HTCYH Ch 45

Chapter 45: Jiang Tukui

Between the deserted corridor and the still water pool, the sense of dread thickened with every passing second. Tu Si’s heartbeat began to race; it felt like one of those horror images—you knew a ghost’s face would appear, yet you still had to click it, waiting for that chilling moment when the apparition would jump out.

The absolute silence was broken only by the faint buzzing of electric current. Tu Si’s pulse quickened uncontrollably, his body instinctively responding to danger. The old saying, “his heart leapt into his throat,” had never felt so fitting. At that moment, Tu Si felt like a chicken bound and waiting for the butcher’s knife—he didn’t know when it would fall, only that it hovered perpetually before his eyes.

With a sudden bang, the streetlamp, as if finally giving in under its own strain, short-circuited and went dark. A thick mass of clouds swallowed the moonlight, and Tu Si was left completely engulfed by darkness.

He stood still amidst the blackness as a damp, squirming sound rose around him, creeping closer and closer. Suddenly, two clammy, wet hands cupped his face. Tu Si let out a long-suppressed, guttural “damn it!” which, oddly enough, soothed his nerves a little. Then, without hesitation, he lashed out with a high spin kick, sending the unknown creature flying. The next instant, he fell in pain, clutching his leg and tearing up uncontrollably—he had just realized, in miserable clarity, that he’d kicked a steel beam.

Tears streamed freely down his face, but his hand was already gripping the flaming bone crystal he’d drawn from the app. In a steady tone, he asked, “Are you Jiang Tukui? Hello, my name is Tu Si. I was sent by your captain to check on your situation. Do you still have human consciousness?”

“Captain? Hehehehe… Is that so? So someone still remembers me. How long has it been since I left the real world? Not too long, I suppose—otherwise, I would have been forgotten.” Jiang Tukui finally spoke.

His voice was dreadful—a sound that seemed to come from vocal cords crushed beneath a wheel, chaotic, broken, and full of static. Though the words were barely coherent, Tu Si sensed no hostility from him and relaxed slightly, keeping the crystal sphere tucked into his pocket with one hand as he rubbed his aching leg with the other, checking for fractures or dislocations.

“Why did you choose my identity? That was… not wise.” The hoarse voice rang out again, laced with the sickly crunch of bone and flesh grinding together.

Tu Si’s brows drew together slightly. Having once seen the state of Jiang Tukui’s broken corpse after his fall, he could easily imagine his current appearance. “For certain reasons,” he replied, “I was forcibly logged out of the game. To re-enter, I needed to use your identity as a link. I apologize for doing so without your permission. As compensation, I can help fulfill any reasonable wishes you might have.”

After a moment of silence, Jiang Tukui let out a sharp, creaking laugh. He shuffled noisily for a bit before muttering, “You’re rather pitiful yourself—to have connected to me. Using my identity isn’t something worth apologizing for. Who thanks the one who drags them into hell? I just hope your mental endurance is strong enough. Survive senior year. If you get out alive, tell the captain I said thank you—for remembering me.”

Hearing these words, Tu Si’s brows furrowed involuntarily. In just a few exchanges, Jiang Tukui’s tone revealed his self-loathing, resignation, and lifeless despair. From that, Tu Si could tell—his death truly had been suicide, not some fabricated homicide.

But suicide, at its root, is often a collective kind of murder—a group of people cornering one person until death seems like the only choice. No one is ever charged, and in the end, the perpetrators can even stand tall, chastising the dead for being too fragile.

Through this brief conversation, Tu Si pieced together something crucial: to clear the game, one only needed to complete the main quest—to survive senior year. As for side quests that conflicted, they could be fulfilled at random. If so, Tu Si decided, he’d prioritize mission five—helping the students of Class Four recover their sanity—and afterward, find a way to revive this half-dead Jiang Tukui.

Having made up his mind, Tu Si straightened and asked, “Because I used your body, your soul started wandering, didn’t it? Can you possess me instead—can we share one body?”

Jiang Tukui made a faint, rustling sound—perhaps nodding or shaking his head—then seemed to realize Tu Si couldn’t see him. “No need,” he rasped. “Your entrance broke my nightly cycle of jumping off the building. For that, I should thank you. The body—you can use it freely. I’m trapped in Class Four during the day, only able to move at night.”

Tu Si quickly followed up, “So all the students of Class Four can move around at night? Can I meet them in advance?”

After a pause that stretched long, Jiang Tukui spoke again: “Turn on your flashlight and take a look at me. If you’re not afraid, I’ll take you.”

Tu Si took out his phone, switched on the flashlight, and in an instant the corridor blazed with harsh white light. The brightness stung his eyes, making them tear up. After adjusting for a moment, he saw the figure before him. As expected, Jiang Tukui appeared as he had after the fall—half a smashed head dangling from his neck like a broken melon, an eye burst open with a pebble embedded inside. Only his vocal cords and a few thick sinews kept the head attached, allowing him to rasp out words in a guttural croak.

To an ordinary person, the sight would have been unspeakably grotesque. But Tu Si, who had crawled through heaps of corpses more times than he cared to count, felt little shock—only a deep sigh. Jiang Tukui’s features, he noted, must once have been clean, soft, even handsome. Now, however, there was only ruin—utter, ghastly ruin.

After studying him calmly, Tu Si said, “Next, take me to Class Four.”

Jiang Tukui gave a faint nod, then turned to lead the way.

He limped as he walked, wobbling like a zombie, but when he clambered up the side of the water tank, opened the window, and vaulted out, his movements were oddly smooth and practiced. Tu Si followed, mimicking his motion. Seeing the two-story drop, he braced himself and leapt confidently—only to be scratched by branches, leaving two fresh scars on his arm. Shaking his wrist, which had twisted from the landing, he exhaled in weary resignation. “Being human really isn’t easy,” he thought.

And so, hobbling in unison, Tu Si and Jiang Tukui made their way into the midnight teaching building.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, Tu Si noticed a large figure hanging near the stairwell—something resembling a life-sized teru teru bozu doll. A closer look revealed a girl in a white dress hanging by the neck. Jiang Tukui introduced her: “Qin Youyi, a former student of Class 2-3. Don’t take her down. After suicide, students must endlessly repeat their deaths each night. It’s both punishment and a warning from the teachers to the rest. If you untie her, she’ll just hang herself again and suffer that agony once more.”

Hearing this, Tu Si lowered the hand he’d instinctively reached out with and quietly followed behind Jiang Tukui. As they passed the girl in white, he felt the air shift around him—the space suddenly changed. The empty hallway transformed. Outside the window, students were leaping to their deaths like falling dumplings; along the corridor, rows of “human teru teru bozu” hung in neat alignment. But the most gruesome of all was a boy impaled through the throat by the Class Four nameplate—the wooden plaque stabbing cleanly through him, the blood forming a smeared backdrop against the two faint characters for “Class Four.” The gushing crimson sprayed across the wall in a two-meter-wide pattern—an abstract mural like a field of bleeding otherworldly flowers, grotesquely beautiful in its horror.

Tu Si’s pupils dilated sharply. He turned to Jiang Tukui in shock.

Though he no longer had eyes, it felt as if Jiang Tukui could see his expression. The broken grin on his face widened. “Don’t think of me as that cowardly,” he said. “I fought back. I just… failed.”

As he spoke, he stepped to the impaled boy’s body, reached into the pocket, and retrieved a phone. His bony fingers danced rapidly across the screen. Moments later, Tu Si’s own phone chimed with a notification.

Puzzled, Tu Si pulled it out. There, in the corner of the app’s icon, glowed a small red unread mark. His confusion deepened.

He tapped it open. The initial interface read:

Cultivator Name: Jiang Tukui

Ascension Level: Nascent Soul Stage

Experience for Divine Transformation: (7200 / 8000)

Game Items: Crimson Peach Blossom Orb, Flaming Bone Crystal, Death Pendulum, Witch’s Cauldron (Damaged), Substitute Doll (Damaged)

Points Store: Unlocked   Points (2080)

Tu Si’s jaw dropped. He looked from the phone to Jiang Tukui, stammering incoherently, “Y-you—you, I-I—I—”

Jiang Tukui, as if reminiscing, caressed the phone gently. “Fate, I suppose,” he murmured. “Take these few relics of mine and do your best to clear the game. Don’t be foolish enough to think you can save anyone. Survival—that’s the only hope. I thought I’d destroyed this disgusting game for good, but it seems your captain saw otherwise—sending a rookie like you here to die.”