Witch, Please Open Your Eyes - Chapter 4 - Day 1-04

The deserted island truly lived up to its name.

The southeast sides were steep cliffs, with waves crashing against the rock walls. In the middle of the island, there was a gently sloping hill, flanked by meadows and forests, while the areas near the coast were covered with sandy beaches and scattered rocks.

Fang Daichuan, of course, had no idea about what had happened at Liuting Airport. This deserted island in the open sea was already thousands of miles away from China’s territorial waters. He still thought of all this as a reality show, albeit with a unique twist.

“So this is the island…” Old Chen stood at the cabin door, sighing with emotion. His gaze as he looked down was strange, making Fang Daichuan feel a bit uneasy. It was a complex look. Although Fang Daichuan wasn’t the most skilled actor, having been in the industry for years, he was somewhat sensitive to emotional cues. What did Old Chen’s gaze resemble? It was as if he were looking at his own child-one who had been sold away in childhood and had now returned as an adult. There was a mix of nostalgia, guilt, and even a hint of fear…

In the very center of the deserted island, on a gentle hilltop, stood a large villa, four stories high, with a beautiful garden in the backyard and a spacious helipad in the front. The helicopter landed, and several men in black grabbed his arms, escorting him and Mr. Chen out of the cabin. Fang Daichuan instinctively looked for cameras, trying to steal the spotlight while throwing out a line: “Bro! You’re really hurting me, don’t be so rough! I’m delicate, you know, be gentle!”

The man in black behind him kneed him in the butt and shouted, “Shut up!”

“Oh, I understood that one,” Fang Daichuan pouted, acting cute. “You’re so mean.”

From above, it hadn’t seemed so, but once on the ground, Fang Daichuan noticed the helipad was quite large, with about a dozen helicopters scattered around. There were quite a few people, he thought to himself.

Normally, the first step in a reality show would be assigning dressing rooms, introducing the cast to each other, meeting the chief director, discussing the script, and then drawing lots. But this time, that didn’t happen. Fang Daichuan was directly pushed into the villa.

The first floor of the villa was a banquet hall, with ceilings about five to six meters high. A crystal chandelier hung down with long tassels, making the space feel open and bright. Over a dozen people were seated around a long table-men and women, old and young. Hearing someone enter, they all turned to look.

Fang Daichuan felt something was off because he didn’t recognize any of them.

Could this be a show with ordinary people? Fang Daichuan wondered. Zhou had mentioned that this program was meant to promote Pitaya Channel’s own female host. Maybe they’d gathered a bunch of ordinary people to act alongside her, just to boost her profile? But there seemed to be too many people-it would be hard to edit.

Each episode of a reality show typically lasts no more than 90 minutes, and the screen time allocated to each participant is generally fixed. Too much time can fatigue the audience, reducing the impact of comedic moments, while too little time doesn’t allow the guests to shine, leaving a weak impression on viewers. As a result, most reality shows aim to strike a balance between the number of participants and the development of the storyline. The international standard is usually six to nine people.

Fang Daichuan glanced around quickly. There were already 12 people seated at the table, and with him and Old Chen added, the count had reached 14. That was enough to divide into two groups, A and B.

But how do you split into two groups in Werewolf? Sure, there are two camps, but if the groups are predetermined from the start, where’s the suspense? How would they even edit that? The more Fang Daichuan thought about it, the more confused he became about what Pitaya Channel was trying to achieve.

The staff released them, and the handsome mixed-race guy shot him a glance before gesturing to the other staff members. He seemed to hold a higher position than the rest, and his looks certainly stood out. The other men in black then filed in and stood beside them, uniformly pointing their gun barrels at the back of their heads.

The villa’s front door slammed shut with a loud bang.

Shouldn’t we greet everyone first? Fang Daichuan thought.

“Sorry… we’re late. I’m Fang Daichuan. Thanks for waiting,” he said with a casual, cheerful tone.

No one responded. Everyone was tense, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the small section of the table in front of them. Fang Daichuan felt a bit awkward, thinking these people were overacting a little too much. He scratched his head and pulled out a chair to sit down. Old Chen took a seat across from him.

The girl next to him forced a smile and said, “I know you. Didn’t you star in a historical drama called Feed the Demon? You played the best friend of the male lead-was it Third Young Master Wang or Third Young Master Chen?”

Fang Daichuan sighed. “Third Young Master Xie.”

“Oh,” the girl said, embarrassed. “Sorry, I got it wrong. It was Third Young Master Xie. You were really handsome in that role.”

Fang Daichuan smiled at her and thanked her.

The girl glanced around nervously, swallowing hard when she noticed the dark gun barrels pointed their way. “My name is Ding Zihui,” she said, her voice tense. “Please take care of me later.”

“No problem!” Fang Daichuan replied without hesitation. So this is the female MC, he thought. She doesn’t look like a goddess at all, nor does she have that plastic surgery vibe. She’s more of the sweet and charming type. She could pull off the role of the girl next door, but can she really embody the character setting of the Wisdom Goddess? Fang Daichuan shook her hand, his thoughts racing.

“Hello, everyone. Welcome to Dustward,” a voice echoed out of nowhere.

Everyone was startled by the sudden sound. The speaker seemed to be using a voice changer, accompanied by a faint hiss of static, making it impossible to tell if the voice was male or female. Fang Daichuan knew this was a common tactic in reality shows-the voice was likely coming from speakers hidden around the room. Still, he played along, shuddering and putting on a look of genuine fright.

The voice was probably that of the chief director or executive director, deliberately using a voice changer to enhance the dramatic effect of the program.

The voice continued, “Long, long ago, atop a steep cliff by the Rhine River, there was a small village called Dustward. Every night, this village was terrorized by werewolves. The villagers and the werewolves fought a desperate battle, and in the end, thirteen villagers managed to escape. They built a ship and fled the cursed village. This ship carried the thirteen villagers to a deserted island, which they also named ‘Dustward,’ where they began a new life. But with the first full-moon night, something terrifying happened-among these thirteen villagers lurked descendants of the werewolves. A new murder game is about to unfold on this deserted island.”

Not bad, Fang Daichuan thought to himself. The story’s pretty intense, very atmospheric.

However, a girl sitting at the head of the table frowned and spoke up. “Thirteen villagers? But there are fourteen of us here!”

Fang Daichuan paused. She was right. Their long table had seven seats on each side, with a host seat at each end. Currently, the host seats were empty, and the sides of the table were fully occupied-a total of fourteen people.

The “chief director” chuckled softly and continued, “It seems our ship has encountered an uninvited guest. A ghost has disguised itself as a human and infiltrated our Dustward. What shall we do? We only have thirteen role cards.”

“So, before the game officially begins, let’s play a warm-up game called ‘Catching the Ghost.'”

“There are two decks of cards in the cabinet behind you. Sinian, you’ll be the dealer,” the “chief director” instructed.

The mixed-race guy who had escorted Fang Daichuan to the island stepped forward and walked to the cabinet to retrieve the two decks of cards. So his name is Sinian, Fang Daichuan thought, turning to watch his retreating figure. But what characters make up his name? Is he Chinese? Does he, as an NPC, have a role in this? Is he actually the MC Pitaya Channel is trying to promote?!

“The rules of ‘Catching the Ghost’ are, I assume, clear to everyone,” the chief director explained. “There are 108 cards in two decks. After removing three jokers, there are 105 cards in total. Each person will draw seven to eight cards. If you draw cards with the same number, discard them. Then, in order, each player will draw a card from the person before them. If the drawn card matches any in their hand, discard the pair. The last person left holding a single joker is the ‘ghost’ who has infiltrated the villagers.”

“Sinian, deal the cards,” the chief director commanded. His eerie, distorted voice and somber tone were so well executed that even Fang Daichuan felt a chill run down his spine.

The mixed-race guy handled the cards with extraordinary skill. The two decks flipped and shuffled in his hands, forming a perfect bridge. His pale skin contrasted sharply with the pure black backs of the cards, and his fingers moved so swiftly it was almost mesmerizing. Once the cards were shuffled, he dealt them out to the fourteen people seated at the table.

I really don’t want to lose in the first round, Fang Daichuan thought to himself. If I get eliminated right away, I’ll probably be sent straight back. The thought of Zhou’s stern face and Deng-Ge’s gloomy gaze made him shiver involuntarily.

The cards were dealt. Fang Daichuan had seven face-down cards in front of him. He took a deep breath and flipped them over. Luck was on his side-he had two pairs. He quickly pulled them out and, like everyone else, tossed them into the discard pile in the center of the table.

Each person held between three and seven cards, and everyone looked as though they were facing a life-or-death situation. The man diagonally across from him was pale as a ghost, looking like he was about to die. Everyone exchanged wary glances, guessing that he must have drawn the joker. The suspected joker was in the hands of the player before Mr. Chen, and a bead of sweat had already formed on Mr. Chen’s temple.

“Starting from the head of the table, Yang Song, please draw a card,” the speaker commanded again.

The girl called Yang Song was the one who had first questioned the number of participants. She appeared to be in her early twenties, her face expressionless, exuding an air of aloofness.

She took a deep breath and drew a card from the player before her. After comparing it to her hand, she quickly pulled out two matching cards and tossed them into the discard pile.

The player after her visibly relaxed. Drawing a matching card meant she hadn’t drawn the joker. The next player immediately drew a card from Yang Song.

The game progressed rapidly, and in complete silence. Fang Daichuan kept a close eye on everyone’s expressions, especially when Old Chen drew a card from the player before him. Everyone was watching the two of them intently. Old Chen took a full half minute to choose, finally selecting the middle card. His opponent clutched the cards tightly, not wanting him to draw, but Old Chen yanked it free, his expression instantly relaxing. He glanced at the card and, under everyone’s gaze, tossed the matching pair onto the table.

Fang Daichuan let out a long sigh of relief.

The game had already gone through three rounds.

The first to get out was a ten-year-old kid who had come with his mother. Children always seem to have the best luck in these kinds of card games-there’s no helping it.

The second to escape was Ding Zihui. She gently placed her last two cards on the table, her fingers trembling slightly. Then, she quickly crossed herself, touching her forehead and shoulders, and clasped her hands in prayer.

Anyone who’s played Catching the Ghost knows that getting the joker at the start isn’t the scariest part. As the game progresses, the joker can easily change hands, and the real tension builds toward the end.

Sure enough, after two-thirds of the players had already been eliminated, it was Old Chen’s turn to draw again. This time, his expression cracked instantly, his face turning pale.

His opponent was so overwhelmed with emotion that they looked like they might burst into tears, taking three deep breaths to steady themselves.

The joker had changed hands.

Old Chen glanced up at Fang Daichuan, his hands shuffling his three cards over and over.

Fang Daichuan swallowed hard. He had two cards left, while Old Chen had three. There were still four players remaining: Old Chen’s opponent, the woman with the child who was seated several chairs away, and the two of them. Both the opponent and the woman were down to their last card.

Fang Daichuan’s fingers hovered over Old Chen’s cards, and Old Chen’s eyes followed his movements, beads of sweat forming at his temples. Fang Daichuan tried to reassure himself-if he drew the joker, so be it. At worst, he’d just have to go back. But the tense, anxious atmosphere in the room made it impossible to comfort himself so easily. Whatever, he thought, I’ll just pick one at random. He glanced to his right, where the mixed-race guy named Sinian stood in the empty seat beside him, watching him with a meaningful look.

Right it is! Fang Daichuan thought. He gently pulled the card on the right and added it to his hand.

Three different cards-no joker, and no matching pairs. Fang Daichuan’s expression remained calm. There was no relief of escaping danger, nor any despair of impending doom. Silently, he fanned out his cards and passed them to the next player to choose.

His next player was Ding Zihui, but she had already escaped. Several players after her had also been eliminated. His current opponent was the young mother who had brought her child along, seated far across the table. From the looks on his and Old Chen’s faces, she couldn’t tell much. After agonizing for two minutes-long enough for Fang Daichuan’s arm to start aching from holding out the cards-she finally walked over and drew the middle card.

It was the King of Hearts. The young mother let out a long breath, collapsing into her chair, and tossed her last two Kings into the discard pile.

Only three players remained. It was now Old Chen’s opponent’s turn to draw. Since his original opponent had been eliminated, the rules dictated that he had to draw from Fang Daichuan’s hand. He was down to his last card.

Fang Daichuan shuffled his cards casually, and the man gritted his teeth, reaching out to draw. But just as he was about to pick, a girl beside him suddenly grabbed his arm.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked. They seemed to be a couple.

The girl’s body trembled slightly as she kissed him on the cheek. “Du Wei, I’m giving you all my luck. Please, don’t die.”

Fang Daichuan rolled his eyes at the dramatic couple. It’s just a reality show, he thought, not some life-or-death situation. “Hurry up!” he snapped, impatiently waving the cards in his hand.

Du Wei tightly shut his eyes and yanked out a card-the Ace of Spades, which matched the card he already held.

Unable to contain his relief, Du Wei flung his card onto the table and kissed his girlfriend passionately, their lips smacking loudly.

The game was over.

Fang Daichuan was down to his last card. According to the game rules, Old Chen had to draw from his hand. It seemed the joker was destined to stay with Old Chen.

Old Chen’s face was as pale as paper. With trembling hands, he took the card from Fang Daichuan, paired it with another card of the same rank, and placed them on the table. Now, he held only one face-down card in his hand.

Sinian flipped over that last card and pushed it into the discard pile-it was the joker.

Fang Daichuan, mentally exhausted from the intense game, reached into his pocket for a cigarette. But remembering this was a reality show, he restrained himself.

An eerie silence fell over the room.

The crackling sound of static echoed from the corner of the room again. “The game is over. It seems you’ve found the ghost who snuck onto the ship. Now that the ghost has been dealt with, let’s officially begin the game. I can’t wait.”

Before anyone could react, the foreigner standing behind Old Chen took two steps back and fired a shot-bang.

Bright red blood and yellowish brain matter splattered across the table.

The cards in the discard pile were instantly soaked in blood. Fang Daichuan, seated across from Old Chen, had streaks of blood and brain matter splashed across his face and chest.

The warm liquid jolted Fang Daichuan awake. He numbly reached up to wipe the blood from his face, his trembling fingers dripping with crimson. The smell of death filled his nostrils.

Old Chen’s head had been completely blown apart. His body slumped forward, the shattered half of his skull crashing onto the joker card laid out on the table.