Chapter 337 – Beware the Rabbit (Part 11): An Old Friend Long Dead

Trapped inside Reiko’s corpse, Qisi sat cross-legged and fell into deep thought.

“Inviting the Rabbit God” had actually yanked his soul into Reiko’s body?

Was it because his own rank neared divinity and he’d been the closest, so the Horror Game made a mistake—or was there more to it?

Qisi didn’t believe he could be the Rabbit God; at the very least, the current him absolutely wasn’t.

Not long ago, Qi had told him that, as a god, he would become Qi, the authority over contracts.

He had no idea how much truth that statement held, but the gap between the Lord of All Gods and the Rabbit God was enormous; forcing a connection would be a serious downgrade… In the item bar, the Rabbit-God Mask had dimmed, showing it was in use.

Qisi felt something fluffy covering his face—undoubtedly the Rabbit-God Mask in effect.

Was being “invited” into Reiko’s corpse as the Rabbit God related to this item?

“Lord Rabbit God, please grant our wishes!”

“Lord Rabbit God, if you’re willing, please draw a circle on the paper!”

The girls danced around Qisi—now inside Reiko—like forest sirens, their voices and eyes brimming with fervent longing.

Qisi realized he’d involuntarily picked up the ballpoint pen beside his leg and was slowly hovering it over the paper, about to make a mark.

Yet the scarlet leaves at the bottom of his Mental Palace didn’t increase or decrease; they stayed perfectly still, as though sealed in wax—the girls’ desires stirred no breeze among the soul-leaves.

Something was off. In the Colosseum instance, when the rat-men were on the verge of having their wishes granted, blazing faith had sprouted large patches of crimson leaves on the vines.

Were these girls faithless—or soulless?

“Lord Rabbit God, hurry—dawn is breaking!” the girls chorused, their eyes reflecting an eerie red glow.

Qisi checked; the item bar and system interface were still visible, and every item not restricted after entering the instance could be activated.

He wasn’t in a rush to make Reiko’s corpse leave; instead, he calmly gripped the pen and quietly drew a circle on the paper.

Seeing that, the girls cheered in delight.

A freckled girl with a ponytail stepped forward and enunciated, “Lord Rabbit God, my wish is to become prettier.”

The instant she finished, the freckles on her face faded and her skin turned visibly fairer.

At the same time, Qisi’s vision filled with blood-red light, and excruciating pain blasted from the back of his head, an icy chill seeping into every blood vessel.

Bizarre visions flashed before him: intertwining chains dropping from the heavens to shackle his limbs—and he was no longer himself but a colossal rabbit composed of countless shattered bones.

Those bones came from different creatures—humans and animals alike. Mottled souls were imprisoned within the bones; a prayer ribbon descended from the sky, sliced off a tiny corner, and drifted to the ground… 【Soul Integrity: 99%】.

A line of white text appeared on the system interface. Qisi realized that granting human wishes wasn’t as simple as it seemed—it consumed the Rabbit God’s own soul… What happened when too much soul was lost? Qisi didn’t know, nor did he want to; it definitely wouldn’t be anything good.

He tried to stand, but the moment he lifted a few centimeters, a force yanked him back down.

Golden chains briefly flashed into view, clattering in the void, radiating imprisonment and restraint.

The scene looked less like worshiping, beseeching, or sacrificing to a god and more like imprisoning and coercing one… The girls giggled: “The ceremony is complete; Lord Rabbit God must grant our wishes before you can leave.”

“Lord Rabbit God has already agreed—there’s no going back.”

A ritual? Once agreed, no retraction?

Sounds rather like a contract… Qisi’s gaze fell on the Pocket Watch of Fate.

Even while shackled, he could still access the item bar; he could activate the Pocket Watch and rewind to before he’d entered the second floor.

But that would mean abandoning Reiko’s corpse and giving up progress on the main quest.

The Horror Game never created unsolvable situations; there had to be a solution he could reach right now… The girls’ circle was seamless, without a single flaw—like a cage trapping Qisi inside.

Two lines the girls had spoken at the very beginning flashed through Qisi’s mind—

“Everyone must be present; if even one person is missing, Lord Rabbit God will be displeased and punish us all.”

“Keep your voices down—don’t let Teacher Qian hear and catch us…”

A contract entails not only rights but also obligations.

Missing just one person would nullify the ritual and everyone would be punished… Qisi’s thoughts stirred; he opened the item bar and took out the Ghost Driver’s Recorder, cranking the volume to maximum.

“Sister and brother to Grandma’s house—children’s meat is tender, Grandma drools…”

“In fear and prayer, I see only the sea and the souls who drown…”

“Whose daughter is dumb and foolish, simple and easy to wed…”

“Good kids who won’t eat must eat dirt; bad kids grow poisonous mushrooms on their skin…”

All sorts of grating, jarring ballads blared out. As Qisi—barely in control of the corpse—randomly stabbed the buttons, each off-key song followed the last.

The alien singing sliced through the night with terrifying penetration; even several floors away it could be heard.

After a momentary daze, the girls forgot their wishes and lunged at Qisi like maniacs, fighting to snatch the recorder.

Qisi silently stowed the recorder in the item bar, then took it out again as they retreated—repeating the cycle… “You can’t do that! Quiet!”

“Damn it—Teacher Qian will hear!”

Panicking, the girls clawed at Qisi’s body, but he felt no pain and kept doing as he pleased.

After all, this body belonged to Reiko, and the dead feel no pain; getting shredded didn’t matter.

The recorder’s songs rang out loud and clear, one after another, shredding the darkness.

One girl dropped to her knees. “Lord Rabbit God, please don’t bring Teacher Qian here—we won’t be so greedy anymore…”

But it was already too late.

The creak of grinding bones approached from afar, carrying a stench of rot and leaving slippery mucus like some mollusk.

In the red light, the female dorm supervisor scuttled forward on all fours, amphibian-quick and nimble.

The girls’ earlier singing had been part of the instance’s mechanics, unable to draw other ghost-NPCs’ notice, but the recorder’s sound came from a player—if the NPCs still ignored it, that would simply be impolite.

The female dorm supervisor hadn’t found Si Qi, who’d slipped out at midnight, on the fourth floor and was already fuming. She chased the noise downstairs, expecting to catch the rule-breaking player, only to find a gaggle of female students—fellow monsters.

Even as ghosts, school rules still applied. Seeing students loitering in the corridor at this hour, the dorm supervisor had to act.

And, as always, the students—monsters or not—feared their teacher.

The girls scattered. Si Qi felt the restraints on his body loosen a fraction; he could move again.

He didn’t rush off. Staying as still as a corpse, he watched the dorm supervisor chase one girl into the distance while the rest darted into their rooms and slammed the doors.

Within half a minute every demon and spirit had vanished. Si Qi tried rising; his soul drifted upward, the world spun, and he snapped back into his own body.

Ling Zi’s corpse toppled backward, hitting the floor with a smack.

It was already 5:40 a.m.; Hope High’s wake-up call wasn’t until 6:30, giving him fifty minutes—plenty of time.

Si Qi left the dorm and, in the thin dawn light, headed straight for the teaching building.

The empty elevated walkway was swallowed by gray-white fog; shadows flickered within, now near, now far, yet when he looked closer nothing was there—like a grotesque dream.

The ground was slick, as though the mist had condensed on the cold cement. Tiny bead-like droplets, almost like insect eggs, rolled ceaselessly.

Vision limited to a small circle, Si Qi relied on sense of direction, moved cautiously, and finally found the stairs.

He gripped the handrail, climbed to the third floor, and stopped outside the staff office.

At this hour no teachers had arrived; the office was empty, silent, no blood seeping anywhere.

Si Qi clutched the recorder in his left hand, pulled a thin wire from his wristband, and picked the lock. He turned the handle and stepped inside.

The unlit office was dim, lit only by slanted dawn light through the window revealing the room’s layout.

Li Fang’s desk stood in the center, neatly arranged with only a stack of student assignments on the top-left corner. Beneath the desk the corpse that had lain there was gone; only a faint metallic scent lingered.

He set the list he’d swiped earlier on the corner of the desk, found his own homework, and slipped his self-criticism inside—problem solved without handing it in personally.

He sat at the desk, pulled open the drawer, and began flipping through the files.

On top lay a lesson-plan book crammed with writing. He skimmed it: teaching designs, reflections, and multiple solutions to problems—Li Fang clearly took her job seriously.

But the school leadership disagreed. Scrawled in blood-red ink after the last page: “Classes Nine and Ten have come last in two consecutive monthly exams—reflect carefully!”

Beneath the planner was the class roster; Si Qi learned that Classes Nine and Ten were the designated “struggling classes,” packed with the worst performers—coming last was inevitable.

Leadership assigned Li Fang the worst classes then berated her—there had to be some personal grudge.

Further down were stacks of workbooks, every page used, red circles marking questions she deemed worthwhile.

He compared them with test papers pulled from under the desk and found those exact questions reprinted.

He’d heard that some schools, to make money, collude with publishers to force students to buy piles of unnecessary materials, wasting both money and time.

Some teachers, unwilling to go along, withstand pressure and cherry-pick questions to create their own handouts, sparing students the expense.

Li Fang had clashed with the administration and was being targeted at every turn. Logical—yet how did that differ from everyday office politics?

He kept digging and a newspaper slid into view.

The date on the paper was July 31—one day before the instance began on August 1.

Everything else had been cut away, leaving only one article. A bold, black headline leapt out—

“Hope High boy jumps to his death, excessive academic pressure suspected.”

The piece said that in the past six months Hope High, swept up in the grade-obsessed tide, had abandoned its former ‘happy education’ and imposed strict discipline.

Many students plunged from heaven to hell and, unable to cope, showed signs of depression.

The article played up teenage fragility and offered feel-good advice on stress relief, then—whether to pad word count or for another reason—recounted the school’s background.

From it Si Qi gathered that Hope High had an elite-college flavor; its students came from three groups:

Top-scoring ‘scholar gladiators’ were lured in with huge scholarships to boost results and serve as advertising.

Wealthy, powerful families, drawn by the hype, paid to enroll their kids, hoping proximity to the top scorers would rub off.

Orphanage kids from impoverished backgrounds formed the base, soaking up charitable donations.

From start to finish there was no benevolence; Eternal Life Tech, the investor, treated the school purely as a cash cow.

The article ended with vague insinuations: “Our investigation finds many abnormal student deaths at Hope High, yet because most were Eternal-Life-sponsored orphans they failed to spark public concern. We must ask: has education gone wrong?”

Si Qi, recalling Rabbit God’s wish mechanism, wondered if those dead orphans had been sacrificed by Eternal Life Tech to guarantee other students’ scores.

But could Rabbit God’s power really influence so many people?

He pondered a moment, then flipped the paper over.

Two photos stared back: one a casual shot of the deceased—height, features, identical to Si Qi, or rather, to Lu Ming;

the other a surveillance still: Lu Ming alone on the dorm rooftop, eyes fixed downward, dark and unfathomable.

Si Qi felt for his pulse—nothing; he raised a hand to his nose—cold.

The instant he spotted the flaw the illusion shattered.

The truth was obvious: the original—Lu Ming—had died before the instance even began…