Raising a Wife in a Supernatural World [Infinite] – CH31

Chapter 31: Spook High (End)

“…What do we do now?” Yake stared blankly at Zhao Jiayue’s wandering shade before glancing toward the other two, who were just as dazed.

Bai Song took the lead and hurried out the door. “We go find the boss. He might be in danger over there.”

If Zhao Jiayue had been a hidden peril lurking in their midst, the fact that the boss had disarmed that threat meant Qin Fu’an, who was still speaking across the airwaves, was likely confronting an even graver crisis.

After all, he was laying bare the darkest secrets of this instance. If nothing stood in his way, if he weren’t in immediate peril, there was no reason to broadcast it across the entire campus.

Spurred by his words, Yake and Chen Qi hurried to catch up.

Reaching the classroom threshold, Chen Qi cast a backward glance at Zhao Jiayue, who was now indistinguishable from any other drifting shade. Gritting her teeth, she blurted out to the two men, “You two go ahead! I’m running upstairs to get her address!”

Neither man expected her sudden decision, yet neither attempted to dissuade her. In tacit agreement, they split into two paths: one sprinted upward against the flow of drifting phantoms, while the other two tore downstairs, racing in the same direction the shades were gathering.

Meanwhile, at the faculty apartments, the administrative entities whose cycle of torment had been thoroughly exposed were boiling with incandescent fury.

The principal entity—whose face remained a featureless blur in Qin Fu’an’s memory—stared hungrily at Qin Fu’an’s throat, barking out a low, venomous sneer: “Teacher Qin, do you know where you went wrong?”

It spat the words as though Qin Fu’an were about to pay for his transgressions on the spot, bound for a nameless grave.

Meeting that sneer, Qin Fu’an arched an imperious brow, scoffing with sharp disdain: “Where did I go wrong? Probably in wasting my breath on you creatures, giving you room to stall for time and posture with cheap threats.”

As he spoke, Qin Fu’an looked down at the ghostly silhouettes that had soundlessly gathered below, tightening their encirclement around the entire building. His voice remained brazenly provocative, carrying straight into the depths of every phantom soul through the authority of his badge: “Since the cycle can’t restart, don’t tell me you’re planning to run away?”

The instant the words fell, the world plunged into absolute stillness.

Even the freezing gale that had whipped relentlessly from nowhere died away into nothingness.

A bone-chilling frost crawled slowly up the pant legs of every living creature present, coiling around their rigid frames like a festering rot, whispering like weeping specters right in their ears.

The wandering shades converged in greater numbers. The school leaders, who had held onto a veneer of calm authority while threatening Qin Fu’an, could no longer maintain their composure.

Their venomous stares bored into Qin Fu’an’s face. The homeroom teacher, standing closest, let loose its curse, causing clusters of grotesque eyeballs to sprout across Qin Fu’an’s body once more.

A barrage of lethal strikes converged simultaneously. Qin Fu’an’s slitted, pale green pupils narrowed to icy points. The split second they lunged, he caught the homeroom teacher’s scrawny, eye-riddled frame in an iron grip and hurled it clean over the banister.

Before the wet thud of the fall could echo back up, the mass of shades below swarmed over the fallen instructor, blanketing the body completely.

Their numbers far exceeded the eyeballs clinging to the teacher’s skin. Those eyes could not take root upon spectral forms, nor could they even perceive their attackers’ presence. Yet the wraiths piled on without a sound, tearing and rending the creature’s flesh on pure, primal instinct.

Aside from the panting players sprinting toward the scene and the omniscient livestream audience, none of the faculty lingering in the corridor could see the spectacle unfolding below.

They merely felt an overwhelming instinct of impending doom. Incapable of realizing that this retribution stemmed from the very students they had toyed with and tormented across countless loops, they locked their chilling gazes onto Qin Fu’an, surging forward in unison to tear him apart and gorge themselves on his flesh.

Yet Qin Fu’an was not one of those helpless students bound by arbitrary classroom rules.

Qin Fu’an held an official teacher credential.

Qin Fu’an was the primordial divine beast Tengshe, shaped by Nuwa herself in her own divine likeness.

Qin Fu’an was the sole beacon of hope guiding these wandering souls out of their eternal loop.

The eyeballs taking root on his flesh were ripped away by phantom hands, and every incoming blow was met and shielded by the sea of wraiths.

They could scarcely remember anything—not their names, nor their faces, nor where they had come from, nor how many times they had suffered through this cycle.

Yet they formed an unbroken wall of defense before Qin Fu’an. Across the interface of his Examiner badge, the crimson light points representing their souls burned bright and clear.

It meant that even as drifting phantoms, these children remembered Qin Fu’an. They remembered that this was Teacher Qin, the one who had guided them toward survival.

It didn’t take a debt of life; a tiny sip of sweet honey water or an ordinary bag of snacks had been enough to carve Qin Fu’an permanently into their souls.

Yake and Bai Song, who had rushed over fearing for Qin Fu’an’s safety, found themselves standing quietly at his side once he descended the stairs, watching the one-sided slaughter in stunned silence.

The outside horrors couldn’t see the students’ souls, yet they bore the full, crushing brunt of their vengeful wrath.

Before the finality of death, mortals and horrors were equally fragile. Where once the students had wailed, screamed, and begged for mercy beneath their sadistic rules, now it was the administrators shrieking in blind terror, scrambling desperately to flee.

Yet this was an instance sealed within the perimeter of a high school campus. No matter how frantically they ran, where could they possibly go?

“You mentioned a mastermind behind all this. Who is it?” Bai Song asked. Compared to these underling horrors, he felt the architect behind the scenes deserved this retribution far more.

“I don’t know,” Qin Fu’an replied, shaking his head.

Bai Song blinked in surprise. Qin Fu’an continued, “The mastermind I spoke of might not even be human. In my experience, no ordinary mortal has the power to transform a school into purgatory in a single breath.”

Even now, countless enigmas remained unresolved within this trial.

For instance, Qin Fu’an still didn’t know where these students had originated. Were they random unfortunates dragged into the game, or had they truly belonged to this school from the start?

“Have either of you heard of Jiang’an No. 1 High School?” Qin Fu’an asked.

Yake shook his head. Bai Song searched his memory before sighing helplessly. “I’ve never heard of it. I know Jiang’an City, but over the past few decades, there has never been any campus disaster where an entire school was wiped out, let alone at a premier school like Jiang’an No. 1.”

In the real world, a campus catastrophe would have topped the trending charts within minutes; suppressing news on that scale was impossible.

If any such incident had occurred in recent history, he couldn’t have forgotten it.

Qin Fu’an nodded in understanding. “Once these school leaders are dealt with, this instance should draw to a close. Find a spot and wait it out. There’s no need to follow me.”

Just as he finished speaking, Chen Qi came sprinting through the gloom, flashlight beam bobbing in her hand.

Drawing near, she held out a sheet of paper that looked as though it had been torn from a school notebook.

Handing it straight to Qin Fu’an, she explained breathlessly, “Before Zhao Jiayue dissolved into a shade, her dying words were telling us to go to her home and pass a message to her mother. But the transition happened too fast, and none of us caught what she actually wanted to say.”

Under the beam of Yake’s flashlight, Qin Fu’an read the neat, orderly handwriting filling the page.

“Everything she wanted to say is right here,” he stated quietly.

It contained not only a precise address, but also the date she had entered the game. Counting the years, thirteen years had already elapsed in the real world.

Beyond that lay the hidden truths of this instance, alongside her parting words to her mother.

“So she was an old player all along…” Yake murmured with a heavy sigh. “No wonder she understood our conversations. System filters should have scrambled our player terms, but her act was so convincing that we were completely fooled.”

The memory of Zhao Jiayue playing the fragile rookie remained vivid in their minds. Over the past two days, she had maintained a low profile, yet everyone had grown comfortable having a meek companion who never dragged them down. Learning that she had once walked among them as a player left a bitter ache in their chests.

Only Qin Fu’an remained composed, swiftly scanning the contents of the page.

Zhao Jiayue had weighed every word with deliberate care. She laid bare her identity while exposing the origins of the school and its trapped students.

She was a player who had been stranded in this trial long ago—the only one across endless cycles who had ever seized five Proctor badges and survived to the second night. Yet when the cycle restarted, she had neither cleared the instance nor found true death; instead, she had retained her memories and been warped into the school’s unique Head Proctor.

As for the muddled students whose origins were lost to time, her repeated investigations had brought her to a heartbreaking conclusion: they were youths from various eras and institutions who had perished through accidents or suicide.

[I noticed that whenever a new cycle began, they invariably died in the same manner they had met their ends in life. Most plummeted to their deaths from rooftops, while others bore the lingering scars of trauma inflicted before their demise. Though their memories were wiped clean across countless resets, the physical wounds on their bodies remained as permanent as shadows.]

[Later, I combed through the archives in the records room. It proved my hypothesis right: the dates of these children’s enrollment matched the exact times of their deaths in the real world. Aside from this school, they had nowhere else to go. In this instance, they have no parents, no families; the school gave them shelter.]

[I tried to break the cycle. I made countless attempts, looking for ways to pass vital information to new players entering the trial. Regrettably, every group regarded these students as cannibalistic monsters rather than children deserving of pity. I never succeeded, earning only harsh warnings from the entities in charge.]

[I understand that most players are ordinary, flawed people. Whether mortal or ghost, selfishness is human nature. I cannot blame anyone. Yet I still mourn every player’s death, because I was powerless to save them—worse, I was forced to act as the executioner pushing them toward the grave. My hands have long been soaked in blood.]

[Thank you for letting me see hope. I don’t know if you will make it out alive, but if you truly manage to escape, please visit my mother on my behalf.]

[Her eyesight is failing. My sudden disappearance must have driven her mad with grief. If you can go check on her, you are welcome to keep most of my savings. The bank card is tucked inside my wardrobe; the PIN is six eights.]

[If memory serves, there should be around a hundred thousand yuan inside. Fifty thousand is your reward. Please pass the remaining fifty thousand to my mother. Tell her Yueyue went far away. Tell her I’m sorry for leaving her with no one to rely on in her old age. Tell her not to wait for me… and to pretend she never had a daughter like me.]

[Lastly, I wish you long, enduring lives in this cruel, treacherous world.]

“She was crying…” Chen Qi stared at the smudged ink staining the paper, her mind drifting to her own parents.

Though she had already made preparations in the event of her untimely death, reading Zhao Jiayue’s final letter made her realize that arrangements were never enough. Compared to settling affairs after the fact, staying alive was the only thing that truly mattered.

Yet for chosen players trapped in this game, living a long and peaceful life was an impossible dream.

Right then, a chilling feminine voice—completely distinct from Zhao Jiayue’s proctor persona—rang out from the sky: “Spook High has broken free from its instance cycle and will merge into the Eldritch Domain. Countdown: 01:59:59. Faculty and students, please prepare for transition.”

“What does that mean?” Yake stared into the pitch-black sky in bewilderment.

Answering his confusion, the system’s prompt rang simultaneously in their ears: “Congratulations to the players for successfully clearing the beginner instance ‘Spook High.’ Instance exit commencing. Countdown: 00:09:59. Please prepare for departure.”

“Let me handle it when we get out,” Chen Qi said, taking the tear-stained paper from Qin Fu’an’s hand. For the first time since entering the trial, a relaxed smile touched her lips. “Her home is in the province right next to mine; high-speed rail and flights are convenient. Plus, being a woman will make talking to her mother a lot easier.”

Bai Song had no objections, adding that they could exchange details once outside, offering to help if Zhao Jiayue’s mother ever needed assistance.

As for Yake, he scratched the back of his head, looking toward Qin Fu’an with hesitant eagerness.

“Boss, how about we exchange contact info? Don’t worry, it’s just to share intel in the real world—I swear I won’t bother you otherwise!”

The other two looked toward Qin Fu’an with identical, pleading eyes.

Facing their expectant gazes, Qin Fu’an looked up into the dark sky before turning back to them. “My apologies. I rarely use modern communication tools. If the need arises, I will find you myself.”

He had memorized their contact details the moment they exchanged them earlier.

“I have business to attend to. Farewell.” Qin Fu’an nodded to the trio, pivoted on his heel beneath their startled gazes, and broke into a dead sprint in a specific direction.

The night quickly swallowed his uniform-clad frame. Left behind in the gloom, the three looked at each other until Bai Song declared with absolute certainty, “He’s running back to find his deskmate!”

Was there anyone left who couldn’t see the boss’s blatant favoritism toward Student Xie?

It was so glaring he might as well have carried a megaphone announcing it to the world.

Then again…

“If every student turned into a wandering shade, why didn’t Student Xie change earlier? If he rushes back now… will he even find him?”

Will he truly find him?

The question echoed in the minds of both Qin Fu’an and the livestream audience.

They watched Qin Fu’an run faster and faster, easily shattering the pace he had set when gathering on the field that first morning.

Yet it still felt too late…

Slightly breathless, Qin Fu’an skidded to a halt outside the convenience store.

Looking up, he was met with the grief-stricken, catastrophic expressions of the two clerks, looking as though the sky had caved in on their heads.

Qin Fu’an: “…”

Steadying his breathing, he straightened up. His pale green eyes narrowed slightly as he asked in a tone devoid of surprise: “You lost my kid?”

The clerk choked on a sob, looking at Qin Fu’an as if he were an omen of pure calamity, and cried out in indignant defense: “What do you mean we lost him?! He made off with our shop’s collateral, threatened the staff, and vanished into thin air like he owned the place!!”

“Is that so?” Qin Fu’an clearly didn’t buy a word of it, his voice dropping ice-cold: “A convincing performance, but where is your proof? Where is the surveillance footage? A living, breathing student was entrusted to your care, and you misplace him in the blink of an eye. Now you pull this routine—it makes me wonder if you’re trying to frame an ungraduated student to cover up your own gross negligence.”

The clerks: “…!!!”

Say one more word! Just one more word, and we’ll drop to our knees and bawl right here!!

Precisely because there were no cameras and no evidence, that terrifying entity had brazenly threatened them, snatched away Qin Fu’an’s collateral, and strutted out into nothingness!

Ignoring their miserable expressions, Qin Fu’an brushed past them into the store.

He walked over to the spot where he had told the youth to sit. Looking down, he found something resting on the tabletop.

A tiny, delicate sprout no larger than a melon seed—like the tender tip of a choice tea leaf, freshly plucked with immense care. Its hue was exquisite, matching the shade of Qin Fu’an’s own irises almost perfectly. It lay there in pristine quiet upon the surface where Xie Yunhuai had waited for him.

“Th-there’s this too… he left it behind.” Teardrops clinging to its lashes, the clerk handed a slip of paper to Qin Fu’an.

Qin Fu’an had seen a similar scrap of paper only minutes ago.

Yet compared to Zhao Jiayue’s exhaustive, measured lines, this sheet was practically bare.

Across the surface ran a single, brief line:

Qin Fu’an is a liar.

Qin Fu’an stared at the familiar, elegant handwriting. After a long moment, a low chuckle escaped him. He folded the note neatly and tucked it away into a pocket of extradimensional space he had opened, ensuring this ordinary slip of paper could be safely carried out of the game.

His little deskmate was truly angry.

Yet even his grievances were delightfully soft and endearing.

Storing the note away, Qin Fu’an wiped the tenderness from his eyes, turning toward the two petrified horrors with an ambiguous smile.

“Now then… shall we discuss compensation?”

The clerks: “!!!”

Extortion! This is a premeditated, daylight robbery of pure, shameless extortion!!

We want to report this to management!!!

Unfortunately, within the instance, a contract signed under contractual rules held absolute authority; even the employer behind them wouldn’t dare violate the terms to dodge payment.

After walking away with a hefty settlement, Qin Fu’an stepped out of the shop, glancing back to see the two clerks frantically slapping a “Closed” sign onto the glass.

Likely, the second he vanished, they would hang a placard reading “No Dogs or Qin Fu’ans Allowed.”

None of that mattered to him now.

With this friendly foundation laid, he was certain they could pick up their pure, genuine friendship right where they left off during their next encounter.

Five minutes remained before instance extraction.

Just as the audience prepared to bid him farewell, they watched Qin Fu’an forgo an immediate exit, turning on his heel to sprint back toward the classroom building.

The chat filled with question marks.

Catching the confusion out of the corner of his eye, Qin Fu’an offered no explanation, merely quickening his pace.

With two minutes left on the clock, he shoved open the weathered classroom door.

The room was hollow and barren. No eager students sat at their desks looking up at him, nor was Xie Yunhuai quietly writing with his head down.

The air held only the lingering scent of rotting wood common to abandoned halls. Though only a single night had passed, this classroom—and this school—had existed within its loop for countless unrecorded years.

Zhao Jiayue had claimed that the school sheltered children who had met untimely deaths in reality.

Qin Fu’an discarded his initial theory: there was likely no shadowy mastermind. The administrators who contrasted so sharply with the student body were merely cuckoos occupying another’s nest, bound by an equilibrium forged with the school’s intrinsic will. That was why they were constrained by the rules, why they couldn’t leave during a Silent Night, and why they were forced to wait for a reset.

Before this, Qin Fu’an knew his official teacher credential hadn’t been granted through administrative consensus, but bestowed directly by the school itself, much like Zhao Jiayue’s proctor status.

In other words, the school possessed an authentic, living will. That was why it could take in the souls of departed children, why it could transform Zhao Jiayue into a proctor rather than letting her perish entirely, and why it could elevate Qin Fu’an from a student to an official teacher…

Only the wages had been handled by the principal. The homeroom teacher’s rage over unpaid salaries hadn’t been about money alone, but the realization that the benefits yielded by this school had been hoarded by the principal—which was why Qin Fu’an’s casual remark had struck such a raw nerve.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Qin Fu’an strode directly toward his desk.

Propping his hands against the wood, he peered into the compartment below.

Unsurprisingly, the biscuits and treats he had stockpiled for Xie Yunhuai had been cleared out completely, as if dragged away by a little hamster preparing for winter.

Amusement danced in Qin Fu’an’s eyes. Reaching inside, he pulled out the lone remaining textbook.

Flipping to the page bearing Xie Yunhuai’s name, he paused in thought. In the final ten seconds of the countdown, he uncapped a pen and penned his own name beside Xie Yunhuai’s in sweeping, bold strokes.

The chat erupted into frantic calls labeling Qin Fu’an an unhinged deviant.

The entity in question had already vanished, yet he still insisted on carving his possessiveness right next to the boy’s name.

The sharp, predatory strokes radiated an unyielding determination to claim his prize, stirring a wave of worry for Student Xie among the viewers.

They couldn’t shake the feeling that being marked by someone like Qin Fu’an meant that even if Student Xie had vanished from this instance, Qin Fu’an would inevitably turn the entire Eldritch Domain upside down to hunt him down.

Not a single inch of the realm would be spared until Xie Yunhuai was back in his grasp.

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