Pen Spirit, Pen Spirit (1)
The voice of the white porcelain sculpture was gentle, tinged with a kind of indulgence toward the younger generation.
Yet its shattered face showed no expression, appearing exceptionally cold, giving off a sense of disjointed detachment.
It patiently and kindly blocked every possible shortcut or trick that Ying Yan could think of.
Dim moonlight streamed through the window, quietly spilling across the room.
Caught in the act, the girl froze in place, unmoving. Her smooth black hair fell down, covering most of her face.
Her off-white long dress covered her knees, speckled with a few drops of blood.
About five minutes later, without warning, tears filled Ying Yan’s eyes, dripping down one by one.
Next, she did something the white porcelain sculpture did not expect —
She crouched down and hugged the red silk ribbon.
Then, she began to whine.
“No, no, three chances aren’t enough! Senior, please, just a little more!”
The white porcelain sculpture froze, unsure how to respond at first.
The bracelet bore the mark of a deity; no matter where it went, it could accurately sense the movements and location of its wearer.
Noticing what Ying Yan was doing, it found it amusing, like watching an unthinking child; elders always give some leniency.
Unexpectedly, she actually cried. Perhaps the tone had been too strict?
The high priests the sculpture had dealt with before were mostly disciplined, well-mannered children.
The most unruly was the first-generation high priest.
But even they would only complain quietly during late-night temple shifts about life’s frustrations or share occasional trivial stories.
Of course, there were greedy ones full of scheming, but in front of the sculpture, they all feigned generosity and righteousness.
The white porcelain sculpture had never encountered a child like Ying Yan — one who would throw a tantrum if not given “sweets,” openly calculating on her face.
If it had surfed the internet in the modern era, it would know: this is a classic brat — the more you indulge it, the bolder it gets.
But the sculpture didn’t know and instinctively cajoled. The red silk it was hugging absorbed the bloodiness, giving a sense of awkward helplessness.
“Don’t cry. Fine, as long as it’s from one person, even fresh blood from a hospital bag will do.”
Hearing this, Ying Yan calmed her crying a little, though she still sniffled.
Her snow-white cheeks, streaked with tears, looked like blooming flowers drenched by sudden rain.
In front of someone unfamiliar, it did not feel awkward or out of place.
In truth, aside from the initial torrent of tears, Ying Yan mostly played the part — all show, no real storm.
Out of the corner of her eye, she secretly watched the white porcelain sculpture, cautiously testing the limits beneath her seemingly reckless behavior.
Compared to the first visit, this time she had a better grasp.
Seeing that Ying Yan was still crying, the sculpture added: “You can’t borrow it to others, but you can let your two companions stand close; they can provide some protection as well.”
After saying this, fearing further compromise, the white porcelain sculpture vanished, leaving only the chicken-blood-stone bracelet, faintly glowing in the blood.
Ying Yan wiped her tears; deep within her black eyes, darkened by the water, there was clear composure.
No emotion, all acting.
From the beginning, she had sensed that the sculpture indulged her like an elder to a junior.
She even formed a realization: as long as she didn’t push too far, the sculpture would tolerate her.
Her first test was extremely risky, but the outcome confirmed her understanding.
Repeatedly soaking the bracelet in animal blood was a further test.
The appearance of the white porcelain sculpture was unexpected.
Yet from the last two sentences, it subtly revealed an important piece of information — “I am a deity who slightly favors you.”
As for strict threats, Ying Yan filtered them out automatically.
Having dealt with tsundere personalities in her previous life, she had already mastered the skill of only listening to the good parts.
No matter the source of this elder’s favoritism, eerie or not, she seized the opportunity, using “unreasonable tantrums” to test boundaries while walking a tightrope to gain some benefit.
After all, a little red envelope from an elder isn’t too much to ask, right?
Ying Yan didn’t expect the effect to be so effective — astonishingly so.
She picked up her notebook and pen, tossed to the floor, and quickly recorded the night’s events, heavily underlining “special attitude.”
After watching Heze Fright Night, she might understand it fully.
After finishing notes, Ying Yan took out the bracelet, repeatedly rinsed it under the faucet, wiped it with a towel, and then wore it on her wrist.
Then, she tidied up, putting the dead duck in the fridge, and cooked the live fish into braised fish.
No particular reason — she simply preferred eating fish.
Full and satisfied, she washed up and went to sleep.
The next day,
Morning sunlight filtered through the willow-lined roads, warmly shining on the delicate, classical high-rises.
The school wasn’t very crowded, giving off a rare sense of desolation.
As Ying Yan walked with her backpack, she didn’t meet a single classmate.
With an 8 a.m. class, most students usually hurried to the cafeteria or classroom while yawning.
Yet now, the scene was puzzling.
Suppressing the unease rising in her heart, she climbed the stairs and entered the classroom.
Only a third of the students were present.
The empty seats gave a strangely chilling feeling.
Soon, the strictest, most responsible teacher entered, glanced down, said nothing, and absentmindedly conducted the class.
During the break, Ying Yan checked her phone, startled to find several posts marked “Eerie APP” and “Midnight Screening.”
She clicked one, and the first thing she saw was the bright green and red “Weird Question” APP.
A strong, ominous premonition surged, raging like a hurricane.
Ying Yan tried posting “Round Table Meeting” at the end of the thread, but failed.
“Round Table Meeting” was still a forbidden topic for most, while the “Weird Question” APP brazenly appeared online, boldly announcing that everyone’s phone had been compromised.
Thinking of this, Ying Yan’s lips went pale.
Faint murmurs sounded in her ears; long-past nightmares swept back, and the world was dyed blood-red…
After half an hour, she finally snapped back, realizing that this was just the beginning, far from the worst-case scenario.
Ying Yan lowered her head, crossing off the top tasks in her notebook and advancing the last one.
For the first time in class, she didn’t pay attention, focusing entirely on refining her plan.
No one noticed — the whole class, including the teacher, was absent-minded.
Eight days after the “Midnight Screening,” the second task was due — Pen Spirit, Pen Spirit!
A few days ago, Yu Li messaged, saying she and her brother needed to return home for safety concerns.
The next mission would be delayed a few days; they couldn’t team up.
Ying Yan understood.
If she had relatives in this world, she wouldn’t have moved so quickly to the next mission.
Her boss returned home once, ending up with a bruise on his calf.
He didn’t care much, using all his charm to appease his wife.
The bad news: the boss’s wife had entered the eerie space before, but hadn’t mentioned it.
That day she was on a business trip; he was alone — they just missed each other, unable to work as a couple.
The good news: the wife was stronger than the boss, having earned an impressive reward in the “Midnight Screening.”
Ying Yan remained skeptical; the boss often boasted about his wife, losing credibility.
Now, the boss sent a flurry of messages, insisting she wait for them to undertake the second mission together.
Ying Yan nodded politely but had already arranged with the group to depart tonight.
With the boss covered by his wife, she didn’t have to worry about her minor work, naturally keeping away from someone constantly flaunting their romance, avoiding being a single, blinking third wheel.
Night was thick; stars were hidden.
Cold winds howled across the open land.
The wheat had been harvested, the corn just sown, not yet sprouted, leaving the field bare but smooth.
At the edge of the field, a grave mound rose, beside it a jujube tree struck by lightning.
Crows circled before perching on the dark trunk, cawing harshly.
Nearby stood a thatched hut, guarded by two straw scarecrows.
Part of the roof had collapsed, leaving the house unable to shield from wind or rain, accelerating decay.
In fact, this hut had been abandoned for a long time.
Tonight, a group dressed in black casual clothing appeared before the hut.
The leader held a stick-like object, cursing: “This APP really knows how to pick spots — abandoned hills, remote corners, nothing escapes it.”
A woman snorted, retorting: “Know less, talk less. This is farmland in the countryside.”
The leader sneered: “You know so much? Then tell me, did we find the right place? There used to be a big cinema; now there’s just this hut.”
The disparity — night and day.
The woman detected the provocation in his tone and sneered: “Whether it’s the right place or not, go inside and see. Not scared, right?”
“You!” The man clenched his fists.
The tension was palpable; a fight seemed imminent.
A petite figure, over 1.6 meters tall, squeezed between them: “Shh, stop arguing, I’ll go check.”
Without waiting for a response, Ying Yan pushed open the door and led by example for the boss’s assembled team.
The wooden door creaked under her push.
The man and woman were surprised by how bold this small girl was, hesitated, then followed.
The others entered in sequence.
The girl at the tail of the group pressed down her beret, glancing at the scarecrows.
Was it her imagination, or did the scarecrows raise an arm?
Some things were scarier the more she thought, so she hurried to follow.
Once among the crowd, the fear subsided, finally giving a sense of safety.