Chapter 7: Demon Arena (5)
At first, Tang Mobai thought that after the first illusion ended and the ghostly figures vanished, the brief calm that followed was meant to give them a chance to rest.
Now he suddenly realized—what rest? That was their backstab window!
The illusions and ghostly apparitions were designed to scare them into lighting the oil lamp, but the lamp’s limited oil and narrow light radius were clearly the first trap.
Judging by what was happening now, it worked frighteningly well. Even the terrible “soundproofing”—on par with a politician’s conscience—was conveniently reminding them:
It’s time to make your move~
Damn it.
Tang Mobai instinctively looked up at Deville, and coincidentally, Deville was already looking back.
It was the first time he’d seen Deville’s eyes—dry, dark red, the color of clotted blood. There was nothing in them: no killing intent, no will to live, not even pain.
Tang Mobai recalled what the chat had said earlier, and now he could believe it—this man really might be insane.
But a pure madman could never have survived here this long.
Then Deville suddenly moved. He raised his arm, and Tang Mobai realized with a jolt that Deville’s hand had somehow turned into a sharp dagger. Tang Mobai flinched, instinctively lifting his own wrist.
A flash of silver—Deville didn’t even glance at him. His wrist flicked, and the dagger buried itself in the floor. A shrill, ghostly scream tore through the air.
Only then did Tang Mobai notice that the cold wind had returned, filling the room once more. The bloody handprints that had vanished earlier were slowly creeping closer again.
The chill pierced his skin and seeped into his bones, freezing him from the soul outward.
When Deville had raised his dagger, Tang Mobai’s mind had echoed with the chat’s earlier words. His first instinct had been—strike first!
It wasn’t until Deville’s blade sank into the floor that Tang Mobai came back to his senses. He gripped the gun in his palm tightly, then slowly loosened his hold and exhaled.
Sweat beaded on his forehead—not from fear of the creeping blood prints, but from something else.
Ding—
The next second, icy cold shot up his back, freezing his waist stiff. At the same time, he heard the faint click of a mechanism activating.
He twisted around just in time to see a gray-blue ghostly figure touching his back—only to be impaled through the neck by a thin needle no longer than three or four centimeters. Black blood splattered onto the ground.
Not… an illusion?
Tang Mobai’s pupils shrank. The ghost shrieked and fled back into the darkness, leaving behind a black stain on the floor. His heart sank.
And that attack seemed to signal the start of something worse. The night’s silence shattered—screams erupted again from nearby houses, followed by the sounds of betrayal and slaughter.
After lighting the oil lamps and realizing their faint glow could barely cover one person—and that the oil wouldn’t last long—no one needed to be provoked. Instinct and desperation alone made them turn their weapons on each other.
Inside Tang Mobai’s room, the stench of blood thickened. The ghosts appeared more and more frequently, their numbers swelling. His makeshift traps bought him time, but his resources were nearly spent.
The ghosts couldn’t be killed, and the chemicals he’d scattered were useless—the thin layer of powder on the floor proved that.
But the powder wasn’t entirely ineffective. When the ghosts briefly materialized to attack, they left faint traces on the ground. Through repeated testing, Tang Mobai had learned that they only became corporeal when they struck—and when they didn’t, they remained illusions, sometimes mixed with hallucinations.
“Hee… kekeke…”
Twisted figures poured endlessly from the darkness. Tang Mobai retreated behind the wooden table. Aside from the gun strapped to his wrist and the useless medicines on his body, he had nothing left. Every trap had already been triggered.
No choice. He’d held out this long—he was reaching his limit.
Tang Mobai gave a bitter smile and glanced at the oil lamp beside him. At the same time, he noticed Deville’s gaze flicking toward it too.
“…”
The instant their eyes met, Tang Mobai knew—if he lit that lamp now, Deville would definitely attack him.
He wasn’t stupid—just mad.
Tang Mobai guessed that the only reason Deville hadn’t attacked so far was because the lamp was still unlit.
After all, the oil lamp was the only defense against the darkness and the ghosts. Judging from their growing numbers, they couldn’t be wiped out. Even if you hurt them when they struck, it only drove them back briefly—if at all.
That left only one option.
Tang Mobai quietly watched Deville’s movements, counting silently in his head.
About two and a half minutes.
Then, Deville’s movements abruptly froze, like a machine jamming mid-cycle. His arm dropped, and his head slowly lifted toward Tang Mobai.
The drug’s taking effect, Tang Mobai thought calmly.
The powder he’d spread earlier hadn’t worked on the ghosts—
but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work on the other person in the room.
From the beginning, Deville had ignored all of Tang Mobai’s actions—like someone on the spectrum, detached from anything that didn’t threaten him directly. Even when Tang Mobai approached the lamp before, he hadn’t reacted.
It was this observation that gave Tang Mobai the courage to act. And now, it was paying off.
Tang Mobai stood, reached out, and grabbed the oil lamp. Before the ghosts could surge again, he decisively lit it. As expected, the moment the light flared, the ghosts shrieked and retreated into the darkness.
He examined the range of illumination—just as the chat had said, it was limited.
And since he didn’t have enough of the paralytic agent, there was only ever one possible choice.
Tang Mobai walked toward Deville. The man lifted his gaze, expression unchanged, as though betrayal was something he’d seen countless times before.
Darkness was constant.
Betrayal was ordinary.
As long as you lived, there were only two things you couldn’t escape— battle and death.
This place was the landfill of humanity—the dumping ground of everything discarded. Finding a conscience here was harder than finding a diamond.
The ghosts were held back by the light, yet still lingered in the shadows, restless. But this time, their attention wasn’t on Tang Mobai. They couldn’t break through the light’s protection—so they turned toward the next unlucky soul.
Just before they could strike, Tang Mobai strode toward Deville.
Deville’s muscles tensed, his body instinctively trying to move. A faint clinking sound rang out as Tang Mobai dropped his remaining gun and pills to the floor.
He bit the metal handle of the oil lamp, spread his arms slightly to show he wasn’t attacking, and muttered through the wire, “It only lights enough for one person… but you’re taller than me.”
The chat had said it before— the oil lamp could only protect one person.
But then again—That was what the chat had said—but every word they spoke dripped with malice and manipulation. The black-robed men themselves had never said such a thing.
Before they entered the rooms, only two rules had been announced:
- Two people per room.
- No one may leave their room at night.
No one ever said two people couldn’t share the same lamp.
Tang Mobai had already wondered about that. Everyone’s body size was different—if the test here was really about two people fighting over a single lamp, how could the “light range” always fit exactly one person? Would it adjust to each person’s size?
When he finally lit the lamp, his suspicions were confirmed. Deville was taller and broader than him, and the light clearly covered more than one body’s space—just barely. The edges of the light were dimmer, yes, but still within reach. In panic or stress, though, most people would overlook that detail.
And if the chat deliberately exaggerated the rules, stoking fear… Then the choices people made under terror were all too easy to predict.
In this room, there were two kinds of ghosts: the real ones—and the ones born from the human heart.
Tang Mobai, lamp clamped between his teeth, stepped closer. “We’ll have to stay very close,” he murmured, “but relax, okay? I don’t have any way to hurt you anymore.”
The lamp’s glow flickered in Deville’s eyes. It had been so long since he’d looked up toward light that, for an instant, he thought he saw something from his memory… something warm—what was it again?
Tang Mobai kept a wary eye on his movements. Good— the sedative still seemed to be working.
He’d imagined the “mutual killing” route countless times. But the “cooperate and survive together” route—only once.
Even so, he had to try. Until he exhausted every possible option, he couldn’t bring himself to strike down another human being. Even if this didn’t work—at least he’d tried.
The shadows around them still writhed with hungry ghosts. Tang Mobai didn’t dare delay. He crouched and slowly curled into Deville’s arms, the lamp still between them.
Just as he’d said, the light’s range was small—they had to hold each other tightly.
His head rested against Deville’s chest. He could almost hear the heartbeat within. His neck bent slightly, exposing the vulnerable artery that a single bite could tear open.
Warm… bright.
Deville struggled to recall what those words meant. His thoughts were foggy, but eventually one image surfaced— the sun.
Fragments of memory flickered: climbing a wall, a patch of grass, an afternoon. Sunlight filtering through leaves, scattering into a pattern of golden spots. He had lain there, in that moment—the only time he’d ever felt peace.
Yes. Deville relaxed every muscle in his body and let Tang Mobai hold him. He thought, it’s the sun.
The ghosts hissed in frustration, testing the edge of the light, but the lamp’s glow drove them back. They huddled at the borders, restless, waiting for a crack in the defense.
Outside, cries of agony and rage echoed endlessly— those who’d lit their lamps too early, those who’d turned on their partners, those devoured by shadows. Screams and curses twisted together like the wails of hell.
Tang Mobai’s ears twitched. He curled even tighter against Deville, wanting to press closer, closer still. Despite his rough appearance, Deville’s body was strangely cold, his scent faint—just a metallic tang, like dried blood.
Tang Mobai no longer cared about shame or awkwardness. He wanted to melt into Deville’s shadow, to make the two of them one being— so they wouldn’t have to survive by killing each other.
He buried his face against Deville’s chest. The muscles beneath were firm yet soft, each heartbeat steady and strong, inexplicably soothing.
His drowsy mind drifted. Is this what the seniors were joking about—‘a man’s body wash’? How the hell does a guy build chest muscles this solid? So unfair.
He drifted between stray thoughts and vigilance—ears tuned for the ghosts’ movement, eyes on the faint ring of light.
Just as he’d expected, the lamp’s range wasn’t so precise that only one person could live. There was a margin, as long as both people could let go of their fear, trust each other, and surrender their weak points.
Of course, maybe no one else had even considered that possibility. After all, there was no reward for it. Survive tonight, and tomorrow they’d be forced to fight each other in the arena anyway.
Who would be foolish enough to risk death— to bare their throat to a stranger tonight, only to become mortal enemies by dawn?
Listening to the heartbeat beside his ear, a heavy drowsiness washed over him.
Tang Mobai tried to resist it, but maybe he’d inhaled some of the drug powder too. His consciousness sank, pulled slowly into black— into dreams.
[Mini-Theater – Special Training Edition]
Instructor: Today we’ll teach you how to set up and use traps and identify drug powders. Of cours e, the easiest thing is to experience the feeling of Chinese medicine, so if he accidentally gets ca ught, he’ll be able to react and respond.
Tang Mobai: Okay, instructor.
Instructor: The first type is an anesthetic. Does it feel numb again?
Tang Mobai: Mm-hmm. With this dose, only your fingers can move.
Instructor: Good. So we’ll sew razor blades into your sleeves, so you’ll have some resistance in case of a situation.
Instructor: The second type is a sleeping pill.
Tang Mobai: So sleepy (yawn) .
Instructor: Remember how many seconds it will take for you to collapse. You have razor blades on your sleeves. Try to maintain your composure while minimizing any injuries that would affect your movement. We’ll time it.
Tang Mobai: It hurts…
Instructor: Okay, last one, it’s almost over.
Tang Mobai: Instructor, what’s this pink thing?
Instructor: Aphrodisiac 🙂
Tang Mobai: …???
Instructor: Oh, there are a lot of these plots. This is just in case. You have to hold back, after all, the only female ghost instructor here is female.
Tang Mobai: Ahh…
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