Witch, Please Open Your Eyes

“Ah!” Ding Zihui, who was next to Fang Daichuan, let out a scream with her eyes tightly shut.

Fang Daichuan’s mind went blank.

Ding Zihui’s scream nearly pierced his eardrums, and the stench in his nostrils was impossible to wipe away. Everyone instinctively stood up, the legs of the chairs scraping against the floor, a sound reminiscent of the nails-on-chalkboard screech from childhood.

Only Fang Daichuan remained seated.

This wasn’t special effects. Old Chen’s head wasn’t a prop meticulously prepared by the props team, and the stench wasn’t artificially concocted fake blood. This was all real.

Old Chen was really dead.

He died right in front of me, and his blood splattered all over my face.

Fang Daichuan couldn’t feel his own breath, nor could he hear the chaotic sounds around him. He sat across from the deceased, watching the blood spill over the table, soaking all the playing cards. The joker card was half-crushed under the shattered head, the clown’s bright red face seemingly cracking into an eerie smile.

This wasn’t a reality show on the Pitaya Channel, Fang Daichuan belatedly realized. This was a real death game, and those people were holding real guns.

“I’m out!” A man pushed his chair back and ran toward the door, stumbling over something in his path, his steps faltering. “This is fucking life or death! I’m not playing, no matter how much money you offer! I’m out!!!”

He screamed, waving his arms as he ran toward the exit.

Bang-

Another gunshot, and his steps halted. Fang Daichuan saw a burst of blood erupt from his back, his body still lunging forward out of inertia, slamming heavily against the thick metal door with a clang.

He collapsed, falling headfirst at the doorway, his fingers twitching, a small pool of blood gradually seeping out beneath him.

Ding Zihui’s hands flailed in front of her chest, her eyes wide open. This time, she didn’t cry or scream.

The group that had reacted so strongly earlier showed no extreme reactions this time. The one crying the hardest was the ten-year-old child, but even their sobs abruptly stopped, forgetting to bury their face in their mother’s embrace. Everyone collectively stared at the body by the door.

Dead silence.

Fang Daichuan couldn’t remember how he walked toward the corpse. He moved toward the door under the aim of a dozen gun barrels. So this is what it feels like to have so many guns pointed at you, he thought. His scalp tingled, every hair on his body standing on end, as if he were covered in a rash or tiny insects crawling beneath his skin. It was like electric currents were zapping through him, making him want to jump up and shake his shoulders wildly.

He swallowed hard, raised his hands, and explained, “I’m… not going anywhere. I just want to check on him. I want to see if he’s… really dead.”

The gun barrels remained fixed on him. No one spoke, and no one dared to move. Not far away, Old Chen’s blood had finally soaked through the entire table, dripping from the edge. Every half second, a plop echoed, the droplets growing more frequent until they became a steady stream. Fang Daichuan’s fingers lightly touched the side of the dead man’s neck. The man’s hand was still twitching, but his carotid artery showed no sign of life. Fang Daichuan turned back, a bead of cold sweat rolling down from his temple and splashing onto the floor. He shook his head at the others.

It was as if a switch had been flipped.

The child was the first to react. He pursed his lips, too scared to cry out loud, and turned to cling to his mother’s leg, burying his face in her waist and biting hard on the hem of her shirt.

The girl who had given all her luck to her boyfriend collapsed to the floor. Her boyfriend reached under her arms and dragged her up, holding her tightly.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Werewolf Game,” the man behind the speaker said with a laugh. “There’s no turning back, no second chances, no regrets.”

The voice, distorted by the voice changer, was cold and malicious, as inorganic as a snake’s pupil or the pale bones of a corpse. Fang Daichuan shivered violently.

The voice sounded almost apologetic. “You’re really something. One moment there’s an extra person, the next there’s one less. If I’d known someone would die, we wouldn’t have bothered playing the catching the ghost game. It took me so long to gather exactly 13 people.”

Fang Daichuan swallowed again. “Who are you? What gives you the right to kill them?!”

“Oh~ you don’t know? You didn’t sign the contract?” The man’s voice drawled, followed by a low chuckle. “It seems we made a mistake. You’re the real ‘ghost,’ the one who snuck into our Dustward.”

The click of bullets being chambered echoed through the room.

Fang Daichuan wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with firearms. When he was a child, his parents were often too busy to look after him, so he’d frequently be taken to the police station and left in the care of the on-duty officers or administrative staff. Out of boredom, he’d sneak off to the training grounds to watch the officers practice. He’d even secretly touched a real gun once-cold, black metal that felt no different from a high-end mechanical keyboard or a metal-cased computer. It was just another cold, precise piece of machinery, and he hadn’t found it particularly terrifying. Later, by sheer chance, he stumbled into the entertainment circle. Thanks to his martial arts skills, he often landed roles in war dramas where he’d “tear apart enemies with his bare hands.” He’d handled prop guns, fired blanks, and even worn blood packs on his chest to simulate being shot and falling to the ground.

But none of that meant he was used to having a real gun pointed at his forehead. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t panic. The back of Fang Daichuan’s shirt was already soaked with sweat.

“I didn’t mean to sneak in here,” Fang Daichuan said after taking a few deep breaths, though his voice still trembled. His throat felt dry as he explained, “I was supposed to participate in a reality show on the Pitaya Channel called ‘Werewolf.’ The filming location was in Qingdao. If you don’t believe me, you can check online-there are probably leaks and promotional announcements about it already. My flight was delayed, and the program group said they’d send a car to pick me up. I must’ve gotten into the wrong car by mistake. I didn’t mean to!”

Fang Daichuan didn’t know where to look. The person who held his life in their hands wasn’t even in the room. But he should be able to see me, Fang Daichuan thought. He tilted his head, searching for a camera, hoping to convey his sincerity to whoever was behind the scenes.

A cold, electronic voice rang out: “Whether you meant to sneak in or not, I don’t care. I’m short on players, and since you’re here, you’ll just have to keep playing. What’s your name?”

Fang Daichuan couldn’t describe how he felt in that moment. It was like a fallen sorcerer making a deal with the devil-once he gave his name, he’d be handing over his soul. But with the threat of death so close, he swallowed hard and said, one word at a time, “Fang Daichuan.”

“Fang Daichuan,” the voice chuckled darkly, as if cursing him. “Good luck.”

“Little ghost, you don’t understand our rules,” the electronic voice unexpectedly explained to Fang Daichuan. “Our game is fair and voluntary-well, except for you, you poor unfortunate soul. The ‘Werewolf Game’ is a true game of death. Everyone who comes here has signed a life and death contract. ‘The game has no rules, once it starts, it cannot be stopped. The living can win a huge reward, while death leaves you with nothing.’ Go ahead and ask them-isn’t that what our contract says? Since you’ve come to Dustward, you must abide by the rules of the contract. You can’t expect to win money and survive at the same time. That’s not how it works.”

To Fang Daichuan’s surprise, the mastermind behind this explained everything so logically and coherently that he didn’t sound like a deranged lunatic. But then again, who could tell? These days, there were plenty of sociopaths with perfectly normal IQs.

The voice laughed again and asked, “Does anyone else have any objections?” His tone was polite, even gentle, but Fang Daichuan found it far more terrifying than threats or curses.

Who would dare object? The one who had objected was already lying at the entrance. No one else dared to speak.

“Wonderful! Then let’s start drawing cards. Sinian, distribute the card boxes to everyone,” the voice said, brimming with excitement and anticipation, like a child about to watch ants fight, tinged with a malicious innocence.

The mixed-race guy, expressionless, directed others to place the card boxes on the table.

There were thirteen card boxes in total, each exquisitely crafted. They were cubic in shape, wrapped in brown leather with brass corners.

“Each of you, pick a random identity box. All thirteen boxes are identical in appearance and weight. Inside each is a role card and the game rules. The Werewolf’s box will also contain four vials of werewolf poison. The Witch’s box will have one syringe of poison and one of antidote. The werewolf poison takes effect within half an hour. If you receive the antidote within that time, you can be saved. After half an hour, well… sorry about that. The Witch’s poison is instantaneous and has no cure. I wish you all a pleasant game.”

The girl named Yang Song quickly stepped forward, picked up a box, and shook it. There was no sound.

“Don’t bother,” Fang Daichuan sighed. “Since he said they’re identical in appearance and weight, the contents must be secured with foam inserts. The syringes and papers are fixed in place-you won’t hear anything by shaking them.”

Yang Song, skeptical, shook every single box. Just as Fang Daichuan had said, none of them made any distinct sound. She sighed, randomly picked a box, and slumped into a chair. “No choice now. Life or death… it’s all up to fate.”

Compared to the other girls who were crying and screaming, Yang Song was the calm and rational type. She had signed the contract earlier, so unlike Fang Daichuan, who had stumbled in blindly, she was somewhat mentally prepared.

Everyone else also snapped out of it, rushing forward to grab the boxes as if afraid they’d be left with the worst options if they were too late. Fang Daichuan glanced around but didn’t move. Ding Zihui picked a box and came over to ask him, “Why aren’t you choosing one?”

Fang Daichuan sighed. “With my luck, if I let others pick first, I might end up with a decent card. But if I choose myself, I’ll definitely get the villager. I’m used to it.”

The others had already picked their boxes, though there wasn’t much to choose from-it was just a random draw. Fang Daichuan walked over, hesitated between the two remaining boxes, and finally closed his eyes and picked one.

On the table, only one box was left, sitting there all alone.

“We’re still missing one person. What should we do?” The man chuckled softly, his voice dripping with malice. He then ordered, “Sinian, why don’t you stay and play a round with them?”

Holy crap! Even a tiger doesn’t harm its own cub, and a rabbit doesn’t eat the grass near its burrow! Fang Daichuan turned to look at the mixed-race guy, whose face had also turned pale as he stood frozen in place. Among the men in black, he was the only one without a gun, no bushy beard or bulging muscles-he looked gentle and scholarly, the easiest target. Someone grabbed him by the collar, yanked the earpiece from his shirt, and pressed a gun to his forehead.

The voiceover continued with a laugh, “Sinian, be a good boy and keep our guests company.”

The guy glanced at the other players, their gazes filled with a mix of fear, hatred, and a strange sense of shared misfortune. Sinian gave up resisting. He stared at the dark barrel pressed to his forehead, sighed deeply, and stepped forward. His fingers trembling, he picked up the last box on the table.

“Wonderful, just wonderful,” the lunatic clapped and laughed. “It’s getting late outside. You’d better find a safe spot and take a look at your identity boxes. There might be some surprises waiting for you. Oh, and by the way, besides the role cards, your boxes also contain an unmarked identity magnetic card. Make sure to swipe your role card and bind it to your fingerprint-it’ll come in handy. …I almost forgot to remind you, there’s an active underwater volcano near this island. In seven days, this place will be engulfed by steam, carbon dioxide, volcanic debris, and lava, turning it into a death island. I’ll send a helicopter to pick up the winner then. Remember, God favors the wise, and my helicopter will only take the winner.”

“My dear guests, welcome once again to Dustward. Now, all non-essential personnel, please leave immediately. Our Werewolf Game officially begins!”