6:00 A.M.
The last echo of the Ghost King's scream dissolved into a low moan as the towering nightmare lurched backward, its vast form unraveling like smoke in a windless sky.
With a howl sharp enough to split stone, it vanished—not into dust, not into death, but into the open jaws of the ghost gate, dragging with it a coldness that refused to fade.
"Ding! The Midyear Festival has ended."
Wang Xian stood in the ash-strewn plaza, his breath steady, but his soul humming with tension.
Then the system spoke again. Cold. Clinical. Deceptively mundane.
"You ranked 2nd in the total points leaderboard during the Zhongyuan Festival event. You are now eligible to be transformed into a Ghost Clan. If you do not choose within ten minutes, you will be converted automatically."
"Points may now be spent on items or the prize draw within the event interface."
Wang Xian's jaw tensed.
A soft crimson icon blinked in his peripheral vision, begging for a decision.
He didn't hesitate.
"No."
He tapped the option with finality.
Ghost Clan players, while powerful, were barely tethered to the world. Intangible. Untouchable. Cold. You couldn't eat. You couldn't feel warmth. You couldn't be held. Not even by your own kind.
Until level 100, you were a shadow cast by your own death.
Even after—only one hour a day did you remember what it was to be human.
Wang Xian had known too many in his previous life who regretted the transformation. He remembered them sobbing, laughing bitterly, clawing at their own translucent skin.
It was the loneliest kind of power.
He wouldn't pay that price.
"Brother-in-law."
Su Jin's voice broke through the haze. It was small. Hesitant. She wasn't joking this time.
"I got first place in the rankings. The system says I can transform into a ghost. Should I…?"
Wang Xian turned toward her. The girl who had danced and mocked death itself during the Festival now looked... unsure.
Behind her, the others spoke up too.
"I got the prompt too."
"Same here."
"I guess we all did…" even his father muttered.
They looked at him—not as a leader, but as a tether.
"The info's in the event interface," Wang Xian said evenly. "You've got ten minutes. Read it carefully. Then decide."
He didn't command. He didn't sway.
But he knew.
They wouldn't do it.
The thought of losing their humanity—of becoming something that couldn't feel sunlight on skin or the embrace of a friend—it was too much.
Especially after what they'd seen tonight.
One by one, they chose no.
Even Su Jin.
Especially Su Jin.
"Alright then," Nangong Wu's voice returned with a trace of her usual calm. "Uncle, what about the points? Should we exchange for items or try our luck with the lottery?"
The others perked up again.
The final reward phase.
A strange afterglow always followed slaughter. The stillness after storms. Blood still on your boots, and yet your mind turned toward what came next.
Wang Xian opened his interface. 3,475 points.
He considered the lottery for half a breath.
Then he glanced at his XP bar: 37,851 / 90,000.
With a swipe, he burned 1,575 points on raw experience.
+157,500 XP.
Ding! You have reached level 30.
Ding! Free attribute points gained: 5.
Ding! Talent [Growth] has awarded 30 additional points.
Ding! You have completed your first professional advancement as [Sacrifice]. New skills acquired: [Equalization], [Disguise], [Heaven's Eye].
Ding! You have acquired a new talent: [Mana Source] (Rare).
Wang Xian's hand froze mid-air.
New talent?
He immediately opened the panel:
[Mana Source] (Rare):Passive. Increases mana regeneration rate by 5% of maximum MP per second. Reduces all mana-based skill cooldowns by 10%.
His heart hammered.
He hadn't expected a new talent—not so soon.
And certainly not one this powerful.
He looked up. The box was still bustling.
People chattered and laughed, checking their own rewards. Some muttered curses. Others wept tears of joy at lucky draws.
But not him.
Something had shifted again.
Just like it had under the ancient pagoda tree.
Another weight on his shoulders.
Another push toward the throne he didn't ask for.
He felt the pull again—the slow, inexorable draw toward something vast and hidden beneath the coded layers of this world.
The digitization. The strange skills. The way this all felt... more than a game.
He hadn't forgotten the scream of the Ghost King's clone. The eyes behind the mist. The way the darkness watched.
Nangong Wu came up beside him, her voice soft.
"Uncle," she said, "You're frowning again."
Wang Xian didn't answer at first.
Then he said quietly, "The Festival is over. But it doesn't feel like it's over."
He turned toward her.
"Does it?"
She shook her head slowly.
"No," she whispered. "It doesn't."