulation of angles, it would create an authentic-looking effect. That should be the tactic employed here, but why would my body be shaking?" The irregular circle and the ominous curses on the paper were impressive, he admitted, but he attributed them to advanced technology—perhaps hidden projectors or mechanisms triggered by their movements—designed to amplify fear. The spirits' energy tied to the name tags pulsed stronger, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy weaving a subtle web of dread that Fei Youliang dismissed as theatrical flair, though the persistent trembling in his limbs and the purplish bruises on his skin, like invisible hands grasping him, gnawed at his confidence, the half-open door's faint draft carrying whispers that seemed to mock his skepticism.
Reflecting on his underestimation of the Haunted House, Fei Youliang felt a pang of regret, his earlier bravado now seeming reckless in the face of the bedroom's unrelenting dread. "If given another chance, I would not have entered the Haunted House with so little preparation, and I definitely would have picked a better partner," he thought, his frustration with Zhu Jianing's abrupt flight simmering beneath his calm exterior. The taped pen's collapse, its fragments scattered across the floor after scrawling the final "DIE," marked the end of the ritual's first phase, but the room's oppressive energy, amplified by the spirits tied to the name tags, showed no sign of relenting. The preserved crime scene aesthetic—dirtied bedsheets rippling faintly, scattered papers whispering in the draft—heightened his unease, the half-open door swaying as if inviting something from the corridor's darkness to join him, making Fei Youliang question whether his rational explanations could hold against the scenario's relentless assault on his senses.
The chill on his back spread further, a creeping cold that seeped into his bones, as if the room itself were draining his warmth, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags intensifying the sensation of being watched. When the taped pen finally broke apart in his palm, its fragments falling to the floor after scrawling the final "DIE," Fei Youliang exhaled in relief, believing the ordeal had ended, his senses slowly returning to his arm. But the pressure on his shoulders remained, an unyielding weight that kept him pinned to the spot, his muscles frozen as if gripped by an unseen force, the room's dimness deepening until the flashlight beam barely penetrated the gloom. The spirits' presence pulsed stronger, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy manifesting as a suffocating force, the half-open door creaking louder, the corridor's shadows seeming to writhe, amplifying the dread that the Pen Spirit game was far from over, its true terror only beginning to unfold.
Fei Youliang's relief was short-lived, his realization dawning that the ritual's end was merely a prelude to something worse, the persistent pressure on his shoulders a chilling reminder that he was not free. "Why can't I move still?" he muttered, his voice barely audible as he creaked his neck inch by inch, forcing himself to look over his shoulder despite the terror clawing at his mind. His eyes narrowed into slits, braced for a horrifying sight, but the space behind him was empty, the room's preserved crime scene aesthetic—scattered papers, overturned lamp—mocking his expectations with its eerie stillness. The spirits tied to the name tags pulsed subtly, their energy weaving through the air, making the emptiness feel deceptive, the half-open door's faint creak a warning that something unseen lingered just out of sight, its presence amplifying the dread that Zhu Jianing's panicked flight had been triggered by something real.
Confusion swirled in Fei Youliang's mind, his analytical brain grappling with the contradiction. "It was all for naught? But then why would Xiao Zhu react in such a crazy manner? What did he actually see?" he thought, his heart pounding as the pressure on his shoulders intensified, like someone stepping down with deliberate force, the bruises on his skin darkening as if invisible hands tightened their grip. The room's oppressive silence was broken only by the faint rustle of the dirtied bedsheet, its ripples suggesting movement beneath, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags making the air feel alive with unseen watchers. The half-open door swayed, the corridor's darkness a void that pulsed with menace, amplifying Fei Youliang's growing realization that Zhu Jianing's terror had been no mere trick, the Pen Spirit game's consequences now bearing down on him alone.
A sudden image flashed through Fei Youliang's mind, the pressure on his shoulders evoking the chilling sensation of something standing atop them, the word "stepping" igniting a horrifying possibility. Slowly, he raised his head, his neck creaking under the strain, his flashlight beam trembling as it illuminated the space above. Raven-black hair cascaded down, tangled and matted, framing a face bloated from asphyxiation, its eyes bulging grotesquely from their sockets, rimmed with a burning anger that seemed to pierce through him. A hanging woman stood on his shoulders, her spectral form a terrifying reality, the spirits tied to the name tags manifesting her presence with chilling clarity, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy bringing the Pen Spirit's wrath to life. The room's dimness deepened, the half-open door slamming shut with a deafening thud, sealing Fei Youliang in with the entity, the preserved crime scene aesthetic amplifying the horror of the apparition above him.
Fei Youliang's lips parted, but no sound emerged, his voice stolen by the overwhelming terror that gripped him, every hair on his body standing upright as his glasses slid off his sweat-slicked face, clattering to the floor. His heart seemed to stop, the hanging woman's bulging eyes locking onto his, her anger a palpable force that crushed his remaining bravado, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags pulsing with malevolent intent. "I…" he began, his voice a faint croak, but before he could finish, the focus in his eyes dulled, his body collapsing weakly to the floor, the weight of the spectral presence overwhelming his senses. The room's oppressive silence enveloped him, the scattered papers whispering in the stillness, the half-open door now closed, trapping him in the bedroom's suffocating gloom, the spirits' legacy from Mu Yang High School claiming him as the Pen Spirit game's latest victim.
Meanwhile, Chen Ge waited patiently outside the Mu Yang High School scenario, his timing deliberate to avoid interrupting the two visitors' experience, his Doctor Skull-cracker outfit and skin mask ready for the next phase of his plan. Several minutes passed without a single scream echoing from the underground, a silence that surprised him, prompting a grudging respect for Fei Youliang and Zhu Jianing's resilience. "I haven't heard any screams for so long… looks like I underestimated those two," he mused, adjusting the paper box containing the twenty-four name tags, their spiritual energy a subtle hum in his hands, tied to the spectral students of Mu Yang High School. The underground's chill deepened as he entered the scenario, the faint strains of Black Friday reverberating through the corridors, the scorch marks on the walls and the lingering scent of burning evoking the tragedy that bound the spirits to this recreated space, their presence a hidden force waiting to confront the intruders.
Chen Ge's first stop was the Sealed Classroom, his flashlight beam cutting through the dimness as he placed the paper box with the twenty-four name tags on the lectern, its weight a reminder of the spirits' protective legacy. The room was in disarray—tables and chairs askew, papers and textbooks scattered—evidence that Fei Youliang and Zhu Jianing had been here and encountered something unsettling. "They have been here and probably stumbled across something," Chen Ge thought, his mind racing to decipher what had transpired, though even he hadn't fully unraveled the sealed classroom's secrets, its connection to the name tags a mystery that pulsed with supernatural energy. The spirits' presence lingered, their energy amplifying the room's oppressive atmosphere, the red graffiti on the desks seeming to pulse faintly, a testament to the spectral students' vigilance, their legacy from Mu Yang High School a force Chen Ge respected but didn't fully understand.
As Chen Ge meticulously restored the tables and chairs to their original positions, returning the scattered papers and textbooks to the drawer, a sudden sound broke the silence—rapid footsteps echoing from the junction ahead, someone running frantically through the corridor. His senses sharpened, the paper box on the lectern humming with the spirits' energy, their connection to the name tags stirring in response to the disturbance. The footsteps grew louder, their urgency suggesting panic, the underground's oppressive atmosphere amplifying the sound as it reverberated off the fire-scarred walls. Chen Ge's flashlight beam swept toward the junction, the faint creak of the sealed classroom's door a subtle warning, the spirits tied to the name tags pulsing with anticipation, their protective legacy ready to confront whoever was fleeing through the corridors of Mu Yang High School's recreated nightmare.