The Thirteen Trials of the Deceptive Monk

Mingxiao grabbed him: "Wenjun, she means we should retreat immediately..."

"Run away? Just because this house evoked some unpleasant memories?" Lü Wenjun said quickly. "Very rational, yes. But from the moment he started this trick, it was no longer a game. I have to keep going, because I don't want to run away in front of a mere illusion!"

He became increasingly agitated as he spoke, almost roaring at the end. Realizing his loss of composure, he took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It wasn't intentional."

"Hehehe, don't be nervous." Mingxiao reassured him, saying some lame things to ease the atmosphere, "Escaping is shameful, but it's useful."

Lu Wenjun smiled, walked around the corner, and stepped into a long corridor filled with the smell of disinfectant.

The corridor was spacious, with ward doors evenly distributed along one side. The other side, which should have faced the sun, had no windows. Where windows should have been, they were sealed off, replaced by paintings that resembled windows.

The painting had a meticulously crafted frame, looking exactly like the iron window frames of an old hospital, but inside were nothing but childish crayon drawings. Not the kind of malicious allusions to gruesome scenes depicted in horror movies with childlike strokes, but rather ordinary colored crayon doodles: students chatting and laughing on campus, students getting off trains, younger students studying diligently under lamplight…

Mingxiao didn't quite understand what the scene was trying to convey; there was no fear or shock, just a faint sense of oppression. But Lü Wenjun clearly understood. He muttered a curse under his breath and strode forward, not even glancing at the ward door on his right.

A cacophony of sounds could be heard through the door: the jingling of an ambulance, the instructions of a young nurse, hurried or heavy footsteps, and cries… But the door itself didn't exist; it was merely a projection on the wall, the wall plaster you could actually touch. Those sounds were elusive, drifting like ghosts in the air.

Lu Wenjun blinked hard; he understood the reason for these arrangements. His floor used to have no windows, and the ultraviolet rays from the sun would cause unbearable itching and pain for children with overly sensitive skin, resulting in dense, dark red rashes on their hands.

For him, the other wards were like phantoms. He never met the children in those wards; he only listened to the noises from other rooms from his bed.

That long, monotonous life taught him to distinguish situations by sounds: a single ring of the ambulance bell meant an injection was needed, repeated rings meant someone's condition had worsened, light footsteps meant family members were afraid of disturbing their children, and heavy footsteps belonged to the doctor, who was about to announce yet another terrible piece of news.

Having spent so much time in bed, he could deduce which ward the doctor had arrived at by the distance of footsteps. The first time, he knew the patient in room 7 was leaving. The second time, he guessed the person in room 4 would learn of the ominous sign. He confirmed his guesses with cries and screams, but he never told anyone else. Because his guesses were so accurate, he was always terrified of heavy footsteps, afraid that the sound would reach his own ward.

This was what Lü Wenjun used to fear most, a death knell to the sick and weak, but now it's nothing to him.

"Nothing special," he muttered, noticing that his footsteps were now heavy. The sound echoed in the empty corridor, making his mood even worse.

Lu Wenjun simply activated his transformation and leaped into the depths of the corridor. He quickened his pace and deliberately amplified his voice, making the death knell resound like a drumbeat.

"Hey, Wenjun! Wait for me!"

"I'll get it done right away!"

He didn't wait for tomorrow night; he didn't want his senior to see his possible hospital room. He walked past those familiar crayon drawings—little figures in the drawings studying hard in high school, looking up from the ring, running in the deep mountains… He started running, and the little figures in the crayon drawings shrank smaller and smaller, returning to school, collapsing on the playground, being taken back to the hospital by ambulance, and standing in the dreary hospital room…

It's pointless. A cheap trick to distract from emotions. It's pointless!

Lu Wenjun ran to the end of the corridor, to room 1301, his ward. He flung open the door and shouted, "Haven't you made enough of a scene?!"

There was no response; instead, a solemn bell tolled from inside the room.

This wasn't a hospital ward; he seemed to have stumbled into some solemn occasion. Candles burned quietly in the corner, and everywhere were pale white chrysanthemums, like snow. Men and women in dark suits stood solemnly among the flowers, surrounding a tall, thin man in a grey robe. He couldn't see his face clearly, only that he was chanting in a low voice, whether in mourning or farewell, it was unclear.

The man in the grey robe blew out the lamps, and people placed their bouquets and bowed. In that instant, everything ended; the oppressive silence vanished, and people relaxed, walking past Lü Wenjun with a sense of relief. Lü Wenjun hurried forward, just as the man in the grey robe parted the petals, allowing him to see the center of the ceremony.

It was a hospital bed covered with flower petals. The emaciated boy lay among the flowers, already stiff and no longer recognizable as human, with only his eyes stubbornly staring ahead, looking behind Lü Wenjun.

Suddenly, a strong wind swept everything away. There was no hall, no flower petals, no solemn crowd; he stood at the door of the ward, the gray-robed man the doctor with his eyes closed. On the hospital bed, a withered child stared with lifeless eyes at the last painting on the wall.

It was a lifelike portrait. The adult Lü Wenjun and his friends were laughing and having fun on campus.

There was never any future.

There are no miracles in the world.

It was just a tragic dream, a dream that a child had in his final moments before dying, a dream he would never forget.

Suddenly, Lü Wenjun's legs gave way, and he nearly collapsed. He clung tightly to the edge of his bed, speechless, trembling all over, and almost vomiting. His heart was spasming violently in his chest, and his brain was throbbing with pain.

This was his true fear. The greatest, inescapable nightmare of his life.

He never left that hospital room.

—Those absurd experiences, those fantastical adventures, are nothing but the sorrowful dreams of the zombies!

Unseen by Lü Wenjun, the gray-robed doctor's appearance subtly changed. His gray robe transformed into a double-breasted stand-up collar coat, his sterile cap became a gentleman's top collar hat, and his mask dissolved and churned like mud, forming a blood-red smiling mask.

The masked man bowed gently, as if to comfort him, and a dagger slashed out from his sleeve, aiming for Lü Wenjun's neck!

"Behind you, you idiot!!" Hisamitsu shouted.

The shout snapped Lü Wenjun out of his terror. He rolled on the ground in a disheveled state, still clutching the white sheet in his hand. In a split second, the dagger sliced ​​through the sheet, leaving a long, ghastly white wound.

The masked figure chuckled silently, not in a hurry to attack, but instead twirling a dagger between his fingers. Lu Wenjun's heart pounded violently; panic, fear, and the reality before him merged into an unprecedented rage.

"Is it interesting?" he sneered, then roared, "I'm asking you, is it interesting?!"

He swung his fist at the masked man, his transformed iron claws piercing through his coat, but only gray mist oozed from the wound. The strange man laughed silently; it was about to disappear, leaving easily after its mockery. Realizing this truth, Lü Wenjun's anger intensified.

He grabbed the masked man by the collar, and a notification for the Eye of the Living Sacrifice popped up. It was a phantom. He roared inwardly, "Analyze!"

A single stroke of divine tear on the back of his right hand vanished, and a stream of familiar information flowed through his burning mind. A misty riverbank, a deep, dark night, a filthy, crowded slum. This familiar scene awakened Lü Wenjun's memories; he had seen this place when analyzing the spring leg—it was Victorian London.

The perspective zooms in like a camera, landing somewhere in one of the many dark alleyways. Warm blood flows between the bricks, human limbs are wantonly dismembered, and the perpetrator rises, clutching the flesh and blood…

His face was revealed, revealing its unsightly features.

It was unclear. It was indistinct. Perhaps it had facial features, but everything was obscured by the fog. Lü Wenjun tried to penetrate deeper, but simultaneously saw three scenes: a strange man in gray leaping between tall buildings, a non-human demon gnawing on corpses, and a crazed man chasing a woman with a knife.

Completely unrelated, with no discernible connection, the owners of those three images raised their eyes, revealing the same deep black pupils.

He couldn't help but look into the depths of his eyes, where, at the far end of the dark horizon, almost to the edge of hell, a man dressed in mourning clothes sat quietly with a pen in his hand.

"By taking a uniquely high-dimensional perspective and dissecting the record of the world itself, the story can be dissected like an anatomy. It is indeed an ingenious method, but ultimately there are structural problems."

"Please don't misunderstand, I'm not criticizing the skill itself. What I'm trying to express is the intention behind it as a starting point... How should I put it..."

"Too arrogant."

Stiller Cooper stopped writing and looked back through the phantom's eyes. His pale face suddenly contorted, and he burst into wild laughter!

"How could the wisdom of a mere genius possibly analyze my masterpiece?!"

The illusion vanished. The analysis collapsed. A thick, malevolent fog surged, amidst which came the maniacal laughter of a horror writer. Lü Wenjun's consciousness returned to reality; an overwhelming pain erupted in his brain, causing him to freeze in place. An unprecedentedly chaotic flow of information swirled in his mind, eventually converging into several lines of large characters.

【warn!warn! 】

[A fabricated scripture based on delusions!]

[Unable to resolve!]

The masked phantom's body solidified instantly, and he seized the opportunity to slash down with his dagger, striking Lü Wenjun's right arm!

Chapter 100 The Mad Spirit in the Fog

A sharp, intense pain flashed by, like a cold electric current shooting through his veins. Lü Wenjun saw blood—a large amount of dark red blood plasma splattering, staining the white walls of the ward.

His mind was still reeling, his judgment belated. His right arm had been severed. He braced himself for the severed limb and broken bones, but the severed part of his body remained unseen—

There was no pain, no wound; his right hand became a transparent phantom, resembling the frail body of the deceased. The gray-clad phantom hooked up the illusory arm, hanging it on the gray robe like a trophy.

"Hello. I am the Mad Spirit of the Fog Night," it greeted in a mechanical voice, then burst into a hysterical shriek. "Enjoy the terror. The supreme terror!"

The phantom pain vanished, replaced by the absence of the real-world blood loss sensation, and the attack itself was an incomprehensible magical technique. Lu Wenjun kicked at Kuangling's elbow, but the latter only swayed slightly from the blow. Kuangling drew his sword again to stab, and at the same time, he heard Jiuguang shout, "Use the Divine Machine! Why are you fighting with the Phantom Spirit on your home turf!"

"I know!!!"

Hisamitsu was right. His judgment was too slow. Was it fear? Because of the previous hallucination?

Did that illusion terrify him so much...?

Lu Wenjun was nearly driven mad. He drew his white sword with his left hand and slashed out with a brutal, ruthless blow, striking Kuang Ling's blood-red mask squarely. His blade sliced ​​down the mask, grazed Kuang Ling's chest, and then plunged deep inside. He pressed his entire weight onto the hilt of the sword, slamming Kuang Ling against the wall!

"Disappear!" he roared. "Disappear!!"

The attack struck, and magic surged into the twin swords' hilts. The sense of power brought a false confidence, yet dragged his soul into a shameful mire. Lu Wenjun gritted his teeth and raised his head, trying to find a trace of remorse in the mad spirit's eyes. But he saw nothing; behind the ripped mask lay only bloodstains.

Only bloodstains.

The mask, cleaved in two, fell to the ground, gushing out foul blood. It came from the wound he had inflicted, and from many other pre-existing scars. Where the eyes should have been, two pupil-sized gaps, riddled with sharp, tooth-like iron spikes. These horrifying wounds, resembling both mouths and eyes, were randomly distributed across the Mad Spirit's face, all bursting open simultaneously, emitting hundreds of bizarre, shrill laughs.

"Memories never fade," it utters its venomous words, "and fear is ever-present."

Thus, the mad spirit's wound healed, and the regenerated flesh pushed the twins out of the wound inch by inch. Stealing magic could only cause it a momentary disturbance; therefore, this gloomy building was the domain of ghosts, and thus its magic was inexhaustible.

Mad Spirit raised his dagger and thrust it towards Lü Wenjun's forehead. But Lü Wenjun remained motionless; he was unable to move. The voice and gaze imprisoned his body, and the demonic voice dragged down his mind.

Suddenly, he couldn't see anything clearly. The surrounding environment shrank rapidly, then blurred and magnified, his senses hazy, as if he were half-asleep. He looked at the "mad spirit" before him, who was clearly an ordinary doctor wearing a mask, holding a syringe and stabbing it into his neck.

"It's time for your shot," the doctor said to him, in that familiar, compassionate tone. "You've been sleeping too long. It's bad for your health. You need a little stimulation to wake you from that dream."

He wanted to get up but was powerless. Lacking the strength to move or speak, all he could do was lie in the hospital bed watching the needle approach, watching the medicine hanging precariously from the needle tip. It was time for the injection. It was time for the injection.

Deep within that zombie-like body, his soul screamed.

"What the hell is this? Take this punch!"

Suddenly, the syringe and the doctor disappeared, and unfamiliar colors filled the ward. A sudden, powerful punch struck, causing Kuang Ling's wrist to bend as if broken!

Just then, Mingxiao burst into the ward. She saw Lü Wenjun lying on the bed, while the gray-clad madman approached with a knife. She immediately punched the madman away, then overturned the bed, grabbed Lü Wenjun, and rushed out of the ward.

"What happened? Wenjun, are you alright?"

"Do I need to... have an examination?" Lü Wenjun's voice trembled, "Please slow down... I..."

"Wenjun??"

From Lü Wenjun's perspective, this was a bizarre and rushed examination. Before the doctor could even say anything about administering medication, he was swatted away by a nurse. The chestnut-haired nurse hurriedly pushed his hospital bed down the corridor. His legs fell off the bed, and his knees ached from being scraped against the floor.

In reality, Mingxiao was carrying him outside. He was almost unconscious, like a walking corpse, and his transformed leg armor sparked two strings of sparks as it rubbed against the ground.

“He’s been assimilated and is temporarily useless,” Hisamitsu said bluntly.

Upon hearing this, Mingxiao turned his head: "Then I'll just give that thing a really tough one—"

"Even Lü Wenjun's mental resistance failed, and you dare to take it on with just an avatar?!" Hisamitsu laughed angrily. "Why fight a monster with such a strong mind? Run first!"

Mingxiao quickly turned her head back: "Where are you running to?!"

The once neat and tidy corridor has been transformed. The floor is covered in grime, the walls are riddled with cracks, and eyes gleam deep within the dark cracks—whether from rats in the walls or eyes that have sprouted from the walls themselves, it's hard to tell. The paintings that serve as windows have all come to life; the little figures drawn with crayons leap and dance in the paintings, their lips oozing red wax blood.

"It's coming, it's coming." Their song transformed into distorted, ugly words in the painting, "The Night Demon is watching you!"

The eyes inside the crack in the wall all opened wide, their blood-red pupils joined together, like fleshy grapes rooted in the wall. Amidst the gazes and songs of the crowd, the mad spirit burst out of the ward, brandishing its butcher's knife at the backs of the two figures!

"Holy crap, what the hell is this?" Mingxiao got goosebumps all over. "Wenjun, can you at least stand up straight? I'm scared too!!"

"I'll give it a shot..." Lü Wenjun murmured to himself, "Don't let it come. Don't let it come any closer...!"

Lu Wenjun stared at the monotonous ceiling that kept flashing by, his ears twitching slightly as he tried to catch the footsteps behind him. He had left the ward, but he was still lying in the hospital bed. It seemed he would always be lying in that bed, listening to the sounds coming from the nearby corridor.

Now the beautiful dream has ended, and his spirit has returned to the sad reality. The bells announcing his death are about to ring again, this time the bells will stop at his window and door...!

Mingxiao also relied on sound to estimate the distance: "Why is that thing getting closer and closer even though I'm running so hard?"

"Because you've been assimilated too, the two of you are moving like turtles!" Hisamitsu exclaimed anxiously, "Stop running, just smash the floor and jump off the building!"

Mingxiao stopped abruptly and, using the most brutal method, strengthened her body with magic, striking the ground with her back to Huanling. One strike! Two strikes! Three strikes! Deep dents appeared where her fists landed, covered in a spiderweb of cracks!

"go!"

The final blow successfully shattered the floor, the dark crater resembling the gaping maw of a colossal beast. Mingxiao pulled him down to the ground, the dagger flashing almost simultaneously, severing a lock of his long hair.

As Lü Wenjun fell, he looked back and saw the doctor standing silently smiling at the edge of the pit. He clearly read Kuang Ling's voice through the movements beneath the mask.

I will catch up with you.

You can never escape it in your lifetime.

His breathing quickened involuntarily, and the familiar feeling returned—that almost humiliating feeling where even breathing was painful.

When he realized it, he was already in another long corridor, at the end of which was another deep red door. He hadn't lost his balance; his leg seemed to be twisted. Just twisted? Shouldn't his leg be broken?

Lu Wenjun rolled on the ground a few times before crashing into the wall. He clutched his ankle and chuckled softly, his laughter hoarse and unpleasant.

“He’ll be here soon,” he said in a very calm tone. “You’ve all been so kind to me. But it’ll always be my turn eventually.”

Mingxiao replied in a calm tone, "Junior, I really want to slap you twice."

She kicked the deep red door, cursing, "That Cooper guy is a complete madman! What normal magician would bring this kind of monstrosity to the Harvest Festival!"

“What normal mage comes to the Hall of Ten Thousand Spirits?” Hisamitsu said sullenly. “Can’t you just unleash your ultimate move? I think if this keeps up, the nerd will really go crazy.”

Mingxiao glanced at Lü Wenjun. That clever fellow who was always so adept at handling things was now huddled in the corner, his eyes revealing a pathetic yet hateful self-loathing.

She felt a pang of sadness. Why did he look at her like that? Had the genius she once knew become like this? Lifeless and joyless, as if he had long lost all hope and become a dying man counting down the days.

“Not yet,” she told Hisamitsu. “This thing has become one with the haunted house, and it won’t die until the logic of the entire house collapses. I’m too restricted inside; my supernatural abilities can’t cross the ‘door’ here. We need to find a way to get outside before we can completely destroy this thing.”

"What good ideas could you possibly come up with with a brain like yours?" Hisamitsu sighed.

Mingxiao truly had no good ideas, so she met Lü Wenjun's gaze and reached out her hand to him: "Wenjun, calm down. I need you right now—"