Chapter 57: Setting Fifty-Seven

Setting Fifty-Seven: Supernatural Research Club (Part 10)

Perhaps the horror Chessboard was already difficult enough—ever since this board began, the System Settings had been in a quiet, minor role, giving hints and nothing more. That had given the players time to rest and regroup.

But now, a new System Setting slammed down like a hammer, shattering everyone’s illusions. In that moment, the players remembered the terror of being dominated by the System Settings—and the shame of being toyed with by them. In “Role-Play,” what’s truly terrifying isn’t the traps set by the Chessboard, nor the monsters and ghosts—it’s the System Settings that never miss a chance to screw you over…

The living room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The players watched with grim faces as the countdown on Setting 4 reached zero.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1—Setting 4 activated.

[Setting 4: Your companions have triggered the Ghost Call. From now on, when the phone rings, if no one answers within 1 minute, the restless spirit will appear and kill the living one by one until no one remains.]

Shan Ziwei swallowed hard. That ancient bronze rotary phone had truly become a reaper, its long cord holding all their lives.

“This house seems to have only this phone.” Crimson Rose rested her hand on it, pondered a moment, then shook her head: “It’s a special item—can’t be placed in a Toy Box.”

Like the oil drums in the Wuwang Prison Chessboard. He tried lifting the phone’s base—if it couldn’t go in the Toy Box, could they carry it with them?

The base seemed fixed to the coffee table. He used all his strength and only managed to pry up a corner—let alone lifting it. The game wasn’t letting them cut corners.

Just as he was about to set it down, Hyacinth spotted something: “There’s writing underneath.”

He held it up, and the others crowded around. On the smooth tabletop, faint text was pressed into the surface—as if someone had placed a piece of paper with wet ink under the phone, leaving an imprint.

“…the fatal injury was a broken neck from a heavy object; Mr. Wei was decapitated and dismembered. Before his death, he dialed a call…” Hyacinth read. “It’s the missing part of the earlier newspaper article!”

Milk Tea and Tapioca had found a newspaper in the living room covering the Manda Mansion murders. The section after Mrs. Wei had been cut off—now the missing part about Mr. Wei’s death was filled in.

“So the headless man is Mr. Wei, and he made the phone call.” Crimson Rose sighed. “From the phone call context: the child pushed his mother down the stairs, killing her. The father witnessed it. While he was calling for help, someone cut off his head… perhaps… the child did it…”

Something felt wrong to Shan Ziwei. He couldn’t help objecting: “Could a child have that much strength?”

“I only said ‘perhaps.'” Crimson Rose sidestepped lightly. “The real issue now is: how do we handle the phone? If we don’t answer, the headless Mr. Wei will appear and behead us.”

Milk Tea’s lips quivered, as if about to speak—but in the end, she pressed them into a pale line.

Seeing everyone silent, Crimson Rose smiled and held up two fingers.

“I have two plans.”

“The phone is unique—it can’t be moved or carried. So we can split into two groups: one stays here to answer the phone, the other advances the game.” She said slowly. “Split groups cover both objectives; pairs reduce danger. However, this plan has a problem.”

She suddenly turned to Shan Ziwei: “Explain the rules of Hide and Seek for us.”

Caught off guard, this particular sufferer collected his memories and recounted the version he knew. The spiritual version of Hide and Seek was similar to the regular game, but instead of people seeking people, the ghost seeks people. First, you go to a room with a TV or the living room, turn on the TV to snow static. Then take a doll, stab it with a knife, and say: “You’re the ghost—come find me.” Then you quickly hide. If something appears, don’t let it see you until it leaves. If playing with others, don’t let them know your hiding spot—if the ghost catches them, it will learn your location too. When the TV static disappears, it means you’ve successfully played hide-and-seek with the ghost.

“So Hide and Seek starts here.” Crimson Rose glanced at the 60-inch TV in the living room, emphasizing: “And it’s played throughout the entire house?”

When he nodded, he understood what she was getting at. Wall Touching and Ouija Board were small-range games that could be confined to one room. But Hide and Seek couldn’t be—it was clearly a full-house game starting from the living room. How could they ensure the person guarding the phone wasn’t affected?

“The only game we can play now is Hide and Seek—a full-house game, and the rules require us to split up.” Crimson Rose sighed. “Let’s consider the second plan.”

“Second plan: from now on, we take turns answering the phone.” She scanned everyone, her tone unusually stern. “If you agree, once the phone rings, no matter where you’re hiding, if it’s your turn, you will answer!”

The condition was harsh—a gamble of luck with massive risk. What if the ghost was blocking their hiding spot when the phone rang? Even if they risked running out, they’d likely be killed before reaching the living room—a meaningless sacrifice.

Crimson Rose had clearly considered that. Her voice softened: “If the ghost is near you, making it impossible to answer, please signal the next person to go.”

Still a luck-based risk, and being in that situation meant death was near—but at least it would be a meaningful sacrifice.

“Any objections?”

“No.”

Milk Tea and Hyacinth agreed almost in unison. He glanced at Milk Tea in surprise, but since he couldn’t think of a better plan, he and Host silently accepted.

After a quick assignment, the answering order was: Host—Crimson Rose—Hyacinth—Shan Ziwei—Milk Tea. Since Host had already answered, the next call would go to Crimson Rose.

With the phone issue settled, they went upstairs for the doll. Passing the dining room, they all glanced in. It was clean and quiet—no sign of anyone—say, the “master” the shadow mentioned—having eaten.

Crimson Rose cleared her throat: “…Let’s check the dining room.”

Walking in, they noticed the chair at the head of the table was pulled halfway out, with an empty plate before it. A piece of paper was on the plate, written in elegant small script:

[The man of this house is tough
The woman of this house is slender
What do you taste like?
Thank you for the meal]

The first two lines reminded him of the song “Three Bears”—but the third line took a sharp turn into cannibalistic territory. He stared at the text—it seemed to reveal something, yet nothing at all. The only feeling was wrongness, indescribable wrongness.

—The shadow said “master,” but this seemed to come from an outside “guest”?

Crimson Rose was thoughtful, whispering with Hyacinth, catching words like “child… master…”

A cold breeze passed. The paper fluttered, about to fall off the table in front of him. He caught it instinctively—and felt a sharp pain in his fingertips, as if bitten.

He flung it away like a scalded cat. The paper dissolved midair—or rather, it was soaked by pitch-black ink, silently melting into darkness.

Not just the paper—his SP was blackened too. All four bars went black, as if he’d been struck by a terrible attack. He froze, not daring to move, waiting for the contamination to fade.

After hearing his misfortune, Crimson Rose warned: “Be careful—this mansion is getting more dangerous.”

Indeed, one crisis after another seemed to laugh and say: the peaceful prologue is over; the real nightmare begins.

They grew more cautious. Reaching the second floor, ignoring the psychological unease of the head-lamps, they entered the first guest room on the right.

The cabinet from the Peking opera mask’s memory was before them. It was a pearwood cabinet with an external latch—easy to open from the outside, hard to undo from within.

Though they didn’t know which room’s cabinet held the doll, they thought they’d find it by checking all of them. That was their naïve expectation—until the cabinet moved.

Hyacinth, about to open it, froze and stumbled back from the blood seeping out.

That was just the beginning. Under their horrified gazes, the cabinet shook violently; with each shake, more blood poured through the gap—as if a blood-soaked monster was trapped inside, battering the doors.

BANG! BANG! BANG!…

Under the unknown monster’s force, the latch looked fragile, barely holding. Through the widening gap, two round, ringed orbs floated vertically in the darkness.

They stared in terrified silence, realizing those were double-pupiled eyes—the thing in the cabinet tilted its head at 90 degrees, two eyes stacked vertically, watching them through the gap. The pupils were side-by-side in an “∞” shape, cloudy and deathly pale.

Dead eyes.

Shan Ziwei’s fingers went numb, his heart pounding. That was no longer just a cabinet door—it was the gate between life and death. They scrambled to the guest room entrance, terrified the thing would break out. As Host was the last to leave, the shaking gradually stopped.

“…What was that?”

“Possibly…” Hyacinth said uncertainly: “Mrs. Wei?”

He recalled the image of a woman whose neck had been crushed by a heavy object—yes, it matched the thing in the cabinet perfectly.

“It can’t get out. We have two more cabinets.” Crimson Rose said, perhaps trying to reassure them—but he heard only a foreboding sense of doom.

Sure enough, the second cabinet was the same. The moment they tried to open it, “Mrs. Wei” burst out bleeding, peering through the gap.

Silence grew among the players as they headed for the third room. Passing between the second and third, Milk Tea stopped, staring at the painting behind the vase, her hands clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms.

He sighed at the painting of Tapioca being beheaded. The girl’s head was tilted under the axe, still attached by a thin strip of skin—more horrifying than complete separation. The artist understood human empathy perfectly, making them as uncomfortable as possible.

He looked away, toward the corridor’s end. More than the death paintings, he was disturbed by the ink painting at the end, which seemed to swallow all light. Even standing before the third room, he could barely make out its frame.

As he and Milk Tea paused, Crimson Rose and Hyacinth had already checked the third cabinet—more blood on the floor.

The group stood in the corridor, facing three identical guest rooms with identical cabinets.

“One of them has the doll.”

But which?

They reviewed the mask’s memory repeatedly, finding no clue.

Crimson Rose rubbed her brow: “There must be a hint for this kind of selective puzzle. We must have missed it. Let’s search elsewhere.”

Two hours passed. The phone rang twice—answered by Crimson Rose and Hyacinth. Everyone grew restless. They’d searched the entire mansion, even the blood-soaked master bedroom and recreation room—nothing.

There was an apt term for this: stuck.

No Baidu to search for guides, no developer hints—just themselves. No ghosts appeared, but something worse gnawed at them bit by bit.

[Setting 5: You feel very tired. Your energy depletes rapidly.]

[Setting 6: Your nerves are too strained, making you emotionally fragile and sensitive.]

Now walking was like running—it consumed MP. Running consumed double. Club SP (Sorrow) dropped easily. At this rate, they wouldn’t need to clear—they’d just be drained to death by the System Settings.

Dead end.

“Did we get it wrong… should we start with Wall Touching and Ouija Board? But the Study Room and Study are locked… can’t find the key…” Hyacinth couldn’t stop muttering—the fruitless search had made her anxious. “Do we have to gamble on opening a cabinet?”

A 1 in 3 chance—if they picked wrong and released something unknown…

“Impossible. A puzzle-based Chessboard wouldn’t have an unsolvable luck-based puzzle.” Crimson Rose countered, but her tone had lost its earlier conviction.

He studied the floor plans, especially the torn middle section—convinced it held something important. Aligning the two pages, the second floor’s lower half clearly had a narrow blank space.

At the second floor’s end, behind the corridor, was there a hidden room?

A flash of inspiration struck—terrifying, but exhilarating.

“—Remember?”

They turned to him. The white-haired youth circled the bottom of the second-floor plan.

“Before entering Manda Mansion, I was scared by something behind the second-floor curtains.”

“Hm, I saw it too—just a row of windows…” Crimson Rose’s eyes widened. “Windows!”

“Yes—from outside, the south side of the second floor has a full row of windows.” He pointed at the corridor’s end. “But inside, we see no windows. That means behind this wall, there’s a long, narrow room with windows.”

“Let’s check it out.” Crimson Rose marched toward the corridor’s end.

They reached the ink painting that had once sent Shan Ziwei fleeing. It still showed black rain—but the umbrella-holder was gone. Whether because the figure was missing or because he wasn’t alone, the painting no longer seemed so terrifying.

They searched for a way to open the hidden room. He avoided the painting, pressing his ear to the wall—a random idea, not expecting anything. Just as he was about to pull away, a soft tap pierced through.

Tap, tap, tap…

He listened intently—the continuous sound was like footsteps, slow but heavy. It dawned on him: this wasn’t ordinary walking. People don’t walk so heavily—only when climbing stairs would they step this hard.

Which meant there were stairs on the other side!

Stairs were for vertical movement. His mind exploded—the first floor had no connecting stairs at that spot, meaning the stairs led upward. That meant Manda Mansion wasn’t two floors—it was three!

Three floors—even more like the horror game!

Wait, like…

Oh crap… no way…?

His mind was reeling. He knew the Chessboard’s Manda Mansion had echoes of that horror game—their layouts were almost identical. If they were the same, then he knew which cabinet held the doll!

Was that possible? He was torn. Using one game to solve another? If no one had played that game, would this be an unsolvable dead end? In full-immersion, there was no trial-and-error—death was permanent.

Lost in confusion, he didn’t notice the footsteps had stopped—right across from him.

His chest went cold—his whole body froze. A pale hand emerged from the wall, resting lightly on his chest.

Aside from its pallor, the hand was almost beautiful—the ring and pinky fingers adorned with purple-and-gold jade nail guards, the skin even smoother than the jade. But it was clearly a man’s hand. A memory surfaced: in the past, not just high-ranking women wore long nails and guards—so did pampered young masters, as a sign of leisure, strength, and status.

“…!”

He couldn’t even make a sound—only watch as the hand moved slowly across his chest, as if clothes meant nothing. It was clearly a ghostly hand, passing through walls and fabric—but he could feel its touch on his skin. Worse, it wasn’t content with just the surface—it began to sink into him.

His soul trembled. The intrusion was so vivid, his frozen body couldn’t move—every gasp and moan trapped inside.

So cold—so hot—

The icy hand reached his fiery heart, making his eyes go red. Whether from his condition or the heart’s sensitivity, no one else had ever had a ghost fondle their heart like this.

He was going mad. The hand rested on his heart, not pressing—just tracing the vessels, as if recreating every detail—the hard guards, the soft fingers, like different brushes painting his entire heart.

It hurts—it’s terrible—

A sigh bloomed by his ear. Someone seemed to ask softly:

Does it really hurt?
Is it really that terrible?

His eyes grew more dazed. He repeated “pain” and “terrible” in his mind, finding the best explanation for the storm inside him.

As if at a loss with his stubbornness, the hand finally stopped. It opened its fingers, loosely cupping his heart—the beautiful guards like cage bars around the most vital organ.

Now he truly felt miserable.

It held his heartbeat, as if it held his emotions, his desires, his very life—all in its grasp.