The players circled the fish, observing it intently. The human-headed fish Erik had struck unconscious quickly regained consciousness. She watched as its narrow eyes opened—slits that gleamed with an unmistakable malice and seething hatred.
"It despises us," Brooks muttered, prodding it with a stick.
At once, the creature's venomous gaze locked entirely onto him.
"This was my harvest for the morning. What about the rest of you?" Erik asked.
"There's something near the ancestral hall," Brooks replied. Though still unwilling to enter outright, the daylight afforded a better view than the previous night, revealing details he'd missed before.
"There's a guardian inside. The villagers bring him food. I created a small diversion to draw them away and climbed up to observe through a gap. Inside, I could make out the layout—aside from fishing nets, there's also a harpoon—"
He stopped mid-sentence. At that same moment, Erik was already striding toward the window. What she saw made her face go pale.
"The villagers are coming—by the dozens!"
Delilah, close behind, saw it too: a mass of grim-faced NPCs in rain cloaks, silently converging on their stilt house through the downpour.
"Why are they suddenly doing this?!" Delilah gasped.
"We must've triggered something," Brooks said sharply. "The NPCs started with politeness, but now they're moving to force. It's time to run."
"It's Silas. It has to be him! Move!" Erik grabbed the fish and knocked it unconscious once more before stowing it in the supermarket space and sprinting toward the wooden stairs.
Brooks was already racing up, Delilah close behind. Erik was two seconds slower—just enough for the nearest NPCs to reach the base of the stairs. Without hesitation, she swung herself onto the stair railing and slid down.
The old railing groaned under her weight, trembling violently—but it held.
Sliding rapidly to the ground, Erik kicked out the moment she landed, sending the closest villager flying three meters back.
**CRASH!**
The stair railing collapsed completely. Erik rolled twice and scrambled to her feet, darting in the opposite direction from Brooks and Delilah. Splitting up was safer.
Josephine and Emery followed, but as they descended, the villager Erik had kicked lay groaning, momentarily slowing the others. Emery, slightly slower, was grabbed by an NPC. She screamed, instinctively clutching Josephine—and both were caught.
"Three escaped. Two captured. One still inside. You two, check upstairs," the village chief ordered.
Upstairs, they found Weston still sleeping. The villagers seized him easily.
The village chief peered at him and broke into a delighted grin. "He's entered the incubation phase! Excellent! Bring more fish soup—feed him plenty!"
---
Erik was sprinting through the rain, vision blurred by water. She wiped her eyes repeatedly, heart pounding. NPCs were everywhere—*where* could she run?
She looked toward the distant mountains. *That's the only way.*
As she ran, her mind raced. *What had Silas done?*
She'd long suspected the instance followed a set narrative.
If not, the mute boatman would've delivered them straight into a trap at the dock—forcing them to eat the fish on the spot.
*There'd be no point to the game then.*
Initially, the players had some freedom, a measure of autonomy. But now—suddenly—the villagers were moving to capture them directly. The shift was too abrupt.
*What changed?*
Silas—he must have triggered it. Did he do something to make the NPCs deem them a threat to the Dragon King's ritual? Enough to justify a violent response?
*Did he… escape the village?*
It couldn't have been to the mountains—doing so quietly was possible, but Silas wasn't the type to venture into unfamiliar terrain.
*Did he go into the river?*
Erik grit her teeth. That seemed the likeliest.
Silas really had fled.
---
When he saw the grotesque face pressing through Weston's stomach—through layers of flesh—Silas had hesitantly reached out. The face snapped at him through the skin.
Everything he had denied, mocked, or dismissed crumbled in an instant. He *finally* believed the veteran players—this was a supernatural dungeon. The things here *defied reason.*
He wished he could slap himself. *Died once already and still didn't believe in ghosts—what a fool.*
After escaping the stilt house, Silas didn't know where to go. Unfamiliar with the layout, he simply ran along the creek.
The stream led to a great river. There, moored to the bank, was a fishing boat. The moment he saw it, an idea took hold.
*This place is cursed. Why not just leave?*
He vaguely remembered the veterans mentioning some kind of taboo keeping them from leaving—but he no longer cared. His revulsion for the village had reached its peak. He *had* to get out.
Driven by desperation, Silas stole a boat.
Before the Dragon King's ritual concluded, no villager would be on the river except those sent to fish for the head-tailed monsters.
Unopposed, he boarded the boat. At first, he couldn't manage the oars properly and spun in circles, sweat pouring down his back.
But eventually, he found a rhythm. The boat began drifting toward the direction they had come from.
*They said we were university students studying outside the village,* he thought, clinging to that detail. *That means there must be a city beyond the river. Once I reach it, I'll be safe. They won't follow me there—won't dare.*
*Just leave. Just get out.*
He repeated the thought like a mantra, rowing until his arms burned. He made it several hundred meters out.
The rain intensified.
Silas strained to reach the opposite bank, hoping for rescue. But he lacked crucial information—if he had shared insights with the others, he'd know that the river's center was a danger zone, not to be crossed lightly.
Without warning, a whirlpool appeared.
A cold dread clutched his spine.
In seconds, the vortex widened—silent, swift—and swallowed the boat whole.
"AAAH—!"
A glint of black-scaled tail flashed beneath the churning water. His scream was cut short.
Rain poured relentlessly, hammering the river in a thousand silver spears.
---
At the same time, a piercing bell rang out from the strange stilt house.
In its dim interior, a squat figure jolted upright. At the sound, his face twisted with alarm. He scrambled toward a switch in the corner and yanked a rope.
**CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!**
On the roof, a crude mechanism struck a bronze gong—two thick wooden poles, one bearing the gong, the other a mallet. It sent an urgent signal across the village.
Within minutes, the village chief had rallied his people to the players' dwelling.
---
Inside the strange house, the watchman let go of the rope and crawled upright.
The stilt house was plain, resembling a rounded pouch in shape. A rope hung from the center of the ceiling, its end tied to a copper bell—the source of the earlier sound.
Fishing nets dripped in one corner, freshly used. A rusted harpoon leaned against the wall. On the table beneath a window facing the river stood a wooden plaque inscribed with **"His Excellency, the Dragon King."** In front of it lay two salted human-headed fish as offerings.
There was no bed. The watchman usually slept curled on the floor.
But now he knelt before the shrine, forehead striking the ground in fervent prayer.
"Spare us, Dragon King! We will retrieve every last sacrifice!"
Suddenly—**knock knock knock!**
The watchman lifted his head.
"Who's there?" he rasped.
"All the sacrifices escaped! I—I was sent to inform you…" A woman's voice—trembling, frightened.
His eyes narrowed with fury.
*A woman?! She dares come here? Where are the rules?!*
Fuming, he scurried to the door and barked, "This place is forbidden to women! Go back!"
"I-I was told to bring you something. If you won't come out, I'll just leave it here…"
Sobbing, she fled.
Disgusted, the watchman unbolted the door. A second lock outside prevented it from opening fully—he managed only a fist-sized gap.
He assumed it was lunch.
The moment the door cracked open—**WHAM!**
A dark object slammed down on his head.
Trapped inside this house for twenty years, permitted only brief contact with those who brought food, the watchman had grown sluggish. He never stood a chance.
Pain exploded in his skull. And then—nothing.
Brooks, panting, pulled the rock back and struck at the lock.
Delilah raced up the stairs. "How is it?" she whispered.
"Almost there," Brooks replied, pounding at the chains.
Blood dripped from his torn fingers as he finally broke the lock. Delilah flung the chain aside.
Brooks charged in. "Keep watch!"
"Got it." Delilah scanned the area. The house was secluded, the nearest stilt dwelling ten meters away. No one was in sight.
*The whole village must be out hunting players,* she thought. *They'd never expect us to come here—the most dangerous place of all.*
They had decided to join forces while fleeing. On the way, Brooks had quickly shared what he hadn't finished earlier: he believed the ancestral hall held the key to breaking the cycle.
That's why Delilah had risked everything to follow him.
Inside, Brooks sprinted toward the harpoon, seized it—and at that instant, a suffocating malice surged from behind.
He didn't look back.
He ran straight for the door.