Parade of the Malevolent in the Crimson Ghost Realm

Within the inn, the remaining players quarreled bitterly over where to go next. Outside, Bryan finally pressed the eyeball back into his socket—and with it, saw the true face of the ghost town, a reality distorted and terrifying. Angela, victorious in a brutal struggle, had fled with cunning desperation—tearing open her own abdomen to force in the stolen organ that didn't belong to her…

Midnight drew near. Thick fog surged and writhed, and the ghost town stirred from its deceptive slumber, shedding the facade of peace from days before, revealing instead a nightmare of slaughter and malicious intent.

Erik was dragged along by the malevolent spirits, step by reluctant step, toward the ancestral shrine.

But she could not reach it. A sea of ghosts blocked the path.

They were grotesque in their variety—some missing limbs, others towering unnaturally tall or emaciated to the bone—but in every eye burned the same savage hunger, the same unrestrained malice.

They were ravenous, and barely clinging to control.

Among them, Erik recognized familiar faces—once harmless, ordinary NPCs of the town, now lost to monstrosity.

"Over here," William whispered. Erik slipped closer. Joshua had vanished after the crowd scattered—his fate unknown. William had found refuge beneath the eaves of a dilapidated house. Pressed against its moss-slick wall, they shared a fragile illusion of safety.

He grasped her hand—clammy with cold sweat, like his own.

Their fingers trembled in shared dread. Even the strongest nerves could not endure this horror unshaken. But in each other's presence, they found a sliver of strength—a reminder of humanity and solidarity.

"The time is near," Erik murmured.

At that moment, the ancestral shrine's doors crashed open.

Not as she had imagined—not with a flood of ghosts erupting forth. The gates merely opened.

And yet, that gesture held meaning.

It was a signal. The parade had begun.

With that silent command, the ghosts were unshackled.

The carnival of chaos commenced.

"Aaaaahhhh!"

"The parade begins!"

The spirits shrieked with manic glee, leaping and bounding. One of them vaulted so wildly its head flew off, rolling across the ground as other ghosts kicked it gleefully. Yet its mouth kept shouting: "The mice! Catch the mice!"

"There they are!"

"To the inn first! Can't let that Blackhead couple have it all!"

The fiends scattered with ecstatic frenzy, leaving Erik and William awkwardly motionless. They quickly mimicked the movement of the crowd to avoid drawing attention.

Together, they moved toward the shrine.

The closer they came, the more suffocating the aura—an oppressive chill that clawed at the bones. They weren't true ghosts—merely humans draped in cursed flesh. Fighting against the nausea, Erik stepped onto the platform—but a force repelled her.

She couldn't enter.

Neither could William.

"Looks like we have to wait for the parade to end," he said bitterly. The ghost town had turned into a hellish hunt, a celebration of human ruin. He could think only of surviving—turning his eyes from the slaughter of his peers.

"Let's find a place to hide," Erik suggested.

They didn't venture far. A nearby house offered concealment. Along the way, they crossed paths with Bryan, who nodded before vanishing down an alley. William waved Erik along. "I've been here before—this house is empty."

Inside, they crouched in silence.

Then came a scream—piercing, agonized.

It was a human scream.

Erik hugged her knees, silent like William.

The parade swept through the entire ghost town, leaving no hiding place untouched. Every scream bored into Erik's ears, icy fingers scraping her soul.

This was the first time she'd witnessed the ghosts' unrestrained massacre of players. In previous instances, the malicious entities had been bound by ambiguous rules—giving players room to resist. But now the shrine's doors had opened, and the ghosts were freed.

"Don't be afraid."

William saw through Erik's outward calm. "You'll get used to it. At least this time, we're spared—just listening from a distance… I once joined a copy where I had to watch other players die—one by one—in every gruesome way imaginable."

"...I see."

How long could a night last?

Erik had never known a night to stretch this endlessly.

Half-asleep, she had a realization—if the number of players was limited, why were there still so many screams?

Her eyes snapped open. She listened.

There was a voice. A scream she had heard before. More than once.

"William, do you hear that?"

He listened—and turned pale. "Yes… Maybe they're using supernatural healing kits to keep them alive."

"They really are playing cat and mouse," Erik said, her voice dark.

The ghosts toyed with their prey, dragging players to the brink of death, then reviving them—only to start the torture anew. The healing kits cleansed their wounds, making them fresh again—playthings to be broken once more.

Still, as long as hope remained, players would seize it—even if it meant diving into a trap with eyes wide open. They would struggle until their points ran dry.

Blood veined Erik's eyes. In this game, life was as light as dust—its revival a cruel joke.

To survive, players had to be scalded in the oil cauldron of an endless game, again and again—until they emerged reforged into something new.

Life was agonizing. Life was precious.

Her parents had once endured such trials. They had survived.

But where were they now?

At last, the night yielded.

So many ghosts. So few players. And yet the revelry had lasted until dawn.

At the first shrill crow of a rooster, Erik blinked back into herself.

"Is it morning?" she whispered to William. "Do towns like this even have chickens?" She hadn't seen one.

"No. That sound came from the shrine. Let's go." William stood, stamping his numb feet.

"Careful." Erik rose, pounding her stiff legs.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

The crowing continued.

Players began to emerge, tentative, peering from their hiding spots. Erik saw the night-long fog pulling inward, thick with clawing ghosts, retreating toward the shrine.

They raged against the end of the parade, unwilling to fade.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

The fog vanished. The ghosts vanished. And in that eerie dawn, the ghost town reverted—quiet, rustic, almost familiar.

In wordless unison, the players made their way to the shrine.

As they arrived, the final crow rang out—and the last wisp of fog dissolved into the gates.

Ghostly players still stood in the courtyard, unseeing, unmoving, their faces clouded with a sorrow they could not name.

Why were they sad?

What was sadness?

They didn't know. And as they tried to grasp it, their thoughts shattered.

"Should we move them?"

"Will they attack us?"

"They're not human anymore—they can't return to the station."

Erik looked around. Only nine players remained.

She, William, Bryan, Joshua, Angela, Kenneth—and three unfamiliar survivors.

Thirty-two had begun. Less than one-third had made it.

"Wait," William murmured.

They didn't wait long.

From a well in the courtyard, a figure emerged.

Players gasped.

It was the innkeeper. He reached back—and pulled out his wife.

Flushed with delight, the couple strode past the players.

"Ah, my dear," the innkeeper laughed, "this year's parade was such fun…"

"If you liked it, I'll fatten next year's mice for you—so they last longer…"

Their words chilled Erik to the core.

Next came the firewood man, the old widow, the blind bookseller, the massage parlor master…

One by one, the NPCs emerged from the shrine, beaming with joy, their faces radiant with the glow of a great celebration.

The players stared in numb silence, until every NPC had exited.

The innkeeper bellowed, "You newcomers—over here! Don't just stand there!"

The ghost players, still lost in the light, obeyed.

Bang!

The shrine doors slammed shut.

From the street came voices.

"Off to gather wood again, old man?"

"No time to rest. The parade's over. Plenty of firewood this time—I've got work to do…"

"Let's go," said William.

Erik turned from the outside world and took a deep breath, stepping toward the glowing circle.

Rain began to fall—soft, cleansing—washing away the last traces of the parade, preparing the town for the next visitors. Guests who would, no doubt, be made to feel right at home.

**\[Player Erik has cleared the supernatural instance: Parade of the Malevolent — Score: 44 points]**

Standing in the forest of stone pillars, Erik clutched her right eye.

It burned.

Tears streamed down her cheek.

What was happening?

Her first thought: the eye—she had changed it during the instance.

It might have belonged to the blind bookseller. And if every NPC in that realm was a ghost, then this eye was a ghost's eye—one that had hidden her living aura and let her walk among monsters, unseen.

But the instance was over. She was back at the transfer station.

Why did it still hurt?

The pain drilled deep—into bone, into soul. Erik could no longer stand. She clutched a pillar and collapsed, trembling.