Chapter 61 | Screenwriter of a Reviving World

The Third Mirrored Instance.

At the east end of the village was a dilapidated adobe house with an open roof, the freezing winter wind howling as it poured in through the holes.

Four people huddled in a corner, keeping warm like a brood of chicks.

Jiang Chen leaned against the dirt wall, clutching a cold, hard steamed bun in his hand and taking large bites of it.

Even though the steamed bun was so dry it crumbled and made him choke, he still swallowed it mouthful after mouthful, as if he were stubbornly competing with someone.

A day had already passed since he spat blood.

After regaining consciousness, he hadn't mentioned the blood-spitting again, nor did he say what he had seen.

When Kang Xiaojia and the others asked, he either kept quiet or brushed them off with a simple, “I'm fine, just a bit tired.”

No one knew that it felt as if a piece was missing from his mind.

The images before he fainted were blurry, as if seen through a thick layer of frosted glass.

He only remembered a giant cat face in the thick fog, its vertical pupils reflecting his shadow.

There was also a feeling of being stared at by something—not the gaze of the cat's pupils, but some larger, more distant existence.

How should he describe this feeling?

Jiang Chen thought of when he had tried a vacuum walk in a space museum and saw the giant image of Earth.

The vast, ethereal space was incredibly quiet.

When a massive, beautiful planet appeared in one's field of vision, staring at it for too long could even produce the illusion that the planet was breathing.

That was exactly how Jiang Chen felt at that moment.

He felt like a speck of dust in the universe, watching the Earth sprout eyes. Through those cat pupils, across the Instance, across time and space—

It had glanced at him softly.

In that single glance, there was no emotion, no preference, and certainly no bias.

It was just like a human looking down at an ant on the ground.

Yet, it was that very glance that made the blood throughout Jiang Chen's body boil.

The pain was real; the blood he spat was mixed with fragments of his internal organs. The dizzying madness that felt like his head would explode at any moment was also real.

But following that was also an ultimate sense of bliss and fanaticism.

“I was seen.”

Like a believer seeing a god.

Like a moth to a flame.

Jiang Chen knew his current state was highly abnormal. His internal organs were ruptured, and his mind was on the verge of collapse, but every cell in his body was screaming:

He wanted to be looked at again.

He wanted to feel that sensation of being watched by a supreme existence once more.

He wanted to grow stronger, strong enough to stand before that existence and have it take a good look at him.

This thought grew wildly in his heart like weeds.

...

“Young Master Jiang, eat slower, don't choke.”

Zhou Chang handed over a red wine bottle, his tone carrying a hint of cautious flattery. “I couldn't find any water, only this. Just make do with it.”

Before Jiang Chen spat blood and fainted, fearing his teammates would abandon him to save themselves, he had directly promised the three of them that if he made it back alive, he would pay each of them five hundred thousand.

He had managed the threshold perfectly.

If he promised a hundred thousand or two hundred thousand, the three of them might still hesitate.

If he promised a million or ten million, it would inevitably feel too fake, like he was just casually painting a pipe dream.

But five hundred thousand was just right, hitting the sweet spot of an average person's savings goal and a sum that felt within arm's reach.

...

Jiang Chen took the bottle, gulped down a huge mouthful, and washed down the dry steamed bun stuck in his throat.

This red wine tasted like paper pulp.

“Did you get this from the village?”

He glanced at the pile of seven or eight cold steamed buns on the ground and asked casually.

Beside him, Zhou Chang and Kang Xiaojia both looked a bit uncomfortable.

The former defended himself, “Actually, it doesn't really count as stealing. The continuous banquet at the threshing ground in the village has been set up all day, and so much food was wasted. We didn't dare touch those dishes, so we just took some steamed buns.”

—In reality, it was stealing.

Every household in the village kept their doors closed. These four outsiders didn't want to do quests, nor did they want to have any contact with the villagers.

So they could only hide like street rats, not daring to show their faces.

Honestly, stealing steamed buns was a bit shameful.

But in the face of life and death, pride and morality had long since lost their value.

Kang Xiaojia held a steamed bun and nibbled on it in small bites, her expression somewhat dejected.

Having grown up without ever stealing anything, this “good student” disciplined by her school and family felt deeply sinful just for taking a steamed bun when she was about to starve.

“It's fine, little sister,”

Zhou Chang comforted her. “These are all offerings after a ritual. They'll probably just be thrown away anyway. What's wrong with us taking some? Steamed buns aren't worth anything.”

Kang Xiaojia nodded but didn't say anything.

Wang Lei huddled in the innermost corner, tearing into a dry steamed bun in large bites. When he choked badly, he would raise the red wine bottle and pour it down his throat.

The bottle in his hand seemed fine; whenever he opened his mouth, it smelled entirely of alcohol.

Right now, his face was pale, his lips were trembling, and his eyes were filled with dread. It was clear that Wang Lei desperately wanted to live.

“How about... we leave tonight?”

He muttered somewhat neurotically, “Let's not stay in the village anymore. This place is too terrifying. It's still safer in the car. It's better to go back to the car.”

The paper car didn't need gasoline anyway. As long as they drove along the winding mountain road, they could just keep circling.

In any case, it was better than staying in the village.

—Ever since the group had hidden in this ruined house, Wang Lei would say this every half hour.

Over and over again, it was “back to the car” and “don't stay in the village.”

Jiang Chen finished the last bite of his steamed bun, held onto the crumbling wall, and looked outside.

It was already getting dark outside, and the night was like spilled ink, swallowing the village bit by bit.

From the distance, the sound of a suona drifted over faintly, thin and fleeting, making it hard to hear clearly.

Jiang Chen frowned.

Playing the suona at this hour?

Was the village hosting a funeral?

Didn't they say it was Old Lady Huang's birthday celebration?

“It's about time.”

He turned around, using Zhou Chang's help to stand up, and said weakly, “Pack up. We're going back to the car.”

The others already treated him as their backbone, so they immediately sprang into action upon hearing this, packing up the remaining steamed buns, crouching down, and walking along the base of the wall toward the village entrance.

It was dark, and there was not a single person on the road.

Every household had their doors and windows tightly shut, and barely any lights were lit. The entire village was silent, like a dead village.

Occasionally, a few cat meows drifted from afar, making people's hair stand on end.

The four walked quickly, not daring to take a loud breath as they jogged all the way to the paper bus at the village entrance.

Sliding open the car door, they scrambled inside, shut the door, and only then did all four of them breathe a sigh of relief.

They still felt safer in the car.

At least this was a mobile safe zone.

“Should I drive?” Jiang Chen sat in the driver's seat and stretched his wrists.

“No, no, no!” Wang Lei immediately stopped him, his face pale.

“What if you drive us off a cliff? I'll drive.”

He didn't care about Jiang Chen's injuries; he was just truly afraid of dying.

Jiang Chen glanced at him, didn't insist, and nudged himself aside. “Alright, you drive. Just slowly wind along the mountain road, don't go too fast.”

“Alright.”

Wang Lei gripped the paper steering wheel with both hands and took a deep breath.

The paper car started slowly, leisurely leaving the village entrance and driving onto the winding mountain road.

The wheels rolled over the accumulated snow, making a crunching sound.

The headlights cast only a weak glow, looking like two dim yellow eyes tearing a tiny opening in the thick fog.

Further ahead was a vast expanse of white; they couldn't see the road, nor could they see the end.

It was very quiet inside the car, and no one spoke.

Kang Xiaojia and Zhou Chang leaned back in their seats, their nerves, which had been tense all day, relaxing slightly.

Wang Lei was fully focused on “driving” the car, not daring to relax in the slightest.

Jiang Chen leaned back in the passenger seat, closing his eyes to rest. His internal organs burned with searing pain.

As the car slowly drove forward, before they had even left the vicinity of the village, Zhou Chang's ears suddenly twitched. He spoke cautiously, “Do you hear that... is there music playing?”

Everyone pricked up their ears.

In the wind, apart from the howling, there was indeed some other sound mixed in:

Di-di da-da, wu-wu ye-ye.

It was the sound of a suona.

Along with gongs, drums, and cymbals, the clattering sounds blended together into a standard funeral tune.

The sound was eerie, drifting with the wind, sometimes far and sometimes near.

“A funeral procession?”

Jiang Chen pursed his lips, his expression turning serious. “Do they... usually hold funeral processions at night here?”

Traditional funerals always started early in the morning, setting off before dawn to ensure the deceased was laid to rest in peace.

Who would hold a funeral procession in the evening? This was no longer just a matter of bad luck.

The sound came from far ahead of the car, as if trying to block them from leaving.

“I-I-I-I...”

Wang Lei began to shake violently, his half-paper body rustling. “It's fine, it's fine, it has nothing to do with us. We just need to drive past them.”

Though he said that, he was clearly scared to death.

This Instance was already sinister and bizarre, and now they were bumping into villagers holding a funeral procession in the middle of the night. There was no telling what kind of ghostly thing this was.

The sound of the suona drew closer and closer.

The tune also became increasingly distinct.

The sorrowful music was mournful and plaintive, making their hearts panic.

The heavy crash of cymbals fell like a hand gripping their hearts, pulling and tugging hard, beat after beat.

The speed at which Wang Lei was driving unconsciously slowed down.

At the bend ahead, a line of shadows loomed in the thick fog.

It was a long procession, walking forward at a leisurely pace.

The clattering music was coming from that direction.

“There really is a procession...” Kang Xiaojia murmured, leaning forward and squinting her eyes to get a clearer look.

Closer.

Even closer.

The weak beam of the headlights hit the procession.

The moment they saw it clearly, the four people in the car froze simultaneously.

The procession was very long, stretching all the way from the other side of the bend, numbering around a hundred.

At the very front were two paper dolls—a boy and a girl—dressed in mourning clothes.

They had pale white faces, bright red blush, and eerie smiles stretched across their mouths. Their eyes were painted large and round, staring straight ahead.

Dressed in bright red jackets and green pants, they held soul-guiding banners in their hands. Their feet didn't touch the ground as they floated forward lightly, as if pulled by invisible strings.

Behind them was the suona band.

Four figures, wearing gray cloth mourning clothes and white mourning hats.

But their heads were not human heads.

They were rat heads.

Pointy snouts, long whiskers, round beady eyes, and grayish-black rat fur covered their entire faces.

They wore human clothes, had human hands, and puffed out their cheeks to blow the suonas.

The rat whiskers by their mouths twitched up and down as they made tooting sounds.

Flanking both sides of the coffin was a crowd of mourning “people.”

Old and young, male and female, all of them had rat heads.

Dressed in burlap and wearing mourning bands, some held mourning staffs, while others covered their mouths, emitting high-pitched squeaks of grief.

It sounded like wailing, yet also like whispering.

The sound was sharp and thin, making one's teeth ache.