Die, Replay, Repeat

“Specters… the Specters are listening to the opera!?” someone blurted out, stunned.

“Hang on—doesn’t this whole thing feel like some old-time funeral ceremony? Check it out: we’ve got white lanterns with ‘condolence’ written on them all along the path, dried-up corpses in mourning clothes burning Spirit Money, and now a freaking theater crew! Back in the day, when some rich big shot died, their family would hire a troupe to perform for days!”

“Wait… are you saying someone died in the Zhous’ Mansion, and all these Specters are here grieving?” It sounded nuts, almost laughable.

But Fang Xiu wasn’t laughing. That guess was closer to the truth than they knew.

From what he’d pieced together at the Specter Pawnshop, the Zhous’ Mansion was hosting a funeral.

Even the name “the Land Between” linked back to whoever bit the dust. The Land Between—A place between the living and the dead.

And Fang Xiu's guess? The guy was Zhou Qingfeng.

But here’s the twist: Zhou Qingfeng’s body was supposed to be buried at the fourth stop of the Specter Train, the Grave Yard.

'So what’s the deal? Was the corpse in the Zhous’ Mansion someone else entirely?' Fang Xiu wondered.

Too many loose ends, not enough solid answers. He’d need to dig more.

Fang Xiu brushed the questions off for now and sauntered over to the red chairs. Cool as ever, he dropped into an empty seat.

The group gawked, practically picking their jaws up off the floor. 'Is he… really just gonna sit there and watch?'

Yang Ming and the others didn’t flinch. They followed his move, grabbing seats and settling in like it was nothing.

Second-guessing the Foreseer? Not even for a heartbeat.

Lu Ziming jumped in next, snagging a spot quick.

People follow the leader—it’s human nature. The rest rushed to find chairs, but here’s the catch: there weren’t enough seats for everyone.

Once all the available spots were taken, one unlucky guy from the Land Between crew was left standing.

Panic kicked in.

“Get up! Give me that seat!”

“No way!”

The guy still on his feet made a grab for a chair, and it looked like a fight was brewing. But right then, the creepy opera wail from the stage kicked up a notch.

The standing guy stopped dead. His eyes went empty, like he’d checked out completely.

Then, stiff as a plank, he started shuffling toward the stage, one mechanical step at a time.

The group watched, hearts racing, torn between terror and relief.

It turned out the safest place was the one that looked like a death trap. Sitting in those red chairs, taking in the show, was the key to staying alive. Stand around? You’re done—hauled off by the song.

They could only stare as the guy climbed onto the stage. His clothes shifted into a burial shroud, then a loud, tacky opera outfit.

His body twitched like a puppet, dropping to his knees in front of a dog-headed guillotine.

The black-faced Specter stepped up, its stiff mask unchanging, still humming that eerie tune. It grabbed the guillotine’s handle.

SNAP.

The blade fell. His head rolled, blood spraying everywhere.

The guy in the front row? Caught a faceful of it.

Seeing a friend die right there was the stuff of nightmares. 'Who’s next?' That thought weighed on them like a brick.

But the opera Specters didn’t keep the killing spree going. They just kept on singing.

Everyone let out a shaky breath—until they noticed something weird.

They couldn’t budge.

The red chairs held them like glue, locking them down tight. Not a muscle moved. Only their eyes still worked.

The opera dragged on.

Minutes passed, then more, and their morale tanked with every tick of the clock.' How long is this gonna go on? Are we just stuck there until we drop dead?'

About an hour later, the black-and-white Specters finally changed it up. They quit singing, gave a slow, dramatic bow to the crowd like the show was over, and stepped off the stage.

Then they started walking—right toward the group.

Out of nowhere, they stopped in front of the first person in line, reaching out with two bony hands—one black, one white.

That poor sap? Wen Jinglong.

See, Wen Jinglong’s bad leg slowed him down. He’d been one of the last to grab a seat, stuck with the only one left: front row, first spot.

Lesson of the day: lag behind, and you’re toast at every turn.

Wen Jinglong stared at the two Specters looming inches from his face, cold sweat pouring down his back. He was one heartbeat away from losing it.

'Why’s it always gotta be me getting screwed?'! he wanted to scream.

The moment stretched, tense as a wire. He thrashed against the invisible grip holding him, desperate to bolt—then froze.

“I… I can move?” he muttered, staring at his trembling hand like it was a miracle. Hope surged, and he tried to make a run for it, only to realize the truth: only his hands were free.

“Damn it! What the hell’s going on?!” The icy Specter aura hit him like a slap, spiking his panic.

“They’re asking for a tip,” Fang Xiu said, his voice calm as a still pond.

“A tip?!” Wen Jinglong’s voice cracked.

“Specter opera ain’t free. You got to pay with Spirit Money.”

Wen Jinglong’s panic morphed into frustration. “Spirit Money? Where am I supposed to get that right now?!”

“Xiu, what happens if you don’t tip?” Yang Ming piped up, genuinely curious.

“Simple. The opera Specters think they didn’t perform well enough, so they hop back on stage and keep singing—until you’re satisfied.”

Yang Ming blinked, thrown. He hadn’t expected that. Most Specters would’ve just dusted you on the spot for stiffing them. These ones? They actually blamed themselves.

“Man, these opera Specters are kind of… nice?” he said, scratching his head.

“Nice, my ass!” Li Xiaoru snapped. “You don’t pay, they sing forever. You’ll be glued to that chair until you drop dead!”

Yang Ming’s face fell as it sank in. “Wait… so it’s a shakedown? Pay up or you’re stuck?”

By now, the opera Specters had moved on—probably because Wen Jinglong wasn’t coughing up cash. They shuffled to the next person, holding out their black-and-white hands expectantly.

No dice there either. One by one, they worked their way down the line until they reached Fang Xiu.

And then Fang Xiu—cool as you like—pulled out a fat stack of Spirit Money and handed it over.

“This is for all of us,” he said.

Yang Ming’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “Hold up, Xiu! Didn’t you say you were broke?!”

“I said I didn’t have money for burning paper,” Fang Xiu replied, deadpan.

Yang Ming just stared, speechless.

The second the Specters took the cash, a weight lifted. The group realized they could move again, peeling themselves off the red chairs.

“I’m free!”

“Me too!”

“Let’s go,” Fang Xiu said, standing smoothly and leading the way out of the Specter Stage. Nobody looked back—nobody wanted to stay in that haunted hellhole a second longer.

They followed Fang Xiu through the theater, weaving left and right until they reached the main hall. Fang Xiu’s gaze sharpened as he took it in.

This was it—the heart of the Zhous’ Mansion, where the Forbidden Heart lay. Even the Specter Pawnshop couldn’t pierce this place’s secrets.

'Is Zhou Qingfeng here too?' Fang Xiu wondered.

Fang Xiu hadn’t forgotten what the pawnshop told him: Zhou Qingfeng was still alive, somewhere in the Land Between. He’d scoured every inch of the place—Whitestone too—and found nothing. If Zhou Qingfeng was anywhere, odds were it was right here, in the main hall.

It seemed that it was finally time to meet. Fang Xiu stepped forward and shoved the double doors open.

The sight inside stopped everyone cold.

A coffin sat dead center, draped with white ribbons. On either side, rows of shriveled corpses in mourning clothes knelt, their mouths open in eerie, keening wails, like they were grieving for eternity.

The creepy scene sent shivers racing down spines, goosebumps prickling skin.

But Fang Xiu’s eyes locked past the sobbing husks, zeroing in on the memorial tablet behind the coffin.

The name carved on it: Zhou Qingfeng.

And above the name, a black-and-white photo. The man in it was sharp-jawed, handsome, his expression calm and steady. He looked… exactly like Fang Xiu.

Translator's note: Wait... WHAT??? So Fang Xiu's Zhou Qingfeng himself? He was reborn? That just explained everything. Those bloody words on the ceiling? He wrote it himself I guess!