As the door cracked open, a howling gale surged in, its wail mimicking a thousand tormented specters. The team shuddered, goosebumps prickling their skin.
"Stay on my heels," the bandaged specter growled, leading the way. "Desert now, and I'll hack off your legs and leave you in the fog. The things out there... they savor their meals, avoiding vital organs to keep you alive while they feed."
His laughter dripped with sadistic glee, relishing the players' ashen faces. The threat worked—once outside, they clung to the specter like leeches. From the dense fog came spine-chilling chewing sounds, as if invisible eyes tracked their every move.
Two minutes later, the team reached the rear gutter—an alley littered with rotting meat, its stench overwhelming. Rats the size of lynxes tore at unidentified corpses, their eyes blood-red. Some players retched, others froze in terror.
"There's too many!" a gaunt man stammered, his voice cracking. "We'll be torn apart before we can swing a blade!"
The gutter stretched twenty meters, a writhing mass of rodents. The bandaged specter retreated to the sidelines, arms crossed, clearly washing his hands of the mess. All eyes snapped to Jack, the veteran player whose gear glinted ominously in the fog.
"I didn't sign up for pest control," Jack snapped, lip curling in disgust. His gaze swept over the trembling players. "I'm here for the main quest thread—you lot are just collateral."
A woman with sunken eyes stepped forward, voice pleading: "But you're the only one who can—"
"Save it." Jack cut her off, thumb tracing the edge of his cleaver. "I don't work for free. My blade needs feeding—1000ml of fresh human blood from each of you. Keep it satisfied, and maybe I'll lend a hand."
Gasps rippled through the team. "That's almost a third of our blood!" a man protested, clutching his abdomen. "We'll collapse!"
"Better than being eaten alive, wouldn't you say?" Jack smirked, enjoying their panic. His eyes suddenly locked onto Holmes, who stood apart, gripping a rusted cleaver— the very one from Room 702. "Now that's an interesting toy," he murmured, more to himself. "Where did a newbie like you get a spooky item from 702?"
Holmes met his gaze evenly, refusing to flinch. "Does it matter?"
"Everything matters in this hellhole." Jack took a step closer, menace rolling off him. "That cleaver belonged to Liu Nianqing's wife, didn't it? Funny how a nobody like you ended up with it."
The subtext was clear: I want that blade.
While the other players bickered over Jack's blood demand, Holmes noticed Jack's eyes lingering on his weapon. The veteran was sizing him up, calculating.
"Time's running out," Jack announced, turning back to the group. "Decision time. Either donate the blood, or watch the building collapse around you."
Desperation won out. "We agree!" the gaunt man cried. "Just save us!"
"Not so fast." Jack raised a hand, eyes still on Holmes. "There's one holdout."
All heads swiveled to Holmes, who was busy examining a rat corpse. "I don't do blood sacrifices," he said flatly.
Jack laughed darkly. "Of course you don't. Newbies always think they're special. Tell you what—let's make a deal. I'll clear the rats, but you—" he pointed at Holmes, "—will hand over that cleaver. Consider it a welcome gift to the veteran."
Holmes' grip on the cleaver tightened. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I walk." Jack shrugged. "The fog will take you, or the rats will. Either way, that pretty blade will be mine eventually." His tone left no room for negotiation—this was a threat, pure and simple.
The other players began pleading with Holmes: "Just give it to him!" "Don't get us all killed!"
Holmes ignored them, staring down Jack. "What if you can't kill the spirit?"
Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Is that a challenge? Fine—here's the wager: if I can't put that spirit down, my cleaver is yours. But if I succeed, you give me Liu's blade, no questions asked." He extended a hand, waiting.
Holmes hesitated, then shook Jack's hand. "Deal."
With that, Jack turned and strode toward the Canker Spirit, cleaver raised. The team watched in breathless anticipation as he brought the blade down in a powerful arc, severing the spirit's head.
But the neck spewed black blood, and a new head formed instantly. Jack's cleaver began smoking, its edge corroding before their eyes.
DING! Spooky item [Butcher's Cleaver] severely damaged. Durability -40%, enchanted damage -60%.
Warning: 15 specters' favorability -10% due to property destruction.
Jack cursed viciously, staring at his ruined blade. "Son of a bitch... it's a grudge specter." He shot Holmes a murderous look, realizing he'd been played.
"Looks like you lost the bet," Holmes said calmly.
"Shut up!" Jack snarled. "This mission is a bust. I'm out."
The bandaged specter blocked his path. "Landlord demands one month's rent for the damage."
"Are you kidding?!" Jack raged, but the specter stood firm. With a final, venomous glance at Holmes, Jack tossed a pouch of coins at the specter's feet. "Keep the damn cleaver, newbie. You'll need it when the landlord comes for you."
With that, he vanished into the fog, leaving the team in chaos. Holmes gripped his cleaver tighter, knowing the veteran would be back for revenge—and his blade. The Canker Spirit howled in the distance, and the building shook again, but Holmes had a new problem: a seasoned player out for his blood and his weapon.
Jack vanished into the fog, his footsteps swallowed by the howling wind. Holmes didn't pursue—scores could wait. With only two hours left on the mission timer, he turned to the task at hand. Ignoring the defeated players, he crouched and seized a fragment of the Canker Spirit's severed head.
This was no reckless move. Touching the specter directly was risky, but Holmes had baited Jack into striking first. Let the veteran take the first blow, he'd thought. Now, his [All-Knowing] talent flared:
DING! Talent activated. New hidden info:
Canker Spirit: Former resident of Room 102, named Louis.
Banished for violating apartment rules, then torn apart by fog specters—returned with boundless grudge.
Note: Unresolved grudge ensures immortality. Solve the core grievance to end the plague.
Holmes frowned. The clues were there, but incomplete. He eyed the trembling building, then turned to the bandaged specter. "What else do you know?"
"Was resident. Got expelled," the specter droned, robotic. No further details. Just an NPC, Holmes sighed.
Approaching the Canker Spirit, he was met with a wall of enraged rats. They swarmed protectively, fangs bared. "Louis!" Holmes called from a distance.
The specter froze, then went berserk, tearing at the wall with renewed fury. Cracks spiderwebbed up the building.
WARNING! 14 specters now hold malice toward you. Apartment damage has escalated.
Holmes twitched. One word sets it off? This specter was as volatile as unstable gunpowder. But then, he noticed a shift in Louis' garbled cries. The mindless howling gave way to coherent whispers:
"...promise... lied... my child..."
Holmes leaned in, straining to hear. The rats' shrieks faded as the specter's form wavered, revealing a fragmented memory— a tiny hand reaching for Louis, clad in the same tattered clothes he wore now.
The puzzle pieces clicked. Not just banishment—something more personal. He needed to unearth the real reason Louis returned, and why the very walls seemed to bleed with his pain. The clock ticked, but Holmes knew rushing would only bury the truth deeper.