Chapter 41: Chapter 41: Ashes That Refuses to Fade

The transition did not happen with the clinical efficiency Lin Yue had come to expect from the System.

As the shimmering void of the system’s backstage receded, the pull became heavy. It was as if the vacuum of the data-void was trying to filter him, or perhaps, something from the instance was clinging to the hem of his consciousness, slowing his ascent.

Amidst the rushing white noise of the transport, sensory ghosts began to bleed through.

Beneath the hum of the System’s architecture, Lin Yue could still hear it: the distant, rhythmic wailing of a professional mourner. The scent of heavy, cloying sandalwood incense clung to his lungs, refusing to be purged by the sterile air of the void. He felt a phantom weight on his shoulders, as if an invisible hand was pressing down on him, urging him to turn back, to stay, to sink back into the grey ash of the funeral hall.

And then, there was the sensation of being watched.

It wasn’t the piercing, analytical gaze of the Arbiter. This was something softer, more intimate, and infinitely more predatory. It felt like a breath against the nape of his neck—a cold, clinging presence that refused to be severed by the boundary of the instance.

When the white light finally coalesced, and the floor of the Game Hall materialized beneath his boots, Lin Yue didn’t move. He stood still, his expression a mask of indifference, though his mind was already cataloging the abnormality of the transition.

The Game Hall was, as always, a vast, echoing cathedral of white porcelain and floating holographic displays. But the moment the survivors of The Endless Funeral appeared, the ambient noise of the hub died a sudden, violent death.

The chatter of hundreds of players ceased. The shuffling of feet stopped.

A heavy, suffocating silence rippled outward from the center of the hall.

Lin Yue looked around. The other survivors were in various states of collapse. Chen Hao had hit the floor the moment he arrived, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his eyes darting around as if expecting the walls to start bleeding incense smoke. Xu Ning was standing, but she was rigid, her gaze fixed on a point in the distance, her pupils blown wide and vacant. He Rong and Zhao Ming stood slightly apart, their faces pale, avoiding the eyes of the crowd.

Then, the whispers began. They didn’t start as a roar, but as a hiss—a thousand snakes winding through the air.

Lin Yue felt the weight of a thousand eyes. The crowd’s stare was palpable. In the Flow, information was the only currency more valuable than points, and rumors traveled faster than the system’s notifications.

"They’re back," a voice whispered from the periphery.

"Only five?" another replied, the tone a mixture of horror and morbid fascination. "Eleven went in. Only five came out."

"Did you hear about the coffin?" a woman murmured, her voice trembling. "They say someone actually opened it. They say an Arbiter manifested."

"Look at them," a man hissed, leaning toward his companion. "They don’t even look human anymore. Look at the one in the middle, he looks like he’s already dead."

Lin Yue followed the gaze. He was the "one in the middle." He stood perfectly still, his expression a blank slate, his eyes reflecting the sterile white lights of the ceiling. To the observers, his lack of trauma was not a sign of strength, but a sign of something fundamentally broken.

Beside him, the other survivors were far less composed.

Lin Yue listened to the rumors with a detached curiosity. He didn’t feel the weight of their stares as pressure; he viewed it as data. The notoriety of the instance had traveled faster than the players themselves. The brutality of The Endless Funeral had made them instant celebrities of the macabre.

"Hey," a player from a different group called out, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. "Is it true? Did an Arbiter actually show up? Did you see him?"

"Get away from us," Chen Hao whimpered, his voice cracking as a group of lower-rank players drifted too close, their faces twisted with a mixture of pity and morbid fascination. "Just... get away!"

"Are you okay, Chen Hao?" one of the players asked, though the tone was devoid of genuine concern. It was the voice of someone asking about a car wreck. "What was it like? Did you see the thing inside?"

Chen Hao let out a choked sob and curled further into himself, burying his face in his hands.

Xu Ning didn’t even blink. A player reached out to touch her shoulder, perhaps to offer comfort or perhaps just to see if she was still human, but she flinched so violently that she nearly fell over. She backed away, her eyes wide with a primal terror, isolating herself in a small, trembling circle of space.

He Rong, meanwhile, was staring at Lin Yue. Even here, in the safety of the Hall, her gaze was hungry. She leaned toward him, her voice a low, shimmering thread.

"Do you feel it too, Lin Yue?" she whispered. "The way they’re looking at us? Like we’re already ghosts? It’s almost... intoxicating, isn’t it?"

Lin Yue didn’t look at her. "It’s a waste of energy to care about the opinions of people who are likely to be erased in the next instance."

He Rong let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Still so cold. Even after everything. I wonder if that’s why the thing in the coffin wanted you so badly."

Before the conversation could progress, a familiar, crystalline chime echoed through the hall. The air in front of the survivors shimmered, and the System’s interface materialized in a cascade of neon-blue light.

[INSTANCE COMPLETE]

[Instance Name: The Endless Funeral]

[Difficulty: A- (Dynamic)]

[Survivors: 5 / 11]

[Reward Distribution In Progress...]

The crowd pressed closer, their curiosity outweighing their fear. Everyone wanted to see the payout for a high-casualty instance.

Lin Yue watched as his personal screen expanded.

[Player: Lin Yue]

[Base Survival Reward: +100]

[Rule Discovery: +300]

[Critical Contribution: +400]

[Behavior Rating (S): +350]

[Special Completion Bonus: +500]

[Total Reward: +1,650 Points]

[Current Total Points: 2,840]

A collective intake of breath sounded from the surrounding players. Sixteen hundred points in a single instance was an astronomical sum for a new player. Most survivors were lucky to scrape together a few hundred.

But the System wasn’t finished.

[System Notification: RANK PROMOTION]

[Criteria Met: Exceptional Rule Manipulation & Survival Rate]

[Rank: E Rank → D Rank]

[Rank Title: ELITE]

A flash of bronze light erupted in front of Lin Yue. A small, heavy card materialized in the air, etched with intricate, geometric patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of the eye. He reached out and took it. The metal was cold as if it had been stored in a freezer for a century.

"D Rank... already?" a player whispered, his voice thick with disbelief. "He’s only been in two instances. That’s impossible."

"Elite title... he’s a monster," another added, this time with a genuine edge of fear.

"S-Class behavior rating—what does that even mean? I’ve never seen an S—"

"The bonus. Look at the special completion bonus. Five hundred points for what? What did he do in there?"

"He sealed the coffin," said a voice behind him, low and careful. "That’s what the others said. He was the one who sealed it."

Lin Yue did not participate in the speculation.

He glanced at the bronze card and then tucked it into his pocket without a word. He didn’t feel a sense of achievement. He didn’t feel pride. To him, the rank was simply a tool—a set of permissions that might make the next nightmare slightly more manageable.

"Congratulations, Lin Yue," Zhao Ming said, stepping up beside him. His voice was smooth, but his eyes remained predatory, scanning Lin Yue for any sign of weakness. "An Elite promotion this early. You’re certainly making a name for yourself. I wonder if the other Arbiters have noticed you yet."

Lin Yue turned his head slightly, his gaze flat. "Does it matter if they have?"

Zhao Ming smiled, with a thin, bloodless expression. "It matters if you want to survive the third instance. The higher you climb, the more the System wants to pull you down. Just a friendly warning."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Lin Yue replied, though his tone suggested he wouldn’t.

He walked away from the crowd, leaving the whispers and the shattered survivors behind. He didn’t want the attention, and he certainly didn’t want the "friendship" of someone like Zhao Ming. All he wanted was the silence of the shared quarters.

The walk back to the residential wing felt longer than usual. The white corridors of the Game Hall, which usually felt sterile and safe, now seemed oppressive. The lighting felt too bright, the air too recycled. He found himself checking his reflection in the polished walls, half-expecting to see a smudge of grey ash on his forehead or a funeral shroud trailing behind him.

When he opened the door to his quarters, the room was dim.

Bai Wuyin was there.

The kid was sitting on the edge of his narrow cot, a sketchbook open on his lap and a piece of charcoal in his hand. He didn’t look up when Lin Yue entered. He didn’t offer a greeting. He didn’t ask how the instance had gone.

The silence stretched, heavy and thick, filling the gap between them. Lin Yue stood by the door for a moment, observing the rhythmic movement of the charcoal. Bai Wuyin’s presence was always an enigma—a silent observer who seemed to perceive the world through a different lens than the other players.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic scritch-scratch of charcoal against rough paper. Lin Yue just stood there watching him, his posture relaxed but his mind alert.

He didn’t mind the silence—in fact, he preferred it, but there was something about Bai Wuyin’s stillness that felt deliberate. It wasn’t the stillness of a resting person; it was the stillness of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

Finally, Bai Wuyin stopped drawing. He didn’t look up, but he reached out and tore the page from the sketchbook. He held it out toward Lin Yue.

Lin Yue stepped forward and took the paper.

It was a charcoal drawing, executed with a raw, unsettling precision. It depicted a black coffin, the wood rendered in deep, oppressive shadows. The lid was slightly ajar, just a crack. And from within that darkness, a pair of eyes—vague, indistinct, and hungry—were staring outward.

It wasn’t a physical description of a monster. It was a depiction of hunger. The way the shading curved around the edge of the wood suggested a presence that was not just looking, but reaching—a void attempting to pull the viewer into the box.

The drawing lacked fine detail, but it captured a feeling. It captured the exact sensation of the void that had existed inside that coffin. It felt as though the image itself were breathing, the charcoal lines shifting almost imperceptibly.

The drawing felt cold. Even through the paper, Lin Yue felt a faint, echoing resonance of the funeral hall.

"You drew this?" Lin Yue asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

Bai Wuyin gave a small, barely perceptible nod. "Mm."

"Why?"

Bai Wuyin finally looked up. His mismatched eyes were like two opposing forces, reflecting the dim light of the room. There was a strange, hollow quality to his gaze, as if he were seeing something that wasn’t physically present in the room.

"It kept staring," Bai Wuyin replied. His voice was low, unused to frequent speech.

Lin Yue frowned slightly, his analytical mind clicking into gear. Bai Wuyin had not been in The Endless Funeral. He had no way of knowing what the coffin looked like, let alone what was inside it.

"From where?" Lin Yue asked. "Have you already been in The Endless Funeral instance?"

Bai Wuyin’s gaze shifted. He didn’t look at Lin Yue’s face. He looked just past his left shoulder, his eyes narrowing.

"Behind you."

The silence that followed was more unsettling than the words themselves. Lin Yue did not flinch. He did not check the room. He simply looked at Bai Wuyin, searching for a sign of a joke or a hallucination. He found nothing. Bai Wuyin was not lying; he was simply reporting a perception.

"I see," Lin Yue said.

Bai Wuyin returned to his sketchbook, the charcoal beginning to scratch against the paper once more.

Lin Yue looked down at the drawing again. The eyes in the coffin seemed to be mocking him.

He didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t believe in spiritual attachments. He believed in rules, logic, and data. But as he stared at the sketch, he realized that the boundary between the instances and the Game Hall was not as absolute as the System led them to believe.

Lin Yue set the drawing on the table and walked toward the bathroom.

The bathroom was a small, sterile cube of white porcelain and chrome. The air was cold, and the lighting was a harsh, flickering fluorescent that made everything look slightly jaundiced.

The scent of the funeral had lingered. No matter how many times he had breathed the sterile air of the Game Hall, the smell of sandalwood and decay seemed to have seeped into his pores. It was a psychological stain, a sensory anchor that kept him tethered to the image of the black coffin.

He turned on the faucet. The water was ice-cold, splashing against the white porcelain sink with a sharp, echoing sound.

Lin Yue pumped a generous amount of soap into his palms, scrubbing his hands with methodical precision. He cleaned between his fingers, under his wrists, and deep into the creases of his palms.

He wanted the scent of the funeral gone. He wanted the feeling of the void-iron nails to leave his skin. He wanted to erase every sensory trace of the mourning hall.

He scrubbed until his skin turned a raw, angry red. He scrubbed until the soap bubbled into a thick, white foam.

Finally, he rinsed his hands and dried them with a coarse towel.

As he looked down, he paused.

Beneath the edge of his right thumbnail, there was a speck of grey.

Lin Yue frowned. He leaned closer to the mirror, the harsh fluorescent light illuminating the detail. It was a fine, powdery substance—grey ash.

He turned the water back on and scrubbed again. He used a small nail brush, scrubbing with enough force to make the skin around the nail turn a raw, angry red.

It wasn’t dirt. It wasn’t a stain. It was a fine, powdery ash, embedded deep within the skin beneath the nail.

He rinsed his hands and dried them with a towel, only to see the ash reappear the moment the skin dried. It was as if the ash were not on him, but part of him.

He went back to the sink and scrubbed harder. He used the brush until his fingertips began to bleed, the red of the blood mixing with the grey of the ash. He watched the water swirl down the drain—a mixture of pink and charcoal.

He stopped when he saw his reflection in the mirror.

He looked the same. His pale skin, his detached eyes, his expressionless mouth. But as he looked at his hands, he realized the ash was spreading. It wasn’t just under his nails anymore; a faint, greyish tint was beginning to permeate the creases of his knuckles.

It was a permanent stain.

Lin Yue stood in the silence of the bathroom, the water still running, the cold air biting at his damp skin. For the first time since entering the Flow, a flicker of genuine concern crossed his mind.

The System was designed to reset players upon their return to the Hall. Physical injuries healed, clothes were restored, and the mental state was supposedly stabilized. But this ash... this was an anomaly.

It was a physical anchor.

The funeral had not fully released him. Or perhaps, more accurately, the entity in the coffin had found a way to mark him—a way to ensure that no matter where he went, he would always carry a piece of the grave with him.

He turned off the water. The silence that followed was sudden and heavy.

As he stepped out of the bathroom and returned to the shared room, he saw Bai Wuyin watching him. The other man didn’t say anything, but his eyes dropped to Lin Yue’s hands.

Bai Wuyin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in his posture—a slight tilt of the head, as if he were listening to something.

Lin Yue didn’t mention the ash. He didn’t ask for help. He simply entered his room, walked to his bed, and lay down.

The lights in the room dimmed automatically as the night cycle began. The Game Hall attempted to mimic a natural circadian rhythm, though the darkness felt artificial, like a curtain drawn over a void.

Lin Yue lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

The room was silent. The only sound was the faint, distant hum of the Hall’s machinery.

He closed his eyes, trying to drift into a sleep that usually came easily to him. He tried to clear his mind, to return to that state of analytical detachment. He thought about the bronze card in his pocket. He thought about the rank of Elite. He thought about the third instance that was inevitably coming.

But as the minutes passed, the silence began to change.

The hum of the Hall faded. The sound of Bai Wuyin’s sketching seemed to move further away, as if the room were expanding, stretching the distance between them into an infinite void.

The air grew cold. Not the sterile cold of the Game Hall, but a damp, heavy chill that smelled of wet earth and old flowers.

Then, Lin Yue felt it.

It was a soft, freezing exhale that brushed against the shell of his ear. It was so close that he could feel the ghost of a lip touching his skin.

And then, a voice whispered.

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a roar of rage. It was a tender, melodic sound—a voice that sounded like a secret shared in the dark, a voice that carried a familiarity that should have been impossible.

"Yue’er..."

The name was a caress, a hook sinking deep into his consciousness. The word sent a jolt of ice through Lin Yue’s veins.

It was the voice from the coffin. The voice that had claimed to love him. The voice that had tried to lure him into the darkness.

Lin Yue’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He stared into the blue darkness of the room, his heart hammering hard against his ribs.

He was alone in the room. Bai Wuyin was still asleep in his own room. There was no one behind him. There was no one there.

But the scent of sandalwood incense was now so thick it was almost suffocating, filling the room, filling his lungs, as if the funeral hall had not dissolved at all.

The funeral is over.

But it felt as if he had never actually left.