Die, Replay, Repeat

“Could it be… those ashes falling from the sky are from the Spirit Money burning in the basin?” someone guessed, his voice thick with fear.

By now, the paper ashes were drifting down steadily.

Nobody knew what the ashes could do, but one thing was for sure: no one wanted them anywhere near their skin.

People huffed and waved their hands like crazy, trying to push the ashes away, but it didn’t matter.

The flakes didn’t budge, floating straight down as if they didn’t care about the breeze.

Then it happened—an ash landed on someone. The second it touched their skin, a scream tore through the air.

“Ahhh!”

Where the ash hit, a nasty hole burned into their arm, hissing like acid eating through meat.

Panic exploded. Faces went white as it sank in: if these ashes kept coming down, they’d all be cooked alive.

“Argh!”

“My face!”

Screams popped off everywhere as little fires sparked across people’s bodies.

Xiao Chuxia’s hair—her prized possession—took a brutal hit, burning into a crispy, ruined mess.

For a girl obsessed with her appearance, the ear-piercing shriek she let out wasn’t surprising.

She flailed her arms, covering her face in a frantic shield, terrified of losing her looks.

Even as the ashes chewed through her slim arms, leaving bloody pits, she clenched her jaw and powered through the pain, refusing to drop her guard.

Her vanity gave her a crazy high pain tolerance.

Everyone took off, running for their lives. No one dared to stop, driven by pure instinct to find cover. Fang Xiu zipped through the ashes, dodging between gaps with quick moves.

For now, there was enough room to weave around, but the ashes were getting thicker fast. Even he wouldn’t make it out clean much longer.

A tiny flake landed on his shoulder. Right away, his skin bubbled and blistered, pain shooting through him.

But Fang Xiu’s face stayed cool, like it didn’t even faze him. This level of pain? To him, it was no big deal.

Good thing a house was close—just a quick sprint away. The group stumbled inside, panting and beat-up.

The place was huge and dark, shadows swallowing everything. Visibility was barely a yard, the blackness closing in tight.

No one had a second to check the place out. Some winced, holding their wounds; others, in worse shape, screamed in pain.

Xiao Chuxia? She just lost it, crying her eyes out. “Wahhh… my hair!”

Her long, flowing hair—the stuff she’d always bragged about—now looked like a dog had chewed it up and spit it out.

It was now patchy, burned, with a bald spot right in the middle like she’d signed up for the bald-guy club.

For a girl who lived for her beauty, this was a fate worse than dying.

But she wasn’t the worst off. One guy was a total wreck: face charred and melted, an eyeball turned to mush, lips gone, just white teeth showing through the mess.

The least banged-up were Fang Xiu and Yang Ming. Fang Xiu had used pure speed, bolting into the house first and dodging most of the ashes.

Yang Ming, though, had a bright idea—he’d snatched the basin, flipped it over his head like a helmet, and charged in.

The ashes that torched everything else? They didn’t even leave a mark on that thing.

Just as the group caught their breath, still shaken, a creepy sound crept out of the darkness—a sad, ghostly opera tune that sent chills down their spines.

The mournful song bounced around the room, making the air feel heavy.

The second it hit their ears, everything spun. A wave of dizziness slammed into them, nearly knocking them over.

“Specter! There’s a Specter here too!” someone yelled, their voice breaking with panic.

Their nerves were fried. Ever since they’d stepped into the Zhous’ Mansion, it’d been one Specter after another—different types, nonstop, no break to catch their breath.

The despair was choking them.

This wasn’t like the Land Between. Back there, they’d at least had a shot, some way to fight back, even if it was slim.

But here, in the Zhous' Mansion? They were powerless, stripped down to nothing. Fighting didn’t work; all they could do was run.

The tougher you were, the worse that hit. It’s like losing a crummy job when you’re barely scraping by—rough, but you shake it off and keep going.

Now picture being a billionaire and waking up broke. That kind of fall? It’d push anyone to the edge.

The group was sinking in that heavy despair.

If they’d just been first-tier psychics, this chaos might’ve been easier to handle—first-tiers were used to scrambling for their lives against a Specter.

But these weren’t newbies. The weakest here were fourth-tier, some even topping out at fourth or hitting fifth.

They were the type who’d learned to smash through trouble with sheer strength. Take that away, and the ones with weak mental toughness fell apart harder than any first-tier ever could.

As panic took hold, the opera’s wail cranked up, digging into their heads.

Their minds got fuzzy, and their bodies started moving on their own, stumbling toward the sound like marionettes.

Fear spiked. People smacked themselves in the face, trying to shake it off.

One guy even slammed his head into a wall, hoping the sting would keep him grounded. Didn’t work.

The singing got louder, and it was obvious where this was going: complete control, turned into mindless puppets swaying to a creepy tune.

“We’re toast! Done! Ashes outside, ghost songs inside—death’s got us pinned!” someone cried out.

Then Yang Ming’s calm voice sliced through the mess. “Everyone, relax. It’s just a bit of drama—why lose it?”

For a moment, they thought he had a trick up his sleeve. But then he spun around to Fang Xiu with a wide, cheeky grin. “Xiu, what’s our next play?”

“Walk,” Fang Xiu said, short and simple, then started heading right toward the sound.

Yang Ming’s face lit up like it was his birthday, tagging along without a pause.

Li Xiaoru and the others fell in line too.

Only the Land Between crew—Lu Ziming and his group—hung back, swapping nervous looks.

Even from here, the opera was pulling them under. And now, instead of bolting, Fang Xiu was strolling straight into it?

To them, it screamed death wish.

Lu Ziming’s eyes flashed with uncertainty, but he didn’t dwell on it.

He went after them. Something in his gut said Fang Xiu knew more about the Zhous’ Mansion than he was letting on.

After a second, the rest of his team followed suit.

Lu Ziming wasn’t off the mark. Fang Xiu did know.

Fang Xiu’d already tracked down the source of this opera back at the pawnshop—when he could dig up info for free with no limits, he didn't skip anything.

Except for the core zone with the Heart of the Forbidden, which the pawnshop couldn’t touch, Fang Xiu had pretty much mapped out every inch of the Zhous’ Mansion.

The group kept moving toward the sound. The opera’s sad wail got so loud it rattled their skulls, sinking its claws in deeper. Weird visions started flickering at the corners of their eyes.

Then, out of the dark, a dim light broke through up ahead.

In that glow stood a beat-up stage, about fifteen feet across, its wood old and rough.

Under it, rows of shiny red chairs spread out.

It clicked: this wasn’t just some random spot—it was a theater.

Seeing the Specter Stage sent a cold jolt through them.

Up on the platform, two human-looking Specters in opera getups sang their hearts out.

One had a black-painted face, the other white, both locked in stiff, spooky masks. Still, the tune they sang was beautiful in a haunting way, pulling at something deep inside.

Down below, a dozen dead-looking figures sat frozen in the red chairs, listening in total silence.

The whole thing felt like a bad dream. Sweat beaded on their skin, hairs standing straight up.

The Specter Stage gave off a cold, eerie vibe that sank into their bones, promising nothing but trouble.