Netherworld’s Spirit Envoy - -

I carefully examined it and then stepped forward, initially curious if something inside the urn was being held back. But as I pressed my ear against the urn, a buzzing sound suddenly emanated from within, nearly startling me.

It was as if a stone had struck the urn, the buzzing echoing continuously without diminishing.

There was definitely something inside. This time, I prepared myself mentally. When I leaned in to listen again, a sharp sound of nails scraping the inside of the urn reached my ears. It was extremely grating, as if trying to shatter my eardrums.

I quickly retreated a distance away, wincing as I massaged my ears in pain. What on earth could be trapped inside?

Considering my safety, I turned to leave, but just as I did, the door to the main hall slammed shut with a loud bang. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t open it.

A woman’s sobbing echoed from all directions, feeling like it grasped my heart painfully tight.

“Let me out, let me out…” The voice was pervasive, seeping into my ears and mind, tormenting me relentlessly.

“Ah!” The indescribable pain made me scream out loud, but as soon as I finished shouting, the crying ceased, and everything returned to silence.

Cold sweat covered me, and the previous scene felt like a nightmare, leaving me uncertain if it was real.

Suddenly, a loud clang startled me. I quickly turned my head to see the slab atop the urn beginning to move. Whatever was inside seemed to be coming out.

What should I do-leave or approach? I dared not guess what was inside but it was certainly not simple. Time didn’t allow me to hesitate any longer; within moments, a gap had opened between the slab and the urn, and whatever was inside was about to emerge!

There was no time to lose. I rushed over. The urn was placed so high that when I stood next to it, the top was level with my head. Looking around, I grabbed a stool, stood on it, and, taking a deep breath, peered into the dark crevice.

Out of concern for potential danger, I didn’t dare get too close. But as I focused intently on what was inside, I suddenly saw an eyeball without sockets or eyelids staring back at me, completely exposed. The white of the eye was streaked with blood, looking particularly horrifying.

I screamed and fell off the stool, frantically sprinting through a passage on the side of the main hall. All I could think about was that blood-red eyeball.

When I finally came to my senses, I found myself in a small courtyard, its ground covered with a thick layer of fallen leaves. A chilly autumn breeze swept through, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

This was a quaint little garden, featuring some ornamental trees taller than a person, now reduced to bare branches. In the corners, flower pots sat, dried and filled with fallen leaves.

As I pondered this oddity, a group of women dressed in white emerged from another passage about ten meters away. They moved gracefully, almost as if floating, each holding an antique palace lantern with candlelight flickering gently. Their faces were deathly pale, their small lips red turning almost black, giving them a sinister look. Their eyes were dark and devoid of whites, lacking eyebrows, adding to the chilling sense of eeriness.

I watched as they entered a room ahead without opening the door, passing through as if it wasn’t there. None of them glanced at me, as if I were invisible.

Before I knew it, I was standing outside the room. A soft glow, like candlelight, emanated from inside.

Just as I raised my hand to open the door, two women suddenly appeared on either side of me, staring directly at me with eyes devoid of any presence of a living person, exuding an air of somberness.

Their gaze frightened me into withdrawing my hand. I glanced at them nervously and whispered, “I just want to take a look inside.”

Yet they seemed unable to hear me, their eyes fixed on my face, unwavering. At that moment, the door swung open, and an invisible force pulled me inside. With a loud bang, the door closed behind me, and I sprawled on the floor.

From the outside, it seemed like merely a small room, yet inside it was unexpectedly spacious, and populated with quite a few people.

In neat rows, dozens of women in white knelt respectfully on the ground. They wore identical outfits and had the same expressions, as if they had been cast from the same mold. All of them were staring at me in unison, their gazes perfectly synchronized.

It was then that I noticed a woman in black sitting on a chair at the front. Her long hair draped over her ears, revealing only her eyes as she rested with them closed. In her hands was a thread-bound ancient book, the text written in large characters with a writing brush-characters I didn’t recognize at all, as they weren’t Chinese.

“Why are you only here now? I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” the woman in black said, without moving her lips, as she turned her head toward me. Her eyes remained closed, giving the eerie impression that she was still staring at me.

I looked around to ensure she was indeed talking to me. But why was she saying she had been waiting? Waiting for me to do what?

Standing frozen, unsure of how to respond, the woman in black continued with an imperative tone, “Come over here at once.”

Two women in white came over and led me to kneel before the woman in black. Before I could make sense of the situation, she extended her right hand, placing her index and middle fingers on my forehead.

The moment she touched me, a bone-chilling cold surged from her fingers into my body, making me shiver involuntarily.

The woman remained with her eyes closed, her face moving subtly as if speaking, though her lips never parted. Meanwhile, the other women in white surrounded me, their eyes fixed on me with an intensity that unsettled me deeply.

“Have you decided to join us?” the woman in black suddenly asked. But she hadn’t opened her eyes or moved her mouth from the start-how was she seeing me and communicating?

Before I could process my bewilderment, she handed me the book she was holding, offering a writing brush with her left hand. “Write your name here.”

As if under a spell, I took the brush and was about to write my name. Yet, deep inside, a voice suddenly echoed, unclear in its message, but instinctively, I resisted writing my name down.

“Hurry, there’s no time,” the woman in black urged. Just then, outside, the sound of a fierce wind swept through, rustling the leaves with a loud rustling noise.

The woman in black seemed panicked, raising her head and flicking her sleeve, sending several women in white rushing to the door, disappearing in an instant.

As I turned back, I saw her grab my wrist, urging me to write my name in the book. I realized this wasn’t as simple as it seemed and desperately tried to pull my hand away. Despite her frail, skeletal appearance, she possessed an unexpectedly strong grip, making my wrist feel like it might snap.

A sudden wave of panic swept over me, revealing the true terrifying nature of the woman in black. Suddenly, black spots appeared on her hand, which was already dry and ghostly pale, and her hand transformed.

It was as if all the life had been drained from it; her hand shriveled, and cords of muscle and vein became visible, making her appear significantly older.

Looking up, I saw that the woman had opened her eyes, and black blood gushed out, splattering my face. Her eye sockets were nothing but hollow voids.

She struggled to open her mouth, as if something was adhering her lips together, using immense force. When she finally pried it open, I heard a ripping sound, as if her lips had been sealed together and she had torn them apart.

As the dark blood flowed, a swarm of bats, each the size of a child’s fist, burst from her mouth, swarming toward my face.

I quickly shielded my face with my hands, but the sound of the bats’ wings and their haunting cries echoed relentlessly around me. It felt as though they were seeking an entryway into my body.

The bats continued to circle, and suddenly, my wrist was seized again. Looking up, I saw the woman in black, her eyes and mouth still oozing blood, yet she was speaking-her mouth lacking a tongue.

“Write… your name…” she mouthed as the thread-bound book and writing brush reached toward me. At that moment, I resolved not to let her control me any longer. I forcefully broke free from her grasp, ready to make a dash for the exit.