Chapter 185 – Red Maple Boarding School (22) “He was fooled by 47”

On the second floor, Chen Lidong had already pried open another door sealed with cement.

Inside the room, stacks of tattered pelts were neatly piled, their surfaces covered with dense, unrecognizable script.

It was clear these were Indigenous documents, rounded up by the Foundation and locked away here.

Chen Lidong glanced at the compulsory side quest on his system interface, gritted his teeth, and began laboriously studying the glyph-covered pelts.

Setting aside the Witch, the quest 【Find a Curing Witchcraft】would almost certainly start with the Indigenous people; the key information was most likely recorded in these incomprehensible documents, and he had to try deciphering them.

But facts proved that some things simply can’t be forced. After staring at the pelts until his eyes stung, he still couldn’t read a single character.

He looked around, pulled a tote bag from his inventory, and stuffed all the pelts inside—whatever they said, owning them would put his mind at ease.

Meanwhile, Zhou Datong sent over new intel.

Chen Lidong thus learned that his sleepless night had been caused by a disease called insomnia syndrome, something connected to the Indigenous people.

Although he knew the syndrome could lead to memory loss, hallucinations, death, and worse, he felt little panic; if death came, they’d all die together. With the quest to find a curing witchcraft already in place, the illness merely served as a countdown.

What bothered him more was Zhang Yiyu publicly outing herself as the “Witch,” outing his “Philanthropist” identity in the same breath.

While that saved him the trouble of hunting for the Witch, it also shoved him into the spotlight. Any player with half a brain, given Zhang Yiyu’s intel, could narrow the Philanthropist down to either him or Zhou Datong.

Although the mutually-assured-kill side quest was strictly between him and Zhang Yiyu, who knew whether Jiang Junjue, the ever-meddler, might intervene for the sake of Jiuzhou and Tingfeng.

That bitch Zhang Yiyu had also lied, presenting an optional task as compulsory—who knew what scheme brewed in her mind… He had to amass enough Chips to win other players’ support, or at least avoid becoming everyone’s enemy.

From afar came a soft “tap-tap-tap,” the cadence of someone walking on tiptoe.

Chen Lidong glanced at the small pile of pelts still in the corner and sped up his packing.

Amid the rustle of pelts sliding into the bag, the footsteps drew closer; a cold breeze brushed his back, raising tangible chills. Though he was in the tropics, it felt like late autumn.

Shivering, Chen Lidong whirled around to find Ms. Medina, dressed in black, standing in the doorway, her gaze as venomous as a viper’s.

That stare flicked like a serpent’s tongue, malice undisguised. When she saw him look over, her voice came icy: “Mr. Philanthropist, please put down those documents. Mr. Thorson does not allow them to be taken from this room.”

Chen Lidong’s blood froze; the horrific way the Black Man had died that morning flashed before his eyes. He stiffened and instantly let go, dropping the tote full of pelts to the floor.

Ms. Medina’s gray-blue eyes studied him without a hint of mercy.

Realizing what she wanted, he hurriedly returned the pelts to the bag and placed them back exactly as he remembered.

Only after the last pelt was out of the tote did Ms. Medina nod in satisfaction, toss off a “Don’t let it happen again,” and leave.

He exhaled in relief; when her silhouette vanished, he gingerly touched his back—sticky cold sweat had soaked his shirt, gluing the rough plaster to his skin.

He didn’t know why Ms. Medina had only warned him instead of throwing him into the Isolation Room or simply killing him, but alive beat dead any day.

Out of habit, Chen Lidong replayed the scene in his mind; when his memory reached the address “Mr. Philanthropist,” his eyes narrowed.

Something was wrong—very wrong!

Since Ms. Medina already knew he was the Philanthropist, what on earth had he been hiding?

Come to think of it, he had come to Red Maple Boarding School as the Philanthropist dispatched by the Indigenous Peoples Charity Foundation—not as some covert lone operator—so his identity was presumably an open card to Ms. Medina.

The Indigenous Peoples Charity Foundation had its own agenda, bearing no goodwill toward the Indigenous people, and would hardly protest the abuses inside the school. As a member of the Foundation, he himself had no benevolent intentions and certainly wouldn’t report the crimes to seek justice for Indigenous children.

His conflict with Ms. Medina should be limited to what the letters had shown.

Ms. Medina flatly denied the existence of witchcraft and refused to let his faction take children for experimentation, while he insisted on entering the school to uncover the mysteries of witchcraft and locate the Witch.

Yet because Ms. Medina answered to the Foundation, she couldn’t openly harm the “Philanthropist.”

As the “Philanthropist,” he had no need to kowtow to her.

A single spark can illuminate a blind spot; once the mental knot was untied, Chen Lidong chuckled, picked up the tote, and began loading the pelts again.

【You have disturbed the spirits of Indigenous children】

Pale notification text popped onto the system interface.

Before Chen Lidong could process it, rustling arose from every corner of the room; twisted shapes sprouted in the shadows, spreading like water stains and slowly forming the outlines of human faces.

A pair of pitch-black hands burst from the floor, grabbed his ankles, and began dragging him downward.

Shuddering, Chen Lidong looked down to find the ground beneath him had turned into soft, swampy mire that now clung to his soles.

“Leave the witchcraft…”

“You may not take it…”

Muffled whispers tangled in his ears. Chen Lidong cursed, whipped out White Blade, and slashed at the skinny black arms.

The blade passed through the arms as if through liquid; failing to stop, the edge landed on his instep, slicing a bleeding gash that made him hiss in pain.

The ghostly hands kept doggedly tugging his legs, and more arms sprang from the ground, reaching for the tote in his grip.

With a flick of thought, he flung the tote away.

The pelts spilled into the air, only to be caught by the ghost hands and returned to their original places.

The water stains on the walls receded at a speed visible to the naked eye; the hands gripping his ankles loosened and slipped back into the ground.

Everything in the room returned to normal. Gasping, Chen Lidong finally realized he could find no loophole: the inability to remove the documents was a built-in instance mechanism.

The situation was clear: while Ms. Medina wouldn’t do anything to him, the Indigenous kids were far less forgiving.

Faced with a “Philanthropist” who wanted to experiment on them, they definitely wouldn’t show any kindness—counting themselves lucky if they didn’t take the initiative to exact revenge.

The ground beneath his feet had hardened again; the foot that had been dragged in was now stuck and couldn’t be pulled free.

Chen Lidong had to squat down and carefully use White Blade to cut the cement around his legs, doing his best not to slice his own flesh.

In the silence, he belatedly realized what was wrong.

As fellow Indigenous kids, 47’s attitude toward him was far too friendly—not just lacking hostility, but treating him like a savior who would rescue the children from their plight.

‘While I was on my way to pick mushrooms in Maple Forest, I overheard Ms. Medina talking with a strange person. She was discussing how to make you die without noticing, then bury you in Maple Forest so you couldn’t report the school’s affairs to the Foundation…’

Qi Si’s words echoed in his ears; Chen Lidong’s brows knit tightly.

Those words only held water if the Philanthropist was a good person seeking justice for the kids, and Ms. Medina feared the child-abuse story reaching the Foundation—exactly the opposite of the truth.

Normally, an NPC couldn’t deceive or mislead players at this point—not just because it would deadlock the reasoning, but because such behavior would be illogical for an Indigenous child.

The Eerie Game has always pursued a kind of rationality, at least on the surface—so what’s with this blatant disharmony?

…In the Archives, the clues had just about been gathered.

Jiang Junjue checked the time: 9:50, ten minutes till the ten-o’clock rendezvous.

He led the way to the second floor, but instead of heading straight for the classroom matching his number, he peered into every room, memorizing who was inside.

After covering the whole floor he still hadn’t spotted Qi Si, which strengthened his conviction in his own deduction.

47 was an Evil God; the Witch’s quest was to summon that Evil God. If 47 were still present, the quest couldn’t stand—so 47 had to vanish, after which the players would find a way to perform the ritual and summon him.

—No flaws, perfectly reasonable.

Ever since Zhang Yiyu had been forced to reveal her identity info, she’d nervously stuck to Jiang Junjue’s side, putting on an ingratiating show of atoning for her concealment.

Moments ago Qi Si had told her through the Soul Leaf that the “Philanthropist” was Chen Lidong—and that he’d most likely heard what she’d blurted out and had his eye on her.

She silently wailed in her heart: “Boss, I’m only on his hit list because I was working for you—you have to find a way to save me!”

Qi Si replied coolly: “Get me out of the Coffin first, then I’ll tell you what to do next.”

“But how am I supposed to stay alive till then?”

Zhang Yiyu asked; after a long wait Qi Si offered no further reply.

This “boss” seemed to be a heartless order-dispensing machine, treating her like a disposable tool—command given, end of story.

She could only save herself—by hugging Jiang Junjue’s thigh and borrowing his authority.

“Xiao Zhang, it’s getting late—find your seat quickly; don’t be late.” Jiang Junjue glanced at the distracted Zhang Yiyu beside him and patted her shoulder with feigned concern, as kindly as an elder to a junior.

Zhang Yiyu knew she’d passed the test.

The lines Qi Si had taught her had earned the veteran’s trust, flawlessly misdirecting the players’ route to the truth.

Even so, she felt as if walking in a dream, her steps light and unsteady.

According to Qi Si’s latest message, the man had literally locked himself inside a Coffin. For an old fox like him to risk his own hide, the situation was probably grimmer than imagined.

Worse, Qi Si hadn’t breathed a word about what this instance actually entailed… If he died, she’d know nothing. Even if she could keep her story straight, the fact that she’d eaten someone would make the Investigation Bureau show her no mercy!

“Si Qi has to be back before ten… I’m still under suspicion; if I break from the group to look for him in the Graveyard, I’d be confessing my guilt!”

Zhang Yiyu prayed to Buddha, God, and Allah all at once, then shakily entered a classroom, counted the numbers on the desks, finally found her “16,” and sat down.

The classroom wasn’t large and was simply furnished: only a blackboard hanging above the lectern and a few dozen desks facing it.

By now five players were seated, all nervously watching the mechanical clock behind the blackboard.

The hands crept onward; the hour hand drew ever closer to the Arabic numeral “10,” each “tick” of the mechanism hammering Zhang Yiyu’s heart in the silence.

She inconspicuously turned her head toward the doorway; from her seat she could just see the stairwell—empty, not a soul in sight.

At 9:59 Zhang Yiyu finally couldn’t bear it and called out in her mind: “Boss, how’s it going over there? Should I find a chance to dig you out?”

Silence—utter silence, no reply at all… Her heart sank as terrifying guesses sprouted: had Qi Si met with mishap?

After the long wait the hand hit “10,” and overlapping footsteps sounded outside—like a dozen identical people dispersing in every direction.

Ms. Medina strode through the front door, stepped onto the podium, and declared coldly: “One Bad Kid is late; when I see him again, he’ll suffer the severest punishment!”

At the same moment Zhang Yiyu finally heard Qi Si’s voice: “I’m not coming back.”

“What do you mean, Boss? Are you in danger or just out of time? What should I do—do you still want me to come for you?” she silently fired off.

Yet every question vanished like stones into the sea; after that single sentence Qi Si fell silent, not another word.

On the podium Ms. Medina, chalk in hand, wrote on the blackboard with her back to the players, the picture of a dedicated teacher.

Zhang Yiyu sat on pins and needles, desperate for class to end so she could slip to the Graveyard, open the Coffin behind Tomb 47, and see whether the man inside was alive or dead.

She didn’t care about Qi Si; he was just the only one willing to help her kill the other players.

With Qi Si alive it was 2-vs-18; with him dead, her odds of survival would hit rock bottom.