032 Do Not Point Your Heels Toward the Bed at Night

By the time I returned from the library, the sun had already set. My mind was crammed with so much information that I couldn’t process it all at once.

A powerful drowsiness weighed down my eyelids, drawing the upper and lower lids closer and closer, until at last, they merged perfectly together. Yielding to the exhaustion, I collapsed onto my bed. My slippers fell off naturally, landing heel-first toward the bed. Unaware of all this, my consciousness had already departed to rendezvous with the god of dreams.

Around my shoes, wisps of black vapor began to appear. Outside, darkness fell with unnatural speed—not only did night descend, but the whole sky was blanketed with heavy, swirling clouds. Billowing masses of black cloud gathered above the library rooftop not far away, coming together in the air to form the ghastly shape of a black skull. It loomed like the Grim Reaper himself, cackling menacingly at the library, each laugh sending chills down the spine.

Yet the library was shrouded beneath a golden barrier, utterly untouched by the encroaching gloom. The enormous skull opened its jaws wide, spewing forth a torrent of black mist, intent on swallowing the library whole.

Eight beams of golden light flared from the library, connecting into an octagonal formation, unleashing a golden ray that collided fiercely with the black mist. In the air, light and darkness clashed with dazzling violence, but in the end, the black haze had the upper hand. The golden glow gradually faded, drawing back into the heart of the library.

The giant skull let out a chilling laugh.

“Spirit of the Ancient Scroll, why persist in resistance? You are powerless to stop me now.” The titanic skull actually spoke, though with the library sealed off, no one could notice what was happening.

“Surrender the Ghost Card, and I may let you die with some dignity.” Another surge of black mist poured forth.

The sun was now completely blotted out, plunging the earth into utter darkness. Only the library remained illuminated by its golden protection, a lonely beacon while all else vanished into the night.

Once again, eight beams of golden light converged and, flashing brightly, slowly unfurled a roll of ancient parchment. From the scroll stepped an old man—clad in white, with snow-white hair and beard, leaning on a staff, the very image of one whose candle of life burned low, made all the more haggard by the oppressive black clouds.

He coughed violently, the sound seeming to tug at some hidden wound within him, causing flecks of blood to spatter from his lips—golden blood, radiant as sunlight.

The old man wiped his mouth slowly.

“Black Warden,” he intoned, his voice imbued with innate authority. The very name struck the enormous skull like a thunderbolt.

Caught off guard, the Black Warden’s form scattered and dissipated. When he reformed, he was visibly enraged—a shadowy figure garbed in black, wielding a soul-summoning banner.

“Spirit of the Ancient Scroll, I know you surpass me in strength, but you are now in a spectral state, while I am bound by contract. You cannot win,” the Black Warden roared.

“So be it,” the old man sighed, shaking his head. “Indeed, I could have easily defeated you before…”

“Then why don’t you hand it over?” the Black Warden demanded.

Suddenly, a golden spear pierced straight through the Black Warden, annihilating the black mist in an instant. He didn’t even have time to cry out before vanishing from the sky.

The golden spear spun through the air and transformed into a robust man.

“You’re far too impulsive, Ancient Spear,” the old man chided.

“No,” the man called Ancient Spear replied. “If we didn’t deal with him now, it would be over once all thirteen of the vengeful ghosts find their hosts.”

“And the Ghost King?” Ancient Spear pressed.

The old man shook his head and sighed. “He escaped.”

“Even your formation couldn’t hold him?” Ancient Spear was surprised.

“What must come will come,” the old man replied. “Our top priority now is to ensure that all thirteen chosen hosts of our lineage become contract bearers.”

“That was only an avatar of the Black Warden just now. We must prepare for battle.”

“Understood.” A surge of golden light shot from Ancient Spear, splitting into eleven beams that streaked off in different directions across the sky.

The old man returned to the parchment scroll, which was rent into eight pieces, each returning to a corner of the library. The man once again became a golden spear and drove himself deep beneath the library.

One of the beams of light shot straight into the university hospital.

…

While the old man of the ancient scroll confronted the Black Warden, I, meanwhile, was taking another stroll along the border of life and death.

They say that if you place two pairs of shoes side by side at night, with the heels facing the bed, it creates a formation that invites ghosts.

Normally, I would be vigilant about such things, but tonight, exhaustion had dulled my caution—these last few days had left me utterly spent, with no energy left for other concerns.

The black mist swelled, but its primary target was not me lying on the bed. Instead, the vapor thickened and hovered before the mirror, as if recalling something. The mist grew restless, swelling and roiling until at last, a thin, humanlike figure slowly formed in front of the glass—a young woman with long hair cascading over her shoulders, her features striking and delicate.

Yet around her neck was a deep, dark red ligature mark, stark and unmistakable.

She gazed at her reflection, as if remembering something, then began to weep softly.

Through the haze of sleep, I thought I heard a sound. For someone who had finally managed to drift off, it was an irritating disturbance. Impatiently, I called out, “Keep it down! I’m trying to sleep!” Rolling over, I tried to chase after my dreams once more.

At that moment, the woman turned her attention to me. She drifted over to my bed, and a cold, clammy hand landed on my shoulder, jolting me awake.

Instinctively, I snapped my eyes open—only to see an astonishingly beautiful woman before me.

My first thought: Jackpot! I actually drooled at the sight.

Honestly, any man would feel lucky to wake up and find such a beauty at his bedside.

But then, under my gaze, the woman gave a chilling, mocking smile.

With a sickening splat, something greasy landed on my face, accompanied by a whiff of blood.

I reached up and squeezed it. “What the hell—!”

It was a piece of rotten flesh, oozing pus, long since decayed. When I looked up again, regret flooded my heart.

That vile, disgusting meat had fallen from the woman’s face—she could no longer be called a woman at all.

The ghost’s shrill voice screamed at me, her hands lunging for my throat.

“Why!”

“Why can’t I be reborn!”

“Why!”

Her wails had not yet ceased when a beam of golden light shot in through the window, illuminating the entire room in an instant. The ghost was vaporized by the golden radiance. My playing cards rose into the air, spinning rapidly in the golden glow, transforming at last into a card etched with strange markings.

And in my mind, a single phrase appeared:

“Third-Generation Ancient Mirror Contract Bearer: Lin Zijian.”