Qian Cangyi had never felt danger creeping this close before. The first thing he saw upon waking to the blare of his alarm was the striped tabby cat from next door—dead, and hanging from the ceiling.
The lifeless eyes of the cat mirrored Qian Cangyi's weary face. He hadn't slept well. In fact, he'd had a nightmare—something rare for him. His routine was strict, with no bad habits. He almost never dreamt, and if he did, he forgot them instantly. But not this one. This one had etched itself into his memory, clear as day.
He dreamt of a remote, desolate mountain village—no electricity, no internet, no contact with the outside world. In the dead of night, he was running through it, desperate and terrified. The sky was thick with dark clouds. Not a single light could be seen. It was pitch black—"can't see your hand in front of your face" didn't even begin to describe it. He didn't know why he was running, only that if he didn't, he'd die.
That was the whole dream: running from something he couldn't see, but knew was there. Something unspeakably horrifying.
It didn't take him long to dispose of the dead cat. What should've become neighborhood gossip over breakfast was buried in silence. Neither he nor the cat's owners said a word. Since no one pointed fingers, Qian Cangyi certainly wasn't going to make a fuss.
After handling it, he opened his inbox and clicked on a strange email he'd received the night before.
The background of the email was a dimly lit village, and just two words were written in a stark, chilling font: Death Rite.
No matter how many times he read it, he couldn't make sense of the message. If it was just meant to scare him, then why the dead cat? If someone had the means to do that, why waste time on cryptic emails?
Unable to make heads or tails of it, Qian Cangyi shoved the thought aside. He had work to do.
His job was one of those "hard to explain" types. He was an analyst, sort of. Whether it was family disputes, school bullying, financial fraud, or psychological problems—he took it all on. His job was to provide advice and solutions based on what he knew.
How did he get paid? Simple. A base consultation fee (think of it like a doctor's copay), plus extra if the problem got solved. You could call it professional bullshitting—just with more skill than most.
Just as he was browsing for new cases, his phone buzzed with a text. It told him to be at a nearby bus stop in one hour to catch a specific coach.
What caught his attention was that the message had no sender.
Again?
Qian Cangyi pressed his lips together. Whenever something went beyond his understanding, he'd adopt this stern expression, like trying to stare down the unknown.
"Should I go or not? Think about it… that dead cat was real. If something really is going on and I ignore it, I might miss something crucial. But if I go and nothing happens, well, maybe it is just a really elaborate prank."
In the end, he decided to go.
He threw on a jacket, gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror, and headed out. The stop wasn't far, and he was a grown man. No reason to be afraid.
But when he arrived, things weren't as he expected. A normally busy street was completely deserted. Not a single soul in sight—not even a passing car. And it was only early afternoon. Blue skies, sun shining. It should've been bustling.
Something's wrong. Get out of here.
But he couldn't. It was like invisible strings had hijacked his body, pulling him like a puppet. He walked to the bench and sat down, movements smooth and natural—any passerby would've thought it completely normal.
But it wasn't. He wanted to leave. He tried to leave.
And yet, there he was—trapped in sunlight, feeling no warmth, like a corpse soaking in daylight. Like he was the puppet.
The only good news? His mind still worked. If anyone could save him, it had to be himself.
"Five minutes until the time mentioned in the message… What's going to happen? I can't move at all—not even wiggle a toe. But I can breathe. Muscle relaxant? No way. I didn't touch anyone or ingest anything before this. That theory's out."
He racked his brain for answers, but time kept ticking. When the clock hit the designated moment, a coach pulled up right in front of him.
And it was… strange.
All the windows were blacked out. You couldn't see inside. The side of the bus looked like a giant poster—right in the center were the blood-red characters: Death Rite.
"That again?"
Suddenly, the email made sense—it was an invitation. But to what?
Before he could examine the poster any closer, his body moved again, stepping toward the ominous vehicle. At the door, he realized he still couldn't see inside—just pitch blackness.
But the moment he stepped aboard, everything changed.
The bus interior was more like a living room than public transport—spacious, cozy even. And just like that, he had full control of his body again.
His first move? Ask the driver to stop. But the moment he looked toward the front, sheer terror washed over him.
The driver… had no face. Just a black raincoat covering their entire body, and in place of a face, a swirling mass of dark mist and two crimson eyes.
Something about the sight robbed him of his voice. He just sat down, numb.
In the center of the bus was a table. On it lay a booklet—with his name printed on the cover.
The moment his fingers touched it, the booklet melted like ink and seeped straight into his body.
Too fast. Too weird. Before he could react, it was over. Then, a flood of information surged through his mind.
He began to process the data, but much of it was locked. Every time he tried to access the sealed parts, his brain was forcibly diverted, as if something was protecting the information from him.
Fine, he thought. No point brute-forcing it.
The accessible portion read like a movie synopsis. The title? Death Rite—again. By now, those words sent a chill down his spine.
What did Death Rite even mean? A ritual for the dead? Why would the living perform a rite for death itself? He couldn't grasp the concept. Maybe it was some bizarre custom.
Then came the cast list—and his name. But beside it, another name: Shi Haimin.
"That's my character? So I'm acting? But why go to such lengths? Why make this a 'film'? And where's the camera? Even if this is a movie, who's going to watch it? Unless…"
A thought hit him: What if this film isn't made for humans? What if the 'movie' format is just a way to make it digestible to a human mind?
Then came the plot summary. And it reeked of death.
Shi Haimin, the role he was to play, was a young man who had left a remote village with eerie traditions. He loved the modern world and had no plans to return. His parents understood.
But every 20 years, the village held a ritual—the Death Rite. Last time he'd attended, he was just six. He remembered nothing. But his body did. The mere thought of it sent shivers down his spine.
"What is the Death Rite?"
Initially, Shi Haimin refused to go back. The cost, the trauma—it wasn't worth it. But then the dreams started. The same nightmare, over and over. Eventually, he realized he had no choice.
The summary ended there. But Qian Cangyi could draw some conclusions.
The Death Rite hadn't happened yet. Which meant—if he really was to play Shi Haimin—this was the prep time. Time to escape or to figure things out. But why him? Why this role?
As he hesitated, the bus stopped. The door opened.
Total darkness lay outside.
A man in a black trench coat and sunglasses stepped in. He paused briefly when he saw Qian Cangyi but said nothing. He picked a seat and sat down.
"How many have you acted in?" the man asked.
Qian Cangyi hesitated, unsure of the man's intent.
"First time, huh? Let me give you a tip. Never reveal your real identity during the filming."
The accuracy of the man's guess stunned Qian Cangyi. Just from a moment's pause? This guy's sharp. Or just lucky?
"Anything else I should know?" he asked, swallowing his pride.
"Beginner's manual? Too much trouble. If I had to explain it to every rookie, I might as well play dumb myself," the man replied coldly.
He knocked on the table. "Let's at least trade names. Doesn't have to be real—just something to distinguish us from our roles. You can call me Eagle Eye. Like the bird."
He removed his sunglasses. His face was sharp, his gaze piercing.
"Then call me Cangyi," Qian Cangyi replied. "Cang as in the sky. Yi as in the number one."
"If you survive this film, I'll tell you more. Assuming we meet again." Eagle Eye reached out and touched a new booklet that had appeared on the table.
Wait—another one? Just moments ago, there'd only been one, and it had vanished into Qian Cangyi. Do we each get one? What if I could collect all of them…?
No—if that were possible, why hasn't Eagle Eye done it already?
Eagle Eye gave him a knowing glance, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
Thirty minutes passed. No one else boarded. Just the two of them.
Then, the bus stopped again. The door opened.
Eagle Eye moved. "Time to go," he said simply.
Qian Cangyi hesitated at the door. Beyond it, nothing but blackness.
Two seconds of doubt.
Then he stepped into the dark.