Chapter 2: The Red-Hanged Spirit

Wu Xian opened his cold eyes, and the warm light from the lamp dispelled the chill from his body.

He did not return to the detective agency but appeared in a room that looked like a hotel room—modest in size, with terrazzo flooring, pale floral wallpaper, blue-checked bedding, redwood furniture, and a private bathroom with an old television.

On the table lay a key, its label marked Room 406.

Outside the window was utter darkness; he could barely make out that he was in a city, but there were no lights—the city was as dead as a corpse, and faint clapping sounds and sinister chants drifted through the air.

“So this is Fudi? All the missing people were brought here?”

Recalling his previous experiences, Wu Xian began to understand what Fudi truly was.

The so-called Fudi was like a massive survival game—the missing people had become players, the black hands covering the eyes were like cutscenes, and his earlier worship… was it a beginner’s bonus?

All the missing people died inside Fudi.

“She must have been hanged—so the rope that hung her should be very sturdy.”

Silence stretched for a long while; Wu Xian never straightened his waist.

Those two small feet were as cold as ice, and carried a nauseating stench of decay.

Thud! Thud!

Since communication was impossible, Wu Xian began considering how to escape.

To test his hypothesis, Wu Xian decided to step outside and take a look.

Wu Xian pulled back his coat, and immediately frowned.

But Wu Xian held on tightly, suddenly lifting both thighs and dropping his entire weight onto her.

The True Fire Talisman looked like nothing more than a yellow sheet of paper with clerical script written on it, the paper rough to the touch—but according to the information in his mind, it was far more complex than it appeared.

Her movement made a rustling sound, like a mop soaked in sand dragging across the floor. As the sound faded into the distance, Wu Xian finally straightened up, exhaled slowly, and retreated backward.

But as he reached the door, he froze—he smelled a sweet-salty odor mixed with the tang of rust.

The only thing he could rely on was the True Fire Talisman.

“Looks like going out tonight isn’t advisable.”

Drawing from his experience with horror films, he knew that at this moment, whether he panicked and ran or looked up, nothing good would happen—and even if he stood perfectly still, he’d still die in time.

This ritual is called “Imprinting.”

Wu Xian could almost picture a grotesque woman pressed against the door, her body squirming against the wood, eyes glued to the peephole, convulsing like an epileptic, greedily sniffing for traces of the living.

“What should I call this thing—a ghost, a monster, or a malevolent spirit?”

But the color was bluish, emitting a foul stench of rot—clearly dead for a long time.

Since he couldn’t go out.

It was the smell of blood.

“I’ll eat you for a lifetime!”

The talisman is merely a medium—the key is the information inscribed on it. As long as this information is imprinted, any object can wield the talisman’s power.

“I’ll eat you for a lifetime.”

His shoulder brushed against something.

A mournful female voice came from above.

A waiter hung suspended in midair, face twisted in terror, flailing his limbs—his head gripped by a massive hand emerging from outside his field of vision, the hand tightening like an iron clamp, crushing his skull.

Wu Xian held his breath; the room was as silent as if empty, and the woman outside had fallen still—even a pin dropping to the floor would be audible.

Wu Xian’s lips twitched: “Sister, we’ve only just met. ‘A lifetime’ is such a big thing—don’t you think we should get to know each other first?”

After her fit of madness, the woman outside finally left.

This meant that, apart from clothing and the body itself, everything brought from outside could not function within Fudi.

He didn’t need to look up—he knew someone was hanging above his head.

Wu Xian, like a child with a new toy, eagerly rolled the yellow paper around his middle finger and silently recited the phrase he had learned.

Suddenly.

…

Those who barely survived were so traumatized by their experiences in Fudi that they refused any further connection to it.

The woman spoke again, her voice now more venomous and shrill, brimming with bone-deep hatred that pierced Wu Xian’s eardrums with pain.

“Ah, no, please, spare me, I….”

In just two minutes, the woman changed her tone several times—her words were sincere, emotionally rich, alternately plaintive and desperate, and from her speech alone, one could find no flaw.

Let’s first see what I can do.

“Please have mercy on me—I’m not lying! I’m Yu Yinghua, the landlady of this inn!”

“You’re so cruel—if he comes up and sees me at your door, he won’t spare you either…”

From a distance, one could see a woman in red clothing hanging above Wu Xian, suspended by a hemp rope, her face purplish-black, eyes bulging, a black-red tongue protruding from her mouth, stretching longer and longer like a serpent.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The sound was dull—not like someone clapping with their hands.

It was as if a woman knelt against the door, mechanically banging her head against it!

Her face twisted with malice, her tongue nearly encircling Wu Xian’s neck, ready to strangle him and make his death as grotesque as her own.

Wu Xian glanced sideways and saw a red skirt draped over his shoulder, and a pair of female feet—slender and proportionate, with faintly prominent tendons and neatly rounded, smooth nails.

Wu Xian fell silent for a moment.

Wu Xian held up his middle finger, studying it for a long while.

“The stars guide the way; the Heavenly Official bestows the talisman!”

“Well, she only knows one phrase.”

Wu Xian crept to the side of the door, bent low, and pressed his ear against the door panel—this ensured the person outside couldn’t detect his presence through the peephole or the crack.

This was Wu Xian’s first encounter with such a thing—the terror surpassed his understanding, making his heart race and limbs tremble, yet at the same time, he felt a strange familiarity.

The talisman ignited spontaneously; the words “True Fire” appeared on Wu Xian’s middle finger, then vanished.

But now everything had turned into delicate origami, stripped of its original color, light as air—even the steel wire hidden in his clothes snapped at the slightest tug.

He immediately leaned close to the peephole to peek.

Wu Xian had pressed his ear to the door, yet he heard only voices—no rapid breathing, no body thudding against the door or floor.

Bang!

A muffled thud came from the door, followed by a low scraping sound.

“Is anyone in the room? He’s gone mad—he wants to kill me! Please let me in for a moment…”

The problem lay in the voice.

But at that moment, Wu Xian suddenly grabbed her foot!

To prepare for the disappearance crisis, he carried several cold and hot weapons, a lighter, a magnifying glass, a ring with a hidden blade, and other tools.

Plop!

The waiter’s head burst like a rotten tomato, crushed in the giant hand, which then gripped his mangled body and slowly vanished from Wu Xian’s view.

Wu Xian’s eyes darted twice—he had a plan.

Suddenly, a knock came from outside.

The woman outside’s tone grew urgent.

…

Wu Xian gave no reply.

But Wu Xian was certain she was not human.

After standing still, he heard a cry for help from outside.

After stepping back two paces, Wu Xian suddenly froze—his heart lurched.

Crunch!

Records from the Weiyu Cottage, Volume Thirteen: Folk sorcerers say that when a hanged corpse wears red clothing, its ghost roams rooms and halls, and the spirits within cannot suppress it. Women are not buried in red, for red is a yang color, resembling a living soul. This claim’s origin is unknown, yet women believe it deeply. Thus, those who die with bitter resentment often hang themselves in red to become malevolent spirits.

(End of Chapter)