Die, Replay, Repeat

The next day, Fang Xiu still hadn’t popped up, but Lu Ziming and the crew couldn’t just sit around anymore.

They’d gone a whole day without making a cent—a rare pause after years of nonstop hustling in the Land Between.

The break felt weird, leaving them antsy and empty. Worse, seeing their Spiritual Money slip away lit a slow panic: broke days were closing in.

“We can’t keep waiting,” Lu Ziming said, his tone thick. “If we don’t get out and earn, we’re done. Stick to the plan from last night—everyone stays tight.”

The group nodded, their faces set hard. They moved out together, chasing cash but keeping sharp—staying close to Whitestone, ready for a Fang Xiu sneak attack.

But the day went smooth. They took down Specters near the town’s edge, and nothing went wrong. Fang Xiu didn’t show.

Lu Ziming’s spirits picked up. “It’s working! He’s too spooked to try anything. As long as we stay in a pack near Whitestone, he’s got no play!”

Tong Yang jumped in, “Yep. If we keep this up, we’re golden. Drag it out long enough, and Fang Xiu’ll crack—come crawling for a deal.”

The crew hummed with agreement, already seeing Fang Xiu eating his words.

Three days passed like that.

Their early relief turned to head-scratching.

“Where’s Fang Xiu? Did he bite it out there or what?”

“Maybe. The Land Between isn’t just snake Specters. Sometimes Class-S or worse roll in—stuff even we’d dodge. He’s alone; could be he’s already lunch for some high-class Specter.”

“Should we scout farther out?” someone threw out.

The idea got shut down quick.

Lu Ziming’s brow creased. “No dice. What if it’s a setup? We hold tight.”

So they held tight for three more days.

This time, they were out by Whitestone as usual, slicing up Specters, when someone spoke up, unsure. “Anyone else notice the Specters dropping off lately?”

“Yeah, they’re thinner. I made ninety grand two days back, eighty yesterday. Today’s even quieter.”

“What’s up? Did we thin out the ones near Whitestone by sticking close?”

“If that’s it, we’ll have to hunt farther soon.”

“No way!” Lu Ziming snapped, solid as a rock. “I’ve been here for years—Specters don’t dry up. The Other Side keeps pumping them in, nonstop. We couldn’t have cleaned them out. There’s only one answer.”

“What’s that?” someone asked.

“The Land Between’s seal must’ve tightened,” Lu Ziming said. “Fewer Specters are getting through.”

Cheers spread through the group.

“A stronger seal? So Specters’ll keep shrinking? Maybe even the Grey Fog’ll lighten up. If this holds, we won’t be stuck renting doghouses forever!”

They started tossing around dreams of better days—when the ground shivered under them.

“Wait, what’s that? An earthquake?”

“Earthquake? The Land Between isn’t on any fault line—where’s that coming from?”

The shaking sharpened. Dust and stones danced on the dirt. Worry squeezed their chests.

In the Land Between, anything odd usually meant bad news was on the way.

“Look! What’s that?!”

Someone with keen eyes caught it first—dark dots popping up on the far horizon. They were swelling quick, rushing closer every second.

The group swung around, dread tightening in their stomachs.

Then, the shapes came clear—huge, hulking figures. “Those… those are… Taoties!!!” The truth slammed into them like a fist. “One, two, three… thirty?! How’d he get so many?!”

The Taotie army rolled into view, over thirty massive mounds of flesh charging toward Whitestone.

The group’s mouths hung open, shock stealing their words. The sight was pure terror—beyond anything they could name.

Thirty-plus peaks of rotting meat towered into the sky, heads punching through the clouds. Each stomp rattled the ground like a quake, their shadows stretching so wide they swallowed Whitestone whole even from afar.

As they neared, their twisted, ugly forms loomed bigger, a wave of eerie whispers spilling off them, bouncing through the air. A gut-twisting stink of rot washed over everything.

It felt like the world had sunk into a swamp of decay.

Odder still, billions of Specters—wild, squirming masses—swirled around the Taoties, diving through the rotting flesh like bugs on a dead thing.

Atop the biggest Taotie stood one guy. A Specter mask covered his face, black flames wrapped his body, and huge wings of dark fire flared out behind him. Silver hair flowed in the wind like a rushing stream.

“It’s Fang Xiu!”

“He’s not dead—he’s here!”

“Run!”

“Get outta here!”

“He’s not just back—he’s got thirty freaking Taoties!”

Yells ripped through the air as the group’s cool—once the sign of battle-hardened pros—crumbled.

They bolted for Whitestone like spooked dogs, pride left in the dust.

No one paused to figure out how Fang Xiu had rounded up so many Taoties. Fear had hollowed them out; all they could think was getting away.

They flooded into Whitestone, too scared to step back out, jamming into inns, doghouses, toilets, woodsheds—any corner they could squeeze into. Even the fifth-tiers like Lu Ziming didn’t risk a glance outside.

Thirty-plus Taoties? That was a walking bad dream. Five had pinned them to scavenging near Whitestone. Now, times six? Lucky their bodies were solid—otherwise, they’d be keeling over from fright.

Fang Xiu watched them scramble, his face steady and cool. He didn’t care that they fled—Whitestone was their trap.

He steered the Taotie army forward, one slow step at a time. Bit by bit, the sky above Whitestone went dark.

The thirty-something giants circled the town, a ring of meaty mountains throwing a shadow so thick it flipped day into night. Whitestone—so big before—now looked tiny and sad.

Through small windows, Lu Ziming and the others stole looks. The view smashed into them like a hammer—hearts racing, some shaking flat-out.

“Somebody explain what’s happening!” Lu Ziming’s eyes fixed on the Specters crawling over the Taoties’ bodies. Then it hit him, and his face warped with the truth.

Translator's note: Guess they'd be able to get out of the Land Between very soon.