Chapter 446: The Mouse That Entered Through the Corridor

Cheng Shuili frowned.

Being able to make a puppet so reverent, in this Instance there seems to be no other character.

So this woman… no, or rather this one appearing in this act, a puppet extremely human-like, is the director?

Has the director returned?

Cheng Shuili's expression grew grave; even Qing Qing's kiss was not easy, she could feel the woman on stage's gaze linger on her for a while before slowly shifting, looking toward the one-way glass she had smashed.

After another brief pause, she shifted her gaze elsewhere, as if looking at a spot on the wall.

The players below might not know, but Cheng Shuili and Qing Qing's kiss both know that is also a one-way glass.

Behind the glass sat a VIP room guest just like Qing Qing's kiss.

Cheng Shuili could even guess that the mysterious player guest was locking eyes with the director on stage.

She could clearly see the director's emotion; her face showed no expression, as indifferent as toward an object.

She couldn't see the guest's emotion inside the room, but even thinking with her toes, she could guess this person was certainly not relaxed and happy.

The atmosphere was somewhat stiff; although the players below weren't being stared at by the director, they felt as if under blatant scrutiny, not daring to breathe, even a drop of sweat falling from their forehead had to be carefully avoided lest it disturb someone.

The director, amid this gravity, swept her gaze over each VIP booth.

Cheng Shuili followed her gaze, counting each, including Qing Qing's kiss, making a total of eight booths.

Adding the players who died at the start, those who came to the theater numbered only twenty-odd.

You know that those who join a server-wide Instance are usually full ten-person teams; even with only five teams, that would be fifty people.

Those who came to the theater were actually less than half……

After arriving at the theater, so many died again in the first act.

Cheng Shuili sighed, but also felt that a server-wide Instance should have this death rate.

After the director shifted her gaze from the last person, in a clear breath she said: "Welcome everyone to the Silent Juchang."

Her voice was soft, as if lacking confidence, not daring to speak loudly, yet in the utterly silent theater, her words clearly reached every player's ears.

"I am the director here," the woman's face remained calm, her voice low but steady, as if although she couldn't make this body stand on its own, she could still precisely control her tongue to speak these words: "You may call me…"

The woman paused slightly, "Puppeteer."

Although absurd, Cheng Shuili couldn't help but think:

The director's limbs felt stiff, as if they weren't part of her. Yet her speech and gaze were fluid and precise, which only emphasized that her limbs were not her own.

And this name, Cheng Shuili immediately thought of something deeper.

This thing is called "Puppeteer"; the name itself forms a certain ironic echo with the theater's name, Silent Juchang.

Perhaps she is the hand that, beneath the Silent Juchang's silence, controls all clamor and death.

"I do not intend to disturb your enjoyment too much," the Puppeteer's mouth corner twitched minutely upward, a curve that could be read as a smile, "but to ensure the smoothness and surprise of the subsequent performance, I need to first receive our esteemed VIP guests."

Her gaze, as if substantive, slowly fell on the first VIP booth counting from left to right.

Behind that one-way glass, there was silence.

The Puppeteer seemed not to expect a response either; she merely raised a hand, her pale, slender fingers making a light hook in the air.

There was no sound, nor any fancy light-and-shadow effect.

Under the gaze of all players, that booth's one-way glass seemed to dissolve silently.

The shielding effect vanished; everyone saw a player sitting upright in the booth, wearing a black combat suit and a full-coverage metal mask on his face.

That player clearly hadn't expected to be exposed like this before everyone; his body instantly tensed, adopting a defensive stance, his right hand already pressing onto the raised weapon hilt at his waist.

The Puppeteer, however, seemed not to notice his vigilance, her tone still calm: "Don't be nervous, guest. According to the rules, I have no right during the performance to harm any guest able to sit in a VIP box from the audience seats."

She paused, adding: "The premise is… you truly are my guests, not thieves fishing in troubled waters."

The last two words fell like ice beads, striking everyone's hearts.

The atmosphere plummeted to freezing point.

Cheng Shuili relaxed her posture, even yawning out of boredom, before seriously pondering the director's words.

The premise is truly being a guest?

So… who decides whether one is a guest?

Cheng Shuili watched silently.

After hearing the director's words clearly, the metal-masked player's hand on his weapon clenched tightly, his knuckles whitening.

The air around him seemed to congeal; an intangible pressure emanated from the woman on stage who called herself the Puppeteer, precisely locking onto him.

The Puppeteer maintained her bland expression, as if that accusatory remark was merely an offhand comment.

But everyone knows this self-styled Puppeteer director harbors ill intent, and there's a strong chance she is the final boss of this Instance!

The masked player seemed to realize this as well; he furrowed his brow, straightened his spine, dug his nails into his flesh, forced himself to calm, his lips twitched twice, and said: "Of course I am a guest."

He had exerted all his effort to steady his voice, yet a faint tremor remained evident, carrying a sense of insufficient confidence and guilt.

Upon hearing him say that, the Puppeteer seemed to chuckle lightly.

Her control over facial expressions isn't great either, making her expression hard to read.

Cheng Shuili frowned slightly, increasingly feeling that this monster had merely found a beautiful skin to wear; besides looking at it, it was utterly useless.

She propped her chin, her gaze unintentionally sweeping over Qing Qing's kiss; this guy was also fully focused, though ordinary people either stare at the Puppeteer on stage or look at the targeted masked player.

As for her, she was looking at the one-way glass she herself had shattered.

She wasn't afraid when jumping down, nor when playing the hero; now it's time to settle accounts after the autumn, and she began to feel nervous?

Cheng Shuili curled her lips, continuing to wait for developments.

On stage, the Puppeteer's faint smile gradually faded.

She did not immediately retort or question the masked player, merely fixing her calm, nearly hollow eyes on him without blinking.

Time seemed to stretch.

Every second felt like a heavy hammer striking the Masked Player's heart, cold sweat soaking the combat uniform on his back. He could feel that not only the director on stage, but also the surviving players in the audience, and even any gazes that might exist in the other VIP boxes, were all focused on him, awaiting his fate.

"Very good." The Puppeteer finally spoke again, voice still steady, "Since you are so certain."

She raised her hand; this time it was not a simple hook of the finger.

Her five fingers were like plucking invisible strings, making several intricate and eerie pulling motions in the air.

Inside the box where the Masked Player was, the air began to twist.

Walls, floor, seats… the surfaces of all objects emerged with fine, blood‑vessel‑like dark red patterns. These patterns writhed like living things, emitting a palpably unsettling aura.

"Then, please show your purity." The Puppeteer said, "Prove to me that you were indeed invited, that you entered properly through the main gate, not sneaking in through the corridor like a little rat."

The Masked Player's body began to tremble uncontrollably.

He wanted to move, to flee, but found his limbs as if filled with lead, pinned in place by an invisible force.

He wanted to speak in defense or beg for mercy, but his throat felt choked, only able to emit a hoarse, air‑leaking sound.

The dark red patterns inside the box, like leeches sensing the smell of blood, all clung to him.

The moment they touched his body, they caused no surface injury, but the Masked Player's eyes widened sharply, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints from extreme pain and fear.

"Ah!!!"

A shrill, inhuman scream finally broke through his throat, exploding in the silent theater!

The agony and despair packed into that cry made every player in the audience feel their scalps go numb and their hearts constrict.

They watched helplessly as the Masked Player's body convulsed violently in the seat, as if enduring an extraordinarily cruel punishment.

A few seconds later, the scream cut off abruptly.

The Masked Player went limp in the seat, head drooping, completely still.

The metal mask on his face cracked with a click, then slowly slid down, revealing the young face beneath, twisted and frozen in extreme terror.

His eyes were wide open, filled with the incomprehension of horror just before death.

The dark red patterns inside the box receded like a tide and vanished.

Only the lifeless corpse remained, along with the mask shattered into two pieces.

The Puppeteer seemed to have merely done a trivial little thing; she didn't even glance at the corpse, her gaze calmly turning to the third VIP box.

"Next." She said softly, her tone still flat and unchanging.

The entire theater was deathly silent.

Only heavy, uneasy breaths rose and fell in the oppressive space.

Qing Qing's light kiss withdrew her gaze from the shattered glass, turning it toward the Puppeteer on stage who held sway over life and death, her eyes gaining a hint of solemnity.

She seemed to be pondering how the Puppeteer judged where the players had entered from.

And the answer to this question was clear to Cheng Shuili.

She had once wondered what use the mark on the unspeakable things had, but now…

Isn't this manifested now?

Walking through the corridor, you would encounter the monster that sweeps the hallway; as long as you obediently face away from it according to the rules, it will put a mark on you.

That way, the Puppeteer could easily tell where the players had come from.

While she was thinking, the Puppeteer had already turned her gaze to the second player seated in the VIP booth.

The one‑way glass of the second VIP box likewise dissolved silently.

Inside sat a middle‑aged man with his hair neatly combed. His complexion was pale, fine beads of sweat appearing at his temples, but compared to the first player's shocked loss of composure, he appeared much calmer—at least on the surface.

His hands gripped the armrests tightly, knuckles whitening. Because of the angle, he couldn't see clearly what had happened in the first box, but the abruptly cut‑off shrill scream and the ensuing deathly silence were enough to tell everything.

The bloody smell permeating the air was also a silent warning.

The Puppeteer's gaze fell on him, still that calm, scrutinizing demeanor.

"Honored guest?" she asked softly.

The middle‑aged man's Adam's apple rolled once, his voice a little dry, but he forced himself to stay steady: "Yes… I… I came in through the main gate, the front door."

He emphasized the two words "front gate", but his eyes involuntarily flicked toward the first box, then quickly looked away.

"Oh?" The Puppeteer gave a noncommittal response, her pallid slender fingers lifting again, fingertips twitching as if to begin that strange pulling once more.

"Wait!" the middle‑aged man almost shouted, sweat dripping from his forehead to his temples, "I have proof! Proof that I didn't come in through the corridor!"

The Puppeteer's fingers halted in mid‑air.

She tilted her head slightly, as if a spark of interest had arisen.

"Evidence?"

"Yes… yes!" the middle‑aged man exclaimed, as if grasping a lifeline, he explained rapidly, "After entering through the main gate, I first met the ticket attendant, got my ticket, and was then ushered to my seat by the seat guide!"

"This process… I, I remembered what the usher said to me, and the number on his uniform! Does that count as evidence?" he said, nervously staring at the Puppeteer's hand, afraid it would move again.

The Puppeteer looked at him in silence, her hollow eyes revealing no emotion.

After a few seconds, she slowly lowered her hand.

"What was the usher's number? What did he say to you?"

The middle‑aged man replied as if reciting a lesson: "The number is thirteen. He said to me… 'Please, honored guest, proceed along the red carpet.'"

Having said that, he nervously held his breath.

After hearing it, the Puppeteer showed no reaction, merely raising her hand again.

But this time, the motion of her fingers seemed noticeably different.

On the box's walls, the dark red patterns appeared again, but they writhed much more slowly, as if searching for something.

The patterns crept slowly, stopping a few centimeters from the middle‑aged man's body, moving back and forth.

The middle‑aged man stood rigid, daring not to move, cold sweat soaking his shirt.

Moments later, those dark red patterns suddenly turned violent.

On the stage, the puppeteer gave a cold laugh, his voice carrying a hint of blatant cruelty: 'The mouse that sneaked in from the corridor actually toyed with my usher, and even tried to deceive me!'