July in London always seemed to be bathed in a faint, lingering fog.
The late-night air was thick with moisture.
At the bottom of the subway station steps, the greasy aroma of roadside fish and chips drifted over stickily, leaving an unpleasant sensation in its wake.
“Creak, creak—”
The last train of the Northern Line slowly glided into the platform, kicking up a gust of wind thick with coal dust.
With a sharp hiss, the doors slid open to both sides, and a sparse crowd of passengers shuffled inside.
No one spoke.
Sunsets and dinners belonged to those who got off work on time, not to those riding the last train.
After an exhausting day, many didn't even have the energy to lift their heads.
—This was the final train bound for Edgware.
The carriage was an old model that the Northern Line had been using for over a decade, its blue-gray velvet seats worn down and fuzzy.
Even the most proper British gentlemen had to pinch their noses and sit on seats stained with coffee and riddled with cigarette burns.
A few crumpled copies of the free 《Metro》 newspaper lay scattered across the seats.
A half-empty beer can rolled under a seat, letting out a soft clatter with every sway of the train.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed incessantly, casting a sickly, pale glare that made everyone in the carriage look as ghostly as corpses.
...
In the double seat near the door sat a middle-aged man wearing a khaki Burberry trench coat.
He was carefully reading a neatly folded copy of 《The Times》.
The front-page headline was printed in bold English—《Night Parade of a Hundred Demons on Tokyo Streets? Abnormal Phenomena Frequently Reported in Multiple Countries; Officials Yet to Respond》.
The man glanced at the headline and sighed at how even 《The Times》 had degraded itself to reporting such sensationalized fake news.
Across from him sat a middle-aged woman wearing a cream-colored knit cardigan.
In the single seat on the right, an Indian programmer had rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick, dark arm hair.
His fingers clattered rapidly across the keyboard of the old ThinkPad resting on his lap, while a tuna sandwich on the seat beside him had already gone stale.
In a seat diagonally behind him sat a priest clad in a black cassock, his skin so pale it was almost translucent.
Two rows further back, a black-haired Chinese international student huddled in a window seat.
She wore a gray oversized hoodie with the UCL crest printed on the chest.
Next to her was a young East Asian couple, and a plump white woman.
In the middle of the carriage, the most conspicuous group was five teenagers around sixteen or seventeen years old, all dressed in typical East London fashion: black hoodies with exaggerated streetwear logos emblazoned across the chest, faded sweatpants, and sneakers so filthy their original color was unrecognizable.
The leader of the group had eye-catching platinum-blonde hair and three silver studs pierced into his left ear.
They laughed and joked, spitting out slang in thick accents. Their high-pitched, floating laughter drifted through the carriage, mingled with the stench of alcohol.
“Are we lining up at that streetwear shop on Oxford Street tomorrow? It's a new collab. If we're late, we won't even get a ticket,” the red-haired boy muttered indistinctly, a lollipop dangling from his mouth.
“Line up my ass. Only idiots spend hundreds of pounds on a crappy hoodie.”
One of them laughed loudly, beer trickling down his chin. He carelessly wiped it away with his sleeve.
“Did you see David's clothes? Looks like he fished them out of a trash bin. He smells like sour garbage—what a pathetic, broke loser,” a slightly chubbier boy next to him joined in the jeering.
As the teenagers shoved and laughed among themselves, the nearby passengers frowned and shifted away. No one wanted to mess with these half-grown punks.
London's youths were notoriously difficult to deal with.
They could be incredibly mean-spirited, tearing someone down to nothing, and they had no sense of boundaries when they acted out.
Calling the police was useless; one could only avoid them.
The rest of the carriage remained dead silent. Aside from the teenagers' rowdy laughter, there was only the rhythmic clattering of the wheels on the tracks.
No one chatted; no one made eye contact.
The unwritten rule of the London Underground was to never disturb others. Even if you sat right next to someone, you had to act as though you lived in completely different worlds.
“Bzzzt... Bzzzt... Bzzzt...”
The fluorescent lights overhead began to flicker.
Suddenly, the entire carriage shook violently!
“Clang—!”
The metal frame of the train screeched and groaned, as if something had slammed hard against the exterior.
The overhead lights flickered frantically. In the alternating flashes of light and darkness, everyone was thrown off balance.
The Indian programmer's laptop nearly slid to the floor. He quickly caught it, muttering a curse in a thick Indian accent.
The international student's phone flew out of her hand, sliding under a seat with a sharp clatter.
The teenagers swore loudly.
Fortunately, the shaking lasted for only two brief seconds before subsiding.
The light tubes flickered wildly three more times before finally stabilizing.
A few passengers grumbled, but no one took it seriously.
The London Underground was full of old lines, all of which had fallen into disrepair.
An occasional jolt of the carriage or a flicker of the overhead lights was completely normal.
A passenger pulled out their phone to check, but the signal bar was entirely empty—not even emergency calls could go through.
“Oh my god, I've had it. No signal. You've got to be kidding me.”
“Hey, at least we're not stuck in the tunnel.”
“Fares go up every single year, yet the service is worse than in the US. It's disgusting.”
...
The passengers didn't seem to notice any change in the carriage, continuing to complain in hushed voices.
In the next second, a sharp, brief male shriek echoed from the back of the carriage.
“Holy shit! H-how did she suddenly appear?!”
In an instant, everyone's eyes snapped toward the sound.
In a double seat that had been empty just moments ago, an Asian girl had suddenly materialized.
She wore a loose, solid-black training uniform made of durable canvas. The cuffs of her sleeves and trousers were tightly bound, outlining her toned, muscular build.
A long, bulging object wrapped in thick, coarse cloth was slung across her back.
The hilt of a blade peeked out slightly from the top of the wrap, gleaming with a cold, metallic luster.
She seemed somewhat tense, her eyes darting across her surroundings as she quickly held the weapon defensively in front of her chest.
It was Zhao Weilai.
...
The sudden appearance of a living person on a closed train drew curious stares from many passengers, and several of the teenagers shamelessly began to whistle at her:
“Cool!”
“Hey! Babe!”
“Chinese? Is she cosplaying Tomb Raider or Battle Angel?”
...
Although she had prepared herself mentally to be pulled back into an Instance at any moment, Zhao Weilai still couldn't help but tremble when it actually happened.
Just a second ago, she had been in the training room, learning combat techniques from her instructor.
The next, the reassuring scent of the facility vanished, replaced by the stale, turbid air of beer, fish, and mold.
She clutched her weapon—the Pig-Slaying Knife she had obtained as a reward from the previous Instance.
The carriage fell silent for a few seconds.
During the day, videos of the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons in Japan had already blown up on social media across Europe.
Twitter was flooded with related hashtags.
Some claimed it was movie CGI, others believed it was a supernatural event covered up by the government, and some even called them angels.
The debate raged fiercely on all sides, and no government had provided a clear response.
Now, a mysterious woman carrying a weapon had materialized out of air inside a sealed subway car.
Those sitting near Zhao Weilai scrambled to get away. Some stood up and moved to the other end of the carriage, trying to keep as much distance from her as possible.
The crowd watched her with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
Only the middle-aged woman in the knit cardigan stood up after a brief daze and slowly approached, her face filled with kind concern.
She walked up to Zhao Weilai, her voice gentle and carrying a slight London suburbs accent:
“Oh dear, you poor child, are you alright? Are you feeling unwell? Do you need help? I can take you to the nearest police station...”
...
The woman spoke slowly, and Zhao Weilai could barely understand her. Perhaps because of Liu Guilan, she held a natural fondness for unfamiliar women of this age group.
Zhao Weilai quickly sized up the white woman in front of her before scanning the rest of the carriage.
There were over thirty people of various ethnicities, all dressed in typical modern London attire.
The carriage was an old subway model, with a pitch-black tunnel rushing past the windows and the wheels clattering rhythmically.
Her English was excellent. She could not only understand the white woman but had also clearly heard the teenagers' banter and the passengers' grumbling earlier.
Zhao Weilai's heart skipped a beat.
This wasn't a familiar Instance space; it was a real-world setting.
Or rather, just like Jiangcheng University, it was an Instance generated by mapping reality onto an unknown space.
...
Zhao Weilai asked in rapid English to confirm her suspicions:
“I'm fine. What time is it now? Which line is this, and which direction is it heading?”
“Are you from Huaxia?”
The Chinese international student, Mu Xiao, was not far away. Hearing Zhao Weilai speak and seeing her East Asian features, she hesitated for a moment before stepping forward to quickly answer:
“It's 12:07 AM. This is the London Underground's Northern Line, the last train bound for Edgware.”
Hearing the familiar Chinese, Zhao Weilai felt a wave of relief and immediately thanked her: “Thank you.”
She now had to confirm whether she had officially entered an Instance.
If not, she needed to get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible.
In the next second, the familiar ink-wash text bloomed in the air:
【Side Quest: As a veteran player who has experienced life and death, reassure the newcomers. (+100 points * number of surviving players at the end of the Instance)】
【Point System Activated: Complete side quests and explore hidden storylines to earn points. Points can be exchanged for items in the Clay Sculpture Ghost Shop.】
...
Here it was. It was indeed a quest exclusive to veteran players.
Zhao Weilai's pupils contracted sharply. This time was completely different from before—she had materialized directly in Great Britain, thousands of miles away!
The news of the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons in Japan was known to everyone.
Could it be that Instances were appearing on a massive scale worldwide?
Realizing that the Instance was about to begin, Zhao Weilai stood up abruptly, causing the people around her to take another half-step back.
“Everyone, please quiet down and listen to me.”
Zhao Weilai swept her gaze across the thirty-odd panicked and curious faces in the carriage, raising her voice to explain in clear, standard English:
“We have entered a supernatural Instance. There will be danger ahead.”
“Please stay calm. Do not act recklessly, and absolutely do not say anything provocative. Do not attempt to destroy the objects around you. Do everything you can to survive.”
“Oh my god!”
“Hahaha! Did you hear what she just said?”
“‘Stay calm, do not act recklessly’... Hahaha!”
The moment she finished speaking, a burst of mocking laughter erupted from the other end of the carriage.
The teenagers doubled over with laughter, their tones dripping with malice:
“Look, we've got a Marvel superhero fan over here!”
“Hey! Who are you cosplaying? Harry Potter? Spider-Man? Or Wonder Woman? Oh, Wonder Woman, where's your Lasso of Truth?”
“Hahaha, a supernatural 'Instance'? That's hilarious! A Chinese chick carrying a toy sword, pretending to be some superhero in the subway?”
The red-haired boy whistled, a malicious grin plastered on his face:
“Is this for TikTok clout? Seriously though, that entrance effect was sick. How'd you do it? Were you hiding under the seat the whole time?”
“Ah, I get it. A magic trick, right? We can all do those. Want us to show you one?”
“Yeah, relax. 'Stay calm.' We just want to join in on the fun... Hahaha!”
Their remarks grew increasingly offensive, their sharp, grating laughter filled with unbridled malice.
Why is it that in every Instance, there's always a textbook idiot among the newcomers?
Zhao Weilai found it incredibly troublesome, but in the very next second, as she blinked, a dark, crimson red was reflected in her pupils.
Splat—!
Splat—!
Without any warning, the heads of the mocking teenagers exploded.
Everyone's vision was instantly stained red.
Rate on N.U.
