Qianzhou City, 8:00 PM — April 5th, 2015
The rain had been falling for three days straight, turning Qianzhou City into a gray smear.
Lin Qiren—recently and completely financially ruined—slumped in his cramped apartment, a stack of unpaid bills looped together and hung around his neck like a charm.
The fluorescent light above him flickered weakly, sputtering as if it, too, wanted to die.
He had lost everything—his clinic, his reputation, his wife, and more. Every day, the mirror reminded him of his failures: hollow eyes, unshaven cheeks, a face that once tried to heal others but now couldn't save itself.
"Ha… ha."
Qiren laughed into his hands. On the table before him sat a strange arrangement: a prop skull, a ritualistic dagger, a lottery ticket, a burning stick of incense, a bowl of salted water, and a long-bristled brush. The handle was bamboo; the bristles were cheap black hair extensions he'd bought with the last of his money.
"I can't believe I've sunk this low," he muttered. "Spending my last yuan on a bad-luck warding ritual."
Buzz. Buzz.
The lights buzzed louder as he stood to prepare for his little performance. Shadows jumped as lightning flashed behind the blinds, the wind dragging in the scent of the city's despair.
He crumpled an empty plastic packet labeled Darling Star Extensions. "Let's just hope this works," he said, tossing it outside the salt circle he'd drawn around himself.
Three rings marked the ritual circle, each holding something that once brought him joy.
The outer ring held his old teddy bear, worn but intact.
The second ring cradled his teenage sketchbook, its edges yellowed with time.
The innermost circle contained his divorce papers—oddly, the thing that brought him the most peace, even though they had cost him half his possessions.
Still, it had been worth it. At least now she couldn't take anything more if he ever got rich again.
He stared at the papers, letting out a humorless laugh. "What am I even doing? This is…"
He wanted to call it silly, but desperation had stripped him of pride.
"No. Don't be negative, Qiren. People have made comebacks with a single lottery ticket. You can do the same."
His fingers tapped at his phone, setting an alarm for twenty minutes.
He rose from the small wooden stool, moved it out of the circle, and gripped the brush like a conductor's baton. "Let's get rid of this bad luck."
Dipping the bristles into the salted water, he paced and whipped the brush through the air. Droplets scattered like sparks. The faint smell of salt and incense filled the room.
"Ward off evil, cleanse misfortune, return luck to its rightful owner…" he muttered. Each sweep grew sharper, more frantic, as if sheer force could banish his failures.
On the third sweep, he froze.
Something touched his back.
At first it was subtle—a pressure, then a crawling sensation, deliberate and slow, like a centipede dragging itself across his skin. His heart thudded. Instinct screamed at him to run, to leap from the salt circle.
Gritting his teeth, he whispered, "Calm down. Close your eyes. Keep chanting." He forced himself to continue circling the altar.
The wind picked up. Something else began to speak—quiet murmurs overlapping his own voice.
"Be gone, evil of misfortune, for you are not welcome here."
"Be gone, evil, for I do not welcome you into my home."
"Be gone, evil, for I do not need your twisted favor."
Haa… haa…
His breathing grew erratic. The pressure on his shoulder intensified. He opened his eyes, now facing the bowl of water.
"Be gone, evil. With this rite, I exorcize you from my life."
He dipped the brush again. "With this bowl, I cleanse my body of your sin."
He whipped the wet brush backward, slapping his own back with salted water. A hiss escaped him as the bristles struck.
"Leave my body! I do not welcome you!"
Whsssh!
He whipped himself again, pain shooting across his skin.
"Argh! Be gone!"
Fwhip!
"Be gone!"
Fwhip!
He swung once more—yet the brush never hit his back.
It struck something else. Something solid. Something alive.
Claws slid across his skin.
A distorted shape formed behind him—a creature like a human caterpillar, pale and slick, lips stretched thin. It had no nose, only slits where nostrils should be. When it opened its mouth, a purple tongue unfurled, lined with dozens of twitching fingers.
Each finger wore a loose ring—some men's, some women's.
Qiren's breath hitched.
The creature coiled around him, whispering broken syllables that weren't words. Lin screamed and lashed out with the brush. Each strike made it shriek, smoke curling from its flesh as the salt burned into it.
He struggled to process the sight—but he didn't stop. If this was real, then maybe the ritual was too.
"Be gone, evil!"
"GgRrrrewwee!"
Its tongue writhed as the salt scorched it. The oversized rings jingled wildly in its writhing agony.
Qiren dipped the brush in the bowl again.
"Be gone, misfortune!"
He smacked its tongue. Rings fell off, clattering to the floor.
"Creeeeekkk!"
Its six front arms dug into his back.
"Ahh—!" he grunted.
"Haha… this is actually happening… I really was cursed. I knew it!"
Fwhip! Fwhip! Fwhip!
He whipped the spirit again and grabbed more salted water.
"You're the parasite that ruined my life, aren't you?"
He threw the water across its face. It hissed violently.
"I spent years building my life—got a degree, a house, a clinic, planned to start a family far away from the superstitions I despised…"
Fwhip! Fwhip!
"Instead, you took everything. And look where you've dragged me—"
Another strike landed, its flesh wrinkling under the salt, steam rising from its body.
"—back to the superstitions that are going to make sure you never bother me again!"
Beeb! Beeb! Beeb!
His phone alarm went off. Twenty minutes had passed.
"The hour hand has reached its mark. The time for spirits to rest has arrived. With my sacrifice, I call your end."
He lowered the brush and picked up the ceremonial knife.
Slash.
He cut his palm. Blood dripped into the salted water as he plunged his hand into the bowl.
Immediately, the mixture churned—white and red spiraling together, folding and twisting until a faint, shifting yin-yang diagram pulsed inside the water like a living heartbeat.
The bowl vibrated.
A cold breath swept through the room.
Qiren's chest tightened—the hairs on his arms standing on end.
Slowly, a thick, choking black miasma poured out of his pores, rising like smoke pulled by a hungry mouth. It surged toward the brush, clinging to the bamboo, sinking into every bristle like ink devouring cloth.
His vision swam.
But he wasn't finished.
With shaking breath, he raised the knife again.
Slash.
He dragged the blade down his left forearm, a long, stinging line opening under the metal. Fresh blood flowed freely, pattering into the bowl with a sickly hiss. The yin-yang symbol writhed as if reacting to the offering.
He pressed the brush's hairs against the open wound.
The bristles soaked red instantly.
He wrapped the brush along the bleeding line, binding it to his flesh. Above the bowl, the reflection of his arm and the blood-soaked brush hovered perfectly still in the rippling water—except the reflection wasn't quite right.
In the bowl, his reflection's face rose slowly into view.
But it wasn't him.
Or rather—it was, but twisted.
His own features warped in the water, stretching into a demonic snarl. The eyes sank into pits of darkness, the jaw unhinged too wide, the lips peeled back into a feral, hungry grin. Shadow tendrils coiled from its mouth like it was trying to crawl out of the water.
Qiren's heart slammed against his ribs.
He shoved his right hand into the bowl, eyes squeezed shut, fingers sweeping blindly through the cold, spiraling liquid—
—trying to grab the brush in the reflection.
"I—"
His fingers brushed something solid—something that felt like the handle of the brush inside the water.
"DIE!"
He ripped his hand upward and swung.
The real brush in his left hand snapped free from his bleeding arm, the bristles flaring like black fire. The blood, salt, and miasma fused, the brush screaming like a living creature as it cracked through the air.
It tore into the curse.
The spirit shrieked—its form unraveling, shriveling.
The wet black hair of the brush flared, the strands dripping blood. They coiled around the entity like a living serpent and devoured it. Smoke rose from its melting flesh as the brush absorbed the last of it.
The pressure vanished.
The room fell silent.
Before he could react, the brush trembled in the air.
Its bamboo handle burned hot.
From the base of the bristles, the demonic visage he'd seen in the water emerged—
Hair slithered down his arm and snatched his phone. The screen flickered, then went black.
A faint ripple passed through his consciousness.
His inner sea stirred—gray, fogged, empty… except for a single blank silver scroll, wrapped tightly around the image of his phone like a cocoon.
Back in the physical world, the phone buzzed once.
A new app appeared—a black envelope sealed in crimson.
Glowing text flowed across the screen:
Applicable Curses & Blessings:
Unnamed Bad Luck Spirit Curse
47 Despair
3 Hope
30 Years of Life Experience
(You may transfer emotions, knowledge & experiences or spirits through the brush in hand, painting blessings or curses onto others who have earned them.)
Rituals:
Bad Luck Cleansing (Incomplete)
A counterfeit ritual with flaws, yet functional for one with latent spiritual affinity.
Current Emotional Balance:
47 Despair
3 Hope
Knowledge & Experiences:
Medical Knowledge
Surgical Experience
High School Knowledge
University Knowledge
Med-School Knowledge
Exorcised Spirits (Sealed):
1 — Bad Luck Spirit
Current Lifespan:
0 Years, 0 Days, 0 Hours
[System Alert]
Warning: Lifespan depleted. Cardiac failure imminent.
When he saw Zero lifespan, panic seized him.
His heart clenched—then failed.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping, vision swimming.
I don't want to die. You can take everything—my money, my apartment, my degree—just let me live…
His gaze lifted toward the severed head, its hair inching toward him—
Ding.
[New Message]
If you wish to extend your lifespan, negotiate a deal—verbally or physically—exchanging your services for lifespan.
Would you like to search for potential clients?
[Yes / No]
His hand shook.
"…A deal?"
Qiren's finger hovered over the glowing Yes.
Just one touch. One second. One agreement.
A single deal to keep him alive.
His breathing hitched—sharp, weak, stuttering.
"Just… one… deal…" he rasped.
The screen blurred. His finger trembled closer—
Closer—
Just press it—
But his heart seized again.
A violent, crushing pain tore through his chest.
"Ghh—!"
His hand convulsed. The phone slipped from the entity's hair and clattered onto the floor outside the salt circle.
The screen flickered.
"…No… wai—"
His words dissolved into a dry, broken cough.
His legs buckled.
He collapsed face-first onto the cold floor, the incense smoke curling above him like a dark shroud. He looked up at the entity, betrayed.
Why would it drop the phone!?
He was furious—but when he focused through his blurring vision, he saw its withering form: hair falling in gray strands, wrinkles blooming across its face, making it appear closer to death than he was.
!?
The world compressed into a single sound:
Thump.
Then nothing.
Darkness swallowed him.
No tunnel of light.
No ancestors.
No hell.
No heaven.
Only the lingering echo of rain against the window.
And then—
Silence.
An endless, weightless void.
Even thinking felt distant, like a memory slipping underwater.
...
… …
Until something pulled him.
A force like a giant hand dragging him upward through a thick, warm sea.
A heartbeat echoed through the darkness—not his own.
Then another.
Faster. Louder. Rhythmic.
Thump-thump… thump-thump…
Pressure wrapped around him. Liquid heat pressed on his skin. His limbs curled instinctively, small, fragile.
Qiren tried to scream, but he had no mouth to scream with.
Something pushed him from behind—hard.
A crushing force squeezed his tiny body.
Thump-thump-thump—
Crack!!!
Something shattered, and his entire world pitched backward—
Then kept flying, weightless and out of control.
The world roared around him: the rustling of leaves—or something like leaves—mixed with the deafening, sharp cracks of crystal thunder tearing the sky apart.
Qiren's awareness snapped open as his body tumbled through emptiness.
Except… it wasn't a body he recognized.
It was small.
Round.
Fragile.
Encased in something smooth and hard that rattled and spun with every impact.
His limbs felt foreign, weak, and weightless.
His mouth wouldn't open.
His eyes cracked—light spilling in through fissures.
He was inside something.
Inside an egg.
A thin membrane clung to his skin, warm and trembling with every violent shudder of the storm outside. Liquid sloshed around him—thick, sticky, glowing faintly like molten crystal. His arms were folded tight against his chest, his legs curled instinctively, more like the limbs of an animal than a man.
No breath.
No voice.
Only suffocating pressure.
A memory flickered—his human life, his apartment, the salt circle, the entity's withering form—then dissolved like smoke as the present slammed into him.
KRA-KOOOM!
Crystal lightning split the sky.