Horror Game Designer

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation

After meticulously observing his surroundings, Gao Ming ascertained that within the concealed subterranean chamber, only he and the investigator were present; there was no one else.

“Could it be that the malevolent ghost isn’t here? But then, why isn’t the investigator attempting to flee? He’s merely seated on the chair, unbound by any ropes. He could effortlessly stand up and leave the chair behind!”

The chair the investigator was perched on was crafted from metal and leather, tarnished with expansive blotches of blood.

“Help me! Save me!” The investigator, who remained motionless in the chair, cried out with considerable volume. His call seemed like a ruse to draw Gao Ming closer, yet the profuse cold sweat on his face and his visibly terror-stricken expression implied he was genuinely in distress.

“What terrifies you? What is concealed in this room?” Gao Ming, suspecting a trap, refrained from approaching directly.

The investigator gave a faint shake of his head, his cold sweat falling in drops. He was not unaware of the peril; rather, he was paralyzed by extreme fear, rendering him unable to articulate his thoughts.

“Is there an invisible ghost here?” Gao Ming suggested, but the investigator negated this with another slight shake of his head, his eyes darting towards the torture devices scattered around as if to caution Gao Ming to remain vigilant.

At that moment, the seemingly innocuous chair abruptly clamped down on the investigator’s hands, and the torture instruments around them started to activate autonomously.

The investigator’s body was grotesquely contorted, his flesh and skin being consumed in a horrific manner, revealing his bare bones. Yet, the agony he endured did not subside.

His screams permeated the chamber, as all the torture devices, linked by crimson threads, converged on him like predators drawn to blood, focusing their attention on the hapless figure in the chair.

Gao Ming found himself unable to stomach the harrowing spectacle unfolding before his eyes.

Within a mere five minutes, the investigator was thoroughly annihilated and devoured by the malevolent instruments, leaving behind only his still-pulsating heart, etched with dark symbols, on the chair.

As a compartment in the chair opened, the heart tumbled into its depths, following which the chair ominously began to approach Gao Ming in the enveloping darkness.

The underground torture chamber, of moderate size, swiftly ensnared Gao Ming in its blood-red threads, forcibly anchoring him to the chair.

The chamber harbored no ghosts or monsters, yet it instilled a terror in Gao Ming far surpassing anything he had previously encountered. It was a hellish realm devised by the malevolent ghost, rife with authentic pain and destruction.

The cacophony of metal clashing echoed in his ears, chains slithered across the floor resembling serpents, each inscribed with the histories of those who had perished, obediently contorting to the whims of their master.

The coarse chains scraped against his skin relentlessly. Gao Ming, now shackled to the chair, recalled Situ An’s earlier words from outside the room: the malevolent ghost found joy in torturing its victims, particularly those with robust spirits, methodically eroding their resolve.

“To endure, one must cling to hope.”

Such advice was simple to utter, but in the throes of such excruciating pain, the notion of death often emerged as a seemingly more merciful alternative.

In the shadowy confines, a blood-red wooden table crept forward, its surface methodically arranged with an array of knives – from boning knives and slicers to cleavers, sashimi knives, peelers, V-shaped and U-shaped chisels, line carvers, loop tools, hole punches, and even melon ballers…

The crimson threads grew taut, and the knives, seemingly guided by an invisible hand, gradually neared, pressing ominously against his flesh.

Gao Ming, his jaw clenched in agony, blood seeping from the wound on his already damaged left eye, was acutely aware that each knife was designed with a specific purpose, be it in the realm of culinary arts or in the twisted machinations of the malevolent spirit.

Each blade was capable of inflicting a distinct type of wound, eliciting a unique brand of pain.

Pale, drenched in sweat, Gao Ming gripped the chains that bound him with all his might.

“Endure it, just endure it!”

Displaying any hint of fear would merely reveal vulnerabilities to the malevolent spirit. He had to marshal every ounce of control over his nerves to persevere.

His legs were drenched in blood, the tips of the knives reaching the bone, while myriad wounds created a macabre spectacle on his body.

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation

Gao Ming couldn’t be certain if rescue would arrive, nor did he permit himself to ponder too deeply on the matter; instead, he constantly fortified his resolve with mental affirmations.

Time passed with torturous slowness. The rhythm of the knives carving into his skin seemed in cruel synchrony with the ticking of the second hand, the chamber echoing with sinister laughter.

Blood pooled on the floor. The instruments in the corner, reminiscent of hungry wolves, picked up the scent of blood and converged menacingly towards the chair.

The room was a tableau of unspeakable terrors, and Gao Ming faced the imminent horror of being dragged onto those gruesome torture devices.

He felt like a bird trapped in a cage, unable to spread its wings, feathers ruthlessly plucked, beak forced open, claws shattered.

The malevolent ghost sought not just to clip the bird’s wings but to obliterate the very impulse to fly, taking perverse delight in watching creatures of flight plead for the severance of their wings.

The clock on the wall, indifferent to the horrors within the room, seemed especially cruel at this juncture. Time had transformed into a metric of suffering, an ally to hopelessness as it crawled by excruciatingly slowly. Death, though inevitable, appeared to approach far too late in this instant.

Gao Ming’s fingers and legs were drenched in blood, his consciousness beginning to waver. He found himself unable to discern whether the gashes were on his clothes or his skin, particularly around his chest.

The only sensation that remained distinct and undeniable was the persistent beating of his heart; a testament that he was still alive, still desperately holding onto hope.

Eighteen grueling minutes had elapsed, and as the nineteenth minute ticked by, muffled noises began to seep from the room adjacent to where Gao Ming was confined, the room where Situ An was detained.

Situ An’s resilience faltered before Gao Ming’s did.

Energized by this shift, the torture instruments momentarily abandoned Gao Ming and vanished into the shadows, hungrily converging towards the room where Situ An was being held.

Under the unrelenting, mind-shattering torment, Situ An’s resolve started to crumble, his screams resonating through the confined space.

Gao Ming, himself teetering on the brink, realized with stark clarity that if not for the other investigator he had found upon entering, he might have already succumbed to the unbearable agony.

“After they finish with Situ An, those instruments will return for me. This is my prime opportunity to escape!”

He understood that the evil ghost was not physically present; these instruments seemed merely an extension of its malevolent “body.”

“In the killing chamber, there are three passageways. One is the steep, nearly vertical tunnel I was thrown down, lined with razor-sharp shards of glass. Another leads to the adjacent room where Situ An is; and the third is located behind this chair…”

Despite his suffering, Gao Ming had meticulously observed his surroundings.

“I can’t delay any further!” Capitalizing on the moment when the instruments were preoccupied with Situ An, Gao Ming wrenched himself free from the blood-red threads. He staggered towards the tunnel, but upon setting foot on the ground, he collapsed, his injuries too severe to scale the steep passage.

With his entry route effectively blocked and the torture devices engaged in the next room, his only option was the path behind the chair.

Dragging himself towards it, Gao Ming stumbled upon a dark iron door at the end of the passage. Desperately, he pounded on it, but it refused to yield.

It seemed as though everything was meticulously engineered by the evil ghost, creating an illusion of escape only to plunge its victims into deeper despair.

Where could he possibly run?

The iron door bore a lock embellished with a taunting smiley face, almost as if mocking the futile attempts of those desperately seeking escape.

As Gao Ming turned his head, his eyes fell upon the ominous sight of the massive chair, slowly but deliberately inching towards him. It maneuvered through the passage as though it intended to “snap” him back into its merciless grasp.

“I can’t go back, I absolutely can’t go back!” he declared to himself, a firm resolve in his voice.

The iron door, marked with still-fresh bloodstains, stood ominously before him. Frantically, Gao Ming rummaged through his backpack and extracted a photograph of himself with his parents. His hands, smeared with blood, trembled as he dialed his family’s number on his phone.

A busy tone reverberated in his ears. In this bizarre and isolated environment, completely severed from the outside world, it seemed that Gao Ming’s phone had the capacity for only one call.

With each repetitive beep of the busy tone, the shadows encircling him appeared to thicken, growing ever more menacing. In the photograph he held, his father and mother, both donning unnerving smiles, seemed to come alive. It was as if they could hear Gao Ming’s desperate voice. Their faces, hauntingly cheerful, appeared to turn subtly, their gazes piercing out of the photo, fixing directly on Gao Ming!

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