Chapter 46: Setting Forty-Six

Setting Forty-Six: Fairy Tale (Part 14)

The scene before him was like a club descending from the heavens, smashing into his skull and exploding into a riot of stars that formed a banner:

Congratulations—you’ve won (the jackpot)!

Though he’d vaguely suspected, having the guess confirmed in this moment still sent his soul reeling.

Why Snow White had “preserved” him in a crystal coffin; why Donkeyskin had fallen in “love at first sight” to the point of wanting to turn him into a wax statue; why the beautiful, kind princesses of fairy tales were so obsessed with “processing” his corpse—

He numbly shifted his gaze to the System Settings panel in the upper-left corner.

[Setting 5: The key in your hand belongs to Bluebeard. When you use Bluebeard’s key to open a door, if the first person you see is female, nothing happens; if male, he will develop a necrophiliac (Active) relationship toward you.]

—Now everything had an answer.

Game developers: If a witch can be male, there’s nothing strange about a princess being a boy either~

Shan Ziwei’s Spade SP (Anger) nearly manifested as actual blood spewing from his mouth. Looking back at everything he’d done in this Chessboard, he’d been systematically guided by the game into digging his own grave—and then working tirelessly to bury himself in it.

Need to help the princess find true love and a home? Fine, he’d find the princess first. Can’t let a male see you when you step out? Fine, he’d limit the first witness to the princess—two birds with one stone.

So Princess (♂) predictably developed necrophilia toward Witch (♂).

His earlier premonition had been spot-on—”necrophilia” was a word he never wanted to understand, but the “princesses” he was responsible for had used it to torment him body and soul. Especially the skinning incident—though he’d cleverly let himself die under the princess’s blade, triggering the substitute puppet to take the flaying in his place, just watching that madness was nightmare fuel. He didn’t want to remember how he’d turned into a little white bird again, trembling in the shadows, watching the princess (now “prince”) kiss the flayed skin—just thinking about it sent a chill laced with the scent of blood deep into his bones, cold and terrifying.

His body stiffened as he remembered something: after using the substitute puppet, he’d been cursed back into bird form. He’d used Bluebeard’s key while Donkeyskin was away to travel to Rose’s location a hundred years later—and to his surprise, he’d reverted to human form the moment he stepped out.

According to his earlier reasoning, since he’d used the substitute puppet, reverting to human form meant either he was in a time before its activation, or Setting 6 had been fulfilled. Since this was a hundred years later, it couldn’t be before activation—which meant…

[Setting 6: Your substitute puppet is carved from juniper wood. When the puppet takes effect, you will transform into a fragile little bird. To regain your original form, you must fulfill two conditions: first, the murderer must die; second, there must be an act of vampirism between you and the murderer.]

A hundred years later, the non-magically gifted princesses being gone was understandable—but that other condition was absolutely horrifying!!!

Shan Ziwei’s blood ran cold. Slowly, so slowly, he raised his head to look at that innocent, sleeping face.

Tell me—what did you all do to my corpse… QAQ

The black-haired princess slumbered peacefully, her body still curved in that broken-winged arc, unchanged from the moment she’d fallen asleep a hundred years ago. His earlier yank on her collar had tilted her head slightly; strands of black hair lay scattered across her red lips, disheveled and seductive.

His breath caught for a moment. Even now, he still got shaken occasionally—simply because the princess was built to male aesthetic standards. Only now did he realize how inappropriate his position was: kneeling over her, hand still gripping her open collar—the very picture of a beast about to pounce.

To make matters worse, he heard layered footsteps from below—they were in the bell tower’s attic, and the spiral staircase amplified every sound, each wave crashing against his heart.

—Who else would be climbing this tower a hundred years later?

Anyone who’d ever heard a fairy tale knew the answer. He leaped up in horror, cold sweat beading on his forehead—not just from the approaching prince, but from this god-awful mess!

The princess was already under a necrophiliac curse toward him; a prince wouldn’t help. Snow White’s case was a bloody example—she’d married the prince yet still obsessed over him, her “stepmother.” By the same logic, even if a prince kissed Rose awake, she’d still pursue the “witch”—unless Rose had never seen him in the first place!

A revelation struck. He thought of a possibility, his breathing quickening.

—What if… he changed the past?

He grabbed the golden key—the source of both his troubles and his hope—and jammed it into the door’s keyhole.

—Why not? He had the key to the fourth dimension. He could freely travel between future and past. Why not go back and change that disastrous first meeting?

—Yes. He could.

In his excitement, the old wooden door crumbled to dust under his force. He barely glanced at it before charging through the liquid film. He returned to his “home base” a hundred years earlier, resumed his white-haired, blue-dressed witch form, and used Bluebeard’s key again—destination: Rose’s birth banquet.

He set his exit point to the ladies’ restroom at the banquet, as before. This time, he was too worked up to feel embarrassed as he rushed out. A female guest touching up her makeup glanced at him casually and went back to powdering her nose.

Confirmed that a woman had seen him, he hurried out. Though he briefly thought the guest looked familiar, his mind was consumed with changing history, so he paid it no mind.

The banquet hall was enormous. He intended to find the location of “his first appearance” from memory—but the moment he entered, he spotted the royal family of three: the king beaming, the queen radiant, Princess Rose nestled peacefully in her mother’s arms. They stood at the entrance, apparently waiting for something.

At the sight of him, the king and queen approached warmly.

“Welcome, Your Excellency the Witch.” The king presented Rose in the queen’s arms. “This is my little princess, Rose. Please bestow upon her your kind and beautiful blessings.”

He stared at the infant being offered to him like a lit fuse. Quick to react, he reached out—not to take the baby, but to trace a symbolic sign above her forehead.

“Beauty—that is my gift to him.”

“Thank you for your blessing.” The king and queen beamed, summoning a servant to escort him into the banquet. “We hope you enjoy the festivities.”

He dismissed the servant once they were away from the royal family. Circling the hall, he eventually located the spot of his “previous” appearance. He sprinkled some water on the floor—to make any step ripple—and settled down to wait.

His plan: like in the forest cottage, he’d warn the “past him” the moment he arrived.

—No—

A thought flickered through his mind, gone before he could grasp it. A commotion rippled through the banquet. He didn’t pay it much mind, but the crowd was all surging toward the center, interfering with his view.

He stepped aside to avoid them. At that moment, sunlight caught a lady’s jeweled earring and flashed into his eyes. He raised a hand to shield them—and before he could lower it, a cry rang out:

“Ah…”

He opened his eyes, lowering his hand to stare at the male guest on the ground. It felt like his blood had frozen.

“Who spilled water here?” The male guest stood up with a servant’s help, annoyed. “I think I bumped into someone just now…”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest—he ran toward the center. But the closer he got, the denser the crowd. His face pale, he stared at the human wall before him, his Heart SP at a pitiful 3%—he didn’t have the nerve to push through. Until he heard a cry:

“My child!”

At that, he knew it was too late. In that single instant, he’d missed everything.

It’s fine. He gripped Bluebeard’s key and turned to leave. He could start over!

Once again, he stood in the ladies’ restroom stall. He was about to step out when he heard someone in the next stall mutter through gritted teeth: “…Damn banana peel…”

He froze, not sure he’d heard right. He pressed his ear to the divider—and heard a knock in response.

“You’re—no, ‘I’—on the other side, right?”

He responded numbly. His own voice came back urgently from the other side.

“Listen—watch out for the king and queen when you act. One of them is a player—I don’t know which—he didn’t tell me. Either way, ‘we’ better stick to the script, don’t be in the same place at the same time, and… HOLY CRAP!!!”

That last desperate cry made his heart clench. Silence—then the sound of a key turning in a lock, followed by a whisper like someone drowning and giving up:

“I want to go to where Princess Rose sleeps, a hundred years later.”

His eyes flew wide open. The other spoke in a tone almost like entrusting a legacy: “I’m out of time—you have to hurry!”

Then silence.

He was stunned. Having experienced the Möbius House, he understood what had just happened. This was a warning from his future self. His future self…

He didn’t dare think further. He’d already vaguely sensed that his earlier thinking had been too simplistic—he’d made a fatal logical error. But he couldn’t admit it, didn’t dare admit it. To admit it would be to lose his last hope of finding the right path.

As if to prove something, he gritted his teeth and shoved the door open, racing against time.

Hurry. He had to hurry—or he’d fall into the same tragedy as his future self.

The female guest was still at the mirror, slowly touching up her makeup. She glanced indifferently as someone in white hair and blue dress ran out of a stall—then she saw the face, and her brush slipped straight into her mouth.

Back at the banquet, he ran into the Rose family again, still lingering near the entrance. They approached him warmly: “Your Excellency, are you enjoying the festivities?”

He scanned the king and queen, unable to spot which one was the player. Though he meant no harm, Story Mode’s “identity reveal” mechanic made him wary. He couldn’t guarantee they’d show mercy if they discovered he was a player—kicking him out of the Chessboard would net them a chess piece.

So he played his role as the witch appearing at the banquet.

“Quite.” The white-haired witch nodded graciously, tracing another symbol above the infant’s forehead. “Wisdom—this is my new gift to her.”

The king and queen were overjoyed. He hurried to excuse himself, mindful of his future self’s warning. He couldn’t go to “first him”‘s spawn point—”second him” was already waiting there. To avoid overlapping, he’d try a different approach. Scanning the room, his eyes landed on a table.

Earlier, he’d crawled under a table to… do that to the princess. He remembered that table. If he left a message underneath in advance—

Quick to act, he got a charcoal pencil from a servant, found the table, and when no one was looking, closed his eyes and crawled under it invisible.

Crouching under the table, he looked at the dark wooden underside—hard to write on, and besides, who looked at the bottom of a table? The floor was polished marble, leaving only the tablecloth.

Carefully, he scratched a message on the cloth, afraid of pressing through to the other side. After leaving the message, he crawled out to check it—and was admiring his handiwork when someone tapped his shoulder.

He spun around, bristling—to see the queen, holding Rose, smiling at him.

“Your Excellency, what are you doing here?”

Quick-thinking, he grabbed a glass of red wine from the table and gestured with it.

“Oh, do you like red wine? You must try our noble rot wine.” The queen warmly hosted him, her face full of maternal affection. “Thank you for blessing Rose. With beauty and wisdom, she’ll surely become the most wonderful princess in the world.”

“I think beauty and wisdom aren’t enough.” He carefully maintained his witch persona, avoiding any slip. “I’ll give her kindness too—then she’ll be perfect.”

The queen was overjoyed, even reaching to grasp his hand in gratitude—but that startled him. He reflexively stepped back, forgetting the full glass in his hand and the laden table behind him.

Red wine spilled down his blue dress and soaked the entire tablecloth. The queen gasped, quickly calling a servant to take him for a change of clothes.

“I’m so sorry, Your Excellency—I overstepped.”

His face was pale—not from the wine, but from staring at the now-red tablecloth.

“This… the tablecloth will be replaced?”

The queen, thinking he was concerned, immediately summoned a servant. “Yes, right away.”

He opened his mouth but found no reason to object. He was led away to change. When he returned, the banquet had already ended.

He stood in the empty hall, his heart gripped by an invisible hand. He felt a powerful, irresistible force—as if everything he did was meaningless, destined to repeat the same mistakes.

—Was he really wrong?

The thought was crushed the moment it formed. He took out Bluebeard’s key, refusing to give up, and tried again.

He pushed open the door and immediately saw the female guest standing frozen in the ladies’ room. He finally remembered why she looked familiar—at the very beginning, when he’d rushed in here to cool off, she’d pointed at him and screamed “Ghost.”

Acting on some impulse, he asked: “You saw me, didn’t you.”

Her face went pale. She stared at him, letting out a strangled scream: “I saw nothing!”

Under his gaze, she quickly changed her answer, like a frightened lamb afraid of offending him: “No, no… I saw… I saw… many, many… yous…”

Yes, many “mes.” No wonder she’d thought he was a ghost.

He smiled bitterly. The feeling of repeating his predecessors’ footsteps was back—but it only strengthened his resolve. He had an idea and rushed to the banquet, seeking out the king and queen.

The queen looked at him in surprise, then smiled warmly: “Your Excellency, you’ve cleaned up. I apologize again for earlier.”

“Your Excellency is our kingdom’s greatest magician.” The king put his arm around her shoulder. “A little thing like this is nothing to her. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yes, I am the greatest magician.” He picked up the thread. “And I feel my earlier gifts aren’t enough.” He raised his hand, tracing an elaborate spell over Rose. “I bestow upon the princess eternal wealth, virtue, nobility… I give her every virtue and hope in the world—but—”

Before the king and queen could rejoice, he turned the conversation: “I will also prophecy a curse that will come upon the princess.”

This was his plan—to finish the entire script in one go. If he delivered both blessing and curse now, there’d be no need for “first him.”

The king’s expression faltered, but he held on: “What curse?”

“Your daughter will be wounded by a spindle at fifteen, and will die. However—”

“Your Majesty the Queen!!!”

His words were cut off by a lady’s shriek. He looked—the queen had fainted. The king was frantic, trying to support both his wife and the tottering baby in her arms, with no attention left for him.

That shriek ignited chaos across the banquet. Everyone surged toward them—some to protect, some to gawk. He was pushed aside; lost in the crowd, like a frog dropped into hot oil, he panicked and scrambled to escape.

Miraculously, he hopped out before cooking—his Heart SP barely clinging to 1%, nearly squeezed to death.

Panting against a pillar, his body burning but his heart cold. He watched the tide of people surge toward the center. After a while, something was said inside; the crowd began to thin. A servant spotted him, approached, and bowed: “Your Excellency, Her Majesty has recovered and requests your presence.”

He closed his eyes. He was about to step forward—when a distant cry rang out: “My child!”

His foot still moved—but in the other direction. The servant hurried to stop him as he headed for the door, but he said: “You’ve got the wrong person.” He pointed at the hall center. “The witch is there.”

She turned instinctively—saw nothing. When she looked back, he was gone.

He leaned against the stall wall, exhausted. Whether he admitted it or not, the truth was clear.

—He couldn’t change the past.

Because “causality” wouldn’t allow it.

He remembered a friend’s story: a time traveler trying to stop his parents from meeting slipped on a banana peel, got injured, and was hospitalized—missing his chance. The kicker: the banana peel was thrown by his father’s romantic rival. To avoid hospital bills, the rival left town. Without the rival’s interference, his parents got together. In the end, the time traveler who’d tried to stop his parents’ union became the reason they met.

That mechanism—whenever a time traveler’s actions risk causing a causal paradox, seemingly accidental factors interfere—what was it called…

“Banana peel mechanism…”

He was the unlucky one who’d slipped on the peel. To prevent paradox, every ray of sunlight, every breeze, every accident conspired to stop him from changing the past—even to “complete” it. The Möbius House had already shown that this world operated on causality, yet he’d kept trying to create parallel worlds. So he’d taken a hard fall at Rose’s banquet.

Cursing, he muttered: “Damn banana peel mechanism…”

As the words left his mouth, he froze. A memory surfaced. He turned and knocked on the divider behind him.

“You’re—no, ‘I’—on the other side, aren’t you?”

A vague “Mm” came from the other side. With a heavy heart, he repeated the warning—he had thought about not saying it, but realized that if he didn’t, it was still “himself” who’d suffer.

“Listen—watch out for the king and queen when you act. One of them is a player—I don’t know which—he didn’t tell me. Either way… HOLY CRAP!!!”

He couldn’t help shouting—his vision had gone completely red, like Spirit Collapse. But unlike that, a line of text appeared in the center:

[WARNING: 1 minute of game time remaining.]

The moment he read it, the crimson faded, but his panic didn’t. One minute! He’d been playing for 11 hours and 59 minutes—in 60 seconds, he’d be forcibly logged out and banned for a week!

Normally, he’d log out voluntarily. But he refused—after Snow White’s blood, Donkeyskin’s flaying, just one princess away from clearing, how could he give up?

Instinctively, he grabbed Bluebeard’s key and jammed it into the lock. He wanted only one thing: to reach Rose as fast as possible.

“I want to go to where Princess Rose sleeps, a hundred years later.”

He threw himself through the film, not forgetting to call back: “I’m out of time—you have to hurry!”

He emerged—and froze. He’d expected the attic where Rose slept, but instead he stood at the bell tower’s ground floor entrance. Remembering the door he’d broken earlier, he nearly broke down: if there’s no door, it drops you at a door!

No time to complain. He sprinted up the stairs at full speed. Every cell in his body was devoted to this extreme effort, his brain lagging behind. By the time he reached the top, gasping, his oxygen-starved mind hadn’t yet figured out how to clear.

But when he saw Princess Rose, he realized there was another option.

—Actually, there was no need for a prince. Was there?

The white-haired witch strode to the sleeping princess, knelt on one knee, cupped her beautiful face—and kissed her hard.

Everything settled.

Her long lashes fluttered open like butterfly wings. The princess’s dark eyes reflected a streak of white. She smiled, languid and satisfied, and reached up to wrap her arms around the witch’s neck.

“I knew you’d come to me in the end.”

With a slight tug, the now-lifeless witch fell into her arms.

“You see—you just need to lie still in my arms like this.”

Holding the empty shell, she was more than content.

“How could I bear to let you die?”