"Let's go. We'll return to the courtyard together," Kevin said as he rose, his voice still carrying a trace of strength.
On the way back, Eric asked, "How did you recognize me?"
"Your voice."
"Incredible—you can distinguish people by sound alone. I thought your name sounded familiar when you introduced yourself, but I didn't make the connection."
The two returned side by side. When they arrived, Samantha and Jason were already in the courtyard.
"You're back," Samantha said. "I left dinner in the well to keep it fresh. It should still be edible—go and eat."
"They're still delivering food today?" Eric asked, astonished.
"I believe so. When I came back, I saw several wooden buckets left in the living room. Some were spoiled, so I stored the rest in the well."
Eric noticed that Samantha and Jason were both seated on the ground. She glanced toward the living room—had something happened there?
"Christine is dead," Samantha said flatly. "Her body's in the living room. If you're hungry, eat first. Don't go in."
The courtyard was dim, its shadows untouched by the weak light from inside. Eric couldn't see Samantha's face, but she could feel the tremor in her voice, the fragile edge of a breakdown.
She understood—Christine's death must have been gruesome.
"All right."
Kevin went to the well and hauled up a bucket.
It was filled with steamed buns.
The two began to eat. Eric wasn't particularly hungry; she stopped after two. Kevin, on the other hand, devoured six. His pace was so fast Eric feared he might choke.
"We're still missing three people—Timothy, Ronald, and Nicole," Kevin said suddenly. "Who killed Christine? Do you remember what I said—killing others in this game should be avoided if at all possible."
Eric nodded. "Even if someone knows that, they might not be able to control themselves when they're under the influence." She still remembered what she had seen before leaving the room—Christine and Nicole tearing at each other like beasts. It had been a fight to the death. No one wants to be the one left to die.
After exchanging a few more words, they joined Samantha and Jason.
"It's past midnight," Samantha said. "If today's transformation was going to happen, it should've already begun. Are either of you feeling any discomfort?"
Eric and Kevin both shook their heads.
They waited a little longer. Still, no changes appeared. Samantha gently touched her now slightly swollen belly. "Then let's sleep for now. We'll need our strength."
Passing the living room, Eric caught sight of Christine's remains gathered in a corner.
They could no longer be called a corpse—what lay there was more akin to dismembered flesh. Her skull had caved in, blood and brain matter splattered about. Yet that wasn't necessarily the fatal wound. Eric's gaze dropped to her belly—it had exploded. The force must have been immense, tearing her body apart, folding her in half at an angle less than forty-five degrees.
In time, when the flesh rotted away, her bones would be no different from those buried nameless in the graves behind the mountain.
"The fetus in her womb is gone," Samantha said numbly. "It's as if it decided it couldn't wait for delivery—and clawed its way out."
In another dark corner of the village, Nicole had also regained her senses. But the moment she saw her grotesquely enlarged stomach, horror seized her.
"W-Why is it so huge!" she gasped.
The larger her belly grew, the thinner the skin stretched. Nicole dared not even touch it, terrified of the idea that her palm might meet the palm of the ghost fetus within—that encounter would be anything but tender or miraculous.
She examined her surroundings. The air reeked of blood. She stepped on something soft and damp. Groping blindly in the darkness, she bent down to feel—
—and recoiled, collapsing in fear. A corpse. She had been standing on a corpse.
Stumbling out, she found the path littered with the mutilated dead. She didn't want to believe it, but deep down, she knew—they were NPCs, and she had likely been the one to kill them.
She remembered Christine. They had fought—was Christine still alive?
Anxious dread twisted inside her. Nicole had the unsettling sense she was teetering on the brink of a precipice—about to fall.
Her belly, once the size of three or four months pregnant, now looked full-term, ready to burst. This monstrous transformation had to be tied to her losing control and committing murder.
Tears fell uncontrollably. Nicole wiped them away and pressed forward in the dark. She had to return to the courtyard. Perhaps the other players could help her.
As she walked—
Her foot found nothing beneath it.
Splash!
Splash!
Splash!
One after another, in the dead of night, figures emerged along the river on the village's western edge. As if under a spell, they moved without hesitation—one by one plunging into the water.
Twenty Minutes Earlier
That night, only Eric and Samantha shared the room. Neither felt the pull of sleep, nor the desire for conversation. Eventually, Eric drifted into a shallow, uneasy slumber. In her half-conscious state, she seemed to hear the murmur of water and sensed the earthy scent of rising mist against her nose.
When she opened her eyes, she was underwater.
Moonlight could not reach the riverbed. The depths were dark and cold, a tomb of icy silence. Eric could feel an overwhelming surge of resentment—not her own, but something old, heavy, and saturated with rage. She hated this water. She hated the moonlight that refused to bless the deep. She hated this eternal imprisonment.
Imprisonment.
She looked down.
There, in the murk below, were sprawling tangles of river weeds, jagged stones, and her own long hair swaying in the current.
The weeds had wound themselves around her ankles. Over time, her flesh had decayed and peeled away, transforming her into something monstrous—grotesque and forgotten, forever trapped in this underwater tomb.
Time crawled. Her soul darkened. The hatred inside her grew sharper, more poisonous. Sometimes, she would wonder how she ended up here, why her heart brimmed with such seething malice—but the questions vanished as quickly as they came.
She had always been here. Wasn't it only right for her to hate?
She had to leave. She *must* leave. Why should she be the only one condemned to suffer?
Seasons turned. The sun rose again. Even the waters began to warm under the summer heat, and in that change, Eric felt hope. A joy, twisted but radiant, bloomed within her.
This was her moment.
And indeed, on one sweltering afternoon, the gentle lapping of waves stirred her awake. From the bank came the laughter of children, drawing closer. Someone had entered the river.
Jealousy. Delight. Malice. They exploded within her like fire through dry brush. She rose instinctively—this was her chance to escape the deep!
The child lingered near the bank at first, but gradually drifted toward the center.
Eric's anticipation soared. The waterweed held her tightly, yet she couldn't help but stretch her hand forward.
Come. Come closer. Closer still!
The children played, splashing happily in the cool water, basking in its relief from the summer heat.
One child strayed farther than the rest, swimming toward the very heart of the river.
"Hee hee! It's so cool here!" the child laughed.
To Eric, the sound was like a siren's song—pure, celestial, irresistible. Closer. So close! She reached out—
But somewhere in the murk of her mind, another thought stirred: *No. You mustn't.*
That whisper grew louder, drowning out the savage urge to find a substitute.
No.
You must not.
Eric jerked awake. The child was within arm's reach.
She yanked her hand back.
Reason wrestled with the instinct of the drowned wraith inside her. Eyes clenched shut, Eric refused to look at the child so close to her grasp. She knew—this was no dream. She had been sleeping in her bed. This was the doing of the ghost fetus. On the third night, it had become a water wraith—and now it wanted the players to drag down substitutes in its stead.
She would not be its pawn.
The child's movement stirred the water. It lapped gently against her face, carrying the vibrant scent of young life. That scent fanned the embers of her fury.
Eric's eyelids trembled violently—but she did not open them.
It was a lie. All of it.
Her name was Eric. Her father was Geoffrey. Her mother was Deborah. She was not a bitter soul drowned and twisted by the river's curse.
She was not.
At last, the sounds faded. Eric could no longer breathe. Then, the weeds around her ankles gave way, and she surged upward.
Elsewhere, Nicole too had fallen into the water ghost's illusion.
A child dove and swam with playful ease, twisting through the river's embrace. Suddenly, something below caught his eye. Amidst the swaying weeds, a glint of light beckoned. Curious, he swam downward and reached out.
Two hands burst from the water and seized him.
The boy panicked, trying to scream—only to gulp down mouthfuls of water.
The decaying hands dragged him close, pressing him into a rotting, suffocating embrace. The weeds wrapped him tightly. The water ghost had found its replacement. It was free.
Nicole surfaced, a cruel smile playing on her lips as she swam upward—
Splash!
From the midnight waters, a figure emerged and collapsed on the shore. Water streamed from a grotesquely swollen belly. She opened her eyes weakly—only to see her abdomen had grown even larger than before. The joy she had felt when embracing that child now chilled her to the bone.
She had made a mistake.
Every time she obeyed the ghost fetus's will, her belly swelled.
"Aaagh!" she cried. Her stomach stretched to its limit.
The ghost fetus, fed by wicked intent and malice, had matured far too early.
Nearby, Eric was resting in the darkness of a moonless night. She heard someone emerge from the water but dared not approach—unsure who it was or whether the ghost's will had been fulfilled.
Then she heard Nicole's scream.
She sat up at once, turning her face toward the sound.
"Nicole? Are you all right?"
Another splash echoed nearby. Another player, perhaps, was climbing ashore.
"Help! Please!" Nicole's wail pierced the night. Her abdomen burst. Blood and viscera sprayed outward in a grotesque eruption. Overwhelmed by agony, she had no choice but to use a supernatural medical kit.
But the rules of the game were absolute.
A ghost fetus born of malice is destined to devour its host. No charm, no item, no miracle could prevent it.
The medical kits only slowed Nicole's death. By the time Eric crawled toward her in the dark and found her with trembling hands, Nicole was already staring blankly at the starless sky—life slipping away with a final, bitter breath.
Eric, hearing the silence, reached for Nicole's neck.
Her hand brushed the swollen belly first. The texture—
It was like touching a mound of warm, rotten mud.
She held her breath, recoiled, and shifted her hand.
At last, her fingers found Nicole's throat.
No pulse.
Stillness.
Nicole was dead.