Dimensional Hotel-Chapter 208: Theres Always One Who Can Speak

To be honest, Song Cheng didn’t really care what Yu Sheng had ordered—after so many “collaborations,” he thoroughly understood the Director’s stance toward Yu Sheng. His only concern was the sheer amount of it all; he worried it might be too much for one person. But the moment he saw Foxy demolish a chicken leg in three bites until nothing but bone remained, even that last shred of concern evaporated.

In contrast, Yu Sheng looked slightly embarrassed. As the skewers were delivered, he glanced awkwardly at Song Cheng. “You’re seriously giving me all this? Without even asking what it’s for?”

“As long as you don’t roast me,” Captain Song replied with a deadpan face, making a deliberate effort to ignore the sounds of Foxy munching away beside him. “Our Special Affairs Bureau always approaches things from a practical standpoint.”

Yu Sheng chuckled and casually swept the rest of his requested alchemical materials into Foxy’s storage tail, then stepped toward the corpses of the Angel Cultists.

The deaths of these Heretic Cultists hadn’t been long ago. Based on the signs, their deranged “Self Sacrifice” ritual likely took place just the previous night. Yu Sheng judged that his skill, Conversation With The Dead, would work well on such “fresh” corpses.

He sliced open the palm of one Heretic Cultist. Blood, not yet fully coagulated, seeped slowly from the wound.

Taking a quiet breath, he touched the cold blood, murmuring to himself, “Come on, let’s have a chat.”

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In an instant, the stagnant, faded world of the dead descended.

Everything around him drained into tones of black, white, and gray. Silence engulfed the room. The cold blood formed a temporary bridge, and Yu Sheng felt a momentary disorientation. When his vision steadied, he saw the Angel Cultist lying on the mortuary slab, eyes open and hollow, staring straight at him.

That alien gaze was bone-chilling.

“I…” A raspy growl came from the cultist’s throat, like a hollow echo emerging from an empty shell. “I should’ve returned to the embrace of the Lord…”

“I don’t know where the dead are supposed to go, but right now, I’m holding you here,” Yu Sheng said with a smile, staring at the speaking corpse. “You sacrificed yourself to Anka Aila—for what purpose?”

The mention of “Anka Aila” seemed to jolt the body. The hollow figure’s eyes widened in shock. He stared fixedly at Yu Sheng, as if trying to discern who he was, or make sense of what was happening to him. But the chaos of death gnawed at him. After a few seconds of struggle, the cultist’s most intense dying thoughts and memories burst open before Yu Sheng like a flung wide Door.

“Ah… we heard the voice of our Lord… His child is finally awakening. We offered guidance to Him… the time of fulfillment has come.”

The corpse struggled upright. In the muted, colorless world of death, he stared into Yu Sheng’s eyes—and then suddenly grinned.

A hideous, twisted grin.

It erupted into maniacal, dreadful laughter, as if the corpse had suddenly understood something. The corners of his mouth stretched wider and wider until they tore through his cheeks, his skull splitting as screeching, rasping sounds burst from his chest.

“Ah, I know who you are—you’ve touched the sacred Umbilical Cord, you’ve appeared in the Lord’s dreams… His murmurs have sketched your fate… hahaha, it was all foretold! You’re too late! Poor soul, you’re too late! Hahaha… We’re not here. We’re… no longer here…”

The laughing corpse suddenly convulsed violently, then collapsed amidst the cacophony. His unhinged laughter and screams echoed in Yu Sheng’s ears like a malicious curse. Yu Sheng listened in shock, but before he could ask anything more, the fallen body ignited—pale flames devoured the corpse in the blink of an eye. Immediately after, the other bodies on the mortuary slabs burst into similar white-hot blazes!

In this monochrome death realm, all the Angel Cultists’ bodies erupted in fire. Yu Sheng looked around in astonishment, seeing the corpses twitch and scream, laugh, shout the name of Anka Aila, chant about the Umbilical Cord, the coming Awakening, and many other things incomprehensible to Human ears—like sheer noise incarnate.

And then, suddenly, it all stopped.

The blazing white flames vanished as if they’d never existed.

Color returned. Yu Sheng blinked and found himself back in the real world. The Angel Cultists’ corpses still lay quietly on the slabs, seemingly unchanged.

But when he tried cutting the hand of another corpse to initiate a second Conversation With The Dead, all he heard was a brief, hollow whistle.

It was as if something within those bodies had vanished. When the pale flames rose, whatever lingering “souls” were in the corpses had left.

Song Cheng approached, his expression tinged with unease. “What happened? Did the ritual fail?”

“…No, the ritual worked,” Yu Sheng replied after steadying himself and pushing away the chaos in his mind. He spoke quickly, “But they said a lot of crazy things. It didn’t feel right…”

He recounted every shred of madness he had unearthed during the Conversation With The Dead to the Captain of the Special Affairs Bureau, including the alarming fact that he could no longer establish “communication” with the corpses of other Heretic Cultists.

Song Cheng’s brow furrowed deeply, forming twin knots of anxiety, and a grim weight settled over his expression. “The child of the ‘Master’ is about to awaken? And they’ve already offered the ‘Guidance’? And now they’re claiming… we’re too late…”

He muttered these fragments to himself. It wasn’t until several moments later that Irene nudged him out of the spiral with a soft yet urgent reminder, “We should check in on that Angel Cultist we captured when we breached their defensive lines. Maybe we can squeeze a bit more out of him.”

Yu Sheng and Song Cheng exchanged a sharp glance. Both nodded simultaneously.

Their group—Foxy, now well-fed and licking her whiskers contentedly, among them—left the morgue at once and made their way to the containment zone holding the Angel Cultist.

As they passed through the shimmering Gate, and the luminescent barrier dissolved, Yu Sheng laid eyes once again upon the bald-headed zealot—the same man he had tried to reason with multiple times before.

The man was visibly thinner now, his aura waning, yet he sat upright, his spine rigid. Even in such a state, he strained to preserve the last embers of his pride as a Servant of the Angel.

Still, the moment Yu Sheng entered the room, the man’s composure cracked—surprise and a glimmer of fear flickered across his eyes.

“I’m back,” Yu Sheng said flatly, wasting no time on pleasantries. He dropped onto the cot opposite the cultist and added, “So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to cooperate, or do we go through the motions?”

The bald man’s gaze flinched, but only for a moment. He then turned back with practiced calm and locked eyes with Yu Sheng. “What motions?”

“The usual,” Yu Sheng replied nonchalantly. “You act all defiant, I beat you into the wall. You stay defiant, I beat you again—repeat a few times until you start bragging about your unbreakable will. And then my friend here, the Doll, will tunnel into your mind and rip out the remnants of your secrets. You know your so-called ‘mental barrier’ is riddled with holes. Irene can breach it once, which means she can do it countless times. The only variable is how many beatings you’ll take before that. Me? I don’t mind either way. If you’re the kind who enjoys the formalities, you can start adjusting your expression now.”

The cultist clearly hadn’t expected Yu Sheng to speak so plainly this time. His expression twitched several times, but ultimately, he just shook his head.

“Do what you like. I have no more secrets left. Go ahead, unleash every technique at your disposal. Let your cursed Doll sift through the ashes of my mind. Torture or death—I’m ready.”

Yu Sheng stared hard into the man’s eyes. That calm… it didn’t feel fake.

“You realize your comrades are all dead?” Yu Sheng suddenly said. “We found their hideout—every last one of them is gone.”

The cultist’s face finally changed.

But not with grief or panic. No, something else flickered there—serene joy… acceptance.

The silence stretched. Then, a low mutter escaped the man’s lips: “Ah… So the vessel has finally ripened…”

Yu Sheng’s heart skipped a beat. He lunged forward, gripping the man’s collar. “What did you say? ‘The vessel has ripened’—what does that mean?!”

But this time, the cultist didn’t tremble. He was truly, completely calm now. Beneath Yu Sheng’s penetrating gaze, there was even a trace of mockery dancing in his eyes. He moved his lips in silence:

“Goodbye—”

A second later, Yu Sheng felt the man’s body slump. His breath vanished in an instant. As if someone had flipped a switch, the cultist switched his state from alive to dead—just like that. Right in front of him.

From the surveillance monitors above came Song Cheng’s shocked voice: “What the—?! What just happened?!”

Yu Sheng ignored him. He whipped out a small blade, slashed a fresh wound on the cultist’s arm, and grasped it tightly.

The black-white-grey realm of the dead fell into place instantly.

The cultist’s spirit blinked, eyes dazed. Upon seeing Yu Sheng, he seemed lost, stunned. Clearly, a fresh death made a soul far more “lively” during a Conversation With The Dead than long-deceased corpses.

Yu Sheng stared him down, hand still gripping his collar. “You weren’t finished. What do you mean, ‘the vessel has ripened’?”

The Angel Cultist blinked slowly. And then… began to speak.

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation