Chapter 63: Setting Sixty-Three

Setting Sixty-Three: Supernatural Research Club (Part 16)

Crimson Rose was dead.

After spitting out its curse-like final words, the servant’s fingers finally tore through its windpipe—and the possessed host collapsed.

With that, all six girls who’d entered the mansion were dead. Shan Ziwei leaned against the counter, catching his breath. There was too much to process—he needed to sort it out.

First, his identity. He was full of questions—wasn’t he “A-Gui”? How had he suddenly become the Wei family’s young master? Were A-Gui and the young master the same person? That didn’t add up—the servant’s diary clearly described the young master calling out “A-Gui” in his room. That meant they were different!

Then a possibility struck him.

The young master called “A-Gui”—but if the young master was also called A-Gui—two entities sharing the same name—then everything made sense. In the servant’s diary, “A-Gui” was a title; for the Wei young master, it was a name.

What parent would name their child “Ghost”?! He couldn’t help thinking. It seemed both he and Crimson Rose had been partially right. There were two “A-Guis” in this mansion: the malevolent jade spirit imprisoned here, and the Wei child—him.

It felt absurd, yet perfectly logical. Looking back, the game had set it up well: a child with a condition that prevented contact with others, who stayed in his room, who had strained relations with his parents… It all fit him seamlessly! Even as he’d entered the mansion as an outsider, the game had provided a convenient excuse—”amnesia,” as the servant had said—and the servant had also claimed the young master was responsible for its death.

Based on what he’d learned, he pieced together the timeline: long ago, the Su clan built Manda Mansion to contain a malevolent jade spirit. Over time, the mansion came into Mr. Wei’s possession—he, his wife, his son, and a servant lived there. Due to his illness, the Wei young master grew obsessed with the occult and befriended the imprisoned spirit. One day, over a decade ago, tragedy struck—Mr. Wei, Mrs. Wei, and the servant died. The young master was likely the perpetrator, but survived for some reason, losing his memory. For reasons unknown, the police and journalists failed to realize the servant was the third victim, reporting it as a family of three. The mansion was abandoned, haunted by vengeful spirits. The amnesiac young master grew up elsewhere, joined a reckless Supernatural Research Club, and returned to Manda Mansion on May 13, 2016, for a ghost hunt—and that was where this Chessboard had begun.

He remembered the con artist identity in Wuwang Prison—another case of his character’s past sins coming back to haunt him. He felt like lighting a cigarette: He really was a man of many sins, huh.

Having sorted that out, he looked down at Crimson Rose’s body. Scattered beside her were: a white Bishop piece, a black Castle piece, a diary, and a Hannya mask.

He first picked up the two chess pieces—white was Crimson Rose, black was the servant. The Castle piece was a good haul; the servant’s rank was surprisingly high. But without Host’s unpredictable moves, they probably wouldn’t have killed it.

Thinking of Host made his face heat and his heart flutter. Only he and Host were left now. Host’s identity was also suspicious—the servant had called him the traitor, meaning his goals were opposed to the other players. What was his ultimate goal?

Only he himself knew.

He sighed, pocketed the pieces, and picked up the other two items. The diary was the one Hyacinth had found—Crimson Rose must have taken it from her body. Important story items like this generally dropped when the carrier died.

He touched the combination lock—if he could open it, he might know everything.

But still no clue about the code.

He put it away and looked at the last item: the Hannya mask.

So far, they’d found a Noh mask and a Peking opera mask—each had shown a flashback, gradually revealing the mansion’s history. He lifted the Hannya mask—crimson, with long horns, a fanged maw, and eyes curved in hatred. If the Noh mask was unsettling, this one was terrifying.

He glanced at his SP bars: Spade (68%), Heart (22%), Club (40%), Diamond (13%). Diamond (Fear) was lowest—this was a horror-themed board, after all. He hesitated—every mask had cost him SP. Heart could be restored through Little Gaia, but the others were finite.

…Whatever. He’d rather die knowing the truth.

He steeled himself and put on the mask. The familiar sensation spread—he was at a desk, watching a blackboard with chalk-written dates and a timetable.

[June 26, 2000—Math, Classics, Chemistry…]

The study room? The same place he’d left the alarm during Hide and Seek—but sixteen years earlier. Before he could look further, a woman in a suit came down from the podium and slammed a composition book onto his desk.

With a mix of helplessness and concealed disgust, she glared at him.

“Young Master Wei—I’ve been sent to teach you Classics. Please stop writing these strange occult things, alright?”

This was another memory from Wei young master’s perspective. His gaze—the boy’s—flicked down to the messy scrawl on the open page.

[…Almost all reversal magic circles can be derived from their originals. When stuck, try simply reversing the circle…]

That was all he could read before the boy’s gaze returned to the woman—his tutor—silently meeting her eyes.

Seeing his defiance, her fear and disgust grew.

“Fine, it’s your hobby.” She bent down to close the notebook, pointing at the name on the cover. “But at least write your name right! You’re ‘Wei Gui’—’gui’ meaning rare treasure, not ‘Wei Gui’! No one calls themselves ‘Ghost’—it’s incredibly unlucky!”

Her sharp nail nearly pierced the paper. He felt his own mouth move—this was the boy’s first spoken words in the memory, muffled and faint, perhaps only he could hear.

“I live like a ghost.”

Whether she didn’t hear or pretended not to, the tutor quickly moved away, as if escaping something unclean. Beside the boy sat the servant, who watched anxiously as she approached him.

Her expression softened. She placed a small box and the composition book on his desk, smiling: “You wrote an excellent article—the madam was very pleased and praised you. I heard today’s your birthday—here’s a small gift. Accept it.”

The servant’s eyes lit up: “Thank you, Teacher!”

…

Shan Ziwei and “Wei Young Master” turned their heads together, watching it all. A memory surfaced—he’d once read a line:

—The joy belonged to them, and he had nothing.

The flashback faded. He sat in the shadows, silent, the crimson Hannya mask covering his face like a demon.

So this was “A-Gui.”

This was him.

[Setting 10: You are Wei Gui, who calls himself A-Gui.]

A new setting sat quietly in his panel—but he barely noticed, his fists clenched, holding something back.

—I live like a ghost.
—I live like a ghost in real life.

So he was called “Ghost/A-Gui.”

A coincidence? No—no coincidence could be this exact. This Chessboard was clearly made for him. The creator knew him intimately: knew his condition, knew his online name “Ghost,” knew the horror games he’d played!

His breathing quickened. He felt cold, exposed—like someone had seen through him completely. In the past, he’d told some online friends the story behind his name; he’d streamed that horror game; it was possible to gather that data online. But his condition—only people who knew him in real life would know that. In the past, no one. In the present…

A beautiful face came to mind—that angel-faced, demon-natured director of the welfare home. He’d been the first person the boy met upon waking, and as his caseworker, he had access to his background and medical records.

But was it possible? Could a welfare home director be involved in creating Role-Play? And who else could have that information?

A pair of reversed-color eyes appeared—Little Gaia, having crawled onto his head, was looking down at him through the mask.

[?]

He caught the doll as it slipped, then looked at his left hand. Though not in-game, in reality, he wore a black ring there—his quantum terminal.

A person’s identity, property, and information were all stored in the quantum terminal. Before playing, you had to link the game device to the terminal—meaning Role-Play could read personal data from it?

It clicked. He’d been wrong—the Chessboards weren’t pre-designed by a development team, but dynamically generated based on a player’s personal data. The operator wasn’t a person—it was the game’s sole server: the Central Computer.

With that thought, he calmed down. He looked at his Toy Box, identical to the Central Computer’s avatar—a tiny silver-haired doll, quietly watching him, waiting for instructions, obedient and tame.

There was nothing to fear. He told himself. As Ye Ye had said, the Central Computer was just a machine. It wouldn’t use personal information maliciously—it was all for the game’s sake.

He’d ask the fat guy later to confirm his theory. He exhaled, took off the Hannya mask, and refocused on the Chessboard.

Setting 10 had confirmed he was the Wei young master. The flashbacks showed he’d been treated differently—both the tutor and his mother preferred “the servant.”

He wasn’t sure “servant” was even the right word anymore. Though the boy was meant to serve Wei Gui, he lived in a large room and studied alongside him—privileges that seemed too generous.

Perhaps that differential treatment had led to everything?

He traced the Hannya mask’s surface. Legend said the Hannya was a vengeful spirit born of a woman’s intense jealousy—so the mask symbolized envy. If the servant had claimed the young master killed him, then Wei Gui’s jealousy had caused the tragedy?

If that held, the other masks should have meanings too. He didn’t know about the Noh mask, but the Peking opera mask was white-faced. In Beijing opera, white faces represented those who hid their true selves—usually villains… was that also him?

Something felt off. Perhaps because he was the type who wouldn’t do such things, the “perpetrator” identity felt wrong.

He tossed the items to Little Gaia. Though he’d learned much, it didn’t help his immediate situation. He stared at the clear condition—”You have left the haunted house”—with dread. The only known way out was “Kill A-Gui.” In Manda Mansion, “A-Gui” could be him—or the malevolent jade spirit.

Kill A-Gui to leave. Now that phrase took on a completely different meaning: which “A-Gui” did they need to kill? The former meant suicide; the latter meant facing the final boss—a spirit so malevolent that even imprisoned, it had destroyed an entire clan. That sounded terrifying! And he couldn’t even team up—his only remaining ally was the traitor! Or Host could be the jade spirit himself!

The only relief was that the servant hadn’t denied there was another way out—so he had to explore other options, while staying wary of both Host and the final boss.

—That one… has waited a long time for you… eager to enjoy you.

The servant’s last words chilled him. “Enjoy” was never a good verb when applied to a person. That malevolent jade spirit seemed very interested in the “prodigal” him…

This particular sufferer wondered what debt he’d incurred in a past life—why he had to drink every bitter cup. He picked up the chef’s knife from the cutting board—it wouldn’t help against the boss, but at least it gave him some self-defense against Host… maybe.

He searched the kitchen, found nothing else, and decided to leave. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard nothing—an unnatural silence.

He pushed the door open—and froze.

The symmetric corridor of three rooms on each side stretched before him. On the walls hung paintings of the girls’ deaths. This was Manda Mansion’s second floor.

He’d stepped from the kitchen to the second floor?!

He spun around—and saw the same corridor behind him. Not the kitchen, not the stairwell—an identical corridor. It was like standing in the middle of a mirror—identical hallways before and behind, leading to the same road.

Manda Mansion had become distorted. Though it had never been normal, now it was fully twisted. With the final boss revealed, the haunted house was ramping up for a grand performance.

He pressed forward. All doors were shut—his destination was clearly the end of the corridor.

He passed painting after painting of death: shattered Night Lily, torn Paper Iris, beheaded Tapioca, broken-necked Hyacinth, bleeding Crimson Rose… Unnoticed, all the death portraits had been completed. The corridor was like an intestine, feeding on the lives of those who entered.

He stood at the corridor’s end, looking up at where the last painting should be.

—There was nothing there.

The ink painting that had once terrified him was gone, leaving a dark passage, wordlessly inviting him in.

He knew what awaited him. He had no choice.

The white-haired youth stepped forward, his figure swallowed by the darkness.