The Round Table Meeting
Ying Yan lifted her eyes and looked across. The centerpiece of the space was a massive round table.
Near the edges, dim lamps were placed, illuminating the notebooks and pens beside them.
The wooden chairs were only lit on one side, faint human silhouettes visible, while the seat surfaces and legs were swallowed by darkness.
A few seconds after an unfamiliar male voice spoke, a beam of light appeared above the table, shining straight down and illuminating the space directly in front.
There sat a young man in his twenties, a black butterfly-shaped mask covering half his face, silver hair flowing over his shoulders and vanishing into the shadows.
He lounged lazily against the chair, buttons undone, collar partially open, turning his originally solemn black uniform into something casual.
“Let me introduce myself briefly. I am the host of this Round Table Meeting. You may call me Mr. Cheng, Mr. Shen, or Butterfly, whichever you prefer.”
Ying Yan lowered her head, the pen scratching across her notebook as she quickly jotted down keywords worth pondering.
On the blank page appeared, one after another: “Round Table,” “lamp,” “voice-controlled lamp,” “Mr. Cheng,” “Mr. Shen,” “Butterfly.”
In the next moment, “Mr. Cheng” and “Mr. Shen” vanished into thin air, leaving a small blank space after “voice-controlled lamp.”
A loose, drifting voice came from above, causing Ying Yan’s breath to catch, a heavy sense of oppression washing over her like a tide.
“You may call me whatever you like, but that doesn’t mean you can write it down, little girl.”
—A blatant warning.
Ying Yan remained silent for a moment, putting down her black pen, a flicker of deep thought passing through her eyes.
Normally, as long as the basic rules of the uncanny world were not broken, one wouldn’t die instantly.
But Mr. Butterfly exuded a sense of unnatural illogic.
Seeing that Ying Yan was reasonably prudent, Mr. Butterfly averted his gaze and said:
“The Round Table Meeting has a long history, aimed at promoting interaction between ‘humans’ and ‘humans.’ To ensure proper conduct, attendees must follow these rules:
First, the meeting operates in a question-and-answer format, with ‘humans’ asking questions and humans responding, and vice versa.”
“Please note, during answering, do not remain silent, do not stammer, do not pause for more than one minute, and do not disclose personal information, especially home addresses.”
Mr. Butterfly paused, then humorously asked, “You wouldn’t want to host guests from afar, would you?”
No one present laughed.
Seemingly bored, Mr. Butterfly’s voice became monotone, like a broadcast.
“Second, the Round Table is highly inclusive. Loud speaking is allowed, snacking is allowed, even fighting is allowed, but do not leave your seat, no matter what you see.”
“Third, the Round Table is only one form of friendly interaction; everyone is welcome to explore other forms. That’s all for now; I’ll add more if I think of it.”
Leaning back, Mr. Butterfly somehow produced a black top hat and covered the lamp on the table, formally announcing the start of the Round Table Meeting.
Ying Yan withdrew her gaze from Mr. Butterfly, mentally reviewing the three rules repeatedly until she had memorized them before beginning her analysis.
After a moment, her delicate eyebrows furrowed, her fingers lightly pressing the pen, intending to observe quietly.
One reason verbal rules can be more dangerous than written ones is the uncertainty of certain terms.
For example, the two “humans” in the first rule—are they real humans or something uncanny?
Turns out, the uncanny may indeed know.
Minutes passed before a “human” raised their hand.
A beam of light appeared, shining on a round black object.
Ying Yan studied it carefully and realized it was an unknown creature wearing a huge cylindrical hat.
Long black veils hung from the brim, creating a visual illusion.
She lowered her eyes, instinctively checking her pocket for previously collected fragments.
The creature did not look her way. A hand slowly extended from under the black cylinder, raised high, and a dry, hoarse voice came, impossible to determine gender or age.
“Please, Number 001, answer my question: What are the ten foods zombies like to eat?”
Ying Yan flipped through her notebook and saw that the bottom right corner of the cover had the number 009.
Looks like this question wasn’t for her.
Another beam of light appeared to the left of the table, illuminating a pale, fearful face.
A boy in blue pajamas saw 001 on the notebook cover, hesitated, and quickly said, “Human organs… head, hands, feet… uh, what else?”
What else? He racked his brain but drew a blank.
In movies, zombies only eat humans—how could there be ten foods?!
Panicking, he glanced at nearby attendees for help, but saw sheer terror reflected in their eyes.
He instinctively turned back, recalling a nightmare from recent days.
Behind the chair stood a massive zombie.
Bulky body, bluish-gray skin, no eyes or nose, only a gaping, drooling mouth staring greedily ahead.
As seconds ticked by, the zombie slowly advanced, the sense of oppression growing, its towering shadow spreading across the table.
The boy’s mind went blank, his heart racing like never before.
His hands and feet turned cold, and he leapt to escape—but his clothes suddenly caught fire.
Raising his head slightly, he saw countless fireballs.
—The previously soft beam had transformed into a rain of fireballs at the exact moment he stood.
The zombie howled in disappointment, stopping just outside the fire, watching helplessly, then vanished a minute later.
The flames continued burning, screams of agony echoing.
Half an hour later, the fire finally extinguished, the wooden chairs intact, no burn marks at all.
But piles of black ash remained on the seat surfaces.
The black cylindrical hat lowered its hand contentedly, seemingly oblivious to the suppressed cries in the dead-silent room.
Amid the terrified attendees, Ying Yan remained calm, her expression serene.
Her hand holding the pen paused briefly before continuing her analysis.
At present, answering incorrectly would lead to being eaten by what she feared,
And leaving her seat would mean being burned alive.
Before she could dwell on it, another “human” raised their hand.
A beam of light illuminated a copied cylindrical hat.
“Number 006, answer my question: What is your home address?”
The middle-aged man summoned his courage.
Having seen the boy’s tragic fate less than a minute prior, he weighed the risk: “104 Xinghua Road.”
He deliberately omitted the city, thinking he’d be safe since it was only a guest from afar.
Ying Yan paid no attention to his answer, her gaze fixed behind his chair.
A massive, writhing flesh tumor lurched there, countless tentacles twitching.
If the previous zombie had a source—a recent apocalyptic movie—
This monstrosity had none.
The man’s body trembled, seemingly aware of the horror behind him.
The black cylindrical hat moved slightly as if nodding, then lowered its hand.
Nothing happened on the surface.
Next to be questioned was Number 003, a doll-faced girl.
Behind her hovered a semi-transparent ghost, silently staring at the back of her head.
The girl sensed it and trembled.
Usually tough, she still feared ghosts, especially the untouchable Western-style ones.
A hoarse voice emerged from the black hat: “What is the ghost’s favorite flower?”
The doll-faced girl hesitated: “Red spider lily?”
Her answer was obviously wrong. The ghost lunged toward the back of her head, attempting to devour the cherished brain.
Simultaneously, black mist rose under the beam, enveloping the area.
Some closed their eyes, unwilling to witness the impending tragedy.
Ying Yan frowned, pulling out the collected fragments, piecing them on her notebook cover, while keeping her eyes on the scene.
A minute later, the ghost vanished.
Ying Yan noticed a faint smile on the pale face that appeared in the empty spot.
A head then cautiously peeked from under the table: “Is the ghost gone?”
The attendees murmured, their minds full of question marks, instinctively glancing at the still-lit beam.
It was soft as before, no sign of fireball transformation.
The black cylindrical hat grit its teeth, calling out to Butterfly: “Host, she left her seat—why is she still alive?”
Butterfly’s silver-haired voice, tinged with a smile, replied: “Sorry, that clever little girl didn’t break any rules, so of course she didn’t die.”
—Her body didn’t leave the seat, so technically she hadn’t left.
The doll-faced girl struggled from under the table, gripping the chair, painstakingly returning to her seat.
In the critical moment, she cleverly chose “escape with the chair” to balance between “attacked and killed by the ghost” and “burned alive for leaving.”
The black cylindrical hat remained silent, sulking.
After a while, another “human” raised a hand.
A low, hoarse voice targeted Ying Yan: “Number 009, answer my question: How many glass beads are there in the three boxes?”
The beam shone on her white pajamas.
Her smooth black hair framed her snowy face, her figure slight, like winter plum blossoms peeking from icy branches.
Most astonishingly, there was nothing behind her chair.
Raising her pen, Ying Yan said seriously: “A total of 1,500.”
Before the black hat could show delight, she continued slowly: “But I accidentally broke one later, so now it’s 1,499.”
—A number that would torment any perfectionist.
The black cylindrical hat reluctantly said, “Correct.”
“Hm, now it’s my turn.”
“Mr. Shi, answer my question: When you wake from a midnight dream, don’t you feel tightness in your chest? She’s lying on your back, watching you all the time.”
The girl lowered her head, piecing together fragmented reality on her notebook.
Under the pale beam, the black hat trembled violently, all memorized rules erased, instinctively asking: “What did you call me?”
Ying Yan replied gently, each word precise:
“Mr. Shi, Shi as in stone. Or do you want a more exact name? Shi Jijie. Don’t you feel guilty?”
As her words fell, the entire space shook.
In an instant, all beams of light converged, wriggling like a worm, and dove into the black hat.
A short, sharp scream followed.
The black cylindrical hat collapsed onto the seat.
The round table fell into deathly silence.
The formerly arrogant black hats trembled, especially the two closest to Ying Yan.
Ying Yan remained calm, gently tracing a roughly pieced-together newspaper.
Only then did she notice that both sides were black cylindrical hats. A glance to the left and right scared them into curling up, wishing to hide under the table.
Seconds passed. The beams vanished after completing their task, but the silence lingered.
After a while, Butterfly knocked on the table, drawing attention.
“Alright, today’s Round Table Meeting ends here. Thank you all for attending. Let’s look forward to the next meeting.”
He lifted the hat, brim facing the table.
For some reason, Ying Yan felt the three “Mr.” names were suppressing laughter, that detached schadenfreude.
Before she could ponder further, countless butterflies suddenly emerged from the top hat, colliding with the dim lamps.
The lamps, draped with white cloth, wobbled and toppled, wax spilling in chaos.
When the last light went out, darkness consumed the room, with only the rustle of butterfly wings audible.