The middle-aged butcher stood motionless behind his counter, cleaver still raised, the blade catching the weak morning light as he processed Chen Ge's request. For half his life he had chopped, sliced, and weighed pork in this same spot, the rhythm of the work as familiar as breathing. Customers asked for specific cuts, better prices, even the occasional gossip—but never, in all those years, had anyone asked to buy the very tool that defined his livelihood. "If you have nothing else, go," he said finally, voice flat with disbelief. "I don't sell the kind of cleaver you want."
Chen Ge didn't move. "Then can you sell me the cleaver you normally use?" His tone was calm, almost polite, but the determination beneath it was unmistakable. Before tomorrow night's livestream at Mu Yang Middle School, he needed a cleaver that had tasted real blood—whether for atmosphere, ritual, or something the black phone might demand. A new one wouldn't do; it had to carry history, weight, the kind of edge that spoke of years of slaughter.
The butcher's face darkened further. "How am I supposed to run my stall without my cleaver?" he demanded, slamming the blade down on the wooden block with a resounding crack. The sound silenced the chatter around them, customers turning to watch. Before the man could continue, a young figure pushed through the crowd—nineteen or twenty, dyed hair tousled, jacket tied around his waist, yawning loudly as if the market belonged to him.
The butcher's expression shifted instantly from irritation to thunderous anger. He slammed the cleaver again, harder. "You still know your way home?" he roared, wiping his hands on his apron as he stepped around the counter. "Where were you last night?"
"Karaoke with friends, then the internet café," the young man muttered, already slipping earphones into his ears to tune his father out.
The butcher yanked the earphones free with a swift, practiced motion. "Then why didn't you answer your phone? I'm talking to you!" His voice carried across the market, drawing more stares. The young man covered his ears, glaring but saying nothing, shoulders hunched in the universal posture of teenage rebellion.
"Have you gone mute?" the father bellowed, years of frustration boiling over. "Why didn't you come home? Didn't even pick up the phone—what were you thinking?" Customers began murmuring, some trying to calm the man, others watching with morbid fascination. The young man finally met his father's eyes, the look burning with defiance, then seized the moment to snatch the earphones back and bolt through the crowd, disappearing into the market's maze of stalls.
"Come back here!" the butcher shouted after him, but the stall demanded his attention. He returned to the counter, picked up the cleaver, and cleaved a thick bone in half with furious force, the crack echoing like gunfire. Chen Ge, sensing the moment had passed, quietly retrieved his money, thanked the man, and left with the rooster's cage swinging from his hand. The butcher didn't even look up.
Chen Ge was unlocking his bicycle when the young man reappeared, stepping out from behind a nearby stall with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly how to navigate his father's anger. "I hear you're looking for a cleaver," he said, voice low, eyes flicking toward the butcher's stall to make sure his father was occupied.
"Yes," Chen Ge confirmed, "but not new. One that's been used for a long time—preferably one with history."
The young man nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "I have one at home. Follow me—but don't let my father spot us." He led Chen Ge through a narrow alley beside the market to a weathered apartment block, then motioned for him to wait outside. Minutes later he returned, carrying an object wrapped in faded red cloth.
"My grandfather was a butcher," the young man said as he unwrapped it. "He wanted to take this knife to the grave—said he wouldn't let his children do the same dirty work. But my stubborn dad kept it anyway. After that, bad luck followed us. Business failed, my mother passed away, and now he sells pork at the market just to survive." He held out the cleaver. "It's cursed, so I won't ask much. One hundred, and it's yours."
Chen Ge pulled the cloth back fully. The blade was forty centimeters long, single-edged, its surface a deep, uneven red—not paint, but years of absorbed blood that had darkened and stained the steel permanently. Grooves ran down its length like veins, and the wooden handle was worn smooth, faint red lines tracing through the grain like lingering capillaries. He lifted it, testing the weight—heavier than expected, balanced yet brutal.
The young man watched him carefully. "When I was small, I saw my grandfather enter the pig sty with this cleaver. None of the pigs dared make a sound. They just… knew."
Chen Ge swung it once, experimentally. The air around the blade seemed to part differently, a faint chill following the motion. "Not bad," he said. "This is exactly what I need." He handed over the hundred, then offered his phone number. "If your father asks about the cleaver, tell him to call me."
The young man pocketed the money without expression. "What does this have to do with him?" he asked flatly, then turned and disappeared back into the building.
Chen Ge watched him go, then looked down at the cleaver in his hand. The butcher's son had given him more than a tool—he'd given him a relic of failure, loss, and stubborn inheritance. A cleaver that had silenced pigs with its presence alone. Perfect for tomorrow night's livestream. He wrapped it carefully in the red cloth and secured it in his bag, the weight against his back a promise of the confrontation to come. Qin Guang was walking into Mu Yang High School tomorrow, but Chen Ge would be ready—with a blade that remembered blood, and a school that remembered pain.
Chen Ge stepped out of the taxi at the entrance of New Century Park, the early morning sun still low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the empty pathways. The rooster clucked indignantly inside its bamboo cage, and the red-wrapped cleaver rested heavily against his back. He had a few hours before the park opened and the day's visitors arrived, so he sat on the familiar steps in front of the Haunted House, pulling out the list he had scribbled the previous night. The paper was creased from being carried in his pocket, the handwriting rushed but clear: live rooster, blood-stained cleaver, coarse salt, red string, flashlight, backup battery, first-aid kit, and a few other items scavenged from past scenarios. He ticked off the ones he already had, the pen moving with deliberate strokes.
A live cock, a cleaver, and salt—he had secured them all. The three-star Trial Mission loomed like a storm cloud, its difficulty promised to be several times greater than Mu Yang High School's. Going in alone, without Doctor Gao or backup, meant every preparation mattered. One mistake, and there might be no coming back. Chen Ge needed more than physical tools; he needed an edge against whatever waited in the Third Sick Hall's ruins. His gaze drifted to the black phone in his other hand. At the very bottom of the interface, almost hidden, sat the Wheel of Misfortune. The feature had scarred him once before—when he finished the expansion mission, he'd earned one lucky draw chance and pulled a Baleful Specter. He had avoided it ever since, the gamble too unpredictable, the rewards too dangerous.
But the pressure of the three-star mission was different. Two chances now—screams accumulated over months of operation could be traded for another draw. I won't be unlucky enough to get another Baleful Specter twice, right? he thought, half-joking, half-praying. He had always steered clear of pure luck-based systems; he preferred control, preparation, certainty. Yet the unknown dangers ahead left no room for hesitation. He tapped the screen. The wheel began to spin, colors blurring into a hypnotic whirl. Chen Ge clasped his hands together, whispering to himself, "Please, not another Baleful Specter."
"Ding!" The needle stopped. The black phone chimed cheerfully.
"Congratulations for winning a unique item—The White Valentine's Candy (Seven percent chance of this appearing when Zhang Ya's affection level has reached 'Crazy about you')."
"Sincerity, Purity, Clarity, Romance. When you receive this present, your relationship will advance to the next level."
"White Valentine's Candy: The sweet taste dances on your tongue. When you finish the candy, Zhang Ya will appear."
"You have received the present Zhang Ya was unable to gift when she was still alive. Zhang Ya's affection toward you has increased slightly."
Chen Ge stared at the screen, a cold feeling crawling up his spine. He had expected something useful, perhaps a protective talisman or a weapon. Instead, he had been given a candy—a romantic gift Zhang Ya had never been able to give in life. The implication was unsettling: the black phone had reached into her past, into a moment she never lived, and pulled it into the present. A draft of cold air brushed the back of his neck. He turned slowly. Behind him, on the step he had just vacated, sat a small, neatly wrapped candy package. The design matched the one he had found years ago in the dance studio at Western Jiujiang's Private Academy—elegant, old-fashioned, tied with a thin red ribbon.
He picked it up carefully. Inside was one piece of pure white candy. Etched into its surface, faint but unmistakable, was the face of a crying girl—delicate features, tears frozen in sugar, one of Zhang Ya's roommates from the academy. Chen Ge's stomach twisted. Don't tell me she turned one of her roommates into candy. The thought was absurd, grotesque, and entirely possible. He carefully placed the candy back in the bag, the sweetness suddenly sickening. He had avoided the wheel for a reason; its gifts were never simple.
He stood, brushing dust from his coat, the rooster clucking softly in protest. The white cat was still nowhere to be seen on the tree branch. She had chosen to leave, slipping away into the city's shadows as quietly as she had arrived. Chen Ge felt a strange pang of loss; the cat's presence had grounded him, her instincts a living warning system. Multi-colored eyes were rare in strays; she had clearly once belonged to someone who valued her. Now she was gone, and the Haunted House felt a little emptier. He sighed, shouldering his bag. Some things couldn't be forced. She had made her choice.
Chen Ge entered the Haunted House, the long corridor stretching ahead in dim emergency light. The building was silent, lifeless at this hour—no screams, no footsteps, just the faint hum of electricity and the lingering scent of fog fluid. He had grown accustomed to the solitude; it was almost comforting, a quiet space to think between missions and visitors. He washed his face in the bathroom, cold water chasing away the last fog of restless dreams, then headed for the staff breakroom to prepare for the day.
Before opening the door, he noticed something off. The breakroom door was slightly ajar, a thin line of darkness visible. Chen Ge's instincts sharpened. He carried one key; the spare was hidden above the frame for staff emergencies. Xu Wan would have locked it before leaving. Someone—or something—had been inside.
He detoured silently to the props room, selecting Doctor Skull-cracker's heavy iron mallet, its weight reassuring in his grip. Returning on silent feet, he nudged the door open. The room was dim, shapes indistinct, no movement. He flicked the light switch. His dirt-streaked jacket from the night he rescued the cat lay folded on the table, when he distinctly remembered hanging it by the bed that morning.
Chen Ge approached cautiously, mallet raised, and used the handle to lift the jacket's edge. Beneath it, curled in a perfect white ball, was the cat—scarred face tucked against her paws, heterochromatic eyes glinting with mild annoyance at being disturbed. Behind her, half-buried under her fluffy tail, Xiaoxiao lay frozen in an awkward pose, one stitched arm outstretched as if she'd been trying to grab the tail and been caught mid-act. The ragdoll's button eyes were wide, her entire cloth body rigid in the universal specter language of I'm not here, you saw nothing.
Chen Ge lowered the mallet, a surprised laugh escaping him. The cat hadn't left after all—she'd found her way inside, used his jacket as a nest, and somehow turned the breakroom into her territory. Even Xiaoxiao, the fearless Baleful Specter, had been reduced to playing dead under that imperious gaze. The white cat flicked an ear, resuming her nap as if to say the intrusion was forgiven—but barely. Chen Ge set the mallet aside, the night's tension easing into something softer. The Haunted House had its new guardian, and she clearly intended to stay.