Raising a Wife in a Supernatural World [Infinite] – CH17

Chapter 17: Spook High (17)

The slight lilt at the end of his voice dissolved cleanly into the sudden, sharp chime of the class bell.

Outside the window, a boundless night stretched across the campus under an unrelenting, freezing gale. The overhead lights swayed gently, and for a fleeting moment, Qin Fu’an caught an elusive trace of dread flickering across the youth’s delicate features.

It vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

Yet it stirred a quiet, inexplicable anticipation in Qin Fu’an toward this so-called evening examination.

Just what kind of exam could render an entire instructional building this dead silent?

One had to remember that Spook High didn’t just house high school seniors; the first- and second-year grades were here as well, which was why he had seen a few students with a fraction more vitality during the day.

Yet now that night had fallen, across an immense campus where thousands of students were supposedly attending evening self-study, Qin Fu’an felt as though he had been plunged into an abandoned, desolate ghost school. Apart from the howling, keening wind, not a single sound stirred the air.

Qin Fu’an settled his thoughts. Within thirty seconds of the bell’s fading echo, his sharp senses finally plucked a discordant note from beyond the classroom walls.

Footsteps ascending the stairs.

Drawing closer…

Growing clearer with every stride.

The rhythmic clack-clack of high heels rang out incessantly. Qin Fu’an clearly felt the student NPCs throughout the room involuntarily lock up their bodies.

Even the spectral tentacles previously coiled around Qin Fu’an’s wrist retracted in anxious haste. From the moment the bell chimed until now, the chatterboxes hadn’t uttered a single peep.

The crisp strike of heels landed like heavy, deliberate hammer blows against the heart. As the cadence drew near, every chest in the room seemed ensnared by creeping panic, their pulses forced into an eerie synchronization with the rhythm—beating heavier and heavier with every step!

Zhao Jiayue doubled over in sheer agony, clutching her chest with both hands as all color drained from her face, leaving her pale as paper.

The other players fared slightly better, though they too were fighting off severe palpitations, drawing ragged, silent gasps of breath.

Compared to the players, the local NPCs appeared far more accustomed to the torment. Aside from looking as corpse-pale as ever, none exhibited particularly violent physiological distress.

As Qin Fu’an scanned the room, the steady footsteps in his ear finally reached their destination.

They came to a halt just outside the window by Qin Fu’an’s elbow.

He was entirely certain of it. Yet when he turned his head to look, the space beyond the glass remained completely empty. There was no teacher in sight, nor even the faintest shadow of an anomalous entity.

The next second, a woman’s soft, melodious voice drifted down from the sky above the campus.

“Good evening, students. I am your proctor for tonight’s examination.”

“Please prepare your test materials. In one minute, I shall announce the contents of this exam.”

One minute was terribly brief, yet within the players’ anxious wait, it spiraled into utter chaos.

Was a minute long or short?

What did she mean by preparing test materials? Where were the papers? Wasn’t this an exam? Why could the proctor’s voice be heard across the entire school?

What kind of preparation could one possibly make in sixty seconds? Why weren’t the surrounding NPCs moving at all? What kind of test was administered during evening self-study? And what was the penalty for failure?

A barrage of unanswered questions swarmed every player’s mind. Even Nan Zhu turned around several times within that single minute, trying to see what Qin Fu’an was doing to borrow a shred of confidence.

The other players were no different. Every single one was flustered, trapped in a paralysis of panic without the foggiest idea of what to do, their entire postures radiating raw terror.

Unfortunately, they were destined for disappointment.

Not only did Qin Fu’an remain seated without moving a muscle, but within that sixty-second countdown, he was automatically appointed as the proctor for Grade 12, Class 4.

The badge denoting his status as [Proctor] materialized quietly on his left breast, pinning itself right above his school crest. Simultaneously, an influx of rules governing the role imprinted itself directly into his consciousness:

[Proctor] shall assist the Head Proctor in maintaining examination discipline within their designated class.

[Proctor] may inspect student examination statuses and test progress at their own discretion during the trial.

[Proctor], while wearing the badge during the examination period, shall hold all proctorial authority within this class excluding question design, and shall remain immune to all attacks originating from students.

Once appointed, the [Proctor] role may not be transferred by any means during the examination period, except through death or loss of the badge.

Caution: Should the [Proctor] badge be stolen or lost, all associated authorities shall be immediately revoked. In such an event, should you encounter other [Proctor] holders, we can only wish you good luck.

The [Proctor] must diligently assist the Head Proctor in completing this examination. Upon successful conclusion, they shall automatically become the designated proctor for their class’s subsequent examination and receive appropriate commendations from school administration.

Before Qin Fu’an could fully process this long list of regulations, the sixty-second countdown reached zero.

The Head Proctor’s gentle, silky voice resonated languidly across the night sky once more:

“Spook High has always prioritized the comprehensive development of our students across moral, intellectual, physical, aesthetic, and labor competencies. Recently, however, faculty members have frequently raised concerns to the administration, lamenting that our students are turning into rigid nerds who do nothing but bury their heads in lifeless textbooks.”

“Therefore, following thorough deliberation among the senior leadership, it has been decided that the subject of tonight’s examination shall be: Physical Education.”

“The rules of the Physical Examination are as follows:

“Students must make every effort to evade pursuit by the Physical Training Aids. Each time a student is successfully captured by an Aid, twenty points shall be deducted from their test score.

“This exam operates on a standard hundred-point scale. A passing score is sixty points. Any candidate whose score drops below passing shall immediately be converted into a Physical Training Aid for the remainder of this examination.

“Bonus Question: Any student who successfully seizes a [Proctor] badge and retains possession until the conclusion of the exam shall be awarded an additional fifty points.”

Having delivered the parameters, the proctor paused, as if charitably granting the bewildered students a moment to digest the rules.

The night sky hung silent for ten full seconds before the proctor clapped her hands with an audible chuckle, finally declaring: “The duration of this examination is one hundred and twenty minutes. Early submission of test papers is strictly prohibited.”

“Now—let the examination begin.”

With that, the woman’s voice dissolved into the ether, replaced by a colossal, blood-red timer coalescing against the pitch-black sky.

01:59:58

As the seconds began their relentless downward tick, the students who had been coiled in anticipation bolted toward the doors in a frenzied stampede.

The same chaos erupted across the entire instructional building, bodies pouring out of every doorway like a broken dam.

Just watching them surge outward in blind panic, Qin Fu’an could already foresee the horrifying crush that would unfold on the stairwells—how many would be trampled into paste, crushed to death alive in the stampede.

Within moments, only a handful of figures remained in the classroom.

Aside from the bewildered, trembling players who didn’t know where to turn, there were only the student NPCs who were frantically folding their bodies in unnatural angles, attempting to cram themselves into desk compartments or other impossibly tight crevices.

Sitting comfortably in his seat, Qin Fu’an turned his head toward Xie Yunhuai, whose body was strung as tight as a bowstring.

“Not hiding?” he inquired with mild curiosity.

A chilling, gloomy shadow draped across Xie Yunhuai’s pale features. Though his frame trembled with subtle tremors, he forced a veneer of composure, whispering hoarsely, “Right now… you can’t run. Too many of them. You’ll die.”

His words came out disjointed, fractured by ragged breaths.

In truth, Xie Yunhuai’s mind was consumed by the agony and despair of the countless times he had perished during this very phase in his fragmented memories.

Crushed into minced meat, trodden into a carpet of red across the stairs, shoved over the balcony railings to shatter against the pavement below, torn apart mouthful by mouthful by crazed, starving classmates into different bellies…

It felt as though every single time he set foot past that classroom threshold, all hope of survival was utterly extinguished.

Granted, remaining inside offered countless other horrific ends, but… between one death and another, the caliber of agony differed.

Xie Yunhuai preferred to await an end that carried slightly less torment.

And so he stayed rooted in his chair, quietly lowering his gaze as he waited for whatever was to come.

The youth’s long lashes quivered with unease. The spectral limbs emerging from his form had ceased their endless chatter; instead, acting as faithful guardians, they wound themselves tightly around Xie Yunhuai’s frail body in layers, shielding him from the world three times over.

Seeing this, Qin Fu’an understood. To Xie Yunhuai, the evening self-study examination in Spook High was likely the deepest, most insurmountable terror buried in his heart.

A dread so consuming that even his soul wept and shuddered in the dark.

Yet before Qin Fu’an could dwell on the thought, blood-curdling screams of sheer agony ripped through the night outside.

The players, having seen Qin Fu’an make no move to leave, had bolted into the corridor themselves. As they passed the window near Qin Fu’an’s desk, the cacophony drew their gazes toward the source.

Gasps of pure horror tore from their throats; pupils dilated into pinpricks, and Yake spat a violent curse under his breath.

“That’s a Physical Training Aid?!” Bai Song cried out, his voice cracking with shock.

Their varied yet uniformly terrified reactions piqued Qin Fu’an’s curiosity.

Fastening the [Proctor] badge to his chest, he stepped past the crooked, abandoned desks and strolled out into the corridor to inspect the scene.

In the span of a few brief breaths, the five players who had just been in the hall had vanished without a trace.

The corridor stretched out utterly barren.

Or perhaps not entirely barren—for at the far end of the hallway lay a mutilated corpse, and crouching over it, tearing into the flesh with savage gluttony, was a “Physical Training Aid.”

Judging by the exam rules, this particular student hadn’t been hunted down by the Aid; they had likely been crushed to death in the stampede, then dragged up here by the creature as an impromptu snack.

Right at that moment, the “Aid” seemed to register Qin Fu’an’s gaze. It snapped its head up, staring straight at him through a dense cluster of eyeballs sprouting all over its flesh.

“Well, well. A familiar face after all.” Far from being alarmed, Qin Fu’an looked thoroughly amused. Turning back toward the doorway, he raised his voice to invite the numb, seated youth inside: “Student Xie, care to come take a look? A live-streamed mukbang starring our very own classmate. Watching it might just cure your little picky eating habit.”

Truth be told, looking at it just now, the way this player who had died that morning buried his face in his “food” looked quite appetizing.

Though the creature was rather clumsy—despite having sprouted eyeballs across its entire frame, it hadn’t learned the homeroom teacher’s trick of devouring things with its eyes, still relying on its solitary mouth to chew through flesh with agonizing effort.

Fortunately, a “Physical Training Aid” was a mindless construct devoid of higher thought; otherwise, Qin Fu’an’s commentary alone would have provoked it into abandoning the corpse to hunt him across half the campus.

Inside the classroom, listening to Qin Fu’an casually beckon him over to watch a cannibalistic feast, Xie Yunhuai was reminded once again of an undeniable truth: Qin Fu’an was completely out of his mind.

The calm apathy he had maintained while waiting for death fractured beneath Qin Fu’an’s sheer absurdity. He had no choice but to squeeze his eyes shut, inhale deeply, and fix a deadpan stare on Qin Fu’an courting his own demise.

Perhaps it was for the best. If Qin Fu’an died before him, Xie Yunhuai might actually breathe a sigh of relief when his own end arrived.

Raising a Wife in a Supernatural World [Infinite]