Song Meiyu's eyes went round. "Please tell me that's just Prince Lu. In heels. Doing his dramatic walk."
He Yuying shook his head slowly, voice low and grim. "If it is, I'm leaving him behind."
Linyue's voice was soft, dry, and not remotely hopeful. "Don't hope too much. He doesn't even have the taste for proper boots, let alone heels."
Shen Zhenyu didn't bother with words. He simply raised a hand, palm out, a clear stop talking or I'll personally strangle you all gesture. His face was hard, eyes sharp.
The footsteps grew louder. Closer. Whoever it was, they were moving with purpose.
"Nope," He Yuying whispered. "Nope nope nope nope—"
They had no choice. As one, the group slipped back into the room full of corpses. It wasn't the best hiding spot, but it was the only one that didn't involve becoming door decorations. They crouched low among the dead. The stench of stale blood and rot wrapped around them like a suffocating cloak. It clung to their clothes, seeped into their hair, and settled deep in their bones.
Shen Zhenyu pressed himself flat against the wall, every muscle taut with focus.
Linyue crouched behind a table piled with something unidentifiable. She refused to examine it. Whatever it was, it was better left unknown.
He Yuying wedged himself awkwardly between two stiff corpses, shoulders hunched, face twisted. Through clenched teeth, he whispered, "If one of these things blinks, I'm going to scream… and then immediately die."
Song Meiyu had curled up behind a broken chair, fanning her sleeve frantically like it could swat the stench away. Her lips trembled, eyes glossy, she looked one sniff away from either bursting into tears or staging a grand fainting performance.
Then silence.
The footsteps outside slowed. Stopped.
Then—creeeak.
The sound of a door creaking open broke the tension.
They held their breath and waited. When it seemed safe-ish (meaning: no immediate screaming or stabbing sounds) they shuffled toward the door in hushed, clumsy coordination.
Linyue leaned out first, her movements calm. Shen Zhenyu followed, sharp eyes sweeping the tunnel. Song Meiyu crept up next, wide-eyed, her fingers hooked desperately onto Shen Zhenyu's sleeve for moral support. Finally, He Yuying poked his head out, only to elbow Song Meiyu in the ribs by accident and earned a quiet hiss.
The tunnel was empty.
The man, the source of those unnerving footsteps, had gone into a room just a few steps ahead. The door hung half-open, a dim flickering light spilling out and making the damp tunnel walls glisten. The group crept closer, every step measured, every breath held. Their nerves weren't exactly helping. They weren't quite so much as quiet-ish with the occasional shuffle of feet or creak of fabric sounding painfully loud in the silence.
One by one, they peeked inside.
The man inside was big—wide shoulders, arms thick with muscle. He wore no armor, no sword on his belt.
The room stank. Blood. So much blood. It painted the stone walls in streaks and handprints, dark and sticky under the low light. A wooden table dominated the center of the room. On it lay a body, stretched out and perfectly still. The man's bulky form blocked most of it from view. Only a pale hand dangled limply off the edge.
At the man's feet, a silver basin sat half-full of murky, reddish liquid—thick and dark. Floating in it were unidentifiable… things. Soft. Pale. Organic. It wasn't clear if the person was alive or dead, but given the decorations, it didn't look promising.
On the table beside him lay an array of tools. Knives curved like crescent moons, their edges kissed by rust (or worse). Needles long enough to stitch a man's lips shut or pierce straight through an eyeball. Little glass vials and jars crowded around them, filled with unidentifiable liquids in shades of red, green, and suspiciously cheerful yellow.
A single lantern cast a sickly yellow glow. Shadows stretched and twitched across the walls. And right there, sitting proudly in the middle of all the gore and madness, was a porcelain teacup. White with delicate blue flowers, perfectly innocent. As if the owner had paused mid-massacre to enjoy a nice cup of oolong. Because apparently, even mad scientists needed their tea breaks.
On one side, scrolls piled haphazardly on a shelf, their edges charred as if someone had tried (and failed) to burn the evidence.
Linyue's lips twitched into the faintest frown. "Artistic. I'll give him that."
He Yuying whispered, "A+ for effort. F for everything else."
Song Meiyu clutched her hands over her mouth, her eyes huge. "He's not doing what I think he's doing, right?"
Shen Zhenyu didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the body on the table, jaw clenched.
Linyue whispered, "Let's hope that isn't Prince Lu."
Then they all took a cautious step back and huddled a bit farther away from the door, for a quick emergency planning session.
Song Meiyu flailed her hands. "What should we do? We don't have spiritual energy! Or weapons! Or… or… anything useful!"
Linyue held up the small knife she had used earlier to cut their ropes. "I have this."
Everyone stared.
It was tiny. Ridiculously tiny. The kind of knife meant for peeling fruit. Or cutting threads. Definitely not for fighting giant, blood-covered men in murder caves.
He Yuying folded his arms. "Great. Perfect. We're saved. That man in there? He's huge. Break a door with his face huge. What's your plan? Poke a button off his shirt? Hope he gets embarrassed and runs home to change?"
Linyue didn't even blink. "If he's shy, that's a valid strategy."
Song Meiyu looked horrified. "Shy? He's carving people up like pumpkins and you think he's shy?!"
Shen Zhenyu nodded grimly. "We don't know if he's a cultivator or not. But even if he's not, he looks strong enough to throw us across the tunnel… or use us as replacement table décor."
There was a long pause as they all processed that image.
He Yuying broke the silence. "Wonderful. So our options are: die fast, or die while screaming."
Linyue tucked the tiny knife back into her sleeve. "Or," she said simply, "we use our brains."
Song Meiyu whispered, "Do you mean your brain? Because mine ran away ten minutes ago."
He Yuying whispered in a tone that suggested he was halfway serious, "Or… we can just ignore the big man, find a way out, run away, and never look back. I like this plan. This plan loves me."
Song Meiyu hesitated, her voice shrinking. "But... what about the person on the table? What if that person is still alive?"
That killed the humor dead. They all went silent. Even He Yuying's mouth didn't move for a whole five seconds, an achievement.
Then, just as Shen Zhenyu opened his mouth to suggest something reasonable, Song Meiyu blurted out what might've been the worst idea in recorded history. "What if we dress up one of the corpses as one of us and pretend we're the scientists?"
He Yuying didn't even blink. "That's the worst idea I've ever heard. I'm in."
Linyue fixed Song Meiyu with a long, flat stare. "And then what? Do we begin dissecting the body too? Should we start a little performance? I'll play the grumpy assistant."
Shen Zhenyu exhaled sharply and rubbed his temple. "No. We hide. Watch. Learn his habits. When he leaves the room, we go in."
He Yuying gave a short snort. "So we just sit next to a pile of corpses and pray he decides to wander off for a snack? What if he doesn't even like snacks? What if he's one of those horrible people who only eats when the moon's full?"
Linyue ignored him completely. "There are a lot of tools on the table. Sharp, stabby, and pokeable. Remember?" She said slowly. "Someone distracts him. Brother Zhenyu grabs the stabby things."
He Yuying raised one unimpressed eyebrow. "By distract, you mean get murdered first?"
Song Meiyu flailed her hands a little. "Maybe I could… throw something? Like… a dead rat?" She paused, her nose wrinkling in horror. "No, wait, that's gross—"
"No take-backs," He Yuying cut in. "We're counting on the rat now."
Shen Zhenyu exhaled again, long and weary. Meanwhile, Linyue unsurprisingly looked utterly unbothered. Possibly even amused. Because really, what could possibly go wrong? Other than everything.