A crowd surged after YiChen, spilling into East City Hospital.

  Moments earlier, after cutting down the wraiths, his voice had rung out, carried live to every phone that filmed him:

  “Don’t stay in the hospital. Your homes are natural wards—close every door and window, and fiend can’t enter.

  Recite your scriptures. Even without faith, play the Great Compassion Mantra—it carries its own shield.

  They feed on fear. If you don’t fear them, they can’t touch you.”

  He hadn’t cared that his words went out unfiltered. The more who knew, the more who might live.

  But not everyone could leave.

  “My mother’s still in her ward—”

  “My daughter’s upstairs!”

  “My father’s in Block E…”

  Desperation carved every face. Some bit their lips until they bled; others wiped tears quickly, ashamed to show weakness.

  YiChen met their eyes and gave a short nod.

  “I’m going to Block E. Follow if you must. Remember—if fiends appear, don’t panic. Even anger can be a blade.”

  About twenty chose to stay with him, resolve forged in fear.

  ?

  The moment they pushed through the main doors, the lobby dissolved into madness.

  At first—a few shrill screams from the wards.

  Then the dam broke.

  Crowds stampeded from every corridor, footsteps drumming, shoulders slamming, curses tearing the air like serrated knives.

  Someone fell. A boot crushed their arm. Their cry vanished into the roar.

  A nurse shoved a wheelchair forward, only to be rammed again and again until it toppled, patient rolling helplessly across the tiles. No one dared stop.

  Overhead lights buzzed, filaments gnawed by something unseen. One by one, they guttered and died.

  From the halls, darkness swelled like a tide, drowning the last glow.

  “The power’s out—?!”

  “Run! Get out!!”

  Bodies slammed against the glass doors. Frames boomed. A child screamed—then cut off, trampled into silence.

  The air thickened with sweat, iron, the rancid tang of rot.

  Ceiling lamps flickered—snapped—then died.

  For a single heartbeat, silence.

  Then screams erupted, harsher, stripped of reason.

  “Who’s touching me—?!”

  “Get away! Don’t touch me!!”

  “Help—something’s pulling me down—!”

  The flood poured out through the entrance, leaving the lobby hollow.

  Yet the emptiness only deepened the terror.

  ?

  Darkness pressed like tar against skin. The air stank of iron and sweet-sour flesh already turning.

  Bodies littered the floor. Some groaned weakly, curling in pain. Others lay limp, still.

  “H-help… me…”

  A man lay pinned beneath a toppled chair, leg bent at a grotesque angle. Every breath rasped like sand dragged across stone.

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  “Mom… Mama…”

  A girl, barely five, wept in a pool of blood. Knees raw, hands smeared red. The figure clutching her had already gone cold.

  A few phones flicked on, flashlights jittering in trembling hands, stabbing the dark like the last sparks of dying men.

  “Is there a doctor?! He’s bleeding out—!”

  A young man pressed on a chest with both hands, but blood bubbled from nose and mouth, life spilling through his fingers.

  “Don’t shine that here! Don’t—!!”

  A woman shrieked, curled against the wall. Her arm was torn to the bone, as if chewed through.

  From the far corridor came a rustling—like thousands of insects crawling across tile. Every so often, a scream burst sharp, then cut off into silence.

  ?

  YiChen stood at the threshold, fists clenched white.

  Cries, sobs, the wet rasp of panic—they scraped at his mind like dull knives.

  He drew a breath, cold and deep, and strode forward—straight toward the girl in the blood.

  “Don’t look.”

  He dropped to one knee, blocking her view with his body. His hand brushed tears from her cheeks with the back of his fingers.

  Her cries hitched. She stared at him, dazed, silent.

  YiChen stripped off his coat, wrapping her small frame. Only then did he feel her trembling—bones rattling, teeth clattering in cold.

  He lifted her, carrying her to the reception counter. Behind it, a nurse clutched the registry so tightly her nails had torn the pages.

  YiChen set the girl in her arms. His voice was low, steady.

  “Keep her safe. Do you have a light?”

  The nurse blinked, as if waking from nightmare. Hands shaking, she yanked open a drawer, fumbling out a medical torch.

  YiChen took it without pause. The beam swept the tiles—catching a blood trail snaking into shadow, a dark-red vein vanishing down the corridor.

  He tightened his grip on the light.

  And stepped forward.

  Behind him, those clutching phones edged closer, their trembling beams tangled into a crooked lattice of pale light.

  “What… what’s in there?”

  The whisper cracked like glass.

  YiChen did not answer.

  He stepped over the collapsed janitor. The man’s chest still rose faintly—alive, but barely.

  From the back, one man broke down, sobbing. His light swung wildly as he stumbled away, dragging another with him. But the rest—though their fear thickened the air like smoke—kept following.

  “Stay close.”

  YiChen raised the medical torch. Its cold beam carved into the abyss. The green glow of the exit sign had long since died, leaving only a tunnel of black that stretched like eternity.

  His gaze swept once—locked on the fire axe in its wall cabinet.

  Crack!

  His elbow shattered the glass. Fragments skittered across the tiles like shards of ice. YiChen reached in and drew out the axe.

  Hum—

  Spirit surged. Silver-gray lines crawled across the blade. Rust split and fell away. A dull tool flared sharp, reborn in light.

  “The axe… it’s glowing—!” someone gasped.

  YiChen gave it one swing. Cold brilliance scraped across the wall, casting jagged, murderous shadows. Without a word, he strode forward.

  ?

  At the corridor’s end—something stirred.

  “No flashlights,” he warned.

  The beam froze over the triage desk.

  A lab coat slumped across the counter, sleeve dripping red. Each drop struck the floor with a sharp patter.

  From the shadows came a sound—wet, meaty, squirming.

  The light slid further.

  And the thing revealed itself.

  A corpse grotesquely swollen, still bound in a surgical gown split at the seams. Yellow-gray intestines trailed behind like living snakes, slapping wetly against the tiles.

  Its neck bent at an impossible angle. Eyes bulged from their sockets. In one hand, a scalpel glinted with icy malice.

  “Ugh—!”

  Someone retched and collapsed to the floor.

  The stench rolled out—choking, rancid, thick as spoiled meat forced down the throat.

  YiChen’s eyes hardened.

  That body had long since died. What stood now was nothing but a husk, jerked upright by wraith-threads. Black mist seeped from its seven orifices, drinking deep of the crowd’s terror.

  ?

  “Starlight—Strike.”

  The axe blazed. Veins of gold cracked open across the blade.

  YiChen lunged. His strike split the air—its bloated head flew, smashed the ceiling, crashed to the tiles.

  But the body did not fall.

  It rushed forward headless, scalpel slashing—a silver serpent aimed at his throat.

  YiChen bent back, hair brushing the floor, evading by a breath. His hand shot up, caught the wrist. Black smoke churned in its chest—its core wasn’t in the head at all.

  “Troublesome.”

  He dropped the axe. Stepped in. Slammed his palm flat against its sternum.

  BOOM!

  Spirit thunder erupted. The body burst into a storm of blood-mist.

  From the crimson spray, a shadow ripped free. A rotting core pulsed at its brow, beating like a diseased heart.

  It shrieked, darting toward the vents—

  Whip!

  YiChen’s foot snapped, kicking the fallen scalpel.

  Spirit surged. The blade shot like a comet.

  Shhhhk—BOOM!

  The scalpel pierced the core. The shadow detonated, vanishing into nothing.

  ?

  Silence.

  The corridor reeked of iron, tiles drenched red. YiChen stood steady, breath controlled, spirit ebbing back into calm.

  Behind him, faces shone in the trembling lattice of phone-lights. Wide eyes. Ashen cheeks.

  And in that moment they understood—

  This young man was not merely fighting for himself.

  He was standing alone against a world sinking into night.