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Chapter 81: Seven Mysteries of the Campus (Part 3)
Chapter 81: Seven Mysteries of the Campus (Part 3)
Feng Bu Jue had reached the well, though he kept his distance. Crouching low, he leveled his gaze toward the edge without peering directly into its depths.
He recalled the nursery rhyme verbatim: “Do not look—gaze into the well, and you’ll become its grave.” The warning couldn’t be clearer. Feng Bu Jue had no intention of triggering a death flag by glimpsing whatever lurked below, only to be dragged down by some uncontrollable force, his vitality points draining to zero.
“Hey you,” he called out, raising his voice, “Should I go find a rope to throw down?”
A few seconds passed before a voice echoed from the depths: “I… can’t climb up… alone.”
Hearing this, Feng Bu Jue suddenly felt a spark of realization. “Then… how about I carry you out?”
The reply was simple: “Okay…”
Feng Bu Jue pressed forward: “I’m not familiar with this school. Do you know where to find a rope nearby?” He wanted to test how explicit the task hints would be.
This time, there was no answer. The voice merely repeated: “Help… help… me…”
“I’ll be back with a rope,” Feng Bu Jue declared.
The voice offered no objection, continuing its desperate pleas.
As he walked away, Feng Bu Jue briefly wondered what would happen if he never returned. But even if the entity in the well couldn’t climb out to hunt him down, he’d eventually have to come back to finish this task.
He sprinted toward the athletic equipment room, a place he’d eyed earlier for looting. With practiced ease, he smashed the padlock with a pipe wrench and stormed inside, overturning boxes in search of supplies.
Soon, he found a coiled thick rope—likely used for tug-of-war—and tested its durability. Satisfied, he wound it up and stuffed it into his satchel before heading back to the dry well.
As he approached, the cries for help resumed. Feng Bu Jue ignored them, swiftly tying the rope to the thickest nearby tree trunk with a secure knot. At the well’s edge, he tossed the other end down. Judging the depth at no more than ten meters—likely six or seven—the rope would suffice.
Now came the tricky part: his cell phone. Climbing up or down would require both hands. Could he really hold it in his teeth? And if it rang midway, how would he answer? If it slipped into the well, Feng Bu Jue was certain he’d be hunted to his grave.
Checking his watch, he noted seven minutes until the next call. Timing seemed safe. The voice in the well was likely the same boy he’d seen in the death fragment. The kid didn’t look particularly strong—even as a ghost, he’d be lighter.
Resolute, Feng Bu Jue placed the phone on the ground and gripped the rope. Facing the tree, he backed onto the well’s edge and lowered himself in, legs dangling. Slowly, he began descending, hands alternating on the rope, feet braced against the wall. He kept his gaze upward, refusing to look below—a ghost or not, he’d keep his back to it.
“Look up at the sky… the moon is smiling…” As he descended, Feng Bu Jue absentmindedly hummed, then froze. “Crap—I nearly sang that stupid melody out loud. Good thing no one’s around… feels embarrassing.”
His feet finally touched soft earth. Leaning against the wall, he didn’t turn around, merely stating, “Where are you? I’m ready to carry you.”
Before he finished, two blood-soaked arms wrapped around his neck from either side. A half-body pressed against his back. Feng Bu Jue confirmed his suspicion—this ghost weighed almost nothing, its limbs incomplete.
“Ugh…” He hesitated mid-sentence. Normally, he’d make a sarcastic remark, but now wasn’t the time. Pointing out oddities—“Why don’t your decaying arms slip off?” or “Why does your torso end mid-waist?”—might provoke the ghost. He’d seen enough horror tales where protagonists described a phantom’s traits, only to hear: “Like this?” as death struck.
“I’ll climb up now—hold tight,” he said, ignoring the cold, damp arms around his neck and the stench of decay.
Climbing up felt far easier than descending. Without glancing down, he ascended as if moving forward rather than backward, the ghost’s weight negligible. Within four minutes, he emerged, panting but alert.
He didn’t grab the phone yet. Instead, he retrieved the pipe wrench, facing the invisible presence on his back: “We’re out. You can go home now.”
A frigid whisper brushed his ear: “Go… home…”
Silence followed—oppressive and absolute.
“Thank you,” the ghost murmured, its final words.
The icy chill vanished. Feng Bu Jue exhaled sharply, turning around.
Under silver moonlight, the well had changed. The open mouth was now sealed with a cement slab. The thick rope, still tied to the tree, lay coiled neatly beside the well.
Perhaps Feng Bu Jue had never entered it. Perhaps he’d gone… somewhere else.
And from that place, he’d saved the boy.
………
Si Yu’s newspaper clipping concluded with these words:
Autumn, Heisei Year Ten.
A student’s parent invited a yin-yang master to perform an exorcism. Before leaving, the master claimed to have wounded the vengeful spirit but admitted his own limitations prevented its salvation.
When pressed further, the master snapped: “Do you expect me to go ‘there’ and carry it out myself?” before storming away.
Since then, the well was sealed with cement, and no further anomalies have occurred.
(End of Chapter)
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